before placing her gently into the chariot. She looked flustered and pleased. Then he kissed Andromache and handed her into the vehicle, too. She smiled down at him and touched his cheek. They had talked long into the night. Today he would ride south to protect her father’s lands while she sailed enemy seas to Thera.
“May the gods keep you from harm,” he said, “and bring you back to me.”
The charioteer touched the reins lightly to the horses’ backs, and, surrounded by a troop of cavalry, the chariot set off down the stone road toward the bay.
The two women held on tightly as the vehicle bumped through the wakening streets. At the Scaean Gate they paused as the great gate was opened, and the noise of the wooden wheels, creaking harness, and snorting horses died down.
Sadness settled on her as she thought again of Dios. She regretted missing the ritual farewell the next day but promised herself that wherever the
Xanthos
beached that night, she would speak her own words of goodbye to his shade. The chariot lurched forward. Andromache grabbed the rail as the vehicle thundered toward the beach.
And there, in the distance, she saw the mighty
Xanthos.
Twice the size of any ship on the King’s Beach, the
Xanthos
lay half-in, half-out of the water, resting slightly to one side. Despite the great bulk, the warship had grace and beauty. As the chariot clattered down to the beach, drawing up close to the
Xanthos,
the first rays of the rising sun speared over the horizon, turning the polished oak timbers to gold.
The
Xanthos,
still and serene, was surrounded by people: crewmen shinnying up ropes to the top deck, beachmasters and their workers loading cargo, early-rising fishermen and home-going whores lingering to watch the launch.
As she got down from the chariot, Andromache wondered for a moment how they were going to get on board, but as they neared the ship, a sturdy wooden ladder was passed down to the sand at the stern. At the top she could see the reassuring figure of Gershom leaning down over the rail. He waved and called out a greeting.
Then curly-haired Oniacus trudged across the sand. “Can you manage, lady? You can sit in a sling if you prefer.”
“To be hauled up like livestock, Oniacus? My sister and I can manage a ladder.” She softened the sharp words with a smile, remembering that the man only recently had lost his family at Dardanos.
“The rest of your belongings are already aboard,” he said. “They are stored at the rear of the lower deck.”
“And the ebony box?” she asked.
Oniacus nodded. “Safe, lady, alongside your luggage. Your bow is there also, and two fine quivers. Let us hope you do not find use for them—beyond practice, I mean.”
Andromache saw that Kassandra was about to speak and cut across her. “Thank you, Oniacus,” she said. “We also took your advice and brought extra warm clothing. Oiled woolen cloaks and leggings.”
“That is good. The weather may be savagely cold and wet.”
Andromache took Kassandra by the arm and led her to the ladder. “You go up first,” she told her. “I will follow and steady your foot if you slip.”
Kassandra laughed. “You think I am some drooling defective who has never climbed a ladder?” Lifting the hem of her dark ankle-length tunic, she almost ran up the ladder, taking Gershom’s hand and leaping over the rail. Andromache followed her.
Safely on the aft deck by the carved steering oar, Andromache immediately glanced around for sight of Helikaon. He was not yet aboard, and she felt a pang of disappointment. The crewmen amidships were hauling aboard cargo: bales of embroidered cloth, sturdy wooden chests, nets full of bread and fruit, and hundreds of small amphorae strung together with twine and padded with straw. Other crewmen then lowered the goods to the hold.
Oniacus vaulted over the deck rail and opened a hatch in the deck by Andromache’s feet. Climbing down to the second oar deck, he called out greetings to
“May the gods keep you from harm,” he said, “and bring you back to me.”
The charioteer touched the reins lightly to the horses’ backs, and, surrounded by a troop of cavalry, the chariot set off down the stone road toward the bay.
The two women held on tightly as the vehicle bumped through the wakening streets. At the Scaean Gate they paused as the great gate was opened, and the noise of the wooden wheels, creaking harness, and snorting horses died down.
Sadness settled on her as she thought again of Dios. She regretted missing the ritual farewell the next day but promised herself that wherever the
Xanthos
beached that night, she would speak her own words of goodbye to his shade. The chariot lurched forward. Andromache grabbed the rail as the vehicle thundered toward the beach.
And there, in the distance, she saw the mighty
Xanthos.
Twice the size of any ship on the King’s Beach, the
Xanthos
lay half-in, half-out of the water, resting slightly to one side. Despite the great bulk, the warship had grace and beauty. As the chariot clattered down to the beach, drawing up close to the
Xanthos,
the first rays of the rising sun speared over the horizon, turning the polished oak timbers to gold.
The
Xanthos,
still and serene, was surrounded by people: crewmen shinnying up ropes to the top deck, beachmasters and their workers loading cargo, early-rising fishermen and home-going whores lingering to watch the launch.
As she got down from the chariot, Andromache wondered for a moment how they were going to get on board, but as they neared the ship, a sturdy wooden ladder was passed down to the sand at the stern. At the top she could see the reassuring figure of Gershom leaning down over the rail. He waved and called out a greeting.
Then curly-haired Oniacus trudged across the sand. “Can you manage, lady? You can sit in a sling if you prefer.”
“To be hauled up like livestock, Oniacus? My sister and I can manage a ladder.” She softened the sharp words with a smile, remembering that the man only recently had lost his family at Dardanos.
“The rest of your belongings are already aboard,” he said. “They are stored at the rear of the lower deck.”
“And the ebony box?” she asked.
Oniacus nodded. “Safe, lady, alongside your luggage. Your bow is there also, and two fine quivers. Let us hope you do not find use for them—beyond practice, I mean.”
Andromache saw that Kassandra was about to speak and cut across her. “Thank you, Oniacus,” she said. “We also took your advice and brought extra warm clothing. Oiled woolen cloaks and leggings.”
“That is good. The weather may be savagely cold and wet.”
Andromache took Kassandra by the arm and led her to the ladder. “You go up first,” she told her. “I will follow and steady your foot if you slip.”
Kassandra laughed. “You think I am some drooling defective who has never climbed a ladder?” Lifting the hem of her dark ankle-length tunic, she almost ran up the ladder, taking Gershom’s hand and leaping over the rail. Andromache followed her.
Safely on the aft deck by the carved steering oar, Andromache immediately glanced around for sight of Helikaon. He was not yet aboard, and she felt a pang of disappointment. The crewmen amidships were hauling aboard cargo: bales of embroidered cloth, sturdy wooden chests, nets full of bread and fruit, and hundreds of small amphorae strung together with twine and padded with straw. Other crewmen then lowered the goods to the hold.
Oniacus vaulted over the deck rail and opened a hatch in the deck by Andromache’s feet. Climbing down to the second oar deck, he called out greetings to
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