It was no new sensation for the mighty king to be overpowered, his brother had often beaten him when he was a little boy.

Later in adulthood, when Amon king of Ugarit killed all his siblings but him, lowly Neraph, he made it clear that he was no more then the stuart to Ugarith. It was his role on the throne of Kition, to serve his brothers interests.

Neraph had excepted that role in life, but this was different. The brutes massive hand in his neck bending his body to the ground and dragging him through his own palace was an affront to the gods.

Being killed in combat would at least have ended his bloodline in honor, but this humiliation!

The hulking giant pulled him around like a rag doll, until he finally threw him to the ground.

In a horribly butchered attempt to speak court ugarithian the massive man before him demanded to know were the golden sword was hidden.

For a moment the king was baffled, of all the things he could be asked, the location of his wedding gift was the last thing he expected.

Disgusted by the prospects of a continued attempt by the brute to speak ugaritian, he replied in the brutes hittite tongue.

"I haven't seen the thing since the wedding, it must be with my wife's. You're a Hittite? A man of civilization. A general once, perhaps? We can talk like..."

Without a word the brute had punched the kings head.

"Where are your wife's now? Their chambers are empty."

Coming back to his senses the king replied, "Somewhere around the palace. I think there was chatter about an escape through the pleasure gardens."

Before he knew what was happening the brute had grabbed him again and started pulling him through the palace to the outside.

The brute was barking orders at his men waiting in the square before the palace, but shortly upon entering the brute stopped.

From the other side of the square he heard the single voice of a man shouting hittite in his and the brutes direction.

"Bull I have to thank you for bringing the king to your leader!"

The king felt the vice like fingers of the brute almost snapping his neck.

The great oar was an impractical boat. It had no ability to propel or maneuver itself. From the front three ships had to pull it on three thick ropes, each the width of a mans arm. From the back a fourth one had to stabilize its course.

It was devised by the late Pataran, at first the preposterous design was meet with ridicule, but it was build and soon developed from a tradition to a feared symbol.

Along the edge of the almost round shaped boat, there were seats depressed under the ships floor, so that the legs and arms weren't visible and could be bound below in the ships shallow bowels. The backs of the prisoners were facing towards the sea, so that they may observe the free passengers on the inside of the ship.

The reasons for this odd construction were two fold, first to humiliate the defeated, to let them watch as their conquers divided their riches between them and raped their women in front of them. But there was a second reason far more important then the simple pleasure of humiliation.

Most of the Sherden warriors weren't born marauders, they were honorable man driven into desperation, many of them lived under the rule of the very high and low kings they now defeated. Even hunger and death would not shake what they had been taught since the cradle.

Many a man still believed the stories of kings and gods and could not separate the two. They would fear the men who walked as equals with the gods and could wield their powers and expect their aid in battle.

Pataran understood this as a problem and so he contrived the giant oar, demonstrating to his men the very human nature of these supposed gods.

Every men considered high and mighty among a conquered people, was captured and placed inside the giant oar, sitting below even the least of his Sherden.

Pataran knew he could never challenge, the belief that the gods were participants in war, but he knew he could change his mens view concerning the nature of their gods participation. Many gods were worshiped among the Sherden as it were and so he tried to influence his peoples beliefs, in a way that they may understand that the gods will always stand with them, as long as they won in battle. It became the dominant notion among the men following the Sherden banner, that gods don't pick favorites, but stand with the strong.

The great oar became one of the symbols which instilled this belief among the Sherden fighting men. Even though in Patarans heart, he did not even know if the gods really cared at all.

But the men grew convinced, as they enjoyed the spoils of war they saw the men which were supposed to dine with the deities, sitting below them, bound in chains, utterly helpless with only the rights of slaves granted to them and they knew the gods of water and war, fertility and thunder would not choose sides anymore.

After Kition Apollas had the oar prepared for his departure from the city. It had been almost two days now, Apollas was manly preoccupied with the burial of Pataran and without him strongly assuming the leadership role he had gained, the tensions among the raiding forces grew.

The atrocities committed upon the people of Kition by his forces were grave. His people were uncertain which group would emerge as dominant and lead them in their campaign against the Egyptian territories. So both Sherden and Lukka were ruthless in their pursuit of hidden riches inside the walls of Kition. Fires were so commonplace that after the two days of looting, the city was virtually burned to the ground, some of its citizens flew to the hills, most were killed or enslaved.

After the second day of looting Apollas received word that the Hittite army coming for Kition had disbanded, no one knew what exactly happened but they wouldn't come for Kition anymore. Still Apollas decided to leave the place were Pataran would now rest forever.

When the oar was prepared, he invited as guests of honor the tribal leaders and their guards to celebrate the victory and clear up the looming question of leadership.

The sky had turned dark and salty warm air was coming from the sea when the oar moved out of the harbor. There were still a few ships left at Kition, but most had taken off to the planes of Themos were the war camp was set up.

Apollas was sitting at the ships rear on the wooden throne reserved for the Sherden leader, now leader of the largest band of free aligned people sailing the aegis.

The bull was sitting close by, staring at the young man who had taken his throne, the mood on deck was tense. In between all the debauchery there always was unsettling tension summoned by the still uncertain question of leadership. A premonition loomed over the evenings feast, the bull was not taking his defeat lying down. As wine was liberally consumed, roasted meat devoured, unsavory songs sung and toasts proposed, there always was an eye on the crowd, a hand at the belt, muscles tense and ready to draw the sword.

Fueling this tension was an absent minded Apollas. He knew what was expected of him. His head was screaming and pleading with him to take control of the situation, but his heart was heavy, as heavy as all those years ago when he returned to his people, only to find they had divorced him, for the transgression of claiming his manhood at the cost of their innocence.

In the same way he felt again divorced from his people. Now that he had reached his aspirations of leadership at the cost of Patarans life.

There was an emptiness inside, preventing him from taking action, even though he knew his silence was fueling the flames all around him.

Among the oars passengers there was only one who found the situation to be of his liking.

Neraph-at-Hep saw his chance, the Sherden leader was unreachable he knew, but the Hettite was just a brute. His army of Lukka, trained and called to arms by foreign kings for generations were, although in open rebellion, still not immune to the clout of a kings true blood and divine right to authority.

He foresaw that this night would decide his fate and that the brutish Hittite was his chance to once again ascend to the throne if he played his cards just right. He had to be alert, any moment now his chance could present itself. The hot headed Hittite was sending his hateful glare almost unmasked over to the man on the throne, it was only a matter of time, either the Hittite would blow or the silent king would act, he had to be ready.

Apollas felt numb to the things around him, uninterested, his mind was preoccupied by the deep blue of the lapis stone in the golden swords hilt.

It must have been expensive. He had seen the blue of a lapis before, royal merchants from the east, but the stone back then was dull, this one was polished and a man could forget himself in its reflection.

It was as blue as the sea the poets always sing about, but then there is hardly any color the sea doesn't take. Tonight the sea is black, the waves outlined by glowing white moonbeams caught on the waves crests, as they roll silently over the endless plain slowly dissolving into the vast stygian darkness.

What is it like to be king?

Apollas took a look at the man bound in chains at his feet, still fighting to sit straight. Besting his pain, holding his head high, while the chains burry themselves in his flesh and water sprays his royal back.

This was what a king looked like, eyeing the frothing Hittite, no doubt scheming his way back to power. He would never stop scheming until his last breath was finally drawn.

Apollas himself had know the desire, the burning lust for power, it had filled his heart, too.

Now it was gone and an all to familiar feeling of heaviness visited upon his heart.

A breeze coming from the sea lifted the hood of the girl next to the former king, by chance Apollas caught the girls glance, the blue eyes, it was her, the girl charring the sword in the gardens, the one who delivered the throne to his feet.

Like the warm beams of the sun the girls glance vanquished the grey clouds summoned by Patarans death and instead made something warm grow and take root inside Apollas heart.

When he raised his arm the whole of the ship kept its breath. For the moment everyone anticipated, had arrived.

"Whose girl is this. The one beside the slave there?"

With the tip of his golden sword he pointed first at the former king of Kition and then to the woman beside him.

Neraph-At-Hep tried his all to seem as if he had not noticed the demeaning denotation as a slave and still manage to catch all the important reactions on board.

Slowly the bull turned towards Apollas, with a grim expression of irritation.

"She's my booty."

Apollas shifted in his seat, while no man dared to raise his voice even for a cough.

"What do you want for her, bull?"

The bull defiantly leant forward.

"The sword."

Hearts stopped, a challenge was given, acknowledged by hidden hands silently wandering to their owners sword hilts.

Neither Apollas nor the bull moved, they stared at each other, daring the other to make the first move.

A Lukka warrior fondled the little figurine of his god around his neck to prepare himself for death. A young Tjeker angrily buried his fingers in the wet plank he was sitting on, for he knew his body would be lost at sea, never to find his ancestors through the smoke of holy fire.

"And this is the fate of all who oppose Taish!"

The silence was broken by Neraph-At-Hep who had stood up as far as his chains allowed him. He tried to look as kingly as possible under the circumstances and used his most commanding of voices.

Apollas was not about to interfere. He was curious when the former king would make his move and Apollas acknowledged he had chosen wisely. The giant bronzen statue of Kitions horned god was just beside the ship towering menacingly above them, bathed in the eery glow of the moons beams.

To Apollas it was impressive, the former king was a ugarithian a worshipper of Baal and Dagon. Taish was the bronze workers god, but it was a wise choice given the circumstances.

"It happens as it was written! Ye who shalt taketh by force the steel of the children of Taish, thy stolen blade shall turn to dust before ye taketh thy first strike! And ye who shalt taketh by force the fruits of labour of the children of Taish, thy stolen fruits shall perish before it might touch the foul lips of thieves and ye who shalt taketh the children of Taish as slaves, may your air and body rot and may you eat thy brothers flesh to repent for the sins though hast committed upon the children of great Taish."

Neraph waited a moment to let his words sink in.

"You who dare to slaughter and bind in chains the children of Taish and the son of At-Hep descendent of Baal and Dagon!"

He looked towards the Lukka to remind them of their broken oath.

"It has already started! You will devour yourself before anything holy pillaged at Kition might be of use to you! You have betrayed the gods and they put a curse..."

"Have you heard that bull? What do you want with a blade which turns to dust? And rots your flesh, too.

Though judging by your smell the curse couldn't do any worse."

The crowd laughed. Apollas used the moment to leapt to his feet, the surprised bull lifted his sword too late and Apollas foot bashed his wrist sending the half raised blade flying over the deck.

The bulls natural reaction was to rebound. He had to get his hands on a sharp piece of metal, his moment had finally come to stick Apollas, but as he looked up confusion compelled him to halt.

Instead of using the initiative to pursue the bull, Apollas had sunk the golden sword into the former kings neck.

The half decapitated head look just as surprised as the whole ship, his body still pressed up to stand as tall as his chains would allow it.

Apollas ripped out the sword just to land a second strike finally separating the kings head from his neck, sending it rolling over the deck until it rolled into one of the empty slave benches and down into the ships shallow bowls.

Apollas looked up to the giant bronze statue and then turned to the bull.

"No dust at all. It's a fine blade."

With a swing he cut the knot before the kings slumped body and the blue eyed girl, releasing their bonds. Having no further use for the golden sword he threw it at the still baffled bulls feet.

"Sherden don't trade flawed goods. The sword is yours in exchange for these two slaves."

Hesitantly the bull reached for the sword and almost let it fall, as a stinging pain rushed to through his arm from the injured wrist.

In utter silence he moved up to the throne taking his place as king.

Apollas helped the girl onto the deck and sat down next to her.

And for a moment not even the waves dared to raise their whispers as Apollas washed the kings blood from a lowly slave girls face.