Fall of Kings (38 page)

Finally, all the ships’ masters were mustered on the central deck of the
Xanthos.
Helikaon knew them all, and he felt a thrill of pride. They were
all men of courage and skilled seamen. They had been frustrated by confinement
in the bay for many days. Each was eager for action, but the most impatient was
Chromis the Carian, master of the
Artemisia,
one of the fastest ships in
the Trojan fleet, though the smallest. Chromis, a red-faced burly man, stood at
the front of the group, hands on hips.

“We are nineteen,” Helikaon said, looking around. “Do we have an accurate
report on the number of Menados’ ships?”

“More than fifty,” Chromis said. “Until today half of those were patrolling
the coast down to the Bay of Herakles. The arrival of the
Xanthos
has
caused Menados to order them all to the Hellespont. We are heavily outnumbered.
But he will expect you to make a run for it soon, lord.”

“What Menados expects is a vital part of my plan,” Helikaon said
thoughtfully. “Which of your ships have fire hurlers?” he asked.

“The
Naiad
and the
Shield of Ilos,
” replied a young dark-eyed
man with a heavy limp.

“And what experience do you have of using them, Akamas?”

“None in battle, lord. But my men on the
Shield
and the crew of the
Naiad
have spent many long days throwing empty clay balls at targets. There
was little else to do in the bay,” Akamas added ruefully. “Our crews became
quite expert at hurling them at the other ships.” Most of the masters smiled,
and there was some laughter.

“Have any of you seen a ship aflame with
nephthar
?” Helikaon asked,
his face hardening, his voice cold.

They all shook their heads. Helikaon nodded. “I thought not. You must
understand, and all your crews must understand, that once a
nephthar
ball
hits a ship and breaks, that ship is doomed, as if it already sat at the bottom
of the Great Green. Do not wait for the fire arrows. All the crew must abandon
ship without hesitation. Is this clear?” He looked around at them all, his
violet blue eyes studying them one by one, until they all had nodded.

“Very good. And although I respect what you say, Akamas, I will put some of
my own crewmen with battle experience on board the
Naiad
and the
Shield of Ilos
to advise and help with the
nephthar.
Do not feel
slighted. Be in no doubt we have a mighty confrontation ahead. We need to
allocate our skills where they are most needed. And we have extra crewmen from
the
Boreas
to fill the gaps in any of your vessels’ rowing benches.”

“The
Artemisia
may have no fire hurlers, Golden One,” Chromis said
impatiently, “but she has greater speed than some of these bigger ships. We can
lead the Mykene a merry dance if you so order.”

“Speed can be vital,” Helikaon replied, “but usually running away from a
battle, not toward it.”

The other captains laughed, and Chromis flushed, fearing he was being made a
fool of.

“I am not mocking you, Chromis,” Heliakon said. “I have a part for the
Artemisia
to play, and it is an essential one. You will need all your ship’s
speed and agility.”

Chromis grinned and looked around him, proud to be chosen. “So when do we
attack them, Golden One?” he asked. “The sooner our ships can slip out into the
Great Green, the sooner we can start to fight back, hit the enemy at the Bay of
Herakles.”

“We will not attack,” Helikaon told him. “We will wait for the Mykene to
attack us.”

Chromos snorted. “But how can we be sure of that? They’ve been content to
keep us trapped in the bay like… like crabs in a net.”

“You yourself pointed out that much changed when the
Xanthos
arrived,”
Helikaon said.

He looked around at the Trojan captains. “We must have patience,” he said.
“Something the Mykene do not have. They are an impetuous and aggressive people.
We must use that against them.

“And my plan is not just to slip past Menados, then make a run for it. I plan
to destroy his entire fleet.”

The day passed with bone-aching slowness on the waters of the Hellespont, and
when the sun slid down the sky, there was still no sign that the
Xanthos
and the Trojan ships were planning to break out of the bay. Menados forced
himself to stop pacing the deck of the
Alektruon.
He sat in his captain’s
chair, the picture of calm assurance. Inside his head, though, he was seething
with anger at the cunning Helikaon and with his need to sail into the bay and
smash the
Xanthos
into small shards. His captains had wanted to follow
the hated galley in, but Menados had refused to chase after it in the dark.

All of his fifty-five remaining ships were now at sea, either gathered off
the entrance to the Hellespont or patrolling the strait. The oarsmen were tired,
and he ordered that they work in shifts, with half the men rowing at a time. It
always had been difficult to find rowers. Any man who could afford a soldier’s
armor and weapons would rather fight in the field than endure the hot fetid
conditions on the rowing benches. Some of the ships’ masters used slave labor.
But chained slaves were unlikely to work as hard as free men, and the
Alektruon
was rowed entirely by Mykene warriors who were proud to be on the
finest ship in all the Mykene fleets.

As the light started to fail on the second day, there was a shout from one of
the vessels closest to the Cape of Tides. A craft had been spotted trying to
break the blockade. Menados, excitement rising in his chest, ordered the
Alektruon
and the four nearest ships to intercept her. Block her course, he
ordered, but do not engage yet.

Peering into the gloom, he soon could see her for himself. It was not the
Xanthos
but a smaller ship with a dark sail sporting a white full moon. She
sped along the line of the coast, perilously close to the rocks of the cape,
risking the use of her sail to gain more speed.

“Not the
Xanthos,
” said his sister’s son, disappointment in his voice.
“But maybe they are using a small ship to sneak the royal family out of Troy.”

“That would require a very small vessel indeed,” Menados said drily. And, he
thought, Priam would never leave the city or his treasury.

The small ship skipped across the waves, closer to the approaching Mykene
galleys. Then, suddenly, her sail was furled, the rowers took over, and within
heartbeats they had turned the vessel fully around and she was powering back
toward the bay.

“Do not follow!” the admiral ordered, and the signal was passed quickly from
ship to ship. The Mykene vessels pulled slowly away, reluctantly, Menados
thought.

What is Helikaon up to? he wondered. Was it what it seemed? One ship making a
run for it? Or another fire ship? No, Helikaon would not use that trick twice.
He paced up and down the deck again, his officers watching him anxiously.

Finally he came to a conclusion. If Helikaon were to sneak past him again,
two nights in a row, he and his officers would face a slow and agonizing death
at Agamemnon’s hands. He could not afford to let even one vessel out of the bay.
It was another moonlit night, so he had to assume they would try again.

“There will be no rest for our crews!” he told his officers. “Tonight all our
ships will patrol!”

Helikaon was awake before dawn, when the light was just a pink glow in the
east. He had slept deeply. The previous night he had put two ships out at the
mouth of the bay to act as night watchmen. The rest of the crews got a good
night’s sleep and were fresh for the coming day.

He saw a Trojan galley gliding toward them from the cape, where its captain
had picked up reports on the Mykene fleet from the watchers stationed there.

“They patrolled all night!” its master shouted up to Helikaon gleefully.
“Their rowers will all be as tired as dogs!”

Oniacus grinned at his lord. “Tired crews and tired commanders,” he said.

Helikaon nodded. “And tired men make poor decisions,” he answered. “It is
time for the
Artemisia
to lure them in.”

For a second time he watched Chromis’ vessel head off gamely toward the
Mykene fleet. He was impressed by the skills of the captain and his men. Chromis
may be a blowhard, he thought, but he is right to be proud of his ship and its
crew. May Poseidon keep her safe.

The crew of the
Xanthos
was busy preparing for battle. The clay balls
full of
nephthar,
each as big as a man’s head, were being transferred
carefully from the hold to straw-lined baskets beside the fire hurlers. The
hurlers were being checked and greased. The specially prepared arrows and
braziers were kept at the central deck, far away from the
nephthar.
Each
crewman donned a leather breastplate and took up his sword and bow and a quiver
of arrows. Food was passed around to break their night fast: corn bread and
cheese.

As the light grew stronger, Helikaon ordered his small fleet to form up in
two lines abreast facing north, well back from the mouth of the bay. The
Xanthos
was front and center. The
Sword of Ilos
and the
Naiad,
with their fire hurlers, he placed near each end of the front line. The two
ships that had watched all night were tucked in at the back in a position of
comparative safety.

Helikaon strapped on his bronze breastplate and sheathed the two leaf-bladed
swords in scabbards on his back. He placed his full-face helm within reach. To
his second in command he said, “You are steersman today, Oniacus. Are you clear
on our strategy?”

“Yes, Golden One,” Oniacus replied. He hesitated. “We have never lost a sea
battle yet,” he added, concern in his eyes. “And I will follow your strategy
without question, as always. Yet we are already trapped in this bay, like a
mouse in a jug, and it seems your plan now is to lure a cat into the jug.”

Helikaon laughed, and his merriment rippled out across the water, making
other men smile, easing the tension.

“It is true we are trapped here,” he answered, “but the mouse is safe only in
his jug. We are seriously outnumbered, Oniacus. We cannot afford to engage the
Mykene in the open sea. We would be sunk, or burned, or captured, every last
ship. So we must lure the Mykene into the bay, where we have all the advantages.
They have been at sea for weeks. They are bored and frustrated, and now they are
tired, too. Each Mykene captain wants the honor of sinking or capturing the
Xanthos.
Especially Menados. I let him live, remember. He is unlikely to
forgive me for that.”

Oniacus scratched his curly hair. “Then let’s hope they take the bait of the
Artemisia.
”

Helikaon shrugged. “They will or they won’t. If they don’t, they will attack
before this day is much older. They are Mykene. They won’t be able to resist
it.”

It seemed a long wait, but eventually the gallant
Artemisia
appeared
in the distance, rounding the cape, propelled by the northerly breeze. Helikaon
watched Chromis’ ship glide down the center of the bay toward them. It was clear
she had been attacked. There were arrows stuck in her planks. The ship drew up
beside the
Xanthos,
and Helikaon looked down. There were injured men, but
none appeared badly hurt.

“We had a close call, Golden One,” the burly Chromis called up to him, “but I
fear they have not taken the bait.”

“Take your place, Chromis,” Helikaon said. He gazed north, in the direction
of the Hellespont. “It appears you are wrong.”

Around the headland appeared the Mykene fleet, dozens of ships rowing in
regimented order. As the crews in the Bay of Troy watched, the enemy vessels
formed up into an attack formation. Helikaon smiled as he saw that the front
line was twelve ships wide. The vessels were well spaced, with plenty of room
for the oars.

“Twelve abreast,” Oniacus said, grinning. “Just as you predicted.”

“Menados is not a seaman,” Helikaon explained. “He is one of Agamemnon’s
Followers. He was promoted to command a fleet after his successes in the field.
So he does not know the Bay of Troy. Neither, it appears, do his captains.”

The rivers Simoeis and Scamander entered the Bay of Troy at the east and the
south, bringing a cargo of silt from higher lands. As the years passed, the
waters were getting shallower, and hidden mud banks had formed on all sides of
the bay. Captains who knew those waters took a careful course down the center of
the bay to avoid the mud banks on either side.

The mouth of the bay was wide, but it quickly narrowed. No more than eight
ships could travel the bay abreast. Menados’ twelve would be funneled into the
central channel, where, Helikaon hoped, they would foul their oars and lose
their attack formation. If the attacking ships started to swing and show their
beams, the
Xanthos
could use her ram.

Ramming was a difficult maneuver to pull off effectively. Only a highly
skilled crew and a captain with brilliant judgment and timing could count on
success. At the moment of impact the ramming ship had to be traveling at just
the right speed—too slow and the enemy could back water out of range, too fast
and the ram could get embedded so deeply into the target’s hull that it would be
stuck there, leaving the attacker vulnerable to attacks from other ships.

Khalkeus had equipped the
Xanthos
with a blunt-ended ram shod with
bronze that drove through the sea just below the waterline. The purpose of this
was not to penetrate the opponent’s hull but to deliver such a blow that it
loosened all the planks around where it landed.

“What are we waiting for?” asked one of the oarsmen in a loud whisper to
Oniacus.

The morning was wearing on and the sun climbing high, yet neither fleet had
made a move.