Golden Age (The Shifting Tides Book 1) (10 page)

Chloe winced and stopped playing. She wrapped her copper flute once more in cloth and stood.

‘Girl, why don’t you dance instead?’

Chloe gave Kargan a look that he barely seemed to notice. She walked away from the carpets and cushions, heading for the ramp and the shore.

‘Chloe.’ Aristocles tried to stand. His head was throbbing from the wine. ‘Lord Kargan, I must protest—’

‘Not so fast, First Consul.’ Kargan clapped a hand firmly around Aristocles’ shoulder. ‘Not while the stars still shine. More wine! More food!’

Finally, the last star left the sky and the horizon began to glow. Aristocles, Nilus, and the other two consuls lumbered across a deck filled with lolling Ileans and made their way to the gangway at the bow.

Kargan saw them to the ramp and then clapped Aristocles on the back. ‘I foresee good relations between our peoples, First Consul.’

‘I wish you safe travels.’ Aristocles struggled to make the words. ‘And I must apologize for my daughter’s hasty departure—’

‘Bah,’ he said. ‘It is nothing. Girls her age are often headstrong, which is why they need husbands.’

‘Well . . . It has been a pleasure . . .’ Aristocles mumbled.

‘Your soldiers will escort you back to the city. I saw a pair with your daughter earlier. She will be home and safe.’

Aristocles nodded, his attention consumed with the prospect of making it safely down the gangway. As he reached the pebbled shore where his fellow consuls waited, he turned back and ran his eyes over the warship one last time.

The Phalesian soldiers came to join the group and together they followed the shore back to the steps below the agora. Aristocles heard one of his stumbling companions cough as he was violently sick and his own stomach writhed in response.

When they finally reached the embankment they heard the blast of a horn and gazed back at the Ilean ship; the
Nexotardis
was already moving.

A multitude of oars hauled at the water, tossing it into foam with synchronized motions, sending the ship forward with astonishing speed. The sail went up.

‘They’re gone now,’ Nilus said. ‘Thank the gods.’

16

Dion picked up a bulging water skin, his muscles groaning as he carried it from the sandy shore to the large vessel rocking on the waves. He plunged into water up to his knees and handed the skin up to bald-headed Cob, who carried it to the bow and nestled it in the sheltered section with the other supplies.

His jaw cracked as he stifled a yawn; it was just after dawn; they were leaving early to catch the outgoing tide and give them plenty of time to sail to Phalesia. The water was warm on his legs and a sea breeze blew gently on his face, cooling his tanned skin from the already radiant sun. He wore a well-made white tunic suitable to both sailing and trading.

Dion made way for a wiry man twenty years his senior to get past and nodded. Sal, a longtime friend of Cob, nodded back, handing up still more supplies to the old man. As Dion headed back to the beach for more provisions he saw the last two men who would be crewing the twenty-foot sailing galley – his father’s biggest ship – newly arrived.

‘What orders?’ a slim youth with his first growth of beard asked. Dion saw he had a scabbarded sword in one hand and a stuffed satchel in the other.

‘Riko,’ Dion said, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Glad you could make it. Get your things into the boat, and then help us load her up.’

‘Not much in the way of provisions,’ said the second man, Otus, a tall brawler with a broken nose.

‘We’re only going to Phalesia. If we’re traveling further we can get supplies there.’

‘Will we be there tonight?’ Riko asked.

‘No,’ Dion said. ‘The wind’s against us. We’ll have to beach tonight on the far side of the narrows.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Otus. ‘Come on, lad.’ He inclined his head to Riko.

Shielding his eyes, Dion saw his mother waiting on the grassy bank higher up. He looked for more figures but felt a surge of disappointment when he saw that she was the only member of his family who had come to say goodbye.

As he climbed the beach he felt sad. He hadn’t expected much more from the king, but it was unlike Nikolas to let him go without a word of farewell.

‘Mother,’ he said, ‘it’s time to go.’

With her typical lithe grace, she came forward to embrace her son. ‘I don’t know if you are departing on a long journey or not. I wish I knew.’

She continued to hold him by the shoulders as he scanned the area, trying to hide his emotions but failing.

‘Father . . . Nikolas . . . They’re both busy?’

The queen nodded. Her manner was strangely distracted. ‘You know how they are; it’s always soldiers and fighting with them. They’ve had an early start at the bowyer’s workshop.’

‘Well, I’d best be going.’

‘Wait . . .’ Dion’s mother continued to hold his shoulders.

‘Why—?’

‘Ah, there’s Helena!’ Thea said, finally letting him go. ‘She must have come to say goodbye.’

Nikolas’s tall blonde wife wore a silk chiton of deepest blue hemmed with gold. She was walking quickly, with a forced smile displaying even white teeth.

‘Dion,’ she said, ‘you wouldn’t leave without saying farewell to me?’

‘Well, I—’

She pulled him close and kissed him on both cheeks, so that her soft hair tickled his face and he smelled her floral scent.

Dion saw Helena pass his mother a meaningful look, leaving him feeling puzzled.

‘Have you loaded your supplies?’ she asked.

He glanced back at the boat, seeing that the last of the sacks were nearly aboard – something that Helena could see for herself.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Well, my men are waiting. Thank you both for coming down. Tell Nikolas and Father that I—’

‘You can’t go this instant,’ Dion’s mother interrupted. ‘There’s something I have to tell you.’

Dion frowned. ‘What is it?’

‘I . . .’ Thea began uncertainly.

Then Helena visibly relaxed. ‘They’re here,’ she murmured to Thea.

Following her gaze, Dion saw the big burly form of his brother approaching as he followed a path through the nearby trees, all dark hair and bristling beard. A moment later his father came into view beside him. Both men were walking with swift steps, their progress made slow by the king’s limp.

‘Thank the gods,’ Nikolas panted, grinning as he neared. ‘We had to twist a few arms, but we got here in time.’

‘Nikolas, Father,’ Dion said, smiling as a surge of emotion threatened to bring tears to his eyes. ‘You came.’

The king halted beside his wife as Nikolas and Dion embraced, but then Dion realized his brother was holding something behind his back. ‘What are you hiding?’

Nikolas ignored the question, frowning. ‘Are you taking your bow with you?’

‘Of course,’ Dion said.

‘Then throw it in the sea,’ Nikolas said. He brought his hand from around his back and held out a large leather-wrapped packet, twice the length of his arm.

Taking it in both hands, Dion unraveled a corner of the cloth. When he revealed a length of polished wood he gasped. Unable to stop himself, he let the rest of the cover fall to the ground as he examined a length of curved wood. The composite bow was strung and ready to use, the workmanship finer than anything he’d seen before.

‘It’s your new bow.’ Nikolas beamed.

‘This is for me?’

‘Father and I were having it made for your birthday, but we thought it better to give it to you now. The future is uncertain, and you never know when you’ll be in need of a good weapon.’

Dion examined it with both hands. It was sleek, made of alternating pieces of wood and horn, expertly spliced with the connections so tight they felt completely smooth when he ran his fingers along the bow’s length. It curved back on itself at both ends and was as long as a tall man’s stride.

‘It’s beautiful,’ Dion said, testing the draw. He had never owned anything so costly, nor held a bow so well made.

‘I told the bowyer you spend a lot of time at sea and he took that into account in the construction. The string is silk – he said sinew or hide wouldn’t deal well with the moisture. The different pieces are glued with gelatin from Sarsica and bound with deer gut.’

‘Nikolas . . . How can I thank—?’

‘I hope it serves you well,’ Markos said. The old king had been frowning as he watched the exchange, and now he spoke for the first time. ‘You’re fortunate your brother is persuasive, Dion, for it cost as much as a set of armor.’ He harrumphed. ‘You have the offering for the Oracle at Athos?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘If you end up crossing the sea, whatever you do,’ Thea said, ‘don’t go near Cinder Fen. And remember, we want peace with the sun king.’

‘Peace isn’t always possible,’ King Markos said.

Casting his eyes back down to the shore, Dion saw that his crew was inside the large sailing vessel and waiting, with the youth Riko waist deep in water as he held the bobbing ship, fighting the tossing back and forth of the waves.

‘I’d best go,’ Dion said to them all.

His mother embraced him again, and then, unstringing the bow and sheathing the weapon in its leather cover, he said goodbye to the assembled group.

He sensed their eyes on his back as he walked to the water and waded in, handing the packet up to Cob and then throwing his body over the gunwale to jump inside. The sail went up and the oars started moving in their slots.

Finally looking back at the bank, he saw that his father, brother, and Helena had left, with his mother the only one still waiting to see him go. He waved at her one last time, and wondered when he would next see her again.

Then Cob asked Dion if he wanted to take a turn at the tiller, and he forgot all about his family as the fresh wind sent a mist of spray against his cheeks.

T
he odor of stale sweat and salt-soaked timber overwhelmed Chloe’s senses. She lay awkwardly with her ankles tied tightly with twine, her wrists behind her back, and a gag in her mouth. She had been stuffed below decks on the
Nexotardis
among the jugs and amphorae, water skins and sacks. Prone on a platform close to the bow, somewhere between the painted eyes, she had at least managed to turn herself around so that she could see the interior of the bireme.

The view from under the warship’s upper deck contrasted sharply with the festive scene above. On a narrow wooden bench nearby, half a dozen swarthy soldiers with arms in slings and cloth bandages covering old wounds sat in silence. Wretched slaves slumped in the rowing benches. Blood stains old and new decorated the timber planking. In addition to the supplies, the hold where Chloe lay was stuffed with loot: sacks of jewelry and decorative chests sealed tight. Before the quake, Kargan had said his ship had been trading, but it was obvious his men had been in combat.

Chloe moaned and tried to cry out again and again as the night passed with terrifying speed. She kicked at the timber but no one came to save her. Tears trickled from her eyes and the twine cut into her ankles and wrists.

Then the worst happened. The hatches on the upper deck opened, sending in a puff of fresh air that was swiftly swallowed by the evil reek below. Men came down the ladders and barked orders. The slaves scurried as they left their benches and exited the vessel; soon she felt them hauling its bulk off the shore.

The bireme rocked as it wallowed in the water before the slaves returned and a whip cracked, sending them to their positions. Oars slid out and a drum began to beat, sending a pounding rhythm through the ship’s interior, throbbing in time to Chloe’s constricted wrists. She screamed and kicked, writhing and rolling, trying to free herself, but Kargan’s men knew their business, and the knots were too tight for her to have any hope of freeing herself. Her nostrils flared and her heart raced as she hyperventilated, feeling her vision close in as she fought to get enough air into her lungs. The gag in her mouth, a tight ball of cloth, pressed up close against the back of her throat. It was held in place by a second length of linen tied behind her head.

The ship started to roll up and down as it carved its way through ever-bigger waves. Chloe felt the floor beneath her drop and then rise with each movement. She closed her eyes; the motion made her feel ill and disoriented, and she knew it would never stop.

After more than an hour she opened her eyes when she heard voices. Kargan stood nearby, regarding her. Despite there being two rows of benches, there was only the one central floor running the length of the ship, and the ceiling was low enough that Kargan had to crouch to look at her.

‘Free her hands and legs, then bring her up to me,’ he ordered.

Kargan couldn’t have slept, yet the night appeared to have taken no toll on him, aside from a slight shadow beneath his black eyes. None of his previous humor was evident as he returned to the topmost deck.

A sailor cut through Chloe’s bonds, then hauled her to her feet. With oarsmen moving back and forth at both sides, he led her to a ladder leading to an open hatch.

‘Climb.’

She tried to grip the rungs but couldn’t. Fire filled her fingers and she cried out in pain. Her limbs were little better; she could barely stand.

The sailor looked up at the open hatch, where another man beckoned, his arms reaching. Chloe felt herself lifted from underneath and the other man grabbed her arms. The sailor on the top deck hauled her up and sat her on the edge of the hatch.

‘I . . . I can walk,’ Chloe said.

He grunted and stood as she clambered to her feet. The bright light blinded her and the deck rolled, nearly sending her over the rail until yet another sailor caught her. Spying the mast, she gripped a hoop on the stout pole with one hand and waited for her eyes to adjust to the glare. High above her a square sail snapped in the freshening wind. The air was blessedly fresh, her senses freed from the sickening reek below.

‘Hurry up!’ She heard Kargan’s voice.

He stood at the ship’s bow, legs astride, easily riding the ship’s listing rhythm. He had changed into long linen trousers and an open shirt that revealed his barrel chest, covered with a dense mat of dark hair.

A strong hand pushed her from behind and she walked to the bow, where a forked bench afforded space for two people to sit side by side. The bowsprit nodded up and down while, audible even on the topmost deck, the throbbing drum formed a countermelody to the splashes of more than a hundred oars.

Glancing over her shoulder, Chloe felt her stomach lurch when she saw that her homeland was little more than a flat gray line on the horizon. She knew that none of her father’s ships was this fast. No one could catch her, and even if a captain could, no Phalesian warship working alone could challenge the bireme’s power.

‘Come,’ Kargan said. ‘Sit.’

Chloe lurched to the seat opposite. Her bowels clenched at the unceasing up-and-down, rolling motion. She had never enjoyed the sea.

‘You want to know why I took you,’ Kargan said. ‘I have more than one answer to give.’ He paused as he gazed back along the deck of his ship, and then looked up at the sail, finally nodding in satisfaction. ‘I think the sun king will want to learn more about your people.’

‘My father will see this as a declaration of war,’ she said, glaring at him.