WHEN THE TIDE swells the river level, I order the Argoa to be freed from the dock, the sails unfurled, and the oars lowered to steer us out of Portaceae’s harbor. I grit my teeth every time one of these overeager rookies allows a lashing to whip against the mast or an oar to bang against the railings. The Argoa, built by master wood crafter Daedalus himself, is too fine a ship for an amateur crew, but even with her small size and my lifetime around boats, I cannot manage all the work alone.
I’m hit with a sudden stab of longing for Pirro, my fallen friend and adopted brother. He would have had the ship ready in a heartbeat without scuffing any of Argoa’s varnish. After Pirro’s death his father, Dictys – who also raised me and manages a fleet of ships in the Docklands – wanted the Argoa out of his sight. For weeks I sailed aimlessly until I received news of fighting in Portaceae. Although I have no love for his cousin, Herc Dion, I felt as compelled as if pushed by the gods’ hands to aid Iolalus in his battle. Of course, citizens of kingdoms such as the Docklands do not normally take part in troubles between the poli, and I did earn my fair share of strange looks when I sailed into Portaceae, but at heart I will always be an Astorian, the polis of my mother, and felt it my duty to join in against the Areans.
The crew’s calls of triumph as if they’ve just won the laurel in the Osterian Games stir me from my thoughts. They point and whoop at the sail that now bulges with the south wind. I take the helm, command the oars be raised, and roll my eyes that they can get so excited over captured air.
The autumn breeze that brings with it this sweltering heat pushes us the final length of the Illamos, the north-south flowing river that runs through Illamos Valley to Portaceae. From there the Argoa will be delivered into the Col, the great river that flows to the Western Sea from the eastern polis of Demos. Beyond Demos the Col’s flow heads south to become the Snake and eventually the Styx whose deadly waters stagnate in the Chasm. Other men’s mental maps of Osteria may contain landforms, roads and cities, but mine is lined with waterways. Waterways whose characters and conditions I know better than most people know the town they have lived in their entire lives.
At this time of year, the section of the Col from Portaceae to the polis of Astoria will be placid with a moderate current and only small islands as obstacles. An easy sail as long as one takes due caution around the inhabitants of some of the islands. Despite the Col’s calm, the crossing into the Western Sea is one of the most treacherous patches of water in all of Osteria. The crossing – which some call the bar, but most call the Graveyard – churns harder than a laundry maid’s wash tub. Rocks hide beneath the surface ready to dig their stony fingers into hulls, clashing currents create eddies that sweep away oars, and converging winds tangle sails. Only the most skilled sailors can make it through, but skill matters for little if the people of Astoria have failed to keep the gods and the kraken appeased.
But the crew, too full of river air and their own bravery, aren’t thinking of danger just yet. With the wind pushing the ship along there’s no need for them to man the oars. Instead, they enjoy yet another day that seems unable to let go of summer by losing themselves in card games and cups of wine, while taking for granted the smooth sailing under my guidance.
Despite the summer-like weather, the autumn equinox has come and gone and Apollo pulls the sun away faster each day. As sunset approaches, the ship passes one of the larger islands in the Col: Lemnos Island. I have heard tales of this patch of land that stir both my curiosity and my unease. Stories in which women entrap men who are then either turned into slaves or butchered for meat. It sounds like a falsehood, a lie sailors tell to keep away boredom or to test their bravery.
Still, fable or not, most ships sail well away from the shores of Lemnos and I intend to do the same. I have been lucky in my life. I should have died as a baby, drowned at sea on my grandfather Acrisius’s command. I have no wish to tempt the fates. Jason, this bumbling prince of Illamos Valley who stands with me at the helm as if we are co-captains, watches over the railing as the Argoa glides past the island whose gently sloping beach leads up to a field surrounded by a forest of fir trees.
“Should we stop there for the night?” he asks.
“No, best to get as far upriver as we can. Once it’s fully dark we’ll anchor. We want to time it right so we have plenty of chance to rest before hitting the bar.”
I breathe a sigh of relief that Jason puts up no argument. He is amiable enough and, despite his station, shows no interest in pretending he should be the ruler of Argoa. Although I’ve earned a reputation for being stern, I am a fair captain who enjoys every challenge the sea presents. My hackles only raise when men, especially men who have done nothing more than paddle around in pleasure boats, try to captain my ship, try to put me in second place, or put my ship in danger. To his credit, the prince only nods and watches the Argoa part the waters of the Col.
Just as I think this day’s sail has been a good one, just as I’m about to thank the gods for a pleasant beginning, just as I order the anchor to be readied so we can rest, the Argoa swings sideways to the current and a strong western wind kicks up. I curse with all the foul sailors’ words Dictys taught me as a boy. This wind will push us back half the distance we’ve covered; if we don’t want to retrace water we’ve already sailed, the crew will have to fight it regardless of the risk of a broken oar or strained shoulder. Again, I miss Pirro. He would have scampered up the mast and had the sails adjusted before I could even detect the wind’s change on my skin. I hesitate only a moment then order the men to get oars in the water and the sails hoisted. The ship rocks, tilts from the east by a surge in the current, then lurches west when a gale hits us.
My gut clenches, not from the motion, but because this sudden squall is too much like the time I had Herc Dion aboard this very ship. What foul luck must I possess to repeatedly partner up with men whom the gods despise? I wonder which one it is, which one I should force ashore. But there is no time to dwell on matters of fate as a bank of steely black storm clouds rushes toward us.
“Don’t fight it, just right the ship,” I yell.
Jason and the crew jump into the benches to pull the oars. Over the wind, I shout commands and with shoulder-strong effort the men orient Argoa in line with the current once more. Although we are able to keep her parallel with the water flow, the rowers struggle to gain any forward momentum. With all of nature against us we are pushed back twice the distance we gain. This is a folly.
“Enough,” I shout. “Leave off, before the oars snap.”
Another gust blasts the ship and it takes all of my skill to keep the vessel from turning sideways into the wind, a position that would have the Argoa pitched over in a heartbeat. On the next gust, the ship thuds and jerks, spilling the men from their seats. With legs used to most any ship movement, I remain standing and jog to the railing. In the darkness created by the clouds, I can just make out a line of fir trees framed by a gently sloping field.
“Guess we’re staying on Lemnos, after all,” Odysseus says as he rubs his shoulders. Jason may be the prince, but Odysseus has the confident air of a leader. I know he is the one I must keep in line and remind of his place aboard my Argoa. Let this man take a pinky’s length of reins and, before you know it, he will have your entire stable of horses under his command.
“Is there any damage?” Jason asks.
With my head too full of what has just happened, I make no response to his question. Why had I allowed this prince aboard my ship, a prince who is having poor luck in his polis? I had no problems before bringing him aboard Argoa. I eye Jason, evaluating him. He backs two steps away from my stare. “Only once have I seen a storm kick up that fast. Are you certain no gods hate you?”
“No, none that I’m aware of.”
Are mortals ever aware when the gods hate them?
“I’ve sailed my entire life. Seen my way through storms and calm. What we just experienced is not natural, not for the Col and not for this time of year.”
“Are you saying the gods mean me harm? I’ve done nothing wrong, I’m no bastard of Zeus to earn Hera’s hatred, and I have honored the gods all my life.”
I glare at him uncertain whether or not to take offense at the bastard remark. But perhaps this prince doesn’t know Zeus is my father. I let the comment slide, saving that argument for another time.
“All I can say is make sure you know who is your ally and who is your enemy.”
After a quick check below decks for any leaks, I tell the crew to settle in for the night, leaving Castor and Pollux on first guard. Before climbing under my own blanket, I glance out to the island and tell myself it is only the cool evening breeze after a hot day that makes my skin prickle.
* * *
When I wake, the early morning haze of the past few days is gone and I hope the clear skies signal the worst of the heat wave has passed. I’m almost in a good mood, I’m almost ready to write off yesterday’s sudden storm to the change in weather, but my frustration takes hold when I realize no one is on guard. I march over to Jason. Despite granting him his own quarters below decks, he has made a space for himself with the men on the ship’s deck. I nudge his side with my toe. The angry tension in my face jerks him quickly awake.
“Two of your men are missing.” Jason leaps up, darts his head back and forth. “There doesn’t seem to be any sign of trouble, but the ship was left unguarded. Castor and Pollux should have traded duty with—“
“There,” Jason says, pointing over the railing toward the island.
In the distance, one of the men struts back to the ship. With his barrel-shaped body, it must be Menelaus. When he gets closer, I see I am right as I take in the grin beaming across his rugged face.
“Where have you been?” Jason demands. It’s a fair question, but relief prevents me from caring too much. If the rumors are to be believed, the women of Lemnos would never let a man out of their grip once they had him. The return of Menelaus is a good sign that the tales are only the fantasies of bored sailors’ minds.
“I’ve been enjoying the wonders of this island. Theseus is still having his turn.”
When I follow the direction of Menelaus’s gaze, I see pale buttocks thrusting between the legs of a voluptuous woman.
“What in Hades’s name?” Jason says. “We’re not here to rape and pillage.”
“No, we’re not,” Menelaus says with a chuckle. “They’re incredibly willing. There’s something like fifty of them all ready for a ride. They’re not young, mind you, but gods they are skilled. Come on, this is an auspicious start to our trip, I’d say. It’s fate that brought us here last night. A wonderfully erotic fate.”
“And they didn’t try to restrain you?” I ask.
“They might if you ask them to,” Menelaus says. The lusty, eager look in his eye indicates he would be more than willing to return to find out.
The rest of the men gather behind Jason and elbow one another while making lewd comments.
“Is it safe?” Jason asks me.
“I’ve heard rumors, but they don’t appear to have any basis in fact. It’s up to you. Will you let them have their pleasure?”
Jason pauses a moment, brushing his hand along the rear of his tunic. From the way he shifts about, I can tell the prince is making every effort not to look to his cousin for the answer.
“Go then, but don’t linger,” Jason finally says. “We need to sail by—” he gives me a questioning glance.
“Noon.”
The crew, excluding myself, Jason and Odysseus, dash off and it isn’t long before the sounds of feminine laughter flit across the field. Some of the men disappear into the wood, but others find bolder women who lay with them in the field. My body stirs at the sight but I will not leave Argoa under Jason and Odysseus’s care. Jason, his cheeks flushed, turns away from the scene.
“Go, or you’ll be itching for it all day,” Odysseus says to his cousin.
“I thought you’d be one of the first out there.”
Odysseus shrugs. “You forget, I was newly married before I left Illamos Valley to serve vigile duty in Portaceae. My heart’s far too full of Penelope to stray. But you’ve nothing but a betrothal to tie you down. Go.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” a deep voice says behind us. My stomach drops as if I’ve just crested a massive wave. I know that voice. I hate the owner of it, the owner who is supposed to be dead.
Jason and Odysseus’s hands instantly reach for their sword hilts as they spin around. Clutching a short sword of my own, I glare into the eye of the man I will forever blame for Pirro’s death.
“Hercules,“ I say without any tone of welcome to my voice. “I ask you to leave my ship. We’ve had enough of the gods’ storms for one week.”
“The storm wasn’t caused by the gods,” Herc says conversationally as if there should be no ill will between us. “In fact, you Jason are favored by Hera – a rare treat, let me tell you. Which is why I’m here. You need to go now. Perseus, you should have known better than to allow any men off this ship and onto Lemnos.” I scowl and a flurry of curses totters on my tongue, but I say nothing. From the sounds coming off the island, no one is in any danger other than leaving behind a bastard or two. Herc continues, “From experience I would advise you not to get distracted from your duties by any woman’s charm, it can only lead to trouble. Trouble Perseus knows all too well. It may not sound like it, but your men are in danger. Those women will entrance your crew into staying. They have been banished to Lemnos for killing their husbands and newborn children. Some of the more virile men will become slaves, but others have already been lured closer to the village to become this day’s meal. And if any bastards are growing, they will only be raised until big enough for slaughter.”
I curse myself. I know the stories, the legends, the dangers of all the waters of Osteria. Of all the men aboard this ship, I should have known better. Still, I don’t appreciate being chastised by the likes of Herc Dion.
“We should go get them,” I say, “not stand here talking about it.”
“I’ve already seen to it,” Herc says. “I used the wind to whisper their fate into their ears, but you can’t linger. My time on Olympus has taught me some of the magic of the gods, but it is not strong. The men will come, but they will quickly forget what I’ve blown into their ears. You must get them away before they catch sight of the women again.”
“Three men cannot get this ship unstuck from shore and the tide won’t be up for another two hours,” I say. Herc gives a nod of assent as if I’ve just asked him for a favor.
Herc leaps over the side of the ship and, using his unnatural strength, pushes us free of the sandy shore. As he forces the Argoa into deeper water, I order Jason and Odysseus to lower the mainsail. As Herc promised, the men stream from the woods, some haven’t even bothered to put on their tunics. The women, their faces now monstrous with rage over the potential loss of sexual and culinary satisfaction, chase after them. But the band of young, vigile-trained men has no trouble outpacing their pursuers.
Like fish flying over the railing, the crew topples onto the Argoa’s deck as Herc gives a heaving shove to push us into the current. When I look back, I’m glad to see Herc has disappeared.