David Gemmell - Shield of Thunder

“Take them wherever they want to go.”

“That’s good.”

“The woman, too.”

Bias looked at him. “I didn’t think there was any doubt about the woman.”

“Ah, did I not mention her?” Odysseus said, dropping his voice. “She’s a runaway priestess from Thera. It will mean death for anyone known to have helped her.”

“A runaway… Pah! You are still trying to trick me.”

“No, I am not.”

“Stop this now, Odysseus,” Bias said. “I am in no mood for such jests.”

Odysseus sighed. “You say you know me, Bias, my friend. Then look into my eyes and see if I am jesting. She is who I say.”

Bias stared at him, then took another drink. “I am beginning to wish this was wine,” he said. “Now speak truly, my king. Is she a runaway from Thera?”

“Yes.”

Bias swore. “Did they not burn the last runaway?” he whispered, looking around nervously to see if any of the crewmen were awake.

“Buried her alive. They burned the family who took her in and the captain of the ship she escaped on. Oh, yes, and cut the head from the man she fled to be with.”

“Yes, I recall it now,” Bias said. “So who is Piria? Please tell me she is the daughter of some tribal chieftain far from the sea.”

“Her father is Peleus, king of Thessaly.”

“Triton’s teeth! She is the sister of Achilles?”

“Indeed she is.”

“We could hand her over in Kios,” Bias said. “There is a temple of Athene there, and the priests could hold her until her family was notified.”

“Hand her over? Bias, my lad, was it not you who pointed out that two brave men rescued this maiden? And that my stories are all of heroes? Where is the difference?”

“You know very well what the difference is,” Bias hissed. “The two Mykene will vanish away, join some foreign garrison, and no one will be the wiser. The girl is the sister of Achilles. Achilles the Slayer, the Blood Drinker, the Disemboweler. When she is captured—and she will be captured, Odysseus—the word will go out that the Penelope was involved in her escape. You want Achilles hunting you? There is no more famous killer in the lands of the west.”

Odysseus laughed softly. “So your argument is that we can be heroic when there is little chance of discovery, but if there is real risk, we should be craven?”

Now it was Bias who sighed. “It doesn’t matter what I say. Your mind is set.”

“Yes, it is. Understand this, though, my friend. I agree with everything you’ve said.”

“Then why risk it?”

Odysseus fell silent for a moment. “Perhaps because there is a story here, Bias. And I do not mean some tale to be told on a moonlit beach. This is a thread in a great tapestry. Perhaps I want to see the weave complete. Think of it. A royal priestess flees the Temple of the Horse and is captured by pirates. Two of those pirates turn on their companions and risk their lives to save her. Then we happen along. Now, the Great Green is massive. What are the odds that she would end up on a ship captained by a king who recognizes her? And where is she heading? To the Golden City, where all the kings of west and east are gathering. Into a city seething with schemes, plots, and dreams of plunder.”

“And Achilles will be there,” Bias pointed out.

“Oh, yes. How could he stay away? Hektor and Achilles, two giants of battle, two legends, two heroes. Pride and vanity will drive Achilles to Troy. He will hope that Hektor chooses to take part in his own wedding games. He will dream of bringing him low so that men will talk of only one great hero.”

“So we are to sail into Troy bearing the renegade sister of Achilles? And what will she do there? Wander the streets until someone recognizes her?”

Odysseus shook his head. “I believe she will seek out another former priestess of Thera, a friend.”

Realization dawned on Bias. “You are talking of Andromache?”

“Yes.”

“Achilles’ runaway sister will go to Hektor’s betrothed?”

“Yes. Now can you see what I mean about the thread and the tapestry?”

“I don’t care about threads,” Bias said with feeling. “However, the crew must not learn her identity.”

“She will not tell them. And the less they know, the more content they will be.”

“ I would have been more content not knowing,” Bias said angrily.

Odysseus grinned. “Still think you know me better than I know myself?”

Bias was silent for a while, and when he spoke, Odysseus heard the sadness in his voice. “Oh, there is nothing in this that does not match what I know of you, Odysseus. The man I truly did not know was myself.”

“I think we never really know ourselves,” Odysseus said with a deep sigh. “I used to be the Sacker of Cities, a slave trader and a reaver. I thought I was content. Then I became the trader, the man with no enemies. And I think I am content. I was wrong then; am I wrong now?” He looked at Bias. “Sometimes I think that the more I learn, the less I know.”

“Well, I am more content serving the man with no enemies,” said Bias.

They sat in silence for a while. Finally Odysseus rose. “I still dream of him, you know,” he said. “I still hear his laughter.”

Sadness flowed over Bias as he watched the Ugly King wander away.

I still dream of him, you know. I still hear his laughter.

Fourteen summers had drifted by since those dreadful days of death and despair, but for Bias the memory remained, harsh and bright and painful.

During a slave raid on a foreign village Bias had been struck on the left forearm by a club. The bone had snapped and was long in the healing. Still, they had captured eighteen women and set sail for the slave markets of Kypros. The slaves had remained silent during the voyage, sitting huddled in the center of the deck. But when they had arrived at the island, one of them, a tall woman with fierce dark eyes, had stared malevolently at Odysseus.

“Bask in your triumph, Sacker of Cities,” she had said. “Yet know this: Before this season ends you will know the same anguish we suffer. Your heart will be sundered, your soul bathed in fire.”

Odysseus had shaken his head. “You ungrateful bitch,” he had said. “Were you raped? Were you beaten? Have I not seen you all fed and looked after? You will all be as well off on Kypros as you were in that lice-infested village.”

“And who will give us back the husbands you slew, the children you left behind? The curse of Set sits upon your shoulders, Odysseus. Remember my words when the days shorten.”

Two more succesful raids had been made before the Penelope and the three other ships returned to Ithaka. Bias had been left there while his broken arm mended. Odysseus had spent three days with Penelope and his son, the six-year-old Laertes, and then had sailed on one more plunder raid.

Toward season’s end Penelope told Bias she was going to Pylos with Laertes. Nestor had invited them to one of his sons’ marriage celebrations. Bias had traveled with her on the short voyage east.

The first three days had been massively enjoyable. Bias had been popular with the female slaves at Nestor’s palace. One night two of them had shared his bed, one blond and big-breasted, the other dark with huge eyes. It was a fine night. Toward dawn they heard wailing coming from the palace.

Bias did not know it then, or even sense it through his joy, but the wailing heralded the days of death.

Plague had broken out ten days earlier in a village close by. King Nestor had ordered soldiers to quarantine the place, allowing no one out. Later it transpired that a soldier had smuggled his sister from the village, and she had come to the palace. By the fourth day of her visit several slaves had shown the first symptoms: fever and swellings in the armpits and groin. Within days the plague was rife.