He will shame me anyway, he thought. If a seabird shits on the running track, it will somehow be my fault. Though maybe not today. Polites had seen Priam earlier that morning, and the king had seemed in a joyous mood. May the gods cause that to last for the five days of the games, he prayed.
Leaving Choros with the workmen, he moved through the building, emerging at the rear onto a narrow walkway leading to the stables. They were empty at present, but later that day the first of the horses would be brought in to be examined by the judges and marked for competition. Polites went on past the stands where the crowds would gather, then through the gate and onto the racetrack. There he kicked off his sandals. Slaves had been working for days to remove all the loose stones from the surface before tamping it flat. Even so, the chariot wheels would bite deep on the turns, and it was almost certain that some jagged piece of rock would be dug up and flung into the crowds. Polites slowly walked the length of the course between the turning posts, scanning the ground. The new judges would be performing the same task a little later, and their eyes would be keener than his, he knew.
At the last games, five years before, Polites had been merely a spectator. He had not appreciated the intensity of the work involved in preparation. Had it not been for the involvement of his half brother Antiphones, he knew he would have made a mess of it. It was a depressing thought. Polites left the track and climbed up onto the embankments, seating himself on a new bench and running his hand lightly along the polished wood. No sign of splinters.
“The first thing to do,” Antiphones had told him when Father first had given Polites his role, “is to find good foremen, men you can trust to see the work through. Assign each man a specific task, then appoint an overseer to coordinate the work.” Antiphones had been recovering from his wounds then, but he had kept a brotherly eye on the organization. Polites was grateful yet curiously resentful. Antiphones was clever and quick-witted, his mind able to grasp complexities with ease. Polites always needed time to think problems through and invariably would become lost in alternatives, unable to make a decision.
As he sat on the bench, his heart sank. In what do you excel, Polites? he asked himself. You cannot run, and you cannot ride well. You are no fighter, nor are you a thinker. He thought of his garden and the joy it gave him. Even that did not lift his spirits, for many of the new seedlings would die now that he had been forced to turn his palace over to Agamemnon. Uncared for, they would wither in the fierce sunlight.
In the distance Polites could hear the sound of marching feet. The regiments were moving, gathering there to select the hundred judges, the Incorruptibles. Now, there is something to be grateful for, he thought. You could have been a soldier and then been chosen for such a thankless role. He wondered why any common soldier would agree to become a judge. For five days, under the baleful gaze of kings and nobles, the judges would make decisions on races and events on which fortunes had been wagered. They would endure the wrath of monarchs and sometimes the fury of the crowds. For this they would receive no reward save a small silver token shaped like a discus and bearing the embossed image of Father Zeus. For five days these former peasants would have powers beyond those of kings and be expected to use them wisely and without favor.
Well, that was the theory. Would any judge go against Priam, knowing that within five days he would once again be no more than a soldier and subject to the whims of the king? Hardly.
Polites rose from the bench and made his way back along the racetrack, put on his sandals, and returned through the stables and the palaistra to watch the selection of the judges. Soon Father would be there. Polites’ stomach turned. What have I missed? he wondered. What hideous error will he discover?
In the middle of a large crowd Kalliades and Banokles made their way up the long slope to the Scaean Gate. Banokles was happy to be free of the ship, but Kalliades had felt a sinking of the heart as they had sighted the city. The voyage had been dreamlike, with no sense of the passing of time. Kalliades had stood with Piria on the deck of the Penelope, walked with her on moonlit beaches, laughed with her and joked with her. Now here they were, at the end of their journey. Soon he would be saying farewell to her, and the thought frightened him. She can never love you, he told himself. Better to say farewell than to watch her run into the arms of her lover with never a backward glance toward you. No, it was not better. To wake to a day when he could not gaze at her face was unthinkable.
“You ever seen Odysseus that angry?” Banokles asked. “I thought he was in a rage when we fought the pirates, but today his face was so red, I thought he’d bleed from the ears.”
“He was furious,” Kalliades agreed, recalling the moment when Odysseus had tried to steer the Penelope toward Priam’s private beach. A small boat manned by a beachmaster and several sailors had cut across them.
“You cannot beach here,” the master yelled.
Odysseus rushed to the prow and stared angrily down at the man. “You moron,” he shouted. “I am Odysseus, king of Ithaka. With me are Nestor of Pylos and Idomeneos of Kretos. This is where all the vessels of kings beach. Now move away or I’ll sink you.”
The beachmaster called out to some soldiers on the beach. Some twenty of them came running forward, hands on their sword hilts. “My orders are explicit, King Odysseus,” the beachmaster replied. “No more ships are to beach here. You may sink this craft if you will, but those soldiers will still prevent your landing. There will be bloodshed. I promise you that.”
Kalliades moved away from Odysseus. The man had been shamed before his crew and before his fellow kings. The Ugly King stood there, blinking in the sunlight, almost unable to speak. It was Bias who called out for the men to reverse oars and draw back, and the Penelope sailed farther along the bay. They beached some distance from the city, and the men clambered down to the sand. Odysseus remained at the stern, arms folded across his chest. The other kings, Nestor and Idomeneos, did not speak to him as they, too, departed the ship. Even Bias walked away without a word.
Piria approached Kalliades. “The slight has pierced him like a dagger,” she said.
“I fear so. Banokles and I are going into the city to enter the games,” he said. “Would you like to accompany us?”
“I cannot. I could be recognized by… by those who would cause me harm. Odysseus says I should remain here.”
And so Kalliades and Banokles had left her.
Kalliades stopped to ask directions from some soldiers at the Scaean Gate. Then the two comrades moved on, angling away from the crowd. Banokles spotted two whores standing in the shade of a building and waved at them.
“We need to find the gathering field,” Kalliades said.
Banokles sighed. “And we’ve no wealth. Should have known that bastard would not surrender his breastplate. A curse on all kings!” Kalliades paused. Streets branched off in all directions, and he was gazing at the columned buildings. “Are we lost?”
“Not yet,” Kalliades replied, heading on.
“Do we have a plan yet?”
“For what?”
“For life in Troy. Like… where are we going to stay?”
Kalliades laughed. “You were there when Odysseus told us we would be lodged at Hektor’s palace. You were standing right beside me.”
“I wasn’t listening. I leave that sort of thing to you. Did you notice the size of the walls as we walked up to the city? They looked large the last time we were here, but in daylight they are massive. I wouldn’t want to be on a ladder trying to scale them.”
“You won’t have to. We are Mykene no longer. Which reminds me: Should we see anyone we know, do not shout a greeting or walk up to them.”
“Why would I do anything that stupid?”
“I am sorry, my friend. I was merely thinking aloud. The city is under truce for the games, but there is still a bounty on our heads. And there will be many Mykene here.”
Finally they found their way to the gathering field northeast of the city. Scores of tents had be
en erected there, and scribes were taking down the names of contestants at dozens of bench tables.
Eventually both Banokles and Kalliades registered to take part and were given thin copper tokens embossed with numbers and an image of the event. They were told to return the next day at dawn for the preliminaries.
At the edge of the field a cooking area had been set up, two charcoal pits in which bulls were being roasted on spits. The two men sat in the shade of a large canvas canopy and ate. “I think this bull died of old age,” Banokles grumbled. “I haven’t eaten meat this stringy since we invaded Sparta. You remember? That old goat Eruthros killed? I swear it was all hoof, bone, and sinew. Not a piece of meat on it.”
“Rations were short,” Kalliades recalled. “I remember digging up roots and ripping bark off trees to add to the stew.”
“Good fighters those Spartans. If there’d been more of them, we’d have been in real trouble.” Banokles laughed. “They must really have angered the gods, eh? First they get beaten in a battle, and then they end up with Menelaus as king.”
“I always liked him,” Kalliades said.
“Nothing to dislike,” Banokles agreed, “but the man’s as soft as puppy shit. He’s got a belly on him like a pregnant sow.”
“I talked to him once,” Kalliades said. “The night before we took Sparta. He was terrified and couldn’t stop throwing up. He said all he wanted was to be back at his farm. He’d been cross-breeding his herds with bulls from Thessaly. He claimed the milk yield from his cows had almost doubled.”
“Milk yield?” Banokles snorted. “By the gods, anyone can get to be a king these days.”
“They can if they are brothers of Agamemnon. But be fair to Menelaus. Though he was frightened, he still donned his armor and joined us in the attack. He didn’t have to. He could have waited with the rear guard.”
Banokles did not look convinced. Then he brightened. “You think there will be slave girls at Hektor’s palace?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” Kalliades chuckled. “If there are, I doubt they’ll be ordered to rut with sailors.”
“They might, though.”
“Better, I think, to find a whore. That way you won’t risk offending Hektor.”
“Oh, good plan,” Banokles mocked. “Whores have to be paid for.”
Kalliades reached into the pouch at his side, and drew out five silver rings. Banokles was astonished. “How did you come by them?”
“Odysseus gave them to me. And he says there will be fifty more. I sold him the breastplate of Idomeneos.”
“It is worth more than fifty-five silver rings.”
Kalliades shook his head. “Not to me. Idomeneos is a king. I cannot demand he honor his debt. Odysseus can. It is that simple. Now, do you want the rings?”
Banokles grinned. “I want what they’ll buy,” he said.
“Well, first let us locate Hektor’s palace.”
The two friends left the gathering field and wandered back through the city.
“How many women will five silver rings buy me?” Banokles asked.
“I neglected to ask Odysseus about the price of whores.”
“Not like you to forget the important things,” Banokles observed. “Will you be coming whore hunting with me?”
“No. I’ll return to the beach. Odysseus has told Piria to sleep on the Penelope. She’ll be coming to the palace later.”
“Why?”
“Odysseus wants to find out if any of the other kings are staying close to Hektor’s palace. It could be dangerous for her if she is recognized.”
“So you will spend the night guarding her?” Banokles shook his head. Ahead, the road widened, and they saw a marketplace packed with stalls. There were shops there and several eating places with tables set out beneath brightly colored canopies. Banokles grabbed Kalliades by the arm. “Come on,” he said. “We need to talk.”
“We were talking.”
“I need a drink for this kind of conversation,” Banokles said. Kalliades followed him to a small table placed against a cool stone wall. Banokles ordered wine, filled a goblet, and drained it. “Are you moonstruck, Kalliades?” he asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do. You’ve fallen in love with her.”
“I am merely concerned for her safety.”
“And pig shit smells like jasmine! I like the girl, Kalliades, so don’t misunderstand me. She has courage and she has heart, and if it was in her nature, she’d make a fine wife. But it isn’t in her nature. You know as well as I do that the lover she is searching for is a woman.”
Kalliades sighed. “I didn’t choose to love her,” he said. “But I did choose to protect her, and I did promise to see her safely to her lover. I will do that, and then we will part.”
“Is that a promise?”
Kalliades poured himself a cup of wine and sipped it. The silence grew.
“I thought not,” Banokles said. “So what are you really hoping for? That her lover will turn her away? That she will fall into your arms? That you will take all her sorrow from her? It cannot happen. Brothers cannot do that for sisters. And that is how she sees you, how she will always see you.”
“I know that,” Kalliades replied. “I know that everything you say is true, and yet… I also know there is a reason why she came into my life. I cannot explain it, Banokles. I was meant to meet her. That is a truth that my soul understands.”
Looking into his friend’s pale eyes, he saw no similar understanding there. Then Banokles shrugged and smiled. “You do what you must, my friend. You go and walk in the moonlight with the woman you love. I’ll find someone who doesn’t love me and shag her until my eyes bulge.”
The tension between them evaporated, and Kalliades laughed. “That is a good plan,” he said. “Simple and direct, with clear objectives. I hope you can stick to it.”
“Why would I not?”
“Because when full of wine, you tend to look for brawls to take part in.”
“Not tonight,” Banokles said. “Tonight is for wine and women. I give you my oath on that.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A BOW FOR ODYSSEUS
Many people spoke of their love for Troy, growing misty-eyed about its beauty. To Big Red it was just a city of stone, a place to earn silver rings and gold trinkets. The truth, she believed, was that this emotion men spoke of was merely love of wealth. Troy was rich, and those who prospered within it became wealthy. Even the old baker whose house she was walking wearily toward wore rings of gold and had a carriage to ferry him about the city. His breads and his cakes were purchased by the nobles and served at feasts and gatherings. The baker owned six slaves and a farm close to the city, which supplied his grain. He was a fine client. His erections were semisoft and easily dealt with, his gratitude rich and rewarding. At the end of a long day Red had no wish to spend time with a younger client.
She plodded through the back streets, the silver rings she had earned that day neatly threaded on a thong and hidden within the folds of her long red robe. Between the silver rings were thin pieces of wood to stop the metal from clinking as she moved. These streets in the lower town were seething now with cutpurses and thieves, most of them working for Silfanos, and although she paid—as did all the lower town whores—a monthly tribute to Silfanos, it was still sensible to hide her wealth. In a pouch at her side she carried a handful of copper rings in case some enterprising robber should accost her.
The day had been profitable, and were it not for the fact that the baker paid her in kind, she would have returned home and sat in her small garden with a jug of wine. There was, however, no food in her larder, and she had a taste for the honey cakes he made.
Her lower back ached as she walked, and she was hungry. The thought of the honey cakes drove her on.
Passing through a low alleyway, she emerged onto a small square. The sound of laughter carried to her, and she glanced across to where a group of men were sit
ting. One of them was Silfanos. He and three of his men were drinking with a young, powerfully built warrior in an old breastplate. It was obvious the blond man was drunk and happy. A man should always die happy, she thought. Once night had fully fallen and the streets were empty, Silfanos and his men would fall upon the drunk and rob him. The breastplate was probably worth a score of rings.
Red moved on, but the drunk saw her and heaved himself to his feet. He staggered toward her. “Hold!” he called out. “Please!”
She stared at him malevolently, ready to brush aside any clumsy advance. He did not seek to touch her but stood open-mouthed before her. “By the gods,” he said, “I think you are the most beautiful woman I ever saw.”
“All women look beautiful to a man soused with wine,” she snapped.
“I’ve had wine before,” he said. “But I’ve never seen anyone like you. Here.” He pulled a silver ring from his pouch and thrust it into her hand.
“Take it back,” she said. “I have nothing for you.”
“No. That is for your beauty alone. Merely seeing you gladdens my heart. By the gods, it was worth traveling across the Great Green just to stand here and gaze upon you.”
Glancing beyond him, she saw the thin-faced Silfanos gesturing for her to depart. She nodded at him and moved away.
“What is your name?” the big man called out.
“I am called Red.”
“I am Banokles. We must meet again, Red.”
Ignoring him, she walked on. Silfanos was a wretch and a killer. If she and the drunk were to meet again, it would not be on this side of the Dark Road.
By the time she reached the house of the baker, the streets were dark. Red found she was still holding the silver ring the man had given her. She paused before the baker’s door and slipped the ring into her pouch. The fool had paid just to look at her. Despite herself, she was touched. Then anger swept over her. He was an idiot, she told herself.
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