Troy 01 - Lord of the Silver Bow Read Online Free PDF Page A

security. Now I wonder whether I made the right choice. Do you think I could have been happy wed to a farmer or a fisherman and raising children?”
    “I cannot answer that. We make choices every day, some of them good, some of them bad. And if we are strong enough, we live with the consequences. To be truthful, I am not entirely sure what people mean when they talk of happiness. There are moments of joy and laughter, the comfort of friendship, but enduring happiness? If it exists, I have not discovered it.”
    “Perhaps it comes only when you are in love,” she suggested.
    “Have you ever been in love?”
    “No,” she lied.
    “Nor I,” he replied, the simple words sliding like a dagger into her heart.
    “What a sad pair we are,” she said, forcing a smile and sliding her hand down over his flat belly. “Ah!” she said with mock surprise, “there is one among us who does not seem sad. Indeed, he is beginning to feel rampantly happy.”
    Helikaon laughed. “You do have that effect on him.” His hands clasped her waist, lifting her over him. Then he drew her down and kissed her deeply.

III
    THE GOLDEN SHIP
    I
    The storms of the last two days had faded into the west, and the sky was clear and blue, the sea calm, as Spyros rowed his passenger toward the great ship. After a morning of ferrying crewmen out to the
Xanthos,
Spyros was tired. He liked to tell people that at eighty years of age he was as strong as ever, but it was not true. His arms and shoulders were aching and his heart was thumping as he leaned back into the oars.
    A man was not old until he could no longer work. That simple philosophy kept Spyros active, and every morning, as he woke, he would greet the new day with a smile. He would walk out and draw water from the well, gaze at his reflection in the surface, and say “Good to see you, Spyros.”
    He looked at the young man sitting quietly at the stern. His hair was long and dark, held back from his face by a strip of leather. Bare-chested, he was wearing a simple kilt and sandals. His body was lean and hard-muscled, his eyes the brilliant blue of a summer sky. Spyros had not seen the man before and guessed him to be a foreigner, probably a rogue islander or a Kretan.
    “New oarsman, are you?” Spyros asked him. The passenger did not answer, but he smiled. “Been ferrying men like you in all week. Locals won’t sail on the Death Ship. That’s what we call the
Xanthos.
Only idiots and foreigners. No offense meant.”
    The passenger’s voice was deep, his accent proving Spyros’ theory. “But she is beautiful,” he said amiably. “And the shipwright says she is sound.”
    “Aye, I’ll grant she’s good to look upon,” said Spyros. “Mighty pleasing on the eye.” Then he chuckled. “However, I wouldn’t trust the word of the Madman from Miletos. My nephew worked on the ship, you know. He said Khalkeus wandered about talking to himself. Sometimes he’d even slap himself on the head.”
    “I have seen him do that,” the man concurred.
    Spyros fell silent, a feeling of mild irritation flowering. The man was young and obviously did not appreciate the fact that the gods of the sea hated large ships. Twenty years earlier he had watched just such a ship sail from the bay. It had made two voyages without incident, then had vanished in a storm. One man had survived. He had been washed ashore on the eastern mainland. His story was told by mariners for some years. The keel had snapped, the ship breaking up in a few heartbeats. Spyros considered telling this story to the young oarsman but decided against it. What would be the point? The man had to earn his twenty copper rings and was not going to turn back now.
    Spyros rowed on, the burning in his lower back increasing. This was his twentieth trip out to the
Xanthos
since dawn.
    There were small boats all around the galley, stacked with cargo. Men were shouting and vying for position. Boats thumped into one another, causing curses and threats