Kalliades suddenly smiled. “You are not a frightened child any longer,” he told himself aloud. Then the smile faded.
He had been six years old when the reavers had attacked the village, setting houses aflame, killing the men, and dragging out the younger women. His fourteen-year-old sister, Agasta, had grabbed him, and they had tried to flee. She had hidden him in a flax field. Then strong men had caught her. He remembered the look on Agasta’s face: desperation, fear, and anguish. She had fought them, scratching and biting as they raped her. In their fury at her resistance they had cut her throat. Kalliades had lain there watching the blood gush out.
Seeking to shut out the memory, Kalliades glanced up to where Piria was sitting beside her small fire. As a child he had been powerless to save his sister. As a man he had at least prevented a similar tragedy. Was there some small comfort in that?
A sound cut through his thoughts. Swinging back toward the mist, he heard it again, a strange creaking groan. Then he heard muted shouts. The mist parted briefly, and for a moment he saw a mast, canted at an odd angle, and the briefest vision of a hull. No sailors chose to spend the night at sea. Journeys upon the Great Green were dangerous enough without the added risk of blindly rowing in the dark, unable to see the reefs or sunken rocks.
Kalliades called out to the men around the campfire, and Odysseus, Bias, and the rest of the crew moved out to the sea line. The wallowing ship was swallowed by the mist once more.
“Many of her oars have gone,” Bias said. “Looks like she’s sinking.”
No one moved. They stood in a ragged line, staring out at the wall of mist. Then the stricken vessel appeared again, this time broadside on. In the moonlight they could all see the painted bull’s head on the prow.
Odysseus swore colorfully. “That’s Meriones’ ship,” he said. “By the gods, don’t just stand there, you cowsons. I have a friend in trouble.”
Instantly the crew ran to the beached Penelope, pushing her out, then swarming aboard. Kalliades and Banokles would have gone with them, but Odysseus, the last man to scramble onto the deck, called back to them to stay on the beach. “Set some signal fires,” he said. “Likely we’ll need some light to guide us back in.”
Odysseus ran to the foredeck and climbed to stand on the prow. The mist was so thick that he could not see the rear deck or the figure of Bias at the steering oar. Even the sound of the oars dipping into the water was muffled and distant. He heard Bias calling out a slow beat, his voice muted and distorted by the fog.
Glancing to his left, Odysseus stared hard at the shimmering mist. Somewhere close, though invisible now, was a sheer wall of rock rising from the sea. The blond giant Leukon was the lead rower on the port side. Odysseus called out to him: “Stay watchful. Remember the cliff.” They were not moving fast enough for a collision to damage the Penelope. The danger was to the oars.
The Penelope’s hull creaked and groaned as the ship scraped slowly against a line of submerged rocks. “Steady, lads!” Odysseus shouted. “Lightly now!”
He was tired, his eyes gritty, his muscles aching and bruised from the rescue of Ganny. Sucking in a deep breath, he squinted into the mist. “Can you hear me, Meriones?” he bellowed.
There was no reply, and he called out several times more. A sailor appeared alongside him, a heavy rope looped over his shoulder. Then the Penelope began to vibrate. Odysseus swore loudly as another earthquake shivered the sea. The water began to roil. The Penelope swung sharply as the undertow took her, then suddenly pitched to port. Odysseus lost his hold on the high prow and started to fall. The crewman with the rope grabbed him, hauling him back to the deck. A large wave lifted the ship, and the Penelope tilted sharply to starboard. Two of the rowers were thrown from their benches.
Odysseus scrambled back onto the prow. Bias was calling out urgent orders to the men, and the ship steadied. But they had been pushed back toward the cliff. It loomed out of the mist, huge and dark. Rocks began to fall into the sea, sending up great splashes all around them. Odysseus looked up. High above the Penelope was a massive overhang, almost as long as the Penelope’s keel. A large crack had appeared in it. The wind picked up, lashing the sea against the ship, driving it back toward the black wall.
“Row hard, you cowsons!” Odysseus shouted. The oars bit deeply into the heaving water, but against the power of the incoming waves the rowers were struggling just to prevent the Penelope from being dashed against the cliff.
A sickening groan sounded from the rock face above. Dust and rock shards tumbled down from the widening crack in the overhang, striking the deck of the Penelope like hailstones.
“Ramming speed!” Odysseus bellowed. There was no ram on the Penelope, but all the sailors knew what he meant. With all their strength they hauled on the oars. Bias took up the fast beat.
“Pull! Pull! Pull!”
The Penelope began to inch forward. Odysseus licked dry lips with a dry tongue, his heart hammering.
“Come on, my girl!” he said softly, patting the prow. “Bring us clear.”
Then came a thunderous crack from above—and the overhang sheared away. The passage of time ceased for Odysseus. He watched as the colossal rock broke clear and knew that the ship was doomed. Surprisingly, he felt no despair. The face of his wife appeared in his mind, and in her arms she held the infant Laertes. Odysseus heard the child laugh, and it filled his heart with joy.
In that moment a second undertow caught the Penelope, dragging her away from the cliff face just as the overhang crashed into the sea no more than a spear’s length behind them. The shock wave lifted the small ship, spinning her. Then she straightened. Odysseus’ laughter rang out, all weariness vanishing from him. “The gods love us, lads,” he called out. “We’ll make a story out of this yet!”
“A pox on your stories!” came a voice. “How about a little help?”
Odysseus glanced to starboard. The listing war galley was close now, the mist swirling around it. On its prow stood a heavily bearded figure garbed in black.
“I might have known it was you, Meriones,” Odysseus called cheerfully. “You couldn’t sail a twig across a puddle without it sinking.”
“Good to see you, too, you fat braggart!”
The sailor beside Odysseus looped the rope around the prow, then threw the coil across to Meriones. The war galley had been holed on the port side. Most of the crew had gathered to starboard, their combined weight helping to keep the hole above the waterline.
With the rope fastened, Odysseus ordered the crew to reverse oars, and slowly they hauled the crippled vessel toward the shore.
The mist was thicker now, and Odysseus made his way along the central deck to the rear. He could see no signal fires, but he could hear the faint sounds of shouting from the distant beach. They were using sound to guide him in, chanting “Penelope” over and over again. Following the sound of her name, the Penelope slowly backed water until the first glimmerings of the fires could be seen. The Mykene warrior Kalliades had set a line of small blazes on the hillside in the shape of an arrowhead.