Free Lord of the Silver Bow by David Gemmell Page B

twenty.”
    “Sections of twenty,” Xander repeated.
    “Well, go on, then, boy.”
    “Yes, Zidantas.” He paused. “Where will I find water?”
    “There are full skins on hooks at the center of both oar decks.”
    Xander moved down to the hatch, opened it, and clambered down the vertical steps. It was gloomy and hot there. With the ship under sail now he saw that the rowers had lifted their oars, locking the handles into leather loops. Finding the water skins, he unhooked one and carried it to the first rower on the port side, a broad-shouldered young man with thickly curled black hair. “Where is Oniacus?” he asked as the sailor pulled out the wooden plug and hefted the water sack.
    He drank deeply. “That would be me.”
    “Zidantas says to rest the men and allow them on deck in twenty sections.”
    “Sections of twenty,” Oniacus corrected.
    “Yes.”
    “You are sure of the orders? We don’t normally rest this close to land.”
    “I am sure.”
    The man grinned at him. “You’d be Xander. Your father spoke of you, said when you were seven or eight you took on a pack of wild dogs.”
    “It was one dog,” Xander said. “It was attacking our goats.”
    Oniacus laughed. “You are very honest, boy, and I can see your father in you.” He passed the water sack back to Xander. Then he called out, “We’re going to see some sunlight, lads. Every third man aloft—and make sure those oars are sheathed tight.” Men began to ease themselves from the rowing benches and make their way to the hatches. Oniacus remained where he was. “Take water to the men remaining,” he told Xander.
    The boy struggled along the cramped and shifting deck, offering drinks to the sweating crewmen. Most thanked him; some joked with him. Then he came alongside a thin older man who was pricking blisters on his hand with a curved dagger blade. His palms were sore and bleeding. “They look painful,” said Xander. The rower ignored him but took the water sack and drank deeply.
    Oniacus appeared alongside, carrying a bucket on a rope. Leaning out of the oar port, he lowered the bucket into the sea, then drew it up. “Put your hands in this, Attalus,” he said. “The saltwater will dry out those blisters, and the skin will harden in no time.” The sailor silently bathed his hands then leaned back. Oniacus dipped thin strips of cloth in the water. “Now I’ll bind them,” he said.
    “They don’t need binding,” the rower replied.
    “Then you are a tougher man than me, Attalus,” Oniacus said amiably. “At the start of every new season my hands bleed, and the oar handle feels as if it’s on fire.”
    “It is unpleasant,” the man agreed, his tone softening.
    “You can always try the straps. If they don’t work for you, then remove them.”
    The rower nodded and offered his hands.
    Oniacus wrapped the wet cloth around Attalus’ blistered palms, splitting the cloth and knotting it at the wrists. “This is Xander,” he said as he applied the bandages. “His father was my friend. He died in a battle last year. Fine man.”
    “The dead are always fine men,” Attalus said coldly. “My father was a drunken wretch who broke my mother’s bones. At his funeral men wept at the loss of his greatness.”
    “There is truth in that,” agreed Oniacus. “However, on the
Ithaka
—as on the
Xanthos
—there were only fine men. Ox does not choose wretches. He has a magic eye that sees our hearts. I have to say that sometimes it is infuriating. We are sailing shorthanded because of it. Ox turned away at least twenty yesterday.” Oniacus swung to Xander. “Time for you to return to your duties,” he said.
    Xander hung the nearly empty water sack on its hook and climbed to the upper deck. Helikaon called him over. He lifted a wax-sealed jug, broke the seal, and filled two copper cups with a golden liquid. “Take these to our Mykene passengers,” he said.
    Xander carried the cups carefully down the steps and across the