Shield of Thunder

by David Gemmell

  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 sitting. 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.

  The baker had prepared a tray of sweet cakes, but despite her hunger she ignored them, telling him how much she had looked forward to seeing him, stroking his face, and kissing his cheek. Putting his arm around her, he led her into his bedroom, then lay back as she cooed and stroked him.

  “Why won’t you wed me, Red?” he asked her, as he had asked her many times before.

  “Be content with what you have,” she told him.

  “I want more, Red.”

  “All men want more.”

  “I cannot imagine a life without you.”

  “Nor do you need to. I am here now.” With that she began to apply the skills of her twenty years as a whore. His happiness was complete within a few heartbeats. She lay beside him for politeness’s sake until he dozed, then walked out into his kitchen and ate several of the cakes. If he had been as good a lover as he was a baker, she would have wed him in an instant.

  He had also prepared a basket of bread for her. Gathering it up, she left the house. She had intended to return home by a different route, having no wish to pass the body of the blond man or, worse, be there when Silfanos and his men were still in the act of murder. But she was tired and in no mood for a detour. She decided to creep to the edge of the square, peep around the corner, and then if necessary keep to the shadows, moving silently.

  When she reached the corner, she could hear no sounds of laughter or song and guessed that the crime already had been committed. Peeping into the square, she was amazed to see the blond man still sitting there, nursing a cup of wine. Sprawled out on the ground around him were the bodies of four men. Involuntarily, she gasped. The warrior heard her and looked up.

  “Red!” he shouted happily. “You came back!”

  He stood up, then slumped back. “Oh,” she heard him say, “I think a little too much wine has flowed.”

  Red moved across the square, scanning the bodies. Silfanos was not among them. “Are they dead?” she asked.

  He considered the question solemnly. “Could be, I suppose.” He kicked out at the nearest man, who groaned. “Probably not, though.”

  “Where is the other one?”

  “Ran off. By the gods, I’ve seen hounds who couldn’t run that fast.” He chuckled, then burped. “It’s been a good day, Red. I’ve eaten my fill, shagged”—lifting his hand, he counted his fingers—“four times, and had a fine fight. Best of all, though, I’ve seen you.”

  “You need to leave here,” she said. “The other man will come back, and he’ll bring more robbers with him.”

  “I’ll swat them like flies,” he shouted, swinging his arm and falling off his seat. He grunted, then pushed himself to his feet. “Need a piss,” he said, lifting his tunic and urinating on the unconscious man lying closest to him. “Stupid thieves,” he muttered as he finished. “All the time I had rings they sat and drank with me. Then, when all the rings were gone, they sought to rob me.”

  “They wanted your breastplate,” she said. “Now, come along. It is time to go.”

  “I haven’t got any rings, Red. Nothing to give you.”

  “Just walk with me, idiot!” she stormed. “Otherwise you’ll be lying here dead!” Stepping in, she took his arm and dragged him across the square. He grinned at her, then glanced down at the basket she was carrying.

  “Oh, bread!” he said. “Can we stop and eat? I’m a little peckish.”

  “In a while,” she assured him, pulling him on. “Where are you staying?”

  “Palace,” he said. “Somewhere. With Kalliades. My friend.”

  “I don’t know any Kalliades.”

  They walked on through narrow alleys and side streets, emerging at last onto a broad avenue. “Need a little sleep now,” Banokles told her, slumping against the wall of a building.

  Red heard the distant sound of angry shouts. “You can’t sleep here,” she said. “My house is close by. Can you walk that far?”

  “With you? To your house?” Grinning at her again, he sucked in a huge breath and pushed himself away from the wall. “Lead on, beauty!”

  They made it to another side street. Banokles halted there, fell to his knees, and vomited. “That’s better,” he said.

  Two men ran around the corner. Red stepped swiftly back into the shadows. The men rushed at Banokles. One of them had a club. Banokles saw them, gave a great shout, and charged. Red saw him strike the first man, who was catapulted from his feet. The second attacker leaped upon Banokles. The warrior grabbed the man, hoisted him high, then hurled him into his unconscious comrade. Banokles staggered back a step, then rushed in as the man struggled to rise. A huge fist cracked into the attacker’s chin, and he slumped senseless to the ground.

  Sweeping up the club, Banokles staggered back toward the avenue. Red ran after him. “Not that way, you fool!” she hissed.

  “Oh, hello, Red. Thought you’d left me.”

  “Follow me,” she ordered him. Obediently he swung behind her, the club on his shoulder. She led him through the gate at the rear of her house, then dropped the locking bar in place behind them.

  Once inside the building, she lit a lantern. Banokles slumped into a chair. His head fell back, and his breathing deepened. Red stood there, looking at the man in the lanternlight.

  “Built like an ox, brain like a sparrow,” she said.

  Leaving him in the chair, she walked through to her bedroom at the rear of the house. Stripping off her gown, she laid it over a chair, then hid the thong of silver rings behind a recess in the wall before climbing into bed. She was just fa
lling sleep when she heard the big man moving about. He called her name.

  “I am in here,” she replied, irritated.

  A naked figure loomed in the doorway. He stepped inside, stumbled over a chair, then bumped into the bed. Pulling back the covers, he slid in alongside her.

  “I take no clients in my own bed,” she told him.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Red,” he replied sleepily. “I couldn’t possibly shag just now.”

  Within moments, his warm body nestled alongside her, he was asleep.

  Odysseus strolled across the gathering field, his bow Akilina in his hand, a quiver of long arrows hanging from his shoulder. He stared straight ahead, walking as if he did not have a care in the world, but his heart was hammering and he felt as nervous as a colt. Of all the pleasures in the wide world there were only two to compare with the joy of competing in the games: holding his wife close on a cold winter’s night and watching the first of the spring breezes billow the sail of the Penelope.

  Even the huge satisfaction of storytelling paled against the exquisite moment of true competition, when he would notch an arrow to beautiful Akilina and send a shaft hurtling into the target. Odysseus cared not if they were moving targets hauled on carts or straw models of beasts and men. If there was one talent Odysseus believed he possessed, it was to shoot a bow better than any man alive.

  A huge crowd had gathered at the far end of the field, and many of the contestants were already standing by. Odysseus could see Meriones, who had beaten him once in five contests, and the callow sons of Nestor, who would be lucky to progress to the later rounds.

  It was a fine day, the sun high and bright, a subtle breeze whispering across the field. Licking his finger, Odysseus tested the breeze. It was not strong enough to divert an arrow shot from Akilina.

  Despite his excitement, the tensions of the previous day remained. The beaching of the Penelope a long ride from the city gates had both enraged and shamed him. To suffer such an indignity was bad enough, but to endure it in the company of Nestor and Idomeneos was unbearable. Neither of his fellow kings had commented on the slight, which made it worse. A little joshing would have given Odysseus the opportunity to make a jest of it.

  Today, however, the world was beginning to look brighter. As soon as he had reached the city, Odysseus had inquired after Helikaon and had discovered that he was recovering from the assassin’s wounds. That joyous news lifted his spirits, but even so, in the back of his mind the insult slowly simmered. The beachmaster would not have dared make such a decision had someone in higher authority not ordered it. That someone could only be Priam. This was baffling to Odysseus, for though not a friend to the Trojan king, he was a neutral. In these troublesome times, with the world on the brink of war, it would be an act of madness to make an enemy of him. Perhaps, he decided, it was not about him at all. Perhaps it was intended as a slight to Idomeneos and Nestor. Even so, it would be foolish, for Priam would need both of those kings in his camp to thwart Agamemnon.

  Pushing such thoughts aside, Odysseus strolled onto the archery field. He could feel all eyes on him as he approached the men waiting to participate in the tourney. He glanced down the shooting line and saw that the targets were dummies of straw set no more than fifty paces distant.

  “By Hermes, Meriones, a man could throw an arrow over such a paltry distance,” he complained.

  “Indeed he could, my friend,” the black-bearded Meriones responded. “At this range almost no one will be eliminated.”

  To entertain the crowd both he and Meriones stepped forward, sending shaft after shaft into the farthest targets. Men began to cheer and stamp their feet. Eventually, their quivers empty, the two old friends wandered out onto the field to gather their arrows.

  “A strange event yesterday,” Meriones said.

  “It was a slight, right enough,” Odysseus told him. “Perhaps it was not intended for me. Priam has little love for Idomeneos.”

  Meriones nodded. “True enough, but would he risk alienating him with so much at stake? Have you done anything to incur Priam’s wrath?”

  “Not that I’m aware.”

  As they made their way back to the other bowmen, a Trojan soldier wearing the yellow sash of a judge came walking along the line, calling out for those with tokens marked from one to twenty to step forward.

  Odysseus, whose token was embossed with the number eleven, strode forward with Meriones.

  The judge was a handsome young man with fiery red hair and keen blue eyes. He glanced at the bows the men carried. “Be so good as to leave your weapons with friends,” he said. “All archers are to be issued with standard bows from the city armory.”

  “What?” Odysseus roared, his anger erupting. Similar cries of outrage came from some of the other bowmen.

  The judge raised his arms for silence. “By order of the king this contest is to be fairly judged on the merits of each archer. Many of you carry beautifully made bows, some of horn, some of wood and leather. You, King Odysseus, have the legendary Akilina. It is well known that it can shoot an arrow farther than any bow in the world. Would any contest therefore be fair? We have men here who have no wealth and who have cut their own bows from shriveled trees. Should they be at a disadvantage because you have Akilina?”

  Odysseus said nothing, but then Meriones spoke. “It is a fair point,” he agreed. “Bring on your bows. Let us at least practice with them.”

  Several soldiers then marched out, carrying slender weapons in the Egypteian style, each carved from a single length of wood with no composite to provide extra strength and elasticity. A young soldier approached Meriones. He was carrying two bows, and as he offered the first to the black-bearded archer, he seemed to hesitate. Then he drew it back and turned toward the judge. “Go ahead,” he was ordered. The youngster then reached out with his right hand, offering a bow to Meriones, who took it and drew back several times on the string. The second bow he offered to Odysseus.

  “By the gods,” Odysseus said loudly as he hefted it. “I could shape better weapons than this from dried cow dung. Strike a rabbit with a shaft from this and it would scratch its arse and wonder which flea had nipped it.” Laughter broke out among the crowd.

  Other soldiers brought buckets of arrows, which they placed before the men. Then the judge spoke again. “Each archer will have five shots. The leading ten archers will progress to the second round.”

  “These are flimsy weapons,” Meriones complained. “Not enough pull to offset the breeze.” He turned to the judge. “Are we at least allowed to practice with these bows?”

  The judge shook his head and called the archers forward.

  Upon the order to shoot, each man drew back on his bowstring. There was a sudden crack. The bow of Odysseus split, his arrow dropping to the ground. “Fetch another bow!” he called.

  A soldier brought him a second weapon. Odysseus calmed himself, sighted carefully, then let fly. The arrow, caught by the breeze, drifted a hairbreadth wide of the dummy. Now, with a feel for the bow, he sent his next three shafts hammering into the straw chest. Then he called out for his fifth arrow.

  “You have had five, Odysseus,” the judge told him.

  “Are you an imbecile? The bow broke on the first.”

  “Such was the will of the gods. You have scored three in five. I am sorry, King Odysseus; you are eliminated.”

  The crowd was utterly silent. Odysseus, the greatest of archers, famed around the Great Green, had not made it through the opening round. Hurling the bow to the ground, he snatched up Akilina and sent a long arrow ripping through the farthest target. It struck the pole holding the dummy in place with such force that the target was ripped from its ties and fell to the grass.

  Odysseus swung on the judge. “You ignorant cowson! You think this crowd came to see grown men playing with sticks and string? They came to see the finest archers and the greatest bows. They came to see Akilina and the black bow of Meriones. They came for an exhibition of greatness, not an embarrassing
display of mediocrity.” With that he stalked away, burning with shame.

  Meriones ran to catch him. “My friend, wait!” he called. “Come, let us find something cool to drink.”

  “I am in no mood for company, Meriones.”

  “I know. In your place neither would I be. But hear me, Odysseus. The judge was overzealous. You should have been allowed another shaft.”

  Odysseus paused. “I don’t like losing, Meriones. All men know that. But there is something in the air here, and I do not like the smell. Did you notice the young soldier when he went to give you the bow? He offered it from the left hand, then drew back and gave you the right-hand weapon.”

  “Aye, I saw that. What of it? You think you were cheated?”

  “I do not know, Meriones. What I do know is that I have now been shamed twice in a single day.”

  The judges called out for the archers to resume their positions. Meriones leaned in to Odysseus. “I am sorry, my friend. But whatever happens here, all men know you are still the greatest archer in the world.”

  “Go! Go and win the damned tourney.”

  Meriones ran back across the field. Odysseus wandered around the gathering field, watching other contests. Bias progressed through both early rounds of the javelin, and Leukon dispatched two opponents in the boxing tourney. Even the big lout Banokles battered his way into the later rounds. Bored and hot and with the opening ceremony not until late afternoon, Odysseus returned to the Penelope.

  Piria was sitting quietly beneath the canopy on the rear deck as he climbed aboard. “I had not expected to see you so soon,” she said. The comment did not help his mood. Piria handed him a cup of water. “Have you seen Andromache?”

  Draining the cup, he shook his head. “She has left the palace and moved to Hektor’s farm.”

  “I shall go there, then.”

  “Yes, you must. But not yet. The city is teeming with foreigners. Your father is here, and your brother, and quite an entourage, I’m told. The risk of your being recognized is too great. In five days all the kings will be leaving.”