“Unhand me this moment,” the rich man cried.

  The warriors dragged him to one side of the ship even as it pitched, as waves crashed and water spewed over us.

  “I’ll pay, I’ll pay,” the rich man said. “Please, please, don’t do this. I’m rich. I’ll give all of you—”

  The two warriors picked him up and flung him headfirst into the raging waters. His rings, linens, even his purple robe, disappeared into the sea with him.

  None had thought to strip him, but to give him as a gift to appease the wind god bashing our ship.

  The most outrageous lightning bolt of all crackled down from heaven, striking the mast with a boom of thunder. The wood smoked as the mast cracked and crashed upon the deck. The mast with tied sail flipped and slid into the sea on the opposite side of the ship as where the rich man had gone.

  We stared at each other in terror as thunder roared, shaking us, felling many.

  “He was right,” the cargo master howled. “He was innocent. The gods are angry with us. Boreas is angry because we’ve thrown an innocent man into the sea. We know who should go. It’s Damon. Damon is the guilty one.”

  Violent waves smashed against the tub, tearing timbers and causing others to groan and shriek.

  Asterion valiantly struggled to steer the ship to safety.

  The cargo master pointed an accusing finger at me. The two ship warriors looked at each other.

  It seemed to me, and maybe to the others, that casting the rich man into the sea had been a signal of doom.

  The winds picked up, driving us headlong with terrific speed. Madness was unleashed as the cold wind screamed at us. Waves swirled with awful power. We could feel the anger of the wind god. He meant to kill us all.

  I peered in the direction of Knossos. I debated calling out to the Minotaur, begging him to use his wizardry to save me.

  Before I could, the ship cracked and splintered, hurling several of the crew into the sea.

  Asterion cried out, “The rich man was right. You’re the guilty one, Damon. Hurl yourself into the sea and we may yet save what remains of the ship.”

  I didn’t shake my head. I didn’t grab my dagger. I held onto the rigging with desperation. Waves pounded us. Speechless, I was helpless, could only watch.

  A monster wave smashed the ship. Horrible noises drove some mad. Planks exploded. Cargo spilled into the sea. One man after another plunged into the maelstrom, disappearing in an instant.

  A plank shot up. I was on the end. That hurled me into the air. I flew over the sea, doing so long enough to regain a semblance of wit. I hit the water, submerged into the cold and fought to reach the surface. I did so, gasping, looking around spellbound.

  Asterion swam in the seas, striving to reach me.

  I found myself clutching onto a heavy plank, buoyed by it.

  As Asterion swam toward me, a great fish rose from the sea. It was a behemoth, a monster, and it eyed me with evil resolve.

  Terror gripped me. He could surely gulp me in one bite. Could I have been the guilty one? Did I carry evil magic because I had the fallen-star dagger?

  I released the plank and swam like one crazed. The giant fish cruised after me.

  At that moment, Asterion reached and attempted to grapple with me. With one quick punch, I hit him in the face. Did it stun him? It would appear so. I swam from him.

  The great fish opened its maw. I heard Asterion scream. The fish swallowed Asterion in one gulp and dove under the waves.

  Both Asterion and the great fish were gone.

  I blinked in astonishment, tossed wildly in the sea, alone, no other crewmembers, warriors or cargo master in evidence. The great fish had swallowed the captain.

  The sea raged, but the lightening drifted eastward. I swam back to the planking, climbing aboard, utterly spent. I continued to breathe and endure.

  For hours on my plank, the storm drove me until I saw land. The wind and waves drove me toward a bleak shore.

  None of the others had made it this far. Were they dead? Had they drowned? I could only assume so.

  I clung to my plank as a wave propelled me with speed to shore. At the very end, I released the plank. It crashed upon rocks.

  With my final strength, I used all the skills my father had taught me. I swam to a sandy shore, crawling and struggling to escape the dread waves that had destroyed everyone else. I had my cloak, my dagger, my life.

  I crawled onto shore. There were torches beyond me.

  “Help,” I called.

  Soon, two men approached. They wore filthy rags.

  I raised an imploring hand.

  One man looked at the other. Then, he ran to me.

  I knew then the Minotaur had blessed me. I’d complete the mission. I’d find this acolyte of a strange god and slay him, through it gaining riches and power.

  The dirty-robed man reached me.

  I smiled up at him.

  He revealed a small club, although it proved big enough, as he dashed it against my head, casting me into oblivion.

  Chapter Five

  I found myself a slave of the Amurru, desert ruffians who lived in the Country of Turquoise, although I didn’t know the latter right away. I learned it soon enough to the detriment of my hands and pride.

  I awoke the next morning with a great lump on my head, divested of my dagger, although they’d left me my clothes.

  I found myself in a camp of over one hundred people, although not more than two hundred. They were an ill-sorted and smelly lot, much different from those of Athens and especially Knossos. As most know, Cretans take baths every day and are cleanly. These nomads wore sheepskin cloaks, rags underneath and smelled like animals. To my horror, they all had lice.

  The mangy camp-dogs barked incessantly at everything, and yelped with terror if I turned too fast upon them.

  The Amurru prized most his ass or donkey. They loaded a donkey with heavy packs so the diminutive creature could hardly move. A young lad or girl would switch the beast from behind with a stick until the ass brayed and took a few lurching steps. The driver repeated this performance all day if needed.

  The Country of Turquoise was a rocky, bleak place with endless sand and sandstorms. The nomads ate roots and grubs they dug from the dirt. Primarily, though, they ate whatever they could kill with their slings. Despite their wretched appearance, the men were uncanny shots. Mouse and rat were often the main course, though.

  The typical sling had two thongs tied to a leather pouch. An Amurru gripped each thong end and twirled the pouch, and stone in it, over his head. He released one thong as he aimed in his uncanny way. The stone flew to the target with unerring accuracy and velocity.

  I’ve seen a nomad kill a rabbit and chase away jackals and other animals with a sling. I’ve even seen a few of the better marksmen hit a bird in flight, bringing it down.

  I had to pluck too many of those birds and was whipped if I attempted to slip a morsel to assuage my raging hunger while doing so. They fed me the meanest fare. I was often reduced to stuffing grasshoppers into my mouth, or as they termed them, locusts.

  As you can do doubt surmise, I seldom had enough to eat. I had enough to drink, a mixed blessing. They had filthy water kept in only partly cured animal-skins. The water was next to undrinkable, but I did because I wished to live.

  The longer I stayed among the Amurru, wandering from one featureless locale to another, putting up and taking down felt tents erected with sticks, the more I resolved to escape. If I ever had the chance, I’d also exact revenge for the indignities the dirty little nomads had heaped upon me.

  I soon learned what things—words, minor actions on my part—angered them most and refrained from it in order to abstain from receiving more slashes upon my back, given with whip or donkey-stick. At times, I was driven like an ass, staggering under a tremendous burden. At times, my knees buckled under the weight of goods I had to carry on my shoulder like some menial slave. Indeed, I’d become one, a slave of despicable desert nomads.

  My time among the Amurru inured me to the hot sun and desert as we marched from one place to the next. I also learned the Amurru tongue of doglike barks and clicks of the tongue. That was one of my gifts, the ability to learn foreign tongues quickly, even this indecent way of speaking. Interestingly, I resembled their desert god in that I had red hair and a brawny stature. The Amurru god was a lord of storm and violent tempers.

  Remarkably and thankfully, my red hair kept me from a horrible fate. I soon learned the other male slaves had been castrated to make them docile. I didn’t realize until later the Amurru had a different, worse fate in store for me, but more about that later.

  The Amurru lived like fleas upon the hide of the desert, going from one watering hole to another and scratching the soil for their greatest gain.

  The Country of Turquoise was west of Egypt with its Pharaoh, great stone pyramids and armies no one dared face. That meant I’d landed near where Captain Asterion had wished to go. If I could escape, I merely needed to head east to reach the land of Canaan. If I escaped, though, what would I do without coin and my consecrated dagger?

  The days blurred together as I lived this mean and menial existence.

  Each of the nomads had several wives, which they treated with contempt. The children they treated even worse, like animals under their cruel whims.

  Once, my tribe came upon another Amurru gathering. They bartered with each other. Three castrated slaves from our tribe brought several dozen flagons of wine. That night, I learned the Amurru loved wine above all else. They drank until senseless, roaring songs, arguing and trading blows with each other before collapsing. I might add that only the men drank. The one woman who dared to take a clandestine swig, the men beat with donkey-sticks.

  Because they knew of their foul, drunken, loutish ways, they’d tied my hands and feet beforehand so I was helpless to do anything while they were collapsed. Even so, I struggled all night to free myself, failing against the cruelly tied thongs.

  The indignity of my existence began to depress my spirit. When no one watched, I sought the Dark One, begging him to grant me the same fierce strength and berserk passion as when I’d jumped into the pirate galley. If the Minotaur heard, he didn’t heed me, which only depressed me more.

  The most interesting event was when we came to the turquoise mine. Under the direction and watchful eye of a surly nomad, I dug and chipped with a stick and chisel. Often, I was on my hands and knees, prying at a marvelous and beautiful substance. According to the surly watchers, the craftsmen of Egypt turned these stones into beautiful jewelry.

  This was turquoise, and the place was an ancient mine. At times, Egyptians came in caravan in order to dig. Normally, the Amurru gathered what turquoise they dared, bartering later with Egyptian merchants.

  We spent two weeks here. I filled what seemed like endless sacks with raw turquoise.

  At the end of the two weeks, I lurched across the hot sands with an enormous pack and poles on my back. The donkeys were equally laden. Fortunately, I’d become accustomed to this filthy labor and no longer needed a youth to switch the back of my legs with a stick. I forced myself to march with my head up, making it a matter of pride to bear my burden manfully. I had another reason for doing that. I’d resolved to no longer feel like a slave. Receiving beatings had made that difficult.

  You heard me. I’d determined to think of myself as a free man, at least in the depths of my heart. Thus, I worked diligently, less to escape the whippings and more to act as a hard-working free man.

  During the next week, I refined my belief. I acted the part of a warrior in that I accepted every challenge the dirty nomads gave me. Fate had cast me on their shore. I would endure fate like a warrior.

  In doing this, I vowed to find a way to regain my dagger. I would also kill the nomad who’d clubbed me when I’d struggled onto this barren shore to escaped Boreas, the storm god of the Minoans and Greeks.

  During this week, the tribe headed east instead of west to Egypt. I grew hopeful we’d reach fertile land in Canaan. Day after day, we trekked until we came across a beaten path. Until now, we’d moved across a trackless desert.

  I overheard nomads saying traders crossed from the Cities of the Plain to Egypt. It would appear we waited for these traders, for we camped at this spot for three days and nights.

  I stole a piece of bread, was discovered and received a beating for it. I cried out, begging my master to stop.

  That night as I nursed my wounded back and pride, I realized I was still servile in my heart. That hadn’t been acting the part of a warrior. My eyes narrowed as I stared in the dark. I’d cried out at a beating. My father would have shaken his head at the spectacle.

  I’d been hungry and feeling weak. No. That was no excuse.

  I understood what was happening. Despite my resolve, I’d been fooling myself. I acted as a slave, obeying these filthy buggers. The idea of pride in my heart—as a man acted, so he was. That was the opposite of, as a man thought, so he was. Which was true? Perhaps both. I thought of myself as a warrior and thus struggled against my servitude—

  I must act before my servitude stole the last vestiges of my warrior spirit.

  That meant I had to escape or I’d become too accustomed to the role of slave. The servility was already infiltrating my heart. Today’s begging proved it.

  That night as I lay with my hands and feet bound—the nomads correctly feared me—I determined I had to escape. That meant tonight.

  I worked against the bonds behind my back and realized the knots weren’t as tight as normally. Was that luck or did the Minotaur secretly help me? Did it matter why?

  I thought, yes, it did.

  My shoulders began to ache and my bruised wrists throbbed with pain. This was too much. The thongs were looser but still far too tight for me to free myself.

  That’s how a slave thinks.

  I heaved a sigh. Should I stop and rest for a little while? I was weary. To continue this fruitless effort—

  “No,” I hissed. “I’m Damon the Athenian, a warrior.”

  I continued to wrench my wrists back and forth, striving to reach the thongs with my benumbed fingers. The ache in my shoulders and wrists worsened. I gritted my teeth. I would do this until my hands fell off.

  After several hours of grueling labor, my bloody hands slipped free from the bonds.

  I’m unsure if I’ve told you how the nomads slept. It was like a scattering of animals, the hide tents raised willy-nilly in a circular area, seemingly without design or thought. Some tents lay close together and others farther apart. The donkeys were tethered to stakes hammered into the ground.

  I slept in a tent with other slaves. The castrated eunuchs only had their hands bound behind their backs, not their feet like I did.

  I sat up in the darkness and began to work furiously at the knots around my feet. I’d lost weight since I’d been captured, looking skeletal and dirty, with cracked fingernails from digging in the turquoise mine.

  At last, I threw off the thong that had bound my feet. I began to maneuver to my knees.

  “What are you doing?” a frightened eunuch whispered beside me.

  “None of your business,” I said.

  “It is. It is. They’ll whip us if you escape.”

  “I’ll break your neck if you don’t shut up.”

  He shrank from me, but must have gained courage from somewhere. “After you leave, I’ll yell. They’ll catch and castrate you. You’ll be like us, and you’ll no longer have your haughty ways.”

  He was a thin stick of a wretch. Even as my rage mounted, I felt pity for him. I couldn’t retie my bonds, though. The nomads would realize I’d attempted to escape and lost my nerve. They’d beat me for sure and tie me even tighter. They might castrate me as the slave suggested.

  I thus did what I had to, leaping upon the eunuch and covering his mouth. With fury, I raised his head up and down, up and down, dashing the back of his head against a stone in the ground until he was senseless.

  I glanced at the other slaves.

  None had stirred. If they’d heard us, which they must have, did they pretend to sleep? With a shrug, I slid to the entrance. It had been tied tight. Even so, I peered through a tiny opening and saw nothing.

  The dogs would howl if I forced my way from the tent. I’d forgotten about them in my zeal to be free.

  Fear froze me until rage came to my aid.

  In my heart, I cried out to the Minotaur: You must hear me. You must heed me. I’ve accepted your call and challenge. I seek the acolyte of the strange god. Help me regain my dagger and I’ll head east, finding this man even as I serve the Sea King and study the ways of the land’s traders.

  I’d already learned about the Country of Turquoise. I knew that if the Sea King would send troops, he could gather much turquoise. He could buy Egyptian slaves to teach Knossos craftsmen how to fashion the raw turquoise into beautiful gems such as the Egyptians did.

  Emboldened by my prayer, I peered between the knots and realized this was the wrong way to do it. I crawled to the other side of the tent.

  There I pushed below the tent hide, my head sticking out. No dog howled. I grinned. This night, our tent was near the edge of the desert. The Minotaur was with me.

  I slithered through, which was good. A dog howled and then more took up the cry. That was bad. I scrambled to my feet, picked up a rock in each hand and began to run in the darkness. I went east, away from the camp of the filthy, dirty nomads.

  The dogs gave chase.

  As they closed, I spun in rage and hurled a rock, one cracking a hound in the ribs. It yelped, tumbling to the side. I hurled the other, hitting another wretched beast, knocking it down as well.

  The rest of the pack slunk from me.

  I turned east once more and ran. I expected to hear the pack howling and giving chase, but they didn’t. That was odd.

  I’d run no more than two hundred yards when yells and cries ahead of me caused my shoulders to slump in despair.

  Men in loose garments jumped out of the brush ahead of me. They bore knives and spears. A few wore helmets of beaten copper.