Troy 03 - Fall of Kings by David Gemmell Read Free Book Online Page A

galleys were being put through maneuvers close to the southern shore. Gershom watched them for a while. The rowers were inexperienced, oars clashing at times, as the galleys were halted, spun, or urged to ramming speed. So many ships had been sunk these last few seasons, and hundreds of experienced sailors drowned or killed in sea battles. Now novices would take to the sea and die in the hundreds.
    The
Xanthos
sailed on, reaching the King’s Beach just as the sun dipped below the horizon. Oniacus called out orders to the rowers. Immediately the two banks of oars on the port side lifted clear of the water while those on the starboard side dipped and pulled. The stern of the
Xanthos
swung smoothly toward the beach. “And…NOW!” Oniacus yelled. All the oars struck the water simultaneously. The hull of the
Xanthos
ground into the sand, then came to rest. Oars were shipped swiftly.
    Then the deck hatches were opened. Gershom walked over and helped the crew unload the cargo. More than a thousand cuirasses were passed up and dropped over the side to the sand. The armor worn by the Trojan Horse was well crafted, disks of bronze overlaid like fish scales on breastplates of leather, and, unlike the bodies of the proud men who had worn them, far too valuable to be left behind on the battlefields of Thraki.
    The armor was loaded onto carts, then carried up through the lower town and into the city. Finally the deck hatches were closed. Oniacus moved past Gershom, heading to the prow. The men of the skeleton crew settled down on the raised aft deck, blankets over their shoulders against the chill of the evening, while their comrades made their way up to the town, beneath the walls of the golden city.
    Gershom saw Helikaon, who was cradling in his arms his sleeping son, Dex, as he was greeted by the huge Trojan prince Antiphones. Gershom turned away and strolled to the prow.
    Oniacus was leaning against the rail and staring out across the bay at the new war galleys. His handsome young face was set and angry, and there was violence in his eyes.
    “Is there anything I can have sent down to you?” Gershom asked. “Wine, perhaps?”
    Oniacus shook his head. “Wine helps you forget, they say. I don’t want to forget. And I don’t want to talk, either.”
    “Then don’t talk,” Gershom said softly. “Two friends should be able to stand together in silence without awkwardness.”
    The silence did not last long, nor had Gershom expected it to. It was not that Oniacus was a gregarious man, but the grief welling up in him could not be restrained. He began by talking of his two sons, what fine boys they had been. Gershom said nothing; it was not necessary. Oniacus was not really talking to him but instead speaking to the night, to the shades of his boys, to the gods who had not been there to protect them and their mother when the Mykene had fallen upon Dardanos with bright swords. Sadness was followed by rage, and rage by tears. Finally there was silence again. Gershom put his arm around Oniacus’ shoulder.
    Oniacus sighed. “I am not ashamed of tears,” he said.
    “Nor should you be, my friend. It is said that the gates of paradise can only be opened by the tears of those left behind. I do not know whether that be true. It should be, I think.”
    Oniacus looked at him closely. “You do believe we live on and that there…there will be some reward for those innocents whose lives were…were stolen from them?”
    “Of course,” Gershom lied. “How could it be otherwise?”
    Oniacus nodded. “I believe that. A place of happiness. No terrors or fears, no cowards or killers. I believe that,” he said again.
    They stood together for a while, watching the galleys on the still waters. “The balance is wrong,” Gershom said, pointing to the nearest vessel. “See it veer?”
    “Too much strength on the port-side oars. They need to switch some of the rowers,” Oniacus told him. The anguish still could be seen in his eyes, but now he