David Gemmell: Shield of Thunder

“I’ll remember that,” Kalliades told him.

“Then remember this also: When you meet him, you’ll be reminded of a big old dog, friendly and excitable. Look into his eyes. You’ll see there is also a wolf there.”

The dreams of Odysseus were troubled. A child was calling to him from beneath the waves, but Odysseus was unable to move. He realized he was tied to the mast of the Penelope. There was no one else on board, yet the oars lifted in unseen hands and cleaved the water in perfect unison. “I cannot reach you,” he shouted to the lost child.

He awoke with a start to see the blond giant Leukon kneeling by his side. “Something you should see, Odysseus,” he said. Odysseus sucked in a great breath. His heart was still hammering, and his head ached from the surfeit of wine the night before. Pushing himself to his feet, he rubbed at his eyes, then glanced upward. The wind was fresh and gentle, the sky serenely blue. He looked along the beach. A group of pirates had gathered around a large campfire. Odysseus blinked and squinted.

“That’s a head he’s just tossed beside the fire,” Leukon said. “By the color of the hair I’d say it might be Arelos.”

“I thought Arelos was taller,” Odysseus muttered. Bias, who had moved alongside, laughed at the comment, but Leukon merely shook his head.

“Hard to tell when it’s just a head,” he pointed out. Odysseus sighed. Leukon looked for the literal meaning in every comment. Irony was largely wasted on him. When Portheos the Pig had sailed with them, he always made Leukon the butt of his jokes. Thoughts of the dead Portheos dampened Odysseus’ spirits further. Every crew needed a joker, someone to lift morale when times were hard or the weather was cruel. Pushing thoughts of Portheos away, Odysseus turned to Leukon.

“Recognize anyone else?” he asked.

“I think the gray-haired man is Sekundos. Don’t know the others.”

Odysseus saw a woman in a torn tunic standing alongside a huge blond-bearded warrior. The savage haircut suggested she had lice. The group around the fire split up, the pirates moving toward their galleys. Then the two warriors and the woman began to walk toward the campfire of the Penelope ’s crew. “What do you make of them?” Odysseus asked Bias.

“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.”