The man nodded. “All the better for knowing we’ll be on Kalliste tonight.” He grinned, winking.
Helikaon laughed. “Only if the wind stays fair,” he said.
He walked to the forward deck, aware that Andromache was watching his every step. She looked wonderful today, he thought, in a saffron robe cut roughly off at the knees. She was wearing the finely carved amber pendant he had given her, and the sparks of warmth in the stone matched the fire of her hair.
Her face was grave, though. “You are thinking of Kassandra,” he ventured.
“It is true that Kassandra is never far from my thoughts,” she confessed. “But at that moment I was thinking of you.”
“What were you thinking, goddess?” he asked, taking her hand and covering her palm with kisses.
She raised her eyebrows. “I was wondering how long we were to pretend we are not lovers,” she told him, smiling. “It seems I have my answer.”
Facing away from the crew, Helikaon felt a hundred eyes on his back, and he heard the lull as the men stopped talking. Then, almost instantly, the normal chatter resumed as if nothing had happened.
“It seems they are not surprised,” he told her.
She shook her head, her face glowing with happiness.
“Golden One!” Helikaon turned to see Praxos running down the deck toward them. The boy was trying to point backward as he ran. “There is a storm, I think!”
Helikaon looked quickly in the direction in which Praxos was pointing, toward Thera. On the clear line of the horizon there was a small dark smudge. It was like a storm but not a storm. As he watched, it rose into the shape of a dark tower. A feeling of dread formed in the pit of his stomach. There was a distant roll of thunder, and all the crewmen turned to watch the black tower rising ominously into the pale sky.
Heartbeats passed as it climbed and climbed. Then, suddenly, it was consumed by a massive eruption of fire and flame, filling the sky to the east. The sound of the eruption hit them like the noise of thunder increased a hundredfold, like the deep blast of Ares’ war horn or the crack of doom itself.
“It is Thera!” someone cried. “The god has burst his chains!”
Helikaon glanced at Andromache. Her face was as white as clean linen, and there was fear in her eyes. She pointed to the horizon, and he looked again. The cloud of the explosion, spreading swiftly out and upward, darkened the eastern sky. But it was vanishing mysteriously from sea level upward. Baffled, Helikaon gazed at the horizon. It was rising as he watched.
With awful clarity he knew what was happening.
“Take in the sail!” he shouted. “Get to your oars now!”
He ordered Oniacus to turn the ship around, and as his second in command shouted to the rowers, Helikaon grabbed a length of rope from the deck. With his bronze dagger he sliced it in three pieces. He thrust them at Andromache.
“Get the boys onto the lower deck and tie them securely to something solid. Then tie yourself down.”
She stared at him. “Why?” she asked. “What is happening?”
“Just do it, woman!” he bellowed at her.
Pointing toward the high horizon, he addressed the crew. “That is a wall of water coming toward us, as high as a mountain! It will be upon us in moments. We must all tie ourselves down. Anyone who is not securely tied will die! We will row straight into the wave, and the Xanthos will climb it! It is our one chance!”
Now they all could see it for what it was, a dark line of horizon much too high in the sky, coming toward the ship with the speed of a swooping eagle. In front of it was a huge flock of gulls, flying frantically away from the great wave. As they passed over the Xanthos, the sky darkened, their screams beat on the men’s ears, and the thrashing of their wings created a wind that rocked the ship.
Rowers were at their benches, rowing for all they were worth to turn the great galley around. The other crewmen were tearing down the lines, cutting lengths for themselves and the oarsmen. All kept glancing fearfully as the giant wave bore down on them.
Helikaon grabbed some rope and ran to the aft deck, where Oniacus needed all his strength to brace the steering oar to one side. The Xanthos was turning in a tight circle. Helikaon lent his strength to the oar and took another swift look at the wave. It was mountainous and getting bigger by the moment, filling the whole of his vision. Can the ship climb it? he asked himself. All he was certain of was that it must not hit them beam-on. It would destroy the galley in a moment. Their only hope was to steer straight into it. The oars and the wooden fins Khalkeus had bolted to the hull would keep the ship stable.
“We will tie the oar centrally,” he told Oniacus, “but it will need the strength of both of us as well to keep it steady.”
“If we can do it at all,” his friend replied grimly, his terror palpable.
The ship was heading into the wave now. Helikaon cut the rope in half, then looped half around his waist, tying it to the side rails. He did the same thing for Oniacus, who was holding the oar in a death grip.
“The nephthar, Golden One!” he cried suddenly. “What about the clay balls? If we survive this, they will be smashed and broken.”
Helikaon looked up to the wave, which was nearly upon them. “They will be washed away,” he shouted. “That is the least of our worries.”
The prow of the ship began to rise as the swell in front of the wave reached them. All along the deck Helikaon saw the wide eyes of terrified men leaning into the oars, horror at their backs, rowing like men possessed.
“Row, you cowsons! Row for your lives!” he bellowed at them.
The wave hit them, and Helikaon felt the whole ship shudder as if she were snapping in two. Then there was a hideous groan, and she started to climb. It is not possible, he told himself. The wave is too high. He fought down the panic in his chest. If any ship can do it, the Xanthos can, he thought.
Then they were underwater. Helikaon could see nothing but swirling sea all around, and he felt the air punched out of his chest as the galley lurched to one side, throwing him against the steering oar. He was tossed about like a rag doll, concentrating only on keeping his hands to the oar, holding it tight, feeling Oniacus’ hands there, too. It was impossible to steer. All they could do was hold on tight and try not to drown.
For a moment he emerged from the water and caught a terrifying glimpse of the ship suspended vertically above him, the oarsmen rowing like madmen, though most of the oars were out of the water. Then the sea came over his head again, and all he could glimpse was the blue and green of its depths.
The ship lurched and spun, pitched and heaved. It went on so long that Helikaon thought it would never stop. He no longer could tell which way was up or down or if he was rising in the sea or sinking through the depths. He could not tell if the hideous sounds in his ears were those of the ship groaning, the men crying, or his tortured lungs screaming.
Suddenly there was air to breathe again, and he quickly took a breath, ready to plunge deep again. But he realized they no longer were underwater. The ship had crested the great wave.
For a instant he feared that he was falling, that the ship was plummeting into a deep trough behind the wave. But looking ahead, he realized there was no hideous drop, only a gentle slope. It was as if the great-hearted Xanthos had climbed a giant step in the sea. Helikaon leaned over and vomited up a stomachful of seawater.
He looked along the deck. Nearly half the rowing benches were empty, the oarsmen claimed by Poseidon. Many of the men were hanging, drowned or unconscious, from the ropes tying them to the benches. The mast had been ripped away, as had most of the rails and many of the oars.