Shield of Thunder (14 page)

“You do not look like a warrior,” she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

“Is that a compliment or an insult?”

“Merely an observation.”

“Meriones was impressed with your bow skills. I would guess he didn’t expect you to be a warrior, either. Though obviously Odysseus did.”

“An astute man,” she said.

Kalliades laughed. “Astute he may be, but he’s terrifying to fight alongside. Twice he nearly took my ear off. I think I spent more time avoiding his wild slashes than I did fighting the pirates.” He fell silent for a moment, and she glanced at him. “It made me proud when Meriones praised you,” he said.

The dark voice in her head cried out triumphantly, You see!
His
pride. Already he seeks to own you. Anger flared. “What right do you have to be proud of me?” she stormed. “I am not like a horse of yours that has won a race.”

“That is not how I meant it. I was just…” He glanced down, and his face changed. “You are bleeding,” he said. “Are you wounded?”

Piria felt the trickle of blood running down the inside of her thigh. The sea breeze had flicked open her torn gown, exposing the scarlet stain. Pain tore through her, almost beyond bearing. Am I wounded? Stupid, stupid man! My body has been ripped and torn, my flesh pounded and bruised. My heart and soul have been assaulted and defiled.

Are you wounded?

Outrage spilled from her like floodwater bursting through a riverbank. Her eyes filled with tears, and her vision misted. The figure before her was no longer Kalliades. In that moment he became the father she had loved, who had betrayed her, the brother she had adored, who had spurned her. Hatred and despair vied for control.

Angry words poured from her in a torrent. “You think I don’t know what you really are?” she cried. “Your soft words are
lies
! Your friendship is a
lie.
You want what all men want. I see it in your eyes. Come on, then. Beat upon me with your fists, bite my flesh, curl your fingers around my throat and choke off my breath. Then you can step away from me and say: ‘Look what
you
made me do,
slut
!’” Her breathing ragged, she backed away from him. In the silence that followed she became aware that her outburst had been shrill and that crewmen were staring at her. Kalliades remained where he was, and when he spoke, his voice was soft, his tone conciliatory.

“I am sorry, Piria. I—I will…leave you for a while. We can…talk later, if you like. Or not.”

Once more the pain subsided. She saw him turn away. Suddenly terrified to be left alone at the prow with all the men’s eyes on her, she called out to him. “There is no need to go,” she said, her voice breaking. “I…am sorry.”

He hesitated, and she saw him glance toward the crew, noting their interest. Then he walked back to stand between her and their curious gaze. “It is I who am sorry—sorry for all that you have suffered,” he said gently. “I will never harm you, Piria. Never cause you pain. Try to hold to that thought.”

She looked up at him. “Are you in love with me, Kalliades?” The question was out before she could stop it, and she silently cursed herself for her stupidity. Either way she did not want to hear the answer.

He looked into her eyes, and she felt the power of his gray gaze. “My feelings are my own,” he said at last. “All I know is that you are sailing for Troy to be with someone
you
love. If you will allow me, I will see you safely there.”

“I could never love a man in the way that he would desire. You understand that?”

“Have I asked you to love me?” he countered.

“No.”

“Then the problem does not arise.” Movement out on the waves caught his eye, and he turned. “Look there!” he said, pointing to starboard. Three dolphins, sleek and gray-blue, were leaping and diving through the waves. “I have always loved watching them,” he said. It was a clumsy change of subject, but she was grateful for it.

“They are very beautiful,” she told him, then glanced up at him, wanting to offer him some indication of her trust. “My true name is Kalliope,” she said at last.

He smiled. “We are well named,” he said. “Beautiful Voice and Beauty Hidden. Your voice is good on the ear. And my name becomes increasingly true with every new scar.” He paused then. “I take it that this name should remain secret?”

“Yes.”

“I thank you for trusting me. I will not betray you.”

“I know that, Kalliades. You are the first man I ever met I could say that about.” They stood in easy silence now, watching the dolphins, listening to the oars striking the water and the slow, lazy creaking of the timbers. Banokles joined them. He was still wearing his heavy breastplate, and his face was smeared with blood.

“Are we all friends again?” he asked.

“We are friends,” Piria said.

“Good, for I have news!” Banokles grinned at Kalliades. “We can enter the games to be held in Troy for Hektor’s wedding. There will be wrestling, fistfighting, races—foot, horse, and chariot. There will be an archery tourney and a javelin competition. I’m going to enter the fistfighting, and with the gold made on wagers we can live well for a good while. Maybe even buy some…some…” He glanced at Piria and cleared his throat. “Some horses. Anyway, what do you think?”

“A good plan.” Kalliades nodded. “With a few flaws. First, we represent no nation or city. Second, we were last in Troy as invaders and might just be considered unwelcome if we make ourselves known. Third—and this, I think, is the most important—you are a brawler who did not reach the final of the contest to find the best boxer in our company of fifty. As I recall, Eruthros defeated you.”

“All right,” Banokles said grudgingly, “I might not become champion, but I’ll win a few bouts. So we could still earn gold. And what about the footraces? Was there anyone faster than you in our company?”

“No, but again, there were only fifty men in it.” Kalliades sighed. “Let us say I agreed that we could take part. Whom would we represent?”

“Aha! I have dealt with that,” Banokles said triumphantly. “I asked Odysseus if we could be Ithakans.”

“And he agreed?” Kalliades asked, surprised.

“Not entirely. He pointed out that Leukon was representing Ithaka in the boxing and that he was the best fistfighter on the crew. He said I could be an Ithakan if I beat Leukon tonight at the funeral feast.”

“And how does Leukon feel about that?”

Banokles grinned broadly. “Happy as a pig in shit. He says it will be good to have a practice bout. Apparently no one else on the crew will practice with him.”

“Have you considered why that might be?”

“Of course. I imagine it’s because he hits like a kicking horse.”

“And that doesn’t worry you?” Piria put in.

“I’ve been kicked by a horse before. I got up. I always get up. When I win, will you agree to join me for the games?”

Kalliades glanced at Piria, who was smiling. “What do you think?” he asked her.

Piria looked toward where Leukon was rowing, then back at Banokles. “I think that horse you spoke of must have kicked you in the head,” she said.

∗ ∗ ∗

Odysseus watched his three passengers talking together at the prow. The woman, Piria, was calmer and smiling now. A rare sight. He recalled his visits to her father’s palace. She had been younger then and withdrawn, her face always serious, her blue eyes full of suspicion and mistrust.

“Who is she?” Idomeneos asked.

Odysseus shrugged. “Just a girl taken by pirates. They raped her. Kalliades and his friend stole her from them.”

“They’ll not get much of a price for her. Too loud. Any slave spoke like that to me and I’d have her thrashed.”

“They are not intending to sell her or keep her.”

“Then why steal her?”

“Why indeed?” Odysseus said.

Moving to the starboard rail, he leaned out and gauged their progress. The wind had picked up, and Humpback Bay was close by off the port bow. The long crescent beach of Apollo’s Bow could be seen in the distance. Several ships already had beached there.

Kalliades left the prow and made his way along the central deck to join him. “May we speak, Odysseus King?” he asked.

“Words cost nothing,” Odysseus replied.

“Your man Leukon is a skilled fistfighter?”

“That he is.”

“Banokles is not,” Kalliades said. “He has a great heart and courage like a mountain.”

“Then Leukon will fell him like a tree.”

“No, Odysseus King. Leukon will drop him, and Banokles will rise to be struck again. He will continue to rise as long as his heart is beating. He will fight on until he is crippled or dead. That is the nature of the man.”

“I take it you are telling me this for a reason.”

“I tell you because it may have seemed an amusement to allow Banokles to believe he could become an Ithakan. This fight will
not
be an amusement unless your joy is derived from blood and suffering.”

“Your man requested this,” Odysseus said. “His fate is in his own hands. Should he wish to withdraw, I will think no worse of him.”

Idomeneos, who had been listening, stepped from beneath the tent canopy and joined them. “That is a fine sword you are wearing,” he said to Kalliades. “Might I see it?”

Kalliades drew the weapon, reversed it, and handed it to the Kretan king. The pommel was a lion head of bronze, the hilt leather-bound, the blade sharp and true. “Good balance,” said Idomeneos. “Made by a master smith. Not a blade to let a man down in battle.”

“It was the sword of Argurios,” Kalliades told him. “A weapon to cherish.”

“Would you consider trading it?”

“No.”

“For the sword of a hero I would pay well in gold.”

“I will never trade it,” Kalliades said.

“A pity,” Idomeneos said, returning the weapon. The offer made Odysseus uneasy, for he saw the hungry look in Idomeneos’ eyes.

“The fight,” he said, “will be conducted under Olympian rules. Once a fighter has been knocked from his feet five times, I will declare his opponent the victor.”

“I thank you, Odysseus King,” Kalliades said.

CHAPTER TEN

THE HAMMER OF HEPHAISTOS

The sun was setting as the
Penelope
was beached. Several cookfires were lit. Then the crew moved off to gather wood for a large funeral pyre, upon which they laid the eight bodies of their dead comrades.

Three other trading ships were also beached on Apollo’s Bow, and their crews watched as the men of the
Penelope
gathered around the pyre. Odysseus spoke of the dead, of their loyalty and their courage, and he called upon the great god Zeus to guide their spirits along the Dark Road. A large amphora of oil was poured over the pyre. Four men approached Odysseus from a nearby campfire. Traveling bards en route to Troy, they offered to perform the Song of the Departed. Odysseus thanked them and stepped back to sit with the crew. Two of the bards carried lyres; a third held a rhythm globe of dark wood decorated with strips of bronze. The fourth man had no instrument. He was older, his neatly trimmed beard shining silver.

Silence fell over the crew as the bards began. Music from the lyres rippled out, the notes sweet and pure. The slim red-headed man with the rhythm globe pressed thimbles to the fingers of his right hand and began to drum out a slow, insistent beat. The voice of the silver-haired bard rose above the sound of the lyres, rich and powerful.

The crew sat listening to the familiar lyrics of the Song of the Departed, and such was the skill of the bards that the lament seemed fresh, created solely for that one night. Some among the men shed tears, and all were moved by the performance. When the song was over, Odysseus approached the men to thank them and gave each a silver ring. Then he lit the funeral pyre. The oil-soaked seasoned wood flared instantly, the blaze so fierce that the crew had to move back from it. Most stood in silence as the fire lit up the beach, each lost in memories. Others, their wounds bandaged, sat upon the sand.

Odysseus strolled over to where Kalliades, Banokles, and Piria were standing by the water’s edge.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked Banokles. “I once saw Leukon punch a bronze-reinforced shield and split it down the center.”

“Was the shield punching back?” Banokles asked.

Odysseus chuckled. “No,” he said, “it wasn’t.” He looked long and hard at Banokles. “You’ve the size for a fistfighter, and your friend tells me you have the heart. I’ve watched you move, and all your strength is in the upper body. A good fistfighter punches from the shoulder. A great one punches from the heel.”

Banokles laughed. “This is another tall story. Fists in the feet.”

“No, lad. It’s the plain truth. The great fighters twist their whole bodies, bringing all their weight into a blow. Leukon is a great fighter. I expect him to reach the final in Troy and bring yet more glory to the
Penelope
and to Ithaka. So there’ll be no shame if you decide not to fight him.”

“Why would I do that?” Banokles asked, scratching at his thick blond beard. He made a fist. “I call this the Hammer of Hephaistos,” he said proudly. “Bring me a shield and I’ll crack it in half.”

Odysseus transferred his gaze to Kalliades, then shook his head and wandered away. “He was trying to shake my confidence,” Banokles said. “Confidence is everything in a fighter, you know.”

“Well, you are not short of that.”

“That’s true. But you believe in me?”

Kalliades laid his hand on Banokles’ broad shoulder. “I have always believed in you, my friend. I know that if even the gods lined up against me, you would be there at my side. So when is this bout to take place?”

“Odysseus said it would be after the
Xanthos
gets here. He says Hektor never likes to miss a fine fight.” He lowered his voice even though no one but Piria was close. “You think he’ll remember us from Troy? I’ll never forget that big bastard tearing into our boys as if they were children. The only time in my life I’ve ever been frightened was when I saw Hektor attack. And I don’t mind you knowing it, though if you ever mention it to anyone else, I’ll call you a liar.”

“I won’t mention it. I felt the same. For a time there I almost believed he was the god of war himself.”

The evening breeze was cool, and the trio wandered up from the beach into a stand of trees where they gathered dry wood. Returning to the rocks, Kalliades lit a small fire. Piria sat quietly with her back to a boulder. Somewhere close by the bards began to sing at a different fire. It was an old song about love and loss. Kalliades shivered and drew his cloak about him.

As the last light of day faded from the sky, he saw the
Xanthos
appear, its great black horse sail furled, its two banks of oars beating slowly as it edged toward the beach. Banokles had stretched himself out on the sand and was asleep by the fire. Piria also watched the great ship. As it came closer to the shore, the crewmen surged into their oars, the prow grinding up onto the sand. Weighted rocks, attached to thick ropes, were hurled from the stern to splash into the water below, holding the rear of the vessel steady. Then the crew began to disembark. Kalliades saw Hektor clamber over the prow and leap down to the beach. Odysseus walked over to him, and the two men embraced. Hektor also greeted King Nestor and his sons warmly. Then he clasped hands swiftly with Idomeneos. Although they were some distance away from where he sat, Kalliades could tell there was no love lost between Hektor and the Kretan king. It was not surprising. Even Kalliades, who had not been privy to the councils of generals and kings, knew a war was coming between Troy and the armies of Mykene and its allies. Idomeneos was a kinsman of Agamemnon’s and had allowed two Mykene garrisons on the island of Kretos. Little wonder that Hektor greeted him coolly.

Kalliades thought back to the attack on Troy the previous autumn. The great gate had been opened to them by traitors, but Kalliades recalled the high walls and the streets beyond. If an army had to take those walls, the losses would be high. Once it was inside the city, the streets could be defended and every step forward would be paid for in blood. And even then there was Priam’s fortress palace, walled and gated. The attackers had been led to believe the Trojans were poor fighting men. That had been a lie. King Priam’s personal bodyguard—two hundred men known as the King’s Eagles—had proved ferocious and defiant, men of courage, skill, and stamina. And when other Trojan warriors had arrived, they had fought with as much tenacity as any Mykene warrior.

Agamemnon was determined to sack Troy and loot its legendary wealth. To do so would take an army of immense size. Kalliades knew that all the kings of the mainland, and others, would need to be drawn in.

“What are you thinking?” Piria asked softly.

“Nothing of import,” he lied.

She seemed to accept the answer and gazed at the sleeping Banokles. “He doesn’t seem worried by the coming fight.”

“He is not a man given to worry,” he answered with a smile. “He does not dwell on the past or fear the future. For Banokles the
now
is all there is.”

“I wish I could be like that. The past clings to me, the future threatens me. For a little while I knew where I was and was content with my life. It did not last.”

“Then tonight we shall be like Banokles,” he said. “We sit safe by a fire, food in our bellies. The stars are shining, and there is no danger. Let us enjoy it while it lasts.”

Banokles awoke with a start as Kalliades’ sandaled foot nudged him none too gently in the ribs. “What is it?” he asked sleepily.

“In case you’d forgotten, you are due to be fighting Leukon,” the tall young warrior said.

Banokles grinned and sat up. “I wish I had something to wager,” he said. “Doesn’t seem right to have a fight without a wager.” Pushing himself to his feet, he noticed Piria sitting in the shadows of the rocks. She wasn’t his type, but it seemed an age since he’d last enjoyed a woman. He grinned at her, and she scowled back. Perhaps she’s a witch, he thought, and she knows what I’m thinking. Guiltily he looked away. Over by the
Penelope
campfire he saw Leukon swinging his arms over his head, then twisting his body from side to side. “He looks like a fighter, at least,” Banokles said.

“I think we should assume that he is one,” Kalliades said. “His reach is longer than yours. Best to get under those long arms and go for the body. Fight in close.”

“Good plan,” Banokles said. “There should be a wager, though.”

“We don’t have anything to wager. Everything I took from Arelos I gave to Odysseus for the journey.”

“I could bet my breastplate.”

“Just concentrate on the fight.”

“Then let’s get started,” Banokles said. “I could kill for a jug of wine.”

Together the two men walked across to where the crew of the
Penelope
sat around a large campfire. Banokles saw the Trojan Hektor sitting with Odysseus. He didn’t seem so daunting on this peaceful spring night, but Banokles’ stomach tightened at the memory of his arrival at the battle in Troy. He had looked invincible then.

Odysseus rose to his feet and approached them, summoning Leukon to stand alongside him. Idomeneos joined them. He was wearing his glittering breastplate inlaid with gold and silver. It gleamed in the firelight.

“Shall we have a friendly wager?” Idomeneos asked.

“I suggested that earlier,” Banokles said. “But we don’t have anything. Except my breastplate.”

“There is your friend’s sword,” Idomeneos said. “I will wager my own breastplate against it.”

“That’s right!” Banokles exclaimed. “The sword, Kalliades. We forgot about that.”

“Yes, we forgot,” Kalliades said, looking coldly at the Kretan king. Banokles saw that Odysseus also looked annoyed. It was mystifying. Here was a chance for Kalliades to win a fabulous breastplate, and he seemed reluctant. A dark thought occurred to him.

“You do have faith in me?” he asked.

“Always,” Kalliades answered. “The sword it is,” he told Idomeneos.

Odysseus stepped forward. “We are following Olympian rules for this fight,” he said. “Are you aware of them?”

“Yes,” said Banokles, who didn’t know what he was talking about.

“Perhaps you should explain them,” Kalliades put in swiftly.

“The bout will be closed hand only. No grabbing, pulling, head butting, kicking, or biting. Merely fists.”

“Pah!” Banokles grimaced. “Where’s the skill in that? Head butting is part of the craft of boxing.”

“Oh, I am obviously not making myself clear to you,” Odysseus said affably. “Let me put it another way. If you break these rules, I will smash your hands and feet with a club and leave you on this beach to rot.” He leaned in close. “Do not grin at me, you half-wit. It is no jest. Look into my eyes and tell me if you see any humor there.”

Banokles looked into Odysseus’ baleful gaze. The man wasn’t joking.

“All right,” he said. “No head butting.”

“And no biting, pulling, kicking, or gouging.”

“You didn’t mention gouging before,” Banokles observed mischievously.

“I’m mentioning it now. When a man is knocked down, his opponent will move away. The fallen man must rise and touch the spear that will be sticking in the sand. If he does not wish to continue, he pulls the spear and drops it to the ground.”

“What if he’s unconscious?” Banokles asked, his expression innocent.

“By the gods, did a bull stamp on your head when you were a babe?”

“It is a reasonable question,” Banokles argued. “If he’s unconscious, he can’t touch the spear, can he?”

“If he’s unconscious, then he’s lost, you moron!”

“You only had to say that,” Banokles observed amiably.

“The first man to be knocked down five times will be judged the loser,” Odysseus continued. “Is this all understood?”

“Yes,” Banokles said. “When do we start?”

“Whenever you’re ready,” Odysseus told him.

Banokles nodded, then slammed a ferocious right into Leukon’s mouth, dumping the big crewman to the sand.

“I’m ready,” Banokles said.

Leukon surged to his feet with a roar of anger and ran at him. “Got to touch the spear,” Banokles yelled, dancing away.

Odysseus grabbed Kalliades by the arm, drawing him away. Leukon stalked to the spear and slapped his hand against it. Then he turned and advanced. Banokles charged at him—and ran into a straight left that jarred every bone in his body. Only instinct caused him to duck just as an overhand right slashed through the air above him. Coming up fast, he thundered two blows into Leukon’s midriff. It was like hitting timber.