The sandy shoreline beneath the high gray cliffs of Ithaka lay silent save for the cry of gulls. The group of wooden huts that housed fishermen and their families seemed deserted under the hazy afternoon sun.
The old galley Penelope, her exposed hull heavily barnacled, was pulled up high on the sand. Forgotten and neglected, her once-gleaming timbers were bleached now by the blistering sun, her planks warped and twisted.
From the shaded portico of her palace the queen of Ithaka gazed at her namesake with sadness. For three long years the ship had been abandoned there, forsaken by Odysseus in favor of the war galley Bloodhawk. Though ideal for a cargo vessel, the Penelope was no fighting ship. For one season only she had continued plying her trade for an Ithakan merchant, but the bloody war on the Great Green had made trading by sea increasingly dangerous, and the galley had been discarded in favor of smaller, faster ships that risked the triangular run between Ithaka, Kephallenia, and the mainland or northwest toward the distant settlement of Seven Hills.
Penelope drew her blue shawl around her and peered out to sea. It seemed so calm today, yet far beyond the line of her sight there would be men dying in despair as their ships foundered or their villages burned. In lands all around the Great Green wives and mothers would be weeping for the lost, their dreams impaled on the spears of angry men. The seed of new hatreds would be spread with every raid, planted in the hearts of those who survived, children who would grow into men filled with a desire for vengeance.
Yet even with the knowledge of the evils of war, she had supported Odysseus in his actions. “You could do no less, my husband,” she had said when he had returned to her three years earlier, cursing and fuming still over his insulting treatment in Troy, “for such slights cannot be ignored.”
In her heart she wished they could have been. If the kings of the world were reasonable men, clear-thinking and far-sighted, such wars would never occur. Yet reasonable men rarely ascended to thrones, and when they did, it was even more rare for them to survive for long. Successful kings were brutal and greedy, men of blood and death, warriors who believed in nothing but the power of sword and spear. Penelope sighed. The husband she loved had tried to be a reasonable man. Yet beneath the affable surface there had always lurked the warrior king.
He had spent that first winter with her, nursing his anger through the long nights, then in spring had left to go raiding in the lands of his new enemies. The name Bloodhawk now inspired fear from the coasts of Thraki down the great isles of the eastern mainland to Lykia in the south. She had last seen her king early in the year. After being forced to winter on Kypros while his damaged ship was repaired, Odysseus had hurried back to Ithaka for a brief visit. Penelope smoothed down the front of her dress, remembering the few precious days and nights they had spent together.
Her sadness grew with each passing season, for each time he returned to her, he seemed to be moving backward in time. At first he had entered the war with some regrets, spurred on by anger and pride. But now she knew he was reveling in reexperiencing his youth. Odysseus the bluff genial trader, sliding slowly into comfortable old age, was gone, replaced by Odysseus the reaver, the cool and calculating planner, the strategos. Her heart ached for the man he once had been.
Shading her eyes with her hand, Penelope saw movement on the horizon, and a line of ships appeared there. They were heading straight for the island. Her heart leaped for a moment. Could it be Odysseus? The hope lasted mere heartbeats. She had heard only days before that the Bloodhawk had been seen heading north from the Mykene settlement on Kos.
She could see now that it was a large fleet with one great ship plunging through the waves far ahead of the others.
The Xanthos! A warship that size could be no other.
She heard running feet behind her and turned to see Bias. The old warrior had a sword in his left hand. A round wooden buckler had been clumsily strapped to the stump of his ruined right arm.
“Lady! It is the Xanthos! We must make for the hill fort.”
Behind him fisherfolk were emerging from the huts, and the men of the small garrison of Ithaka, many of them merely boys or ancients, were racing down to the beach, some faces grim, many frightened. Odysseus had left a force of two hundred to guard his fortress and his queen. Penelope studied the fleet. Thirty-one ships she counted. Close to two thousand fighting men.
She said to Bias, raising her voice so that the soldiers could hear, “I am the queen of Ithaka, wife to the great Odysseus. I do not hide like a frightened peasant.”
The Xanthos was heading toward the shore at ramming speed, its great prow carving the waves with the speed of a running horse. Penelope could hear the lusty chant of the rowers and clearly see the bearded face of a sailor looking over the prow.
“Hold!” came the bellowed order from the ship, and the chanting ceased suddenly as oars were raised. There was a moment when the Xanthos seemed suspended above the beach; then she crashed onto the shore, her keel ripping into the sand and spraying gravel on all sides.
As the huge galley lurched to a halt, sluicing water from her planks, the queen turned to her small force. “Go to the fort and prepare to defend it. Now!” For a moment they stood unmoving. “Go!” she repeated. Reluctantly they retreated past the palace and up the hillside to the ephemeral safety of the wooden stockade. Bias did not move.
“Does the queen not have your loyalty?” she asked him.
“She has my love and my life. I’ll not hide behind wooden walls while you risk yours.”
Anger touched her, and she was about to order him back, when the round buckler slid from his shriveled stump and clattered to the sand. She felt his embarrasment and his shame.
“Walk with me, Bias,” she said. “It will be comforting to have your strength by me.”
They strode side by side down the beach. Penelope had never seen the Xanthos before, and she marveled at its size and beauty, though her face remained serene.
A rope was thrown over the side, and Helikaon climbed down to the beach. Penelope looked with sadness upon the notorious killer who once had been a boy she loved. He was wearing a faded linen kilt, and his black hair was pulled back with a leather thong. He was bronzed dark by the sun and bore a stitched, barely healed scar on one thigh and a recent unhealed one on his chest. He glanced at the hulk of Odysseus’ old ship as he strode up the beach, but his face betrayed no expression.
“Greetings, lady,” he said, bowing his head slightly. She looked into his violent blue eyes and saw tension and tiredness. Why was he there? To kill her and her people? She realized she knew nothing about him now save his reputation as a killer without mercy or restraint.
She avoided looking at the other ships as they sailed toward the beach and forced a welcoming smile.
“Helikaon, greetings! It is too many summers since we last welcomed you here. I will have food and wine brought down. We can talk of happier times.”
He smiled tightly. “Thank you, lady, but my ships are well provisioned. We enjoyed the hospitality of old Nestor and his people on our way here. We have food and water for many days.”
Penelope was shocked, although she would not show it. She had no idea Pylos had been attacked. How many dead? she wondered. She had many friends there and kinsmen.
“But you will break bread with me, the way we used to?” she asked, ruthlessly dismissing from her mind thoughts of the dead of Pylos. She could not help them; she could only save her own people.
He nodded and gazed assessingly at the old fort and the armed men who now lined the stockade walls. “Yes, lady, we will break bread.” He turned to Bias. “I heard you lost that arm at a battle off Kretos. I am glad you survived.”
The black man’s eyes narrowed. “I hope you burn, Helikaon,” he said coldly, “and your death ship with you.”
Penelope gestured for him to move back, and the old man, staring balefully at Helikaon, retreated several steps. The queen turned to him. “I am in no danger now, Bias. Return to the fort.” Bias bowed his head, glared once more at Helikaon, then strode away.
Servants brought a blanket to lay on the sand, and Helikaon and the queen sat down. Though the sun blazed in the sky, Penelope ordered a welcome fire lit, as was the custom when entertaining friends. Wine and bread were laid before them, but they ate and drank little.
“Tell me news, Helikaon. Little reaches us here in far Ithaka.”
Helikaon looked into her face. “The only news is of war, lady, and I’m sure you have no genuine wish to hear of it. Many are dying up and down the Great Green. There are no victors. Your husband lives, I am told. We have not encountered each other. I have no recent news of the Bloodhawk. I came here for one reason, to pay my respects to you.”
“I know the reason you came here,” Penelope said angrily, leaning forward, her voice low. “To show Odysseus that you could. You threaten his people—”
His face tightened. “I have not threatened you, and I will not.”
“Your very presence here is a threat. It is a message to Odysseus that he cannot guard those he loves. Your first words to me were to boast of attacking my kinsmen at Pylos. I am not a fool, Helikaon. I was queen here when you were a babe in arms. I know why you are here.”
“He left you poorly guarded,” he said, gesturing at the small Ithakan force.
They sat in silence for a while. Penelope was furious with herself. Her first priority was to save her people from attack. Antagonizing Helikaon was more than foolish. She could not believe he would set his killers on her people, yet tension etched into the skin around his eyes told of unresolved conflicts in his mind.
Calming herself, she asked pleasantly, “How is your little son? He must be three now.”
Helikaon’s face lightened. “He is a joy. I miss him every day I am away. But he is not my son. I wish that he was.”
“Not your son?”
Helikaon explained that the queen had been raped at the time of a Mykene attack and the boy was the result. “I had hoped it would remain secret—for Halysia’s sake. But such things rarely do. There were servants who knew, and the whispers began.”
“How does Halysia feel about him?” she asked.
Helikaon’s face darkened again. “She cannot look upon him without pain. To see him merely reminds her of the horror of the attack, her own child set ablaze and hurled from the cliffs, her body brutalized, raped, and stabbed. Such are the men your husband is now allied to.” She saw him struggling to contain his anger.
“But you love the boy,” she said swiftly.
He relaxed again. “Yes, I do. He is a fine child, intelligent, warm, and funny. But she cannot see that. She will not even touch him.”
“There is so much sadness in the world,” Penelope said. “So many children unwanted and unloved. And women who would give everything they possess to have a child. You and I, we have both lost those we loved.”
“Yes, we have,” he said sadly.
In that moment of empathy she brought out her strongest weapon. “I am with child, Helikaon,” she said. “After all this time. Seventeen years after little Laertes died. I am pregnant again. I never believed I could give Odysseus another son. Surely the Great Goddess herself is guarding me.” She watched his face carefully, saw it soften, and knew she was close to winning this battle. “Trade from the Seven Hills is growing,” she said. “Odysseus is holding your profits, as he promised he would. And there has been little trouble among the peoples of the settlement. There are walls of stone now to protect it.”
Helikaon pushed himself to his feet. “I must leave,” he said, “but I hope you believe me when I say it was good to see you, Penelope. You once welcomed me into your home, and my memories of Ithaka are fond ones. I pray your child is born safely and can grow in a world that is not at war.”
Walking away from her, he strode to a small thatched hut high on the beach. The Ithakan garrison watched him with suspicion as he reached up and pulled clear a handful of thatch from the roof and then returned to Penelope. Without speaking, he thrust the thatch into the welcome fire until it smoldered, then lit. He held it a few heartbeats, then threw it down on the beach. Drawing his sword, he plunged it through the burning thatch and into the sand. Then, without a word, he walked back down the strand and climbed aboard his warship.
Penelope watched him go with relief and regret. His meaning was clear. It was a message to Odysseus. By sword and flame he could have destoyed Ithaka and butchered her people. He had chosen not to.
This time.
Helikaon stood on the high stern deck of the Xanthos and gazed at the retreating cliffs of Ithaka. He could no longer see the proud figure of Penelope but could still make out the thin plume of smoke rising from the welcome fire on the beach.
He had not lied to her. The moment he had stepped ashore, all thoughts of war had seeped away as memories long forgotten had flowed through his mind: Odysseus, drunk and happy, standing on a table in the megaron, enchanting his listeners with tales of gods and heroes, Penelope smiling fondly at him, Bias shaking his head and chuckling.
I hope you burn, and your death ship with you. The words of Bias, so unexpected and harsh, had cut through his defenses, sharper than any blade.
Yet he and Bias had sailed together, fought pirates together, laughed and joked in each other’s company. To see such hatred in the eyes of a friend was hard to take. In his memories Bias was always good-humored. He had been helpful and supportive when Helikaon had joined the crew of the Penelope. Bias was the man the sailors trusted to settle disputes and arbitrate disagreements. The crew loved him, for his actions were always governed by his genuine affection for the men who served under him.
Now this man of kindness and compassion wanted him dead, and Helikaon’s heart was heavy with the burden of the old man’s hatred. Surely Bias knew that he had not wanted this war, that it had been forced upon him.
Once the ships were out of sight of Ithaka, Helikaon ordered a slight change of direction, heading north along the coast. There was no wind, and the twin banks of oarsmen began pulling to the steady beat called out by his first mate, Oniacus. Once the rhythm was set, the stocky, curly-haired sailor approached him. He, too, had changed since the war had begun, seeming more distant now. He rarely laughed or sang anymore. Long gone were the days when he would sit in the evenings alongside Helikaon and muse about the meaning of life or the antics of his children.
“Sad to see old Bias so crippled,” he said.
Helikaon glanced at the young sailor. “There seems no end to sadness these days,” he replied.
“Did you see the Penelope? Just rotting away in the sun. Makes the heart sick. Always used to marvel when I saw her dancing upon the waters. And seeing her heading for the beach usually meant a night of great storytelling. I miss those days. They shine like gold in the memory now. I doubt we’ll see them again.” He walked away.
Oniacus was right. The days of storytelling and comradeship were long gone. Along with so many dreams.
Three years earlier Helikaon had been simply a merchant trader, sailing the Great Green, enduring its storms, exhilarated by its ageless beauty. Young and in the full glory of his strength, he had dreamed of finding a wife for love alone. No thoughts of dynastic treaties or alliances with rival nations troubled him. Those were problems his little brother would have to face, for he had been named heir to the throne of Dardania.
Three years.
How the world had changed in that time. Little Diomedes, the happy smiling child of his memories, had been drenched in oil and set ablaze by Mykene raiders. Then they had hurled him, screaming, from a cliff. And Helikaon had become king and had married for the good of the realm.
Staring out over the sun-dappled sea, he fought back the waves of bitterness threatening to engulf him. Such anger, he knew, was unfair to Halysia, who was a good woman and a good wife. But she was not Andromache. Even now he could summon Andromache’s face to his mind; so clear it was, as if she stood beside him, the sun glinting on her long red hair. When he pictured her smile, he was struck by an almost unbearable sadness. She now had a child, a delightful boy called Astyanax. Hektor doted on him, and to see them together was both a joy and a dagger to his heart.
Helikaon wandered down to the central deck, where some twenty of the wounded were sitting beneath canvas canopies. The raid on Pylos had been brutal and swift, and though the defenders had been few, they had fought hard to save their homes and their families. Helikaon’s force had overcome them swiftly and burned the settlement, destroying the dams built to service the flax fields. His men had then stormed through the palace of Nestor, plundering it.
Nestor’s youngest son, Antilochos, had fought well. Helikaon would have let him live, but he had refused to surrender, leading a last desperate charge in a vain attempt to reach Helikaon himself. He and his few soldiers had been cut down and hacked to death.
It was the fourth successful raid Helikaon had led during the current season, his troops invading Mykene islands and then the mainland. A Mykene fleet had come against them off the coast of Athens, but the fire hurlers of the Xanthos had sunk four of them. Others had been rammed by his war galleys. By the day’s end eleven enemy ships had been sunk for the loss of one Dardanian galley. More than six hundred Mykene sailors had died, some in flames, others shot with arrows or drowned.
But the strategy of raiding settlements had proved less effective than had been hoped. Priam had believed the attacks would force the invaders to pull troops back from the front lines in Thraki and Lykia to defend their homelands, and at first it had seemed his plan was working. Reports from the front lines suggested that some regiments were being withdrawn in Thraki, but they were replaced by mercenary armies from lands to the north.
Helikaon walked among the wounded men, most of whom were recovering. A young warrior with a bandaged forearm looked up at him but said nothing, his eyes empty of emotion. Helikaon spoke to the men, who listened attentively but said little in return. There was a distance now between Helikaon and his warriors that he could not cross. As a merchant he could laugh and joke with them, but as a battle king, with the power of life and death over them, he found they drew back from him, wary and careful.
“You all fought well,” he told them. “I am proud of you.”
The warrior with the wounded forearm looked up at him. “You think the war will end this season, lord?” he asked. “You think the enemy will realize they are beaten?”
“That is something to hope for,” Helikaon told him. Then he walked away from them.
The truth was that the enemy, far from being beaten, was growing in strength.
In the first year of the war it had seemed that the plans of Agamemnon were turning to dust. The war against Troy could never be won unless the Mykene controlled the lands of the Thrakians. Seeking to cross the open sea all the way from the western mainland would leave them prey to the Dardanian war fleet. With Thraki under Mykene control, there would be no such danger. From there they could mass their ships and bring their armies across the narrow straits into Dardania and then down to Troy.
Initially the Mykene invasion of Thraki had been repulsed, Hektor and the young Thrakian king, Rhesos, winning a decisive battle close to the capital, Ismaros. But that had been followed by a rebellion among the eastern tribes, reinforced by barbarians from the north. Hektor had moved swiftly to crush the rebels, only for a second Mykene army to advance from the west, through Thessaly.
Losses had been high, and the following year Priam had reinforced Hektor with two thousand men. Three major battles had been won, but the fighting still raged. And the news now coming from the war-torn land of Thraki was grim indeed. Rhesos had been defeated and driven back to his capital, and the eastern rebels had declared their own nation-state under a new king. Helikaon had traveled through Thraki and knew the land well: towering mountain ranges with narrow passes, vast areas of marshy flatland, and verdant plains flanked by huge forests. It was far from easy to move armies through such terrain and even harder to find suitable battlegrounds to win decisive victories. Enemy foot soldiers and archers could take refuge in the forests, where cavalry was useless, or escape through marshes and bogs, where infantry could follow only at its peril. Hektor’s early victories had all come because the enemy, with the great advantage of superior numbers, had believed they could crush the Trojan Horse. They had met him on open ground and seen their arrogance washed away in the blood of their comrades.
They were wiser now, launching lightning raids or hitting the supply caravans.
On the southern mainland below Troy matters were almost as bad. The Kretan king, Idomeneos, had led an army into Lykia, defeating the Trojan ally Kygones in two battles. And Odysseus had led a force of twenty ships and a thousand men, raiding all along the coast, plundering three minor cities, and forcing the surrender of two coastal fortresses, which were now held by Mykene garrisons.
Pushing such pessimistic thoughts from his mind, Helikaon moved on to the prow, where Gershom was leaning on the rail and staring out over the sea. The big man had joined the fleet just before the last raid on the mainland. Since then his mood had become increasingly gloomy, and he spoke rarely.
“Where next?” he asked now.
“We’ll sail up the coast then head west and down to the lands of the Siculi.”
“Are they allied to the Mykene?”
“No.”
“That is good. And then we head home?”
“No, first we sail north and west to the lands of the Seven Hills. It is a long journey but necessary.” He looked hard at Gershom. “What is troubling you?”
Gershom shrugged. “I am beginning to hate the word ‘necessary,’” he muttered. Then he sighed. “No matter. I will leave you to your thoughts.”
Helikaon stepped forward as Gershom swung to leave the deck. “Wait! What is happening here? A wall has come between us, and I cannot breach it. I can understand it with the other men, for I am their king and their leader, but you are my friend, Gershom.”
Gershom paused, and when he spoke, his voice was cold, his eyes hard. “What would you have me say?”
“From a friend?” said Helikaon. “The truth would be good. How can I heal a rift when I do not know what caused it?”
“And there is the problem,” Gershom said. “The man I met three years ago would have understood in a heartbeat. By the blood of Osiris, I would not be having this conversation with that man! What is wrong with you, Helikaon? Did some harpy steal your heart and replace it with a rock?”
“What is wrong with me? Has everyone been moonstruck? I am the same man.”
“How can you think that?” Gershom snapped. “We are sailing the Great Green in order to terrorize the innocent, burn their homes, kill their menfolk. War should be fought between soldiers, on a chosen battlefield. It should not visit peasant homes where people struggle daily just to fill their bellies.”
Anger swept through Helikaon. “You think I desire such slaughter?” he said. “You think I revel in the deaths of innocent villagers?”
Gershom said nothing for a moment, then drew himself up and stepped in, his dark eyes gleaming. For only a heartbeat Helikaon thought he was about to be struck. Then Gershom leaned close. Helikaon felt a shiver go through him. It was as if he were staring at a stranger, a man of almost elemental power. “What difference does your joy or guilt make to the widow?” said Gershom, his voice low but the intensity of his words plunging home like daggers. “All that she loved is still dead. All that she built is still ash. You were a hero once. Now you are killing husbands and old men and children barely old enough to lift a sword. Perhaps Odysseus will spin a tale one day about the yellow-haired child on Pylos with his little fruit knife and his gushing blood.”
The ghastly image ripped into Helikaon’s mind: the small golden-haired boy, no more than seven or eight years old, running up behind one of Helikaon’s warriors and stabbing him in the leg. Surprised and in pain, the soldier had swung around, his sword slashing through the child’s neck. As the boy had fallen, the soldier had cried out in anguish. Dropping his blade, he had taken the dying child into his arms and struggled in vain to stem the gouting blood.
Other images flowed then: women weeping over corpses while their homes burned, children shrieking in terror and pain, their clothes ablaze. Anger rose like a defensive barrier against the memories. “I did not cause this war,” he said. “I was content trading on the Great Green. Agamemnon brought this terror upon us all.”
The eyes of power did not waver. “Agamemnon did not bring death to that child. You did. I expect Agamemnon to murder children. I did not expect it from you. When the wolf slaughters the sheep, we shrug and say it is his nature. When the sheepdog turns on the flock, it breaks our hearts, for his actions are treacherous. By all that is holy, Helikaon, the crewmen are not cold to you because you are the king. Can you not understand? You have taken good men and turned them to evil. You have broken their hearts.”
With that Gershom fell silent, and his accusing eyes turned away. In that dreadful moment Helikaon understood the hatred Bias felt for him. In the old man’s philosophy, heroes stood tall against the darkness while evil men embraced it. There was no subtlety of shade, simply light and dark. Helikaon had betrayed everything his old shipmate believed in. Heroes did not attack the weak and defenseless. They did not burn the homes of the poor.
He glanced at Gershom and saw that his friend was staring at him once again. But this time the eyes did not radiate power. They were filled with sadness. Helikaon could find no words. Everything Gershom had said was true. Why had he not been able to see it? He saw again the raids and the slaughter, only this time he viewed the images with different eyes.
“What have I become?” he said at last, anguish in his voice.
“A reflection of Agamemnon,” Gershom said softly. “You lost yourself in the grand designs of war, focusing on armies and strategies, calculating losses and gains in the same way you did as a merchant.”
“Why could I not see it? It is as if I were blinded by some spell.”
“No spell,” Gershom said. “The truth is more prosaic than that. There is a darkness in you. In all of us, probably. Beasts we keep chained. Ordinary men have to keep the chains strong, for if we let the beast loose, then society will turn upon us with fiery vengeance. Kings, though… well, who is there to turn upon them? So the chains are made of straw. It is the curse of kings, Helikaon, that they can become monsters.” He sighed. “And they invariably do.”
A cool wind blew over the rear deck, and Helikaon shivered. “We will raid no more villages,” he said.
Gershom smiled, and Helikaon saw the tension ease out of him. “That is good to hear, Golden One.”
“A long time since you called me that.”
“Yes, it is,” Gershom replied.
Toward dusk a northwesterly wind began to blow, buffeting the fleet and slowing its progress. Increasing weariness took its toll on the rowers. Some of the older vessels, acquired by Helikaon from allied nations, were not as well cared for as his own galleys. They were heavily barnacled and sluggish, unable to keep up with the swifter ships. Slowly at first, the fleet began to lose formation.
Helikaon was concerned, for if the fleet were to come upon enemy vessels, the stragglers could be picked off and sunk. He had hoped to have made better progress. Without the wind against them they might have been able to make the crossing to the neutral coastline of Asia. There was no chance of that now.
As the light began to fail, Helikaon signaled for the fleet to follow him into a wide bay. This was enemy territory, and he had no idea what forces were garrisoned in the area. The danger was twofold. There could be a hostile army within striking distance of the bay, or an enemy fleet could come upon them as they were beached.
As they entered the bay, Helikaon saw a settlement far to the right and above it a hilltop fort. It was small and would hold no more than a hundred fighting men.
Eight trade vessels of shallow draft were beached close to the settlement, and already cookfires had been lit.
As the sun set, the galleys began to beach some five hundred paces from the houses. Helikaon was the first ashore, calling his captains to him and instructing them to take no aggressive action but merely to prepare cookfires and allow the men to rest. No one, he said, was to approach the settlement.
As more and more men came ashore, Helikaon spotted a troop of twenty soldiers leaving the fort and marching down toward them. They were poorly armed, with light spears and leather breastplates and helms. Helikaon saw Gershom looking at him and guessed the Egypteian was thinking of the promise he had made to raid no more settlements.
Helikaon strode out to meet the soldiers. Their leader, a tall, thin young man, prematurely bald, touched his fist to his breastplate in the Mykene manner. “Greetings, traveler,” he said. “I am Kalos, the watch commander.”
“Greetings to you, Kalos. I am Athenos, a friend to Odysseus.”
“You have a great many ships, Athenos, and a goodly number of men. This is a small settlement. There are only five whores and two eating houses. I fear there could be some unpleasantness if your men were allowed to roam free in the town.”
“Your point is well made, Kalos. I shall instruct my sailors to remain on the beach. Tell me, is there any news of Odysseus? I was to have met him and another allied fleet on Ithaka.”
Kalos shook his head. “We have not seen the Ugly King this year at all. The fleet of Menados passed through several days ago. There have been rumors of more Trojan raiding to the west.”
“Sadly true, I fear,” Helikaon said. “Pylos was attacked several days ago, the palace burned.”
The young militiaman was shocked. “No! That is grim news, sir. Is there no end to the vileness of these Trojans?”
“Apparently not. Where was Menados headed?”
“He did not share his plans with me, sir. He merely provisioned his fleet and set sail.”
“I hope his fleet was mighty. The attack on Pylos was said to have involved some fifty galleys.”
“There were at least eighty ships with Menados, though many of them were transports. He is a fine fighting sailor and has sunk many pirate vessels these last few seasons.” The young man was about to speak on, but Helikaon saw his eyes flicker to the left. Then they widened, and his expression changed. Helikaon glanced back. The last rays of the setting sun had illuminated the Xanthos. A poorly tied knot had slipped at the center of the sail brace, and the sail had loosened, showing the head of the black horse painted there. There were few around the Great Green who had not heard of the black horse of Helikaon.
Kalos backed away. Helikaon turned toward him and spoke swiftly, keeping his voice calm. “Now is not the time for rash action,” he said. “The lives of your men and your settlement are in your hands. You have friends here? Family?”
The young soldier stared at him with open hatred. “You are the Burner. You are accursed.”
“I am what I am,” Helikaon admitted, “but that does not change the lives that hang in the balance here. I can see in your eyes that you are a man of courage. You would not hesitate to walk the Dark Road in order to strike down an enemy. But what of the people you are sworn to protect? The old ones, the young ones, the babes in arms? Fight me here and all will die. Allow my men to rest here for the night, and we will sail away and trouble no one. By taking this wise course you will have honored your obligation to defend your people. No one will die; no homes will burn.”
The young man stood blinking in the fading light. Some of Helikaon’s men began to gather. The militiamen lifted their spears and grouped close, ready to fight.
“Back!” Helikaon ordered his warriors. “No blood will be spilled here. I have given my word to this brave young officer.” Returning his attention to Kalos, he looked into the man’s dark eyes. “Your choice, Kalos. Life or death for your people.”
“You will all remain on the beach?” the militiaman asked.
“We will. And you will ensure it by remaining with us. My cooks will prepare a fine meal, and we will sit and eat and drink good wine.”
“I have no wish to break bread with you, Helikaon.”
“And I have no wish to see you and your men vanishing over the hillside seeking reinforcements. You will stay with us. No harm will come to you.”
“We will not surrender our weapons.”
“Nor should you. You are not captives, nor have I requested your surrender. We are all, for this night, on this beach, neutrals. We will offer thanks and libations to the same gods before we eat, and we will talk as free men under a free sky. You can tell me of the vileness of the Trojans, and I can tell you of the day a Mykene raiding force attacked my lands and took a child of my house, set him aflame, and hurled him from a cliff. And then, as men of intellect and compassion, we will rail at the horrors of war.”
The tension eased, and cookfires were lit. Helikaon gathered the Mykene militiamen to him, and they sat together in awkward silence as the food was prepared. Wine was brought, though at first the Mykene refused it. As the uncomfortable night wore on, Oniacus was called upon to sing, and this time he did. Oniacus had a fine deep voice, and the songs he chose were rich and melancholy. Eventually the Mykene accepted wine and food and stretched out on the sand.
Helikaon set perimeter guards to patrol the beach and prevent any incursions into the settlement, then walked to the water’s edge. He was troubled, his mind unsettled.
Gershom joined him. “You did well, Golden One,” he said.
“Something is wrong,” Helikaon said. “Those men are not soldiers, and their cheap armor is new. They are villagers, hastily armed. Why would that be?”
“Troops from this area were needed elsewhere,” Gershom offered.
“So far from the war?” Kalos had spoken of the fleet of Menados and had said that many of his ships were transports. Those would be used to carry men and horses. An invasion force.
Yet his own fleet had spied no enemy ships, which meant they had hugged the coastline, moving east and north. This removed any thought of an attack on the lower eastern mainland of Lykia. The fleet of Menados was sailing along the Mykene coastline, bringing an army to where?
Up to Thraki to reinforce the armies facing Hektor? That was a possibility. Yet why would it be necessary? The armies of the Thessalian king, Peleus, could march into Thraki. Why denude the southern lands of soldiers and risk them at sea when it would be so much simpler for the northern allies to mount a land attack?
Then it came to him, and the impact of realization struck him like a blow to the belly.
Dardania! If Agamemnon could land an army across the Hellespont below Thraki, Hektor would be truly trapped. The citadel at Dardanos would be isolated, the few troops under an eighty-year-old general outnumbered and overcome. All the lands north of Troy would fall under Mykene domination.
Yet again, he realized with a sinking heart, he had fallen back into thinking of the grand design of falling fortresses and conquered lands. Halysia was at Dardanos and so was the child, Dex. The last time the Mykene had raided, she had been raped and stabbed, her son murdered before her eyes.
“At first light we head for home,” he said.