The ship drew nearer as though the mariners were interested in what was happening on shore.
There were noises in Pandion’s head, his whole body ached dreadfully, bringing tears to his eyes. Dimly he realized that when his pursuers brought bows and arrows, he would most certainly be killed. The sea drew him on, the approaching ship seemed like salvation sent by the gods. Pandion forgot that it might be a foreign ship or might belong to his enemies — he felt that his native sea could not deceive him. He stood up on his feet, assured himself that his arms were intact, jumped into the sea and swam for the ship. The waves swept over his head, his battered body did not want to submit to his will, his wounds burned painfully and his throat was parched. The vessel drew nearer to Pandion and those on board gave him cries of encouragement. He could hear the creaking of the oars, the hull of the ship rose over his head and strong hands seized him and pulled him on to the deck. Unconscious and seemingly lifeless, the youth lay stretched out on the warm planks of the deck. They brought him round and gave him water — he drank long and avidly. Pandion felt himself being carried to one side and covered over with something; then he sank into a deep sleep.
The mountains of Crete could be faintly distinguished on the horizon. Pandion stirred, gave an involuntary groan and opened his eyes. He was on board a ship that was nothing like those of his own country, with their low gunwales protected at the sides by wattles of plaited withies and with the oars above the hold. This vessel had high sides, the rowers sat below the deck on either side of a gangway that widened in the depths of the hold. The single sail on the mast in the centre of the ship was higher and narrower than those on the ships of Hellas.
Piles of hides lying on the deck gave off a foul odour. Pandion was lying on the narrow triangular deck in the prow of the vessel. He was approached by a bearded, aquiline-nosed man in thick woollen clothing, who offered him a bowl of warm water mixed with wine and spoke to him in an unknown language with sharp, metallic intonations. Pandion shook his head. The man touched him on the shoulder and with an imperative gesture pointed to the sternsheets of the vessel. Pandion gathered his bloodstained rags around his loins and made his way along the gunwale towards the awning in the stern.
Here sat a thin man, aquiline-nosed, like the one who had brought Pandion. His lips, framed in a stiff beard that stuck out in front of him, parted in a smile. His wind-dried, rapacious face, like a bronze casting, had a cruel look about it.
Pandion gathered that he was on board a Phoenician merchant ship and that the man before him was either the captain or the owner.
He did not understand the first two questions the man asked him. Then the merchant spoke in a broken Ionian dialect that Pandion could understand although there were Carian and Etruscan words mixed in his speech. He asked Pandion about his adventures, learned who he was and where he had come from and, thrusting his eagle-nosed face with its unblinking eyes close to Pandion, said to him;
“I saw your escape — that was a deed of valour worthy of one of the heroes of old. I’m in need of such strong and fearless warriors — in these waters and on the coasts there are many pirates who plunder our merchants. If you serve me faithfully you’ll have an easy life and I shall reward you.”
Pandion shook his head in refusal saying that he must return to his own country as soon as possible and imploring the merchant to put him ashore on the nearest island.
The merchant’s eyes flashed evilly.
“My ship is sailing straight to Tyre there is nothing but sea on that route. I’m king aboard my ship and you’re in my power. I could order you to be killed immediately if I wanted to. Take your choice — either there,” the Phoenician pointed below the deck where the oars moved rhythmically to the plaintive singing of the rowers, “where you’ll be a slave chained to the oars, or join them,” the merchant’s finger swept round and pointed below the awning: there sat five husky, half-naked men with stupid and brutal faces. “Don’t keep me waiting too long.”
Pandion looked helplessly round him. The vessel was fast drawing away from Crete. The distance between him and his own country was rapidly increasing. There was no help to be expected from anywhere.
Pandion decided that he would have more chance of escape as a soldier. The Phoenician, however, who was well acquainted with the habits of the Hellenes, made him swear three awful oaths of loyalty.
The merchant then treated his wounds with soothing ointments and led him to the group of fighting men, telling them to feed him.
“Keep an eye on him,” he warned them. “Remember that all of you are responsible to me for the actions of each single one.”
The senior soldier laughed approvingly, patted Pandion on the shoulder, felt his muscles and said something to the others. The soldiers roared with laughter. Pandion looked at them in perplexity, for now his deep sorrow made him not as other men.
In the four days that he had spent on board ship Pandion had to some extent accustomed himself to his new position. The wounds and bruises proved but slight and they soon healed. Another two days sailing would bring them to Tyre.
The master of the vessel recognized the intellect and varied knowledge possessed by Pandion, and was very satisfied with him; he had several long talks with Pandion who learned from him that they were following the ancient sea route established by the people of Crete in their journeys to the southern lands of the black people. The route lay along the shores of mighty and hostile Aigyptos and farther along the gigantic deserts as far as the Gates of the Mists. (The Gates of the Mists — the Strait of Gibraltar. The Sea of Mists — the Atlantic Ocean..)
At the Gates of the Mists, where the rocks of north and south drew close together forming a narrow strait, the world ended — beyond them lay the great Sea of Mists.** Here the ships turned south and soon reached the hot shores of the land of the black people, rich in ivory, gold, oils and skins, Pandion knew that the ancient inhabitants of Crete had used this route, for he had seen pictures of such a journey on the day that had proved fatal to him. The Sea People’s ships reached lands farther to the south than any visited by emissaries from Aigyptos.
In Pandion’s time, however, Phoenician ships sailed along the northern and southern shores in search of cheap merchandise and strong slaves, but they rarely passed beyond the Gates of the Mists.
The Phoenician sensed unusual talents in Pandion and wanted to keep him in his service. He tempted the youth with the pleasures of distant journeys, drew for him pictures of his future advancement and prophesied that after ten or fifteen years good service he could himself become a merchant or master of a ship.
Pandion listened with interest to the Phoenician’s stories but he knew full well that the life of a merchant was not for him, that he would never exchange his native land, Thessa and the free life of the artist for wealth in a foreign country.
As the days passed his longing to see Thessa, even if only for a moment, became more and more unbearable as did his desire to hear the mighty noises of the sacred pine grove in which he had spent so many happy hours. Lying beside his snoring companions, Pandion could get no sleep and with difficulty stilled his fast-beating heart and stifled groans of despair.
The ship’s master ordered him to learn the work of helmsman. The time hung heavily, when Pandion stood at the stern oar, calculating the direction of the ship by the movement of the sun or, following the instructions of an experienced helmsman, his way by the stars at night.