Shield of Thunder t-2

by David Gemmell

  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 overhan
d right slashed through the air above him. Coming up fast, he thundered two blows into Leukon’s midriff. It was like hitting timber.

  This is going to take longer than I thought, he realized—just as a left hook connected with his temple, lifting him from his feet and catapulting him to the sand. He rose groggily, shook his head, then spit blood from his mouth. “You can hit. I’ll give you that,” he told Leukon.

  Now the whole crew gathered around, and other sailors from camps close by came to watch the bout.

  Banokles moved in more warily. It didn’t help. Leukon’s left hand kept flashing out through his defenses and slamming against his skull. Twice more he was dumped to the sand, and twice more he rose to slap the spear. Leukon grew more cocky, stepping in with combination blows, lefts and rights that came in a blur. Banokles took them all, seeking an opening. Leukon missed with a straight left. Banokles darted in, sending a wicked uppercut into Leukon’s exposed jaw. It hit with all the weight Banokles could muster, and it shook the big man, who staggered back. Banokles rushed in, clubbing two more rights, then a roundhouse left that sent Leukon tumbling to the sand.

  He was up swiftly.

  Banokles fought on gamely, but he was beginning to realize that he was outclassed. He caught Leukon with several good blows, but the big crewman merely shrugged and came on, his fists hammering at Banokles’ face and body. Banokles was fighting now through a sea of pain, unremitting and unending, but he struggled on, ever hopeful for the one blow that might make the difference.

  When it came, it was a total surprise. Leukon seemed to slip. His jaw jutted out. Banokles put everything he had into the punch, and the big man tottered and fell heavily to the sand. Amazingly, he did not rise. The roar of the crowd faded away. Banokles stood blinking in the firelight. He leaned forward to peer more closely at the fallen man, then toppled to his knees. Odysseus moved alongside Leukon, then signaled the fight was over. Kalliades ran to Banokles’ side and hauled him to his feet.

  “You did it, my friend,” he said. “Well fought.”

  Banokles said nothing for a moment. One eye was swollen shut, and his face hurt from the hairline to the jaw. “A little wine would be good,” he mumbled.

  Kalliades helped him back to their small campsite in the boulders. With a groan Banokles lay down by the fading fire. Piria arrived, bearing a bucket of seawater and a cloth. Gently she cleaned the blood from his face. Finally she took a flat stone from the bucket and pressed it gently against the swollen eye. It was wonderfully cool, and Banokles sighed.

  Her fingers lightly brushed the blond hair back from his brow. “You should rest,” she said to him. “You took a fearful beating.”

  “I won, though.”

  “You are a brave fighter, Banokles.”

  “I think… I’ll sleep now,” he told her.

  And darkness swallowed him.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  BACK FROM THE DEAD

  Kalliades gazed down at his bruised and battered friend, then glanced across to where Leukon was now conscious and talking to Odysseus. Around the Penelope campfire a number of local whores had gathered and were sitting with the men. The sound of laughter drifted across the beach. He sat down, and Piria left Banokles and came to sit beside him.

  “I have seen many fistfights,” she said softly. “Never have I seen anyone take such a beating and stay on his feet.”

  Kalliades nodded. “He doesn’t have the sense to know when he’s beaten. It was kind of you to bathe his wounds. I thought you didn’t like him.”

  “He is a hard man not to like,” she admitted grudgingly.

  He looked at her and smiled. “This is not the Piria I have come to know.”

  “And who is this Piria?” she said, her tone sharp.

  “Someone fine and brave,” he told her. “Truth to tell, you are like Banokles in some ways. You both have great courage. You, too, are rash and reckless, though for different reasons. Banokles thinks no further than his next meal, his next battle, or his next woman. You are driven by something else.”

  “You see a great deal, Kalliades. Are you as accurate when you glimpse your own reflection?”

  “I doubt it,” he admitted. “Most men rationalize their weaknesses and exaggerate their strengths. I am no different.”

  “Perhaps you are. You wagered a sword you cherished when you believed Banokles could not win. You did that to support him, for you knew if you did not, it would sap his confidence.”

  “Yes, I treasure the sword of Argurios, but it is still just a sword. Banokles is a friend. There is not enough gold in all the world to buy such a friendship.”

  “And what else cannot be bought?” she asked him.

  He thought about the question as he stared out over the wine-dark sea. “Nothing of real worth can ever be bought,” he said at last. “Love, friendship, honor, valor, respect. All these things have to be earned.”

  “Speaking of honor, I see that Idomeneos has not yet given you the breastplate.”

  “No, he has not,” Kalliades said, anger rising. Why would a man with the wealth of Idomeneos seek to cheat a simple warrior of a sword?

  They sat in silence for a while, then she took her cloak and moved to the fire, adding the last of the fuel. Kalliades watched her stretch herself out, pillowing her head on her arm.

  Time drifted by, but he was not tired. The fighter Leukon was sitting alone, away from the crew. Kalliades rose and walked across to him.

  “What do you want?” Leukon asked, as Kalliades sat down beside him on a flat rock. “Come to gloat?”

  “Why would I gloat?” Kalliades asked. “You were winning easily, and then you decided to lie down.”

  “What?”

  “You were not unconscious. Banokles was exhausted at the end. He had little strength left, certainly not enough to punch you from your feet.”

  “Keep your voice down! Otherwise you will lose that shining breastplate.”

  “So why?” Kalliades whispered.

  “Odysseus told me to.”

  “That does not answer my question.”

  Leukon sighed, then pointed across to another campfire farther along the beach. “Did you see the big man with the forked red beard who came and watched the fight?”

  Kalliades recalled the man. He was huge and had stood watching the bout, his massive arms folded across his chest. “What of him?”

  “That was Hakros. He is the champion of Rhodos and a ferocious fighter. Last summer in Argos he killed a man in a bout. Smashed his skull.”

  “What of it?”

  “He and I will probably fight each other in Troy. There will be big wagers made. All the bigger now that Hakros has seen me beaten. Losing to Banokles means gold to Odysseus—and to me.”

  Kalliades swore softly. “That was not a good deed,” he said.

  Leukon shrugged. “No harm done. Banokles gained a few bruises, and I feel as if several boulders have been bounced from me. You got a breastplate, and he thinks he’s a champion.”

  “Yes, he does,” Kalliades said coldly. “And now he will go to Troy, where some other fine fighter, like Hakros, will break his bones or perhaps kill him.”

  Leukon shook his head. “There won’t be more than four—maybe five—men who could take him. He’s strong, and he’s tougher than he has any right to be. If he could learn a few good moves, he’d do all right. He’ll win several of the preliminary bouts and, with a few wagers, make himself some gold.”

  “It will be many days to Troy,” Kalliades said, “and many nights on beaches such as this. I want you to train him, to show him some of those moves.”

  Leukon laughed. “And why would I do that?”

  “There could be two reasons,” Kalliades said. “One, it would be an act of good fellowship. Two, I could tell Banokles you threw the fight and shamed him. He would then be obliged to challenge you again, this time with swords and to the death. I don’t know what kind of swordsman you are, Leukon, but I’d wager Banokles would kill you in a he
artbeat. However, I am a fine judge of men, and I know you will do what I ask because you have a good heart.”

  Leukon chuckled. “I’ll train him. But not for fear and not for good-heartedness. I need the practice. He will do everything I tell him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And is he a fast learner?”

  Now it was Kalliades who laughed. “It would be easier to teach a pig to dance or a dog to shoot a bow.”

  Men from various crews approached Odysseus, requesting a tale, but he turned them away. He felt a heaviness of heart and had no wish to entertain crowds. So he left the campfire and wandered away down the beach, pausing before the Xanthos, the huge warship of Helikaon. He saw Hektor walking toward him. The Trojan was unaware of the admiring, envious glances from the sailors who sat close by. It was one of the traits Odysseus liked about him. There was in Hektor an innocence and a gentleness of spirit, surprising in any warrior but astonishing in the son of a king like Priam.

  Odysseus waited until the Trojan reached him, then led him along the seashore, away from the crowds.

  “There are a great many disappointed men here tonight,” said Hektor.

  Odysseus glanced up at the taller man. “I am in no mood for storytelling. So why are you sailing the Great Green so close to your wedding feast?”

  “Father sent me. He was concerned about pirates attacking the wedding guests. With Helikaon…” He hesitated. “With Helikaon injured, he thought that word of my involvement would inspire a little fear in them.”

  “Injured?” Odysseus put in, his heart leaping. “I was told he was dead.”

  “Do not let your hopes soar, Odysseus. He was stabbed twice. One wound has healed, but the second blow pierced his armpit and a lung. It is this wound that will not heal. There is corruption there.”

  “Who is attending him?”