“Five ships,” he ordered. “Board her. They may have useful information for Agamemnon. The other ships close on her but stand off. There might be fire hurlers.”
His orders were given by the display of brightly colored banners fashioned from linen, a system Menados had invented for conveying information at sea. Five ships, four Mykene and one Athenian, set off toward the oncoming vessel, intending to slow her by destroying her sail, then ram and board her. The other Mykene ships all turned to the north, too. The Dardanian ship came on, not changing her course, apparently determined to break through the vessels approaching her.
As they closed, flaming arrows shot from the Athenian ship, targeted on the black horse. Two fell in the sea, but five hit their mark, and the sail began to burn. As it disintegrated in flame, the ship lost its way, but it still came on. Flaming debris fell to the deck, there was a mighty whoosh, and instantly the whole ship was alight.
At the last moment Menados saw three figures hurl themselves from the deck of the ship into the water.
“Fire ship!” he shouted. “Come about! Keep clear!”
But the blazing ship came on, and the Athenian ship could not get clear in time. The fire ship rammed into her hull as she was still turning and slid along the wooden planking. The force of the collision caused the Dardanian ship’s mast to collapse, and it fell flaming onto the deck of the Athenian ship. Pieces of burning sail hurled by the high wind struck the sail of one of the Mykene ships, and it, too, started to blaze.
“Fools!” Menados shouted, watching two of his ships blazing, the crews throwing themselves into the water. The other ships were moving clear.
And fools aboard the fire ship, he thought. Why sacrifice a ship in such a way?
He spun around. Behind them, powering at full speed through the gathering darkness, he could see the Xanthos making its way through the gap between the Mykene ships and the Cape of Tides. It was a rough and windy night, and the bireme’s rowers were hard-pressed by the wind from the north and the strong current at the cape.
“The Xanthos!” Menados shouted. “Come about, you idiots! Quickly!”
His steersman leaned on the steering oar with all his strength, and Menados added his own weight. But by the time they turned the ship to chase the great vessel, it was fully dark, and the Xanthos sped away from the light of the three blazing ships and disappeared into the darkness of the Hellespont.
The Xanthos moved ahead slowly through the night, making her way east along the Simoeis. The sky was clear and starlit overhead, but a light mist lay over the river. The only sounds were the soft plashing of oars and the harsh braying of donkeys in the distance. It was so quiet that Andromache could hear scuffling noises in the reeds as small creatures fled the passing of the great ship.
The Xanthos had entered the straits at a dangerous speed in the darkness, overloaded as she was with the crew of the Boreas. Only a seaman as experienced as Helikaon would have risked it, for he knew the strong currents and perilous rocks of the Cape of Tides better than any man. But once within the Bay of Troy, the rowers had slowed. Then more vessels had loomed around them in the dark: the Trojan ships trapped in the bay. Andromache would have expected cheering as the Golden Ship glided past, but there was an eerie silence as sailors lined the decks to watch the Xanthos as it headed through the bay toward Troy’s northern river.
“Why so quiet?” she asked Oniacus, who was standing on the foredeck with a sounding pole, peering into the mist ahead. “We are still far from Troy and the enemy camps.”
Keeping his gaze fixed on the river, the sailor replied, “At night sound travels over very great distances. We cannot be too careful.”
“They all look so grim,” she said.
He nodded. “Aye. It seems much has changed here since we left.”
The Simoeis was shallow and marshy even in the spring, and Helikaon steered the Xanthos in the center of the river. Andromache could see little in the misty night, and time crawled by slowly. Finally she felt the ship slow to a complete stop. The silence around them was heavy and oppressive.
“This is about as far as we can go,” Oniacus said quietly. “We will moor here and unload the tin. We can only hope our enemies are not expecting us.”
Andromache felt a shiver of fear run through her. Trapped in this shallow, narrow river, the Xanthos would be vulnerable if the forces of the Mykene found her. Had the admiral Menados been able to send word to Agamemnon of the ship’s arrival? Had he had the time?
The rowers shipped their oars, and the sluggish pull of the river floated the vessel gently into the side. Andromache strained her eyes to see into the mist on the riverbank.
Suddenly a torch flared. A voice called softly, “Ho, Xanthos!” A dark figure, hooded and cloaked, appeared out of the gloom. In the light of a single torch he looked massive.
Helikaon left the steering oar and strode down the aisle to the center deck. With a long dagger in one hand he vaulted over the side of the ship and landed lightly on the soft ground beneath.
Andromache heard a familiar voice say, “There is no need for daggers between us, Golden One.” Then Hektor pushed his hood back, stepped forward, and threw his arms around Helikaon in a bear hug.
She heard him ask, “Is Andromache safe?” and she stepped to the side of the ship where she could be seen. Hektor looked up, and in the torchlight she could see that his face was tired and strained. But he smiled when he saw her.
A crewman dropped a ladder from the deck to the riverbank, and she climbed swiftly down. She hesitated before her husband, her emotions in turmoil, then stepped into his embrace. She looked up at him. “Astyanax?” she asked.
He nodded reassuringly. “He is well,” he said.
They stood back, and the three of them gazed at one another. Andromache had not foreseen this moment. She had expected to return to Troy accompanied by Helikaon, with Hektor away at war, and she had spent sleepless nights aboard ship worrying about keeping their illicit love secret in a city of gossips and spies. Now her future had been changed in a blink of an eye. Seeing Hektor again, his face speaking of burdens he barely could shoulder, she felt ashamed of herself and her selfish plotting.
Helikaon seemed genuinely pleased to see his old friend again. “You are a welcome sight, Cousin,” he said. “How did you know we’d be here?”
“The beacon on the Cape of Tides. I gave orders for it to be lit when the Xanthos was spotted. We have looked long for your return, Golden One,” Hektor replied. “We knew you would beat Menados’ blockade.”
“Three brave men gave their lives to deliver us safely,” Helikaon said. “Asios and two crewmen from the Boreas.”
“Their names were Lykaon and Periphas,” Andromache told him.
Helikaon looked at her and nodded. “You are right, Andromache. Their names should not be forgotten. Asios, Lykaon, and Periphas.”
“Those three could be the saving of Troy if you come bearing tin,” Hektor said.
“We have a hold full of it, Cousin.”
Hektor sighed with relief. “Your mad bronzesmith Khalkeus tells me he can cast strong swords from the metal of Ares, but he has yet to show me one. Meanwhile, our forges are dark. We could not contine the fight without your cargo. Let them unload with all speed, and we will speak.”
He gestured, and from the darkness emerged men leading donkey carts. Some of the newcomers swarmed up ropes onto the deck of the Xanthos. There were quiet words of greeting as old friends met again; then the hold doors were opened, and they started unloading the precious metal. Hektor led Helikaon and Andromache a short way across the flat marsh to where a small hillock hid a glowing campfire. The three sat down. Hektor undid his cloak, and Andromache could see that he was garbed in full armor.