of an island or an outcrop of rocks. The ship I propose would not fear storms.”
Helikaon had stared hard at him for a moment. Then he had relaxed and given a rare smile. “A ship to ride a storm. I like that. We will build her, Khalkeus.”
Khalkeus had been stunned—and suddenly frightened. He knew of the Golden One’s reputation. If the new ship proved a failure, Helikaon might kill him. On the other hand, if it was a success, Khalkeus would be wealthy again and could continue his experiments.
Khalkeus looked into the young man’s eyes. “It is said you can be cruel and deadly. It is said you chop the heads from those who offend you.”
Helikaon leaned forward. “It is also said that I am a demigod, born of Aphrodite, and that you are a madman or a fool. What does it matter what gossips say? Give me of your best, Khalkeus, and I will reward you whether what you do is succesful or not. All I ask of men who serve me is that they put their hearts into it. No more can be demanded.”
And so it had begun.
The wind picked up as the ship cleared the harbor, and Khalkeus felt the swell increase in power.
Once at sea the mast was raised, the crossbeam tied in place, and the sail released. A southerly breeze rippled the canvas. Khalkeus glanced up. A huge black horse, rearing defiantly, had been painted on the sail. The crewmen cheered as they saw it.
Khalkeus eased his way to the prow on unsteady legs.
Off to the port side a group of dolphins were leaping and diving, their sleek bodies glistening in the sunlight. Khalkeus looked up at the sky. Away to the north dark clouds were forming.
And the
Xanthos
cleaved the waves toward them.
II
Argurios of Mykene steadied himself on the shifting deck and glanced across at the stocky redheaded Khalkeus. Everyone said he was a madman. Argurios hoped that was not true. He dreamed of dying on a battlefield, cutting down his enemies and earning himself a place in the Elysian Fields. To dine in the golden hall fashioned by Hephaistos and sit alongside men such as Herakles, Ormenion, and the mighty Alektruon. His dreams did not include slipping below the waves in full battle armor. Yet if he had to die on this cursed boat, it was only fitting that as a Mykene warrior he would go to his death with his sword, helmet, and breastplate. So it was that he stood in the morning sunshine fully armed. He watched with interest as the crew moved smoothly about the deck, and he noted the racks of bows and quivers of arrows neatly stored below the rails. There were swords, too, and small, round bucklers. If the
Xanthos
was attacked, the sailors would transform themselves into fighting men within moments.
The Golden One left little to chance.
On the high curve of the prow was a device Argurios had not seen on any other ship, a wooden structure bolted to the deck in four places. It was a curious piece, seeming to have no purpose. A jutting section of timber rose from its center, topped by what appeared to be a basket. At first he had thought it would be used to load cargo, but on closer examination he realized that the basket could not be lowered over the side. The entire piece was a mystery, which he assumed he would solve during the long journey to Troy.
Argurios glanced toward the rear deck, where Helikaon stood at the great steering oar. It had been hard to believe that any man could have defeated Alektruon the swordsman. He was a legend among the Mykene, a giant of a man, fearless and mighty. Argurios was proud to have fought alongside him.
Yet the full horror of the day was well known. Argurios had heard the tale from the single survivor. The man had been brought back to Mykene on a cargo vessel and was taken before Agamemnon the king. The sailor had been in a pitiful state. The stump of his wrist still bled, and a bad odor was emanating from it. Skeletally thin, he had a bluish sheen to his lips and could hardly stand. It was obvious to all that he was dying. Agamemnon had a chair
Helikaon had stared hard at him for a moment. Then he had relaxed and given a rare smile. “A ship to ride a storm. I like that. We will build her, Khalkeus.”
Khalkeus had been stunned—and suddenly frightened. He knew of the Golden One’s reputation. If the new ship proved a failure, Helikaon might kill him. On the other hand, if it was a success, Khalkeus would be wealthy again and could continue his experiments.
Khalkeus looked into the young man’s eyes. “It is said you can be cruel and deadly. It is said you chop the heads from those who offend you.”
Helikaon leaned forward. “It is also said that I am a demigod, born of Aphrodite, and that you are a madman or a fool. What does it matter what gossips say? Give me of your best, Khalkeus, and I will reward you whether what you do is succesful or not. All I ask of men who serve me is that they put their hearts into it. No more can be demanded.”
And so it had begun.
The wind picked up as the ship cleared the harbor, and Khalkeus felt the swell increase in power.
Once at sea the mast was raised, the crossbeam tied in place, and the sail released. A southerly breeze rippled the canvas. Khalkeus glanced up. A huge black horse, rearing defiantly, had been painted on the sail. The crewmen cheered as they saw it.
Khalkeus eased his way to the prow on unsteady legs.
Off to the port side a group of dolphins were leaping and diving, their sleek bodies glistening in the sunlight. Khalkeus looked up at the sky. Away to the north dark clouds were forming.
And the
Xanthos
cleaved the waves toward them.
II
Argurios of Mykene steadied himself on the shifting deck and glanced across at the stocky redheaded Khalkeus. Everyone said he was a madman. Argurios hoped that was not true. He dreamed of dying on a battlefield, cutting down his enemies and earning himself a place in the Elysian Fields. To dine in the golden hall fashioned by Hephaistos and sit alongside men such as Herakles, Ormenion, and the mighty Alektruon. His dreams did not include slipping below the waves in full battle armor. Yet if he had to die on this cursed boat, it was only fitting that as a Mykene warrior he would go to his death with his sword, helmet, and breastplate. So it was that he stood in the morning sunshine fully armed. He watched with interest as the crew moved smoothly about the deck, and he noted the racks of bows and quivers of arrows neatly stored below the rails. There were swords, too, and small, round bucklers. If the
Xanthos
was attacked, the sailors would transform themselves into fighting men within moments.
The Golden One left little to chance.
On the high curve of the prow was a device Argurios had not seen on any other ship, a wooden structure bolted to the deck in four places. It was a curious piece, seeming to have no purpose. A jutting section of timber rose from its center, topped by what appeared to be a basket. At first he had thought it would be used to load cargo, but on closer examination he realized that the basket could not be lowered over the side. The entire piece was a mystery, which he assumed he would solve during the long journey to Troy.
Argurios glanced toward the rear deck, where Helikaon stood at the great steering oar. It had been hard to believe that any man could have defeated Alektruon the swordsman. He was a legend among the Mykene, a giant of a man, fearless and mighty. Argurios was proud to have fought alongside him.
Yet the full horror of the day was well known. Argurios had heard the tale from the single survivor. The man had been brought back to Mykene on a cargo vessel and was taken before Agamemnon the king. The sailor had been in a pitiful state. The stump of his wrist still bled, and a bad odor was emanating from it. Skeletally thin, he had a bluish sheen to his lips and could hardly stand. It was obvious to all that he was dying. Agamemnon had a chair
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