02 - Shield of Thunder

by David Gemmell

  “Tough men. There’s been a fight. The tall one has a wound on his face.”

  “A fight? Of course there’s been a fight. There’s a severed head on the beach.” Odysseus grunted, stepping away from them and gazing at the approaching trio. The tall man with the cut on his face was a stranger, but the powerfully built blond warrior wearing the bronze-reinforced breastplate was familiar to him. Odysseus seemed to recall the man was a Mykene soldier.

  As they came closer, Odysseus saw that the wound on the tall warrior’s face had slashed across an older scar. Blood was still flowing to his dark tunic.

  “I am Kalliades,” the man said. “My friends and I seek passage, Odysseus King.”

  “Kalliades… hmm. Seems I have heard that name before. A Mykene warrior who fought alongside Argurios.”

  “Yes. And against him. Great man.”

  “And you are Banokles One Ear,” Odysseus said, turning to the huge warrior. “I remember you now. You picked a fight with five of my crew two summers ago.”

  “Thrashed them all,” Banokles said happily.

  “You lie like a hairy egg,” Odysseus responded with a chuckle. “When I dragged them back, you were down on the street with your hands over your head and blows raining in from all sides.”

  “Just taking a small rest to recoup my strength,” Banokles said. “By Hephaistos, once on my feet I’d have ripped their heads off.”

  “No doubt,” Odysseus said. “And what is your tale?” he asked the cropped-headed whore.

  “I am traveling to Troy,” she answered. That voice! Odysseus fell silent, his eyes narrowing as he scanned her face. There was no doubt as to her identity, and Odysseus knew now that she had slashed away her hair for reasons other than lice. The last time he had seen her, as a child of around twelve, she had taken scissors to her golden locks, cutting the hair back to the scalp, nicking the skin in several places. It had been a sad sight.

  He saw from her expression that she knew he had recognized her. “My name is Piria,” she lied, her pale gaze holding his own.

  “Welcome to my camp, Piria,” he said, and saw the relief in her eyes.

  Turning away from them, he watched the pirate galleys being launched. It gave him time to think. He was in a quandary now. She was traveling under a false name. That probably meant that she had left the Temple Isle without permission. Women sent to serve on Thera generally remained there all the days of their lives. In fact, he knew of only two women who had been released from the isle in more than thirty years.

  There was a story, though, of another runaway, many years earlier. She had been returned to the isle and buried alive to serve the god below the mountain.

  He pondered the problem. If this girl was a runaway and he was discovered to have assisted her flight knowingly, he could be cursed by the high priestess. The old woman was a princess of the Mykene royal family, and worse than her words would be the fact that her hatred could cost Odysseus dearly in his trade with the mainland and perhaps earn the enmity of her kinsman Agamemnon.

  The pirate galleys rowed out onto the clear blue water, and Odysseus watched as they raised sail. Another problem struck him. Why had two Mykene soldiers been traveling with pirates, and why were they now seeking passage on a ship whose destination they could not know?

  The words of Kalliades echoed in his mind. Odysseus had asked about Argurios, and Kalliades had said he had fought with him and against him. The only time Mykene soldiers had fought against Argurios had been in Troy the previous autumn. Agamemnon had ordered the murders of all involved. What was it Nestor had said? Two escaped and were declared outlaw.

  Sweet Hera! He was standing with a runaway priestess and two Mykene renegades.

  “The Penelope is a small ship,” he said at last, “and when our cargo arrives, there will be little room left. We are traveling to Troy for the wedding of the king’s son, Hektor. However, we will be stopping at a number of islands on the way. Did you have a destination in mind?”

  Kalliades gave a rueful smile. “Wherever fair winds take us,” he said.

  “No wind is favorable if a man does not know where he is going,” Odysseus told him.

  “All winds are favorable to a man who does not care,” Kalliades responded.

  “I need to think on this a while longer,” Odysseus said. “Come and join us for breakfast. Bias will stitch that cut on your face, and you can tell me how you came to be collecting heads.”

  Kalliades sat beside the breakfast fire, his irritation growing. The black sailor Bias was kneeling alongside him, one hand pinching the skin of his face, the other pushing a curved bronze needle threaded with black twine through the flaps of the wound, drawing them together. Close by, Banokles was regaling Odysseus and the crew of the Penelope with a ludicrously distorted version of the rescue of Piria and the fight with Arelos. He made it sound as if Arelos had been a demigod of battle. The truth was more prosaic. The man had been merely skillful, lacking true speed of hand. The fight had been brief and bloody. Kalliades had stepped in swiftly to deliver the death wound. As he had done so, Arelos had slumped forward, butting Kalliades’ cheek and splitting the skin.

  Kalliades looked into the dark eyes of Bias. The man was smiling as he listened to Banokles spinning his tale.

  “A good tale,” they heard Odysseus say as Banokles concluded the overblown story. “Though it lacks a truly powerful ending.”

  “But he won and survived,” Banokles argued.

  “Indeed he did, but for the story to make men shiver, there needs to be a mystical element. How about this: The moment the head of Arelos was cut from the body, a plume of black smoke rose from the severed neck, forming the figure of a man wearing a high plumed helm.”

  “I like that,” Banokles said. “So what is the figure of smoke?”

  “I don’t know. It is your story. Perhaps it was a demon who had possessed Arelos. You sure you didn’t see a little smoke?”

  “Now that you mention it, I think I did,” Banokles told him, to the laughter of the crew.

  Kalliades closed his eyes. Bias chuckled. “Welcome to the Penelope,” he whispered, “where the truth always gives way to the golden lie. There, the wound is sealed. I’ll cut and draw the stitches in a few days.”

  “My thanks to you, Bias. So what brought the Penelope to this island? The flax plants are still in flower, and I have seen no sign of other industry.”

  “You’ll see soon enough,” Bias told him. “It should be an amusing day. Well, for passengers, anyway. I doubt there’ll be much laughter among the crew.” Sitting back, he scooped up a handful of sand and scrubbed the blood from his fingers. “A fine bruise is going to form around that cut,” he said.

  “Where is the Penelope heading next?”

  “We are making for an island a day’s sail to the east, then, if the gods bless us, we’ll head northeast for Kios, then the eastern coast and Troy.”

  Banokles joined them, handing Kalliades a dark loaf and a round of cheese. “Did you hear that about the plume of smoke?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What could it be, do you think?”

  “I don’t know, Banokles. There was no plume of smoke.”

  “I know that. Intriguing, though.”

  Bias chuckled. “It was the spirit of an evil warrior from long ago who was cursed never to see the Elysian Fields. His soul was trapped in an ancient dagger, which the pirate leader found in a grave he desecrated. When Arelos stole the dagger, the evil spirit overcame him, filling him with hate for all living things.”

  “Now, that is storytelling,” Banokles said admiringly.

  Bias shook his head. “No, lad, that is stolen from a tale Odysseus tells. With luck you’ll hear the full story sometime on the voyage. We’ll beach somewhere, alongside other ships, and sailors will beg Odysseus to tell a tale or two. You might hear that one, though he will certainly have devised new stories over the winter. When last we spoke, he was preparing something about a witch with snake
s for hair. I’m looking forward to that.” Bias glanced along the beach. “Now the fun begins,” he said.

  Kalliades turned. Some two hundred paces away a fat old woman wearing a shapeless gown of faded yellow linen was leading a herd of black pigs onto the beach. Every now and again she would tap her staff against the side of an animal seeking to leave the herd, and it would trot obediently back into the pack.

  “That is your cargo?” Kalliades asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You need help slaughtering them?” Banokles asked.

  “They are not going to be slaughtered,” Bias said. “We’re shipping them live to another island. Swine fever killed all the pigs, and there is a merchant there who will pay dearly for another breeding herd.”

  “Shipping live pigs?” Banokles was astonished. “How will you contain them?”

  Bias sighed. “We’re using the mast and the spare mast to create an enclosure at the center of the deck.”

  “Why would anyone want to ship live pigs?” Banokles asked. “They’ll cover the deck with shit. I was raised on a pig farm. Believe me when I tell you that pigs can really shit.”

  Kalliades pushed himself to his feet and wandered away from the two men. He had no interest in pigs or their excrement. Even so, he watched the fat old woman walking with the beasts. They were trotting along quite happily behind her, making small squeaking, grunting sounds. Odysseus strode to meet her. As he approached, three of the pigs darted away from him, but the woman made a whistling sound and they stopped and turned.

  “Welcome to my campfire, Circe,” Odysseus said. “Always a pleasure to see you.”

  “Save the flattery, king of Ithaka.” She gazed at the Penelope with baleful eyes, then gave a harsh laugh. “I hope you are getting a sack of gold for your troubles,” she said. “You will earn it. My little ones will not be happy at sea.”

  “They seem docile enough to me.”

  “Because I am with them. When Portheos first approached me with this idea, I thought him simple in the head. When you rejected his plan, I assumed it was because of your greater intelligence.” She gazed around the beach. “Where is he, by the way?”

  “Died in his sleep back home.”

  Kalliades heard the old woman make a clucking sound. She shook her head. “So young. A man of such laughter should live to a great age.” She looked at Odysseus and remained silent for a while. “So,” she said at last, “why did you change your mind about the plan?”

  “It is merely trade. Oristhenes no longer has pigs. A pig breeder without pigs has no purpose in life.”

  “Have you considered why no one else is bringing him live pigs?”

  “What others do or don’t do is not my concern.” A large black boar began snuffling at Odysseus’ feet, nudging its snout against his bare leg. Odysseus tried to push it away with his foot.

  “He likes you,” Circe said.

  “I like him, too. I am sure we will be fast friends. You have any advice for me?”

  “Carry plenty of water to swill down the decks. And a few splints for the broken bones your crew will suffer if the pigs panic and break through your enclosure. If you reach Oristhenes’ island without mishap, ensure that Ganny here”—she tapped the big black boar with her staff—“is the first one you lower to the beach. The others will gather around him. If Ganny is content, you will have little trouble. If he is not, there will be mayhem.”

  Kalliades saw that Piria also had moved away from the campfire and was sitting alone on a boulder. He walked across to her. She looked up but did not offer a greeting.

  “Why are there pigs on the beach?” she asked.

  “Odysseus is taking them to another island.”

  “We are to travel with pigs?”

  “It would seem so.” The silence between them grew, then Kalliades asked, “You wish to be alone?”

  “You can have no idea of how much I wish to be alone, Kalliades. But I am not alone. I am surrounded by men—and pigs. Not a great deal of difference there,” she added scornfully.

  He turned away, but she called after him. “Wait! I am sorry, Kalliades. I was not referring to you. You have been kind to me and—so far—true to your word.”

  “Many men are,” he said, seating himself on a rock close by. “I have seen cruelty. I have seen kindness. Sometimes I have seen cruel men being kind and kind men being cruel. I do not understand it. I do know, though, that all men are not like the pirates who took you. You see that old man there?” He pointed to a white-haired figure standing back from the crew and watching the pigs being herded toward the Penelope. He was tall and stooped and wore a cloak of blue over a dark gold-embroidered tunic.

  “What of him?”

  “That is Nestor of Pylos. When I was a child, I worked in his flax fields. I was a slave and the son of a slave. The king has many sons. Every one of them was sent to work among the slaves in the fields for a full season. Their hands bled; their backs ached. My mother told me the king did this so that his sons would understand the harshness of life beyond the palace and not be scornful of those who worked in the fields. Nestor himself journeyed through his lands, talking to those who labored for him, seeing that they were well fed and clothed. He is a good man.”

  “Who still owns slaves,” she said.

  Kalliades was bemused by the comment. “Of course he owns slaves. He is a king.”

  “Was your mother born a slave?”

  “No. She was taken from a village on the Lykian coast.”

  “As I was—by pirates?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Then Nestor is just like them. What he wants, he takes. But he is called a good man because he feeds and clothes the people he has torn from their loved ones and their families. The evil of it all sickens me.”

  Kalliades fell silent. There had always been slaves, as there had always been kings. There always would be. How else would civilization flourish? He glanced toward the Penelope.

  Several crewmen had harnessed a canvas sling to two ropes. They had lowered the ropes from the deck of the beached ship, and men on the shore were trying to lift a pig into the sling. The beast began to squeal and thrash its legs. The sound panicked the other pigs. Four of them began to run along the beach, chased by sailors. The old crone with the staff shook her head and walked away from the mayhem. Kalliades saw Banokles hurl himself at a large pig, which swerved as Banokles was in the air. The warrior sprawled into the sand and slid headfirst into the water. Within moments the scene on the beach was chaotic. Odysseus began bellowing orders.

  The pig in the sling had been hauled halfway to the deck but was thrashing so wildly that the ropes were swinging from side to side. Suddenly the beast began to urinate, showering the men below. The remaining pigs, some fifteen in all, bunched together and charged down the beach directly toward Odysseus. There was nothing for him to do but run. The sight of the stocky king in his wide golden belt being chased by a herd of squealing pigs was too much for the crew. Laughter broke out.

  “It is going to be a long day,” Kalliades said. He glanced at Piria. She was laughing, too.

  It was good to see.

  At that moment Odysseus halted in his run, swinging around to face the herd. “Enough!” he bellowed, his voice booming like thunder. The animals, startled by the noise, swerved away from him. One huge black pig trotted up to the king and began to nuzzle his leg. Odysseus leaned down and patted its broad back. Then he strode back toward the Penelope, the black pig ambling along beside him. The other animals began to made soft squealing sounds and fell in behind the king.

  “Laugh at me, would you, you misbegotten cowsons,” Odysseus stormed as he approached his crew. “By the balls of Ares, if I could teach these pigs to row, I’d get rid of you all.”

  “An unusual man,” Kalliades observed. “Can he be trusted?”

  “Why are you asking me?” Piria said.

  “Because you know him. I saw it in his eyes when you spoke.”

  Piria rema
ined silent for a while. Then she nodded. “I knew him. He visited my father’s… home… many times. I cannot answer your question, Kalliades. Odysseus was once a slave trader. Years ago he was known as the Sacker of Cities. I would not willingly put my trust in any man who earned such a title. As it is, I have no choice.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  VOYAGE OF THE PIGS

  Bias the Black was sitting quietly among the rocks, an old cloak around his broad shoulders. The crew was still struggling to load the pigs. Bias was not tempted to help them. Close to fifty, he needed to protect his javelin arm if he was to have any chance in the games at Troy. So he sat quietly, honing his bone-handled fighting knives. Odysseus claimed his liking for knives was part of his heritage as a Nubian, but this seemed unlikely to Bias, who had been born on Ithaka and had known no other Nubians as a youngster. His mother certainly had never spoken about knife fighting.

  “You could be the grandson of the king of Nubia,” Odysseus had said once. “You could be heir to a vast kingdom with golden palaces and a thousand concubines.”

  “And if my prick had fingers, it could scratch my arse,” Bias had replied.

  “That’s the problem with you, Bias. You have no imagination,” Odysseus had chided him.

  Bias had laughed then. “Why would a man need imagination who travels with you, King of Storytellers? Why, with you I have journeyed through the sky on a flying ship, fought demons, hurled my javelin into the moon, and strung a necklace of stars for a jungle empress. I have had sailors ask me when I am returning to my homeland to take up my crown. Why is it that so many people believe your stories?”

  “They like to believe,” Odysseus had told him. “Most men work from dawn to dusk. They live hard, they die young. They want to think that the gods smile down on them, that their lives have more meaning than in fact they do. The world would be a sadder place without stories, Bias.”