David Gemmell - Troy,Lord Of The Silver Bow

PROLOGUE

To sleep is to die.

So he clung to the driftwood as the raging seas hurled him high, then plunged him deep into the

storm-dark valleys between the waves. Lightning flashed, followed by deafening thunderclaps. Another

wave lashed him, spinning the driftwood, almost tearing him clear. Sharp splinters pierced his bleeding

hands as he tightened his grip. Salt spray stung his swollen eyes.

Earlier in the night, after ferocious winds had swept the galley against hidden rocks, splintering the hull,

four men had grasped this length of shattered deck. One by one the storm had leeched away their

strength then plucked them loose, their despairing death cries swept away by the wind.

Now only the man called Gershom remained - thanks to arms and shoulders strengthened by months of

labour in the copper mines of Kypros, wielding pick and hammer, and bearing on his back sacks of ore.

Yet even his prodigious strength was failing.

The sea lifted him once more, the length of decking pitching suddenly. Gershom hung on as a wave

crashed over him.

The sea no longer felt cold. It seemed to him like a warm bath, and he could feel it calling to him. Rest

now! Come with me! Sleep now! Sleep in the Great Green.

To sleep is to die,he told himself again, squeezing his bloodied hands against the jagged wood. Sharp,

lancing pain cut through his exhaustion.

A body floated by head-down. A wave caught it, flipping the corpse. Gershom recognized the dead

man. He had won three copper rings on the Bone Game the night before last, when the galley had been

drawn up on a small stretch of beach below a line of towering cliffs. The sailor had been happy then.

Three rings, though not a princely sum, was enough to purchase a good cloak, or hire a young whore for

the night. He did not look happy now, dead eyes staring up at the rain, mouth slack and open.

Another wave crashed over Gershom. Ducking his head against the planking he hung on. The wave

carried the dead man away, and Gershom saw the body sink below the water.

Lightning ripped across the sky once more, but the thunder did not come immediately. The wind eased,

and the sea calmed. Gershom hitched himself across the driftwood, managing to lift his leg across the

broken planks. Carefully he rolled to his back and shivered in the cold night air.

The rain was torrential, washing the salt from his face and eyes and beard. He stared at the sky. A shaft

of moonlight showed through a break in the storm clouds. Looking left and right he could see no sign of

land. His chances of survival were bleak. All the trade ships held to the coastline. Few ventured out into

deeper water.

The storm had arrived with sickening speed, strong winds gusting down from the high cliffs. The galley

had been making for a bay where they would shelter for the night. Gershom, rowing on the starboard

side, had not been worried at first. He knew nothing of the sea, and thought this might be normal. Then,

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seeing the anxious looks on the faces of the rowers, he glanced back. The ferocity of the gusts increased,

heeling the ship sideways, and driving it further from the shore. Gershom could see the headland which

marked the entrance to the bay. It seemed so close. The rhythm of the rowers began to fail. Two oars

crashed together on his side, throwing the line into disorder. One broke away. With the oars no longer

working in unison the galley turned beam on to the wind, driven round by the rowers on the port side.

A large wave broke over the side, swamping Gershom and the starboard rowers. The heavily laden ship

began to tip. Then it slid into a trough, and a second wave swamped it. Gershom heard a rending sound

as planks gave way beneath the weight of the water. The sea surged in, and driven down by the mass of

its copper cargo the galley sank within moments.

It occurred to Gershom, as he clung to the ruined decking, that he himself had probably mined some of

the copper that doomed the ship he sailed on.

The stern face of his grandfather appeared in his mind. ‘You bring your troubles on yourself, boy.’

That was certainly true tonight.

On the other hand, Gershom reasoned, without the back-breaking labour in the mines he would not have

built the strength to endure the power of the storm.

No doubt it would have pleased his grandfather to see Gershom working the mine in those early days,

his soft hands blistered and bleeding, to earn in a month what he would, at home, have spent in a

heartbeat. By night, in a filthy dugout, he’d slept beneath a single threadbare blanket, as ants crawled

upon his weary flesh. No servant girls to tend his needs, no slaves to prepare his clothing. No heads

bowed now as he passed. No-one to flatter him. At the palace and the farms his grandfather owned all

the women told him how wonderful he was, how masculine and strong. What a joy it was to be in his

company. Gershom sighed. On Kypros the only available women for mine workers said exactly the same

- as long as a man had copper rings to offer.

Lightning lit the sky to the south. Perhaps the storm is passing, he thought.

Thoughts of grandfather came again, and with them a sense of shame. He was being unfair to the man.

He would not glory in Gershom’s downfall. Any more than he would have taken pleasure from the public

execution he had ordered for his grandson. Gershom had fled the city, heading out to the coast, where he

took ship to Kypros.

He would have stayed on there had he not seen a group of Egypteians in the town a few days before.

He had recognized two of them, both scribes to a merchant who had visited grandfather’s palace. One of

the scribes had stared at him. By now Gershom was thickly bearded, his hair long and unkempt, but he

was not sure it was enough.

Gathering the last of the copper rings he had earned in the mine he had wandered to the harbour, and

had sat on the beach, staring out at the ships in the bay.

A bandy-legged old man approached him, his skin leathery, his face deeply lined. ‘Looking for sea

work?’ he asked.

‘I could be.’

The man noted Gershom’s heavy accent. ‘Gyppto are you?’ Gershom nodded. ‘Good sailors, the

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Gypptos. And you have the shoulders of a fine oarsman.’ The old man hunkered down, picked up a

stone and hurled it out over the waves. ‘Several ships looking for men.’

‘How about that one?’ asked Gershom, pointing to a huge, sleek, double-decked galley at anchor out in

the bay. It was beautiful, crafted from red oak, and he counted forty oars on the starboard side. In the

fading sunlight the hull had a golden gleam. Gershom had never seen a ship so large.

‘Only if you yearn for death,’ said the old man. ‘It is too big.’

‘Too big? Why is that bad?’ Gershom had asked him.

‘The great god Poseidon does not suffer large ships. He snaps them in two.’

Gershom had laughed, thinking this was a jest.

The old man had looked offended. ‘You obviously do not know the sea, young fellow,’ he said stiffly.

‘Every year arrogant shipwrights build larger craft. Every year they sink. If not the gods, then what could

cause such catastrophes?’

‘I apologize, sir,’ said Gershom, not wishing to cause further offence. ‘But that ship does not seem to be

sinking.’

‘It is the Golden One’s new ship,’ said the man. ‘Built for him by a madman no-one else would employ.

It won’t have a full crew. Even the half-witted sailors around here have refused to serve upon it. The

Golden One has ferried in seamen from the outer islands to man it.’ He chuckled. ‘Even some of them

deserted as soon as they saw it - and they are known to be morons. No, it will sink when Poseidon

swims beneath it.’

‘Who is this Golden One?’

The old man looked surprised. ‘I would have thought that even the Gypptos would have heard of

Helikaon.’

‘I think I have heardthat name. Isn’t he a warrior of the sea? Did he not kill some Mykene pirate?’

The man seemed satisfied. ‘Aye, he is a great fighter.’

‘Why do they call him the Golden One?’

‘He is blessed with unholy luck. Every venture brings in riches, but I think he will have another name

afterthat monstrosity sinks.’ He fell silent for a moment. ‘However, we are drifting with the wind now.

Let us return to our course. You need a ship.’

‘What would you advise, my friend?’

‘I know a merchant who has a twenty-oar galley - theMirion - heading forTroy the day after tomorrow.

He is short of men. For ten copper rings I’ll take you to him and offer a recommendation.’

‘I don’t have ten copper rings.’

‘You get twenty for a voyage, half when you sign on. Give me that half, and I’ll tell him you are a master

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oarsman.’

‘It won’t take them long to find out you lied.’

The old man shrugged. ‘By then you’ll be at sea and the merchant will still be on land. When you return

you’ll be a fine oarsman, and no-one will be the wiser.’

Gershom had heard ofTroy , of its great golden walls and high towers. The hero Herakles was said to

have fought a war there a hundred or so years ago. ‘Have you been toTroy ?’ he asked the old man.

‘Many times.’

‘It is said to be beautiful.’

‘Aye, it is good to look at. Expensive though. Whores wear gold, and a man is considered poor if he

doesn’t own a hundred horses. Copper rings won’t buy you a cup of water inTroy . There’s plenty of

other stops on the way there and back, though, boy. There’s Miletos. Nowthat is a place for sailors.

Big-titted whores who’ll sell you their souls for a copper ring - not that their souls are what you’d be

looking for. There’s some of the prettiest land you’ll ever see. You’ll have the time of your life, boy!’

Later that day, after the old sailor had found him a place on theMirion’s crew, Gershom had wandered

down to the seafront to look at the ship. He knew nothing about such vessels, but even to his untrained

eye it seemed to be lying low in the water. A huge man, bald-headed and with a forked black beard,

approached him. ‘Seeking a berth?’ he asked.

‘No. I sail the day after tomorrow on theMirion.’

‘She is overladen and there’s a storm coming,’ said the big man. ‘Ever worked on a galley?’

Gershom shook his head.

‘Fine craft - if the captain keeps her shipshape, clean of barnacles, and if the crew are well trained. The

Mirion has none of these advantages.’ The man peered at him closely. ‘You should sail with me, on the

Xanthos.’1

‘The Death Ship? I think not.’

The bald man’s face darkened. ‘Ah well, all men make choices, Gyppto. I hope you don’t come to rue

yours.’

Another crack of thunder boomed in the heavens. The wind picked up again. Gershom carefully rolled

onto his stomach and gripped the edges of the driftwood.

To sleep is to die.

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Part One

THE GREAT GREEN

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I

TheCaveofWings

The twelve men, in ankle-length cloaks of black wool, stood silently at the cave mouth. They did not

speak or move. The early autumn wind was unnaturally chill, but they did not blow warm breath on cold

hands. Moonlight shimmered on their bronze breastplates and white crested helmets, on their embossed

wrist guards and greaves, and on the hilts of the short swords scabbarded at their waists. Yet despite the

presence of cold metal against their bodies they did not shiver.

The night grew colder, and it began to rain as midnight approached. Hail fell, and clattered against their

armour. And still they did not move.

Then came another warrior, tall and stooping, his cloak flapping in the fierce wind. He too was

armoured, though his cuirass was inlaid with gold and silver, as were the helmet and greaves he wore.

‘Is he inside?’ he asked, his voice deep.

‘Yes, my king,’ answered one of the men, tall and broad-shouldered, with deep-set grey eyes. ‘He will

summon us when the gods speak.’

‘Then we wait,’ replied Agamemnon.

The rain eased away and the king’s dark eyes scanned his Followers. Then he looked into

theCaveofWings . Deep within he could see firelight flickering on the craggy walls, and even from here

smell the acrid and intoxicating fumes from the Prophecy Fire. As he watched, the fire dimmed.

Unused to waiting, he felt his anger rise, but masked it. Even a king was expected to be humble in the

presence of the gods.

Every four years the king of Mykene and twelve of his most trusted Followers were expected to hear

the words of the gods. The last time Agamemnon had stood here he had just interred his father and his

own reign was about to begin. He had been nervous then, but was more so now. For the prophecies he

had heard that first time had come true. He had become infinitely richer. His wife had borne him three

healthy children, though all girls. The armies of Mykene had been victorious in every battle, and a great

hero had fallen.

But Agamemnon also recalled the journey his father had made to theCaveofWings eight years

previously, and his ashen face on his return. He would not speak of the final prophecy, but one of the

Followers told it to his wife, and the word spread. The seer had concluded with the words: ‘Farewell,

Atreus King. You will not walk theCaveofWings again.’

The great battle king had died one week before the next Summoning.

A woman dressed all in black emerged from the cave. Even her head was covered by a veil of gauze.

She did not speak, but raised her hand, beckoning the waiting men. Agamemnon took a deep breath,

and led the group inside.

The entrance was narrow, and they removed their crested helmets and followed the woman in single file,

until at last they reached the remains of the Prophecy Fire. Smoke still hung in the air and, as he breathed,

Agamemnon felt his heart beating faster. Colours became brighter and small sounds - the creaking of

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leather, the shifting of sandalled feet on stone were louder, almost threatening.

The ritual was hundreds of years old, based on an ancient belief that only on the point of death could a

priest fully commune with the gods. So every four years a man was chosen to die for the sake of the king.

Keeping his breathing shallow, Agamemnon looked down at the slender old man lying on a pallet bed.

His face was pale in the firelight, his eyes wide and staring. The hemlock paralysis had already begun. He

would be dead within minutes.

Agamemnon waited.

‘Fire in the sky,’ said the priest, ‘and a mountain of water touching the clouds. Beware the Great Horse,

Agamemnon King.’ The old man sagged back, and the woman in black knelt by him, lifting and

supporting his frail body.

‘Offer me no riddles,’ said Agamemnon. ‘What of the kingdom? What of the might of the Mykene?’

The priest’s eyes briefly blazed, and Agamemnon saw anger there. Then it passed, and the old man

smiled. ‘Your will prevails here, O king. I would have offered you a forest of truth, but you wish to speak

of a single leaf. Very well. Mighty still will you be when next you walk this corridor of stone. Father to a

son.’ He whispered something then to the woman, who held a cup of water to his lips.

‘And what dangers will I face?’ Agamemnon asked.

The old priest’s body spasmed, and he cried out. Then he relaxed and stared up at the king. ‘A ruler is

always in peril, Agamemnon King. Unless he be strong he will be torn down. Unless he be wise he will

be overthrown. The seeds of doom are planted in every season, and need neither sun nor rain to make

them grow. You sent a hero to end a small threat, and thus you planted the seeds. Now they grow, and

swords will spring from the earth.’

‘You speak of Alektruon. He was my friend.’

‘He was no man’s friend! He was a slaughterer and did not heed the warnings. He trusted in his cunning,

his cruelty and his might. Poor blind Alektruon. Now he knows the magnitude of his error. Arrogance

laid him low, for no man is invincible. Those the gods would destroy they first make proud.’

‘What more have you seen?’ said Agamemnon. ‘Speak now! Death is upon you.’

‘I have no fear of death, King of Swords, King of Blood, King of Plunder. You will live for ever,

Agamemnon, in the hearts and minds of men. When your father’s name has fallen to dust and whispered

away on the winds of time, yours will be spoken loud and often. When your line is a memory, and all

kingdoms come to ashes, still your name will echo. This I have seen.’

‘This is more to my liking,’ said the king. ‘What else? Be swift now, for your time is short. Give a name

to the greatest danger I will face. ‘

‘You desire but a name? How... strange men are. You could have... asked for answers, Agamemnon.’

The old man’s voice was fading and slurring. The hemlock was reaching his brain.

‘Give me a name and I willknow the answer.’

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Another flash of anger lit the old man’s eyes, holding back the advancing poison. When he spoke his

voice was stronger. ‘Alektruon asked me for a name, when I was but a seer, and not blessed - as now -

with the wisdom of the dying. I named Helikaon, the Golden One. And what did he do... this foolish

man? He sailed the seas in search of Helikaon, and brought his doom upon himself. Now you seek a

name, Agamemnon King. It is the same name. Helikaon.’ The old priest closed his eyes. The silence

grew.

‘Helikaon threatens me?’ asked the king.

The dying priest spoke again. ‘I see men burning like candles, and... a ship of flame. I see a headless

man... and a great fury. I see... I see many ships, like a great flock of birds. I see war, Agamemnon, long

and terrible, and the deaths of many heroes.’ With a shuddering cry he fell back into the arms of the

veiled woman.

‘Is he dead?’ asked Agamemnon.

The woman felt for a pulse, then nodded. Agamemnon swore.

A powerful warrior moved alongside him, his hair so blond it appeared white in the lamplight. ‘He spoke

of a great horse, lord. The sails of Helikaon’s ships are all painted with the symbol of a rearing black

horse.’

Agamemnon remained silent. Helikaon was kin to Priam, the king ofTroy , and Agamemnon had a treaty

of alliance withTroy , and with most of the trading kingdoms on the eastern coast. While maintaining these

treaties he also financed pirate raids by Mykene galleys, looting the towns of his allies and capturing trade

ships and cargoes of copper, tin, lead, alabaster or gold. Each one of the galleys tithed him their takings.

The plunder allowed him to equip his armies, and bestow favours on his generals and soldiers. Publicly,

though, he denounced the pirates and threatened them with death, so he could not openly declare

Helikaon an enemy of Mykene.Troy was a rich and powerful kingdom, and that trade alone brought in

large profits, paid in copper and tin, without which bronze armour and weapons could not be made.

War with the Trojans was coming, but he was not yet ready to make an enemy of their king.

The fumes from the Prophecy Fire were less noxious now, and Agamemnon felt his head clearing. The

priest’s words had been massively reassuring. He would have a son, and the name of Agamemnon would

echo through the ages.

Yet the old man had also spoken about seeds of doom, and he could not ignore the warning.

He looked the blond man in the eyes. ‘Let it be known, Kolanos, that twice a man’s weight in gold

awaits whoever kills Helikaon.’

‘Every pirate ship on the Great Green will hunt him down for such a reward,’ said Kolanos. ‘By your

leave, my king, I will also take my three galleys in search of him. However, it will not be easy to draw him

out. He is a cunning fighter, and cool in battle.’

‘Then you will make him less cool, my Breaker of Spirits,’ said Agamemnon. ‘Find those Helikaon

loves, and kill them. He has family in Dardanos, a young brother he dotes upon. Begin with him. Let

Helikaon know rage and despair. Then rip his life from him.’

‘I shall leave tomorrow, lord.’

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‘Attack him on the open sea, Kolanos. If you find him on land, and the opportunity arises, have him

stabbed, or throttled, or poisoned. I care not. But the trail of his death must not end at my hall. At sea do

as you will. If you take him alive saw the head from his shoulders. Slowly. Ashore make his death swift

and quiet. A private quarrel. You understand me?’

‘I do, my king.’

‘When last I heard Helikaon was in Kypros,’ said Agamemnon, ‘overseeing the building of a great ship.

I am told it will be ready to sail by season’s end. Time enough for you to light a fire under his soul.’

There was a strangled cry from behind them. Agamemnon swung round. The old priest had opened his

eyes again. His upper body was trembling, his arms jerking spasmodically.

‘The Age of Heroes is passing!’ he shouted, his voice suddenly clear and strong. ‘The rivers are all of

blood, the sky aflame! And look how men burn upon the Great Green!’ His dying eyes fixed on

Agamemnon’s face. ‘The Horse! Beware the Great Horse!’ Blood spurted from his mouth, drenching his

pale robes. His face contorted, his eyes wide with panic. Then another spasm shook him, and a last

breath rattled from his throat.

II

The God of the Shrine

i

The Gods walk in times of storms. Little Phia knew this, for her mother had often told her stories of the

immortals: how the spears of Ares, God of War, could be seen in the lightning, and how the hammer of

Hephaistos caused the thunder. When the seas grew angry it meant Poseidon was swimming below the

waves, or being drawn in his dolphin chariot across the Great Green.

So the eight-year-old tried to quell her fears as she struggled up the muddy slope towards the shrine, her

faded, threadbare tunic offering no protection from the shrieking winds and the driving rain lashing the

coast ofKypros . Even her head was cold, for ten days earlier mother had cut away her golden hair in a

bid to free her of the lice and fleas on her scalp. Even so Phia’s thin body was still covered in sores and

bites. Most of them were just itchy, but the rat bite on her ankle remained swollen and sore, the scab

constantly breaking and fresh blood flowing.

But these were small matters, and did not concern the child as she pushed on towards the high shrine.

When mother had taken sick yesterday Phia had run to the healer in the centre of town. Angrily he had

told her to stand back from him. He did not visit those the gods had cursed with poverty, and had barely

listened as she explained that mother would not rise from her bed, and that her body was hot, and she

was in pain.

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‘Go to a priest,’ he said.

So Phia had run through the port to theTempleofAsklepios , and queued there with others seeking

guidance and help. The waiting people all carried some kind of offering. Many had snakes in wicker pots,

some had small dogs, others gifts of food or wine. When at last she was allowed through the high doors

she was met by a young man who asked her what offering she brought. She tried to tell him about

mother’s sickness, but he too ordered her away, and called out for the person next in line, an old man

carrying a wooden cage in which two white doves were cooing. Phia didn’t know what to do, and had

returned home. Mother was awake, and she was talking to someone Phia couldn’t see. Then she started

crying. Phia began to cry too.

The storm came at dusk, and Phia remembered that the gods walked in harsh weather. She decided to

speak to them herself.

The Shrine of Apollo, Lord of the Silver Bow, was close to the angry sky, and Phia thought the gods

might hear her better if she climbed to it.

She was shivering now as the night grew colder, and worried in case the wild dogs roaming the hills

caught the scent of the blood on her ankle. She stumbled in the darkness. Her knee struck a rock and

she cried out. When she was small, and hurt herself, she would run to mother, who would hug her and

stroke away the pain. But that was when they lived in a bigger house, with a flower garden, and all the

uncles had been rich and young. Now they were old and grubby, and they did not bring fine presents, but

only a few copper rings. They no longer sat and laughed with mother. Mostly they did not talk at all.

They would come in the night. Phia would be sent outside, and they would leave after a short time. Lately

no uncles had come at all. There were no gifts, no rings, and little food.

Phia climbed higher. On top of the cliff she saw the jagged stand of rocks that surrounded the shrine.

Apollo’s Leap, it was called, because, as mother had said, the golden-haired God of the Sun had once

rested there, before flying back into the sky to his chariot of fire.

The child was almost at the end of her strength as she forced her way up the steep slope. Dizzy with

fatigue, she stumbled into the rocks. Lightning lit the sky. Phia cried out, for the brilliant light suddenly

illuminated a figure standing on the very edge of the high cliff, arms raised. Phia’s legs gave way, and she

slumped to the ground. The clouds broke then, the moon shining through. The god lowered his arms and

turned slowly, rain glistening on his naked upper body.

Phia stared at him, eyes wide and frightened. Was it the Lord of the Silver Bow? Surely not, for this

god’s hair was long and dark, and Apollo was said to have locks fashioned from golden sunlight. The

face was striking and stern, the eyes pale and hard. Phia gazed at his ankles, hoping to see wings there,

which would mean he was Hermes, messenger of the gods. Hermes was known to be friendly to mortals.

But there were no wings.

The god approached her and she saw that his eyes were a bright, startling blue. ‘What are you doing

here?’ he asked.

‘Are you the God of War?’ she asked, her voice trembling.

He smiled. ‘No, I am not the god of war.’

A wave of relief swept over her. The mighty Ares would not have healed mother. He hated humans.

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David Gemmell - Troy, Lord Of The Silver Bow

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