David Gemmell - Shield of Thunder

“No. It will die out there.”

“How sad.”

“No sadder than being slaughtered to feed a family. All living creatures must die. This is his time.” He smiled then. “You are concerned for a pig?”

Piria shrugged. “He has a name. Ganny. So he is not just a pig anymore.”

Odysseus was also glancing back. He saw Kalliades watching him. “Too far for a pig to swim,” the Ugly King said.

“By a long way,” Kalliades agreed. “A shame, though,” he added.

“I hate losing cargo,” Odysseus said, turning his gaze toward the beach. Then he bellowed at the crew: “Put your backs into it, you cowsons! You think I want to spend the night out here?”

The light of the full moon was so bright that it cast shadows on the beach of Titan’s Rock. The crew had set two cookfires and a larger campfire on higher ground sheltered by rocks around which most of the crew sat in a ragged circle. From her vantage point on a stony outcrop Piria watched the men playing knucklebones, gossiping, and arguing. The smell of cooking fish reached her, and her empty stomach spasmed. She was reluctant to leave her seat and walk across to the crew. They had forgotten about her as they went about their evening tasks, and she was unwilling to remind them, to see their eyes crawling over her, speculation in their faces. For the first time in days she felt a measure of peace, and she guarded it jealously, wrapping the borrowed red cloak of Banokles around her.

Her tension eased a little as she gazed at the brushwood enclosure where the pigs were settling for the night. The old woman Circe had been mischievous in her predictions. There had been no broken bones among the crewmen, only some scrapes and bruises as they had manhandled the pigs off the Penelope.

Now, in the moonlight, she could see that the herd had settled to sleep, their fat bodies pressed together, faint grunting sounds coming from the enclosure. Every now and then a beast would shift about, making his comrades squeal softly, before going back to sleep.

Piria was grateful to the pigs. They had distracted everyone’s attention from her during the voyage. Pain from her injuries flowed over her in nauseating waves. Her head ached constantly, and her neck moved uncomfortably on her shoulders, as if it had been wrenched off and then replaced by an unskilled craftsman.

She saw the black crewman Bias walking toward her, a bowl in one hand and a round section of corn bread in the other. Fear rose in her, and her hands began to tremble. She imagined him offering her the food and then making some crude approach. He came closer and handed her the bowl and the bread. She could smell fish and onions, but her fear had stripped away her hunger.

“You should come down to the fire,” he said. “It is a cold night.”

“I will sleep here,” she replied.

Bias looked doubtfully at the rocky ledge. “It looks uncomfortable.”

“I am used to discomfort.”

He nodded and turned back to the warmth of the fire. Piria nibbled on the corn bread and dipped it in the fish juices. She felt the warmth reach down to her stomach and realized her skin was like ice. She pulled her cloak more closely around her. A wave of despair and loneliness suddenly overcame her, and she felt the prick of tears under her eyelids.

“What have you done?” she whispered.

She remembered that summer night by the prophecy flame in the great temple. She and Andromache had been giggling, soused on wine, drunk on love. The two young women had asked old Melite to prophesy their future together. It was more in drunken jest than with any serious intent. All the priestesses knew that Melite had once been a seeress, but now that she was half-blind and touched in the head, her words were often meaningless. And so it had seemed at the time.

“No future here, young Kalliope,” Melite had said. “Before the days shorten, Andromache will be lost to the Blessed Isle, returned to the world of men and war.”

Despite their disbelief the two women were dismayed by the prophecy, which cut through the wine, dashing their carefree mood.

Eighteen days later came the ship, bearing the message from Hekabe, queen of Troy. Andromache was summoned before the first priestess and told she had been given leave to quit the Temple Isle in order to be wed to Hekabe’s son, the warrior Hektor. Piria had been with her in the council chamber.

“My sister, Paleste, is betrothed to Hektor,” Andromache had argued.

The high priestess had looked uncomfortable. “Paleste died in Troy. A sudden illness. Your father and King Priam have agreed that you will honor the pact they made.”

Piria knew that Paleste had been dear to Andromache and saw the shock register on her face. Her head dropped, and she was silent for a while; then her expression hardened, and she looked up at the high priestess, her green eyes glinting with anger. “Even so I will not go. No man has the right to demand that a priestess quit her sacred duty.”

“These are special circumstances,” said the high priestess, her tone uncomfortable.

“Special? You are selling me for Priam’s gold. What is special about that? Women have been sold since the gods were young. Always by men, though. It is what we have come to expect from them. But from you !” Andromache’s contempt filled the room like a seething mist, and Piria saw the high priestess blanch. She expected an angry response. Instead the older woman merely sighed.

“It is not just for Priam’s gold, Andromache, but for all that gold represents. Without it there would be no temple on Thera, no princesses to placate the beast below. Yes, it would be wonderful if we could ignore the wishes of powerful men like Priam and do our duty here unmolested. Such freedom, however, is a dream. You are a priestess of Thera no longer. You will leave tomorrow.”

That night, as they had lain together for the last time, listening to the breeze whispering through the leaves of the tamarisk trees, Piria had begged Andromache to flee with her. “There are small boats on the far side of the isle. We could steal one and sail away.”

“No,” Andromache said, leaning down and kissing her tenderly. “There would be nowhere to run, my love, except into the world of men. You are happy here, Kalliope.”

“There can be no happiness without you.”

They talked long then, but finally Andromache said: “You must stay, Kalliope. Wherever I am, I will know you are safe, and this will strengthen me. I will be able to close my eyes and see the isle. I will see you run and laugh. I will picture you in our bed, and it will comfort me.”

And so, her heart seared, the woman now called Piria had watched the ship sail east in the morning sunlight.

Despite her sorrow she had tried to immerse herself in her duties, in the prayer chants and the offerings to the Minotaur rumbling beneath the mountain. The days had ground on, bleak and empty, through the winter. Then, in the spring, old Melite had collapsed while gathering crocuses and white lilies for the midday ritual. They had carried her to her room, but her breath was rasping, and all knew that death was not far off.

Piria had been watching beside her, late in the night, when the old woman had sat upright in her bed, her voice suddenly rich and strong. “Why are you here, child?” she asked.

“To be with you, Sister,” Piria replied, putting her arms around the old woman and easing her back onto the pillows.

“Ah, yes. On Thera. Where is Andromache?”

“She has gone. You remember? To Troy?”

“Troy,” the old woman whispered, closing her eyes. She was silent for a while; then she cried out, “Fire and death. I see Andromache now. She is running through the flames. There are savage men pursuing her.” The old woman began waving her arms. “Run!” she screamed.