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four other men were waiting beyond the wall. Yet he had avoided them all. Ox said he had disappeared, as if by magic. Helikaon did not believe in magic. The assassin was highly skilled—like the man who had killed Helikaon’s father. No one had seen him, either. He had entered the palace, made his way to the king’s apartments, and cut his throat. He had also—inexplicably—sliced away his father’s right ear. Then he had left. Not one of the guards had seen him. Not one of the servants had noted any strangers present.
    Perhaps he, too, was being hunted by such a man.
    He saw the fork-bearded Zidantas approaching, followed by two senior crewmen.
    Zidantas climbed to the rear deck. “We are ready, Golden One,” he said. Helikaon nodded. Ox swung away. “Ready the oars! Stand by the sail!” he bellowed. “Raise the anchors!”
    The crewmen moved swiftly to their places, the anchor men fore and aft, hauling on the thick ropes, lifting the great stone anchors from the seabed.
    Helikaon glanced at the young boy Xander. He was looking frightened, his eyes wide and staring. He kept glancing back at the shore.
    “By the mark of one!” shouted Ox. The banks of oars lifted and dipped.
    And the great ship began to glide serenely across the bay.
    III
    For the twelve-year-old Xander the trip on the
Xanthos
represented the greatest adventure of his life. For as long as he could remember he had dreamed of sailing upon the Great Green. High in the Kypriot hills, as he tended his grandfather’s goats or helped his mother and sisters prepare paints for the pottery they traded in the settlement, he would imagine being on a ship, feeling the swell of the sea beneath his feet. Often, as he wandered along the high ground, he would stop and stare longingly at the vessels heading south toward Egypte or east to Ugarit—or even to Miletos and the legendary Troy with its towers of solid gold.
    He remembered his father, Akamas, and the other sailors launching the
Ithaka.
He had stood with his grandfather on the beach as the galley floated clear and watched the oarsmen take up their positions. His father was a great rower, powerful and untiring. He was also, as Grandfather often said, “a good man to have beside you in a storm.”
    Xander recalled the last farewell with agonizing clarity. His father had stood and waved, his red hair glinting like fire in the dawn light. He had died days later in the battle with the savage Mykene pirate Alektruon. Xander knew he had died bravely, defending his friends and his ship. The Golden One had come to their house in the hills and had sat with Xander and told him of his father’s greatness. He had brought gifts for Mother and Grandfather and had talked quietly with them both. In this he did them great honor, for Helikaon was the son of a king. He was also a demigod.
    Grandfather scoffed at the story. “All these nobles claim descent from the gods,” he said. “But they are men like you and me, Xander. Helikaon is better than most,” he admitted. “Not many highborns would take the trouble to visit the bereaved.” He had turned away, and Xander had seen that he was crying. And he had cried, too.
    After a while Grandfather put his arm around Xander’s shoulders. “No shame in tears, boy. Your father deserved tears. Good man. I was proud of him always, as I will be proud of you. Next year Helikaon says he will take you in his crew, and you will learn the ways of the sea. You will be a fine, brave man, like your father, and you will bring honor to our family.”
    “Will I be an oarsman, Grandfather?”
    “Not for a while, lad. You are too short. But you’ll grow. And you’ll grow strong.”
    The year had dragged by, but at last the great new ship was ready, and the crew began to muster. Grandfather had walked with him to the port just before dawn, filling him with so much advice that it seemed to be running out of Xander’s ears. “Look to Zidantas” was one comment he remembered. “Good