David Gemmell - Shield of Thunder

“Yes.”

“I thank you for trusting me. I will not betray you.”

“I know that, Kalliades. You are the first man I ever met I could say that about.” They stood in easy silence now, watching the dolphins, listening to the oars striking the water and the slow, lazy creaking of the timbers. Banokles joined them. He was still wearing his heavy breastplate, and his face was smeared with blood.

“Are we all friends again?” he asked.

“We are friends,” Piria said.

“Good, for I have news!” Banokles grinned at Kalliades. “We can enter the games to be held in Troy for Hektor’s wedding. There will be wrestling, fistfighting, races—foot, horse, and chariot. There will be an archery tourney and a javelin competition. I’m going to enter the fistfighting, and with the gold made on wagers we can live well for a good while. Maybe even buy some… some…” He glanced at Piria and cleared his throat. “Some horses. Anyway, what do you think?”

“A good plan.” Kalliades nodded. “With a few flaws. First, we represent no nation or city. Second, we were last in Troy as invaders and might just be considered unwelcome if we make ourselves known. Third—and this, I think, is the most important—you are a brawler who did not reach the final of the contest to find the best boxer in our company of fifty. As I recall, Eruthros defeated you.”

“All right,” Banokles said grudgingly, “I might not become champion, but I’ll win a few bouts. So we could still earn gold. And what about the footraces? Was there anyone faster than you in our company?”

“No, but again, there were only fifty men in it.” Kalliades sighed. “Let us say I agreed that we could take part. Whom would we represent?”

“Aha! I have dealt with that,” Banokles said triumphantly. “I asked Odysseus if we could be Ithakans.”

“And he agreed?” Kalliades asked, surprised.

“Not entirely. He pointed out that Leukon was representing Ithaka in the boxing and that he was the best fistfighter on the crew. He said I could be an Ithakan if I beat Leukon tonight at the funeral feast.”

“And how does Leukon feel about that?”

Banokles grinned broadly. “Happy as a pig in shit. He says it will be good to have a practice bout. Apparently no one else on the crew will practice with him.”

“Have you considered why that might be?”

“Of course. I imagine it’s because he hits like a kicking horse.”

“And that doesn’t worry you?” Piria put in.

“I’ve been kicked by a horse before. I got up. I always get up. When I win, will you agree to join me for the games?”

Kalliades glanced at Piria, who was smiling. “What do you think?” he asked her.

Piria looked toward where Leukon was rowing, then back at Banokles. “I think that horse you spoke of must have kicked you in the head,” she said.

Odysseus watched his three passengers talking together at the prow. The woman, Piria, was calmer and smiling now. A rare sight. He recalled his visits to her father’s palace. She had been younger then and withdrawn, her face always serious, her blue eyes full of suspicion and mistrust.

“Who is she?” Idomeneos asked.

Odysseus shrugged. “Just a girl taken by pirates. They raped her. Kalliades and his friend stole her from them.”

“They’ll not get much of a price for her. Too loud. Any slave spoke like that to me and I’d have her thrashed.”

“They are not intending to sell her or keep her.”

“Then why steal her?”

“Why indeed?” Odysseus said.

Moving to the starboard rail, he leaned out and gauged their progress. The wind had picked up, and Humpback Bay was close by off the port bow. The long crescent beach of Apollo’s Bow could be seen in the distance. Several ships already had beached there.

Kalliades left the prow and made his way along the central deck to join him. “May we speak, Odysseus King?” he asked.

“Words cost nothing,” Odysseus replied.

“Your man Leukon is a skilled fistfighter?”

“That he is.”

“Banokles is not,” Kalliades said. “He has a great heart and courage like a mountain.”

“Then Leukon will fell him like a tree.”

“No, Odysseus King. Leukon will drop him, and Banokles will rise to be struck again. He will continue to rise as long as his heart is beating. He will fight on until he is crippled or dead. That is the nature of the man.”

“I take it you are telling me this for a reason.”

“I tell you because it may have seemed an amusement to allow Banokles to believe he could become an Ithakan. This fight will not be an amusement unless your joy is derived from blood and suffering.”

“Your man requested this,” Odysseus said. “His fate is in his own hands. Should he wish to withdraw, I will think no worse of him.”

Idomeneos, who had been listening, stepped from beneath the tent canopy and joined them. “That is a fine sword you are wearing,” he said to Kalliades. “Might I see it?”

Kalliades drew the weapon, reversed it, and handed it to the Kretan king. The pommel was a lion head of bronze, the hilt leather-bound, the blade sharp and true. “Good balance,” said Idomeneos. “Made by a master smith. Not a blade to let a man down in battle.”

“It was the sword of Argurios,” Kalliades told him. “A weapon to cherish.”

“Would you consider trading it?”

“No.”

“For the sword of a hero I would pay well in gold.”

“I will never trade it,” Kalliades said.

“A pity,” Idomeneos said, returning the weapon. The offer made Odysseus uneasy, for he saw the hungry look in Idomeneos’ eyes.

“The fight,” he said, “will be conducted under Olympian rules. Once a fighter has been knocked from his feet five times, I will declare his opponent the victor.”

“I thank you, Odysseus King,” Kalliades said.

The sun was setting as the Penelope was beached. Several cookfires were lit. Then the crew moved off to gather wood for a large funeral pyre, upon which they laid the eight bodies of their dead comrades.

Three other trading ships were also beached on Apollo’s Bow, and their crews watched as the men of the Penelope gathered around the pyre. Odysseus spoke of the dead, of their loyalty and their courage, and he called upon the great god Zeus to guide their spirits along the Dark Road. A large amphora of oil was poured over the pyre. Four men approached Odysseus from a nearby campfire. Traveling bards en route to Troy, they offered to perform the Song of the Departed. Odysseus thanked them and stepped back to sit with the crew. Two of the bards carried lyres; a third held a rhythm globe of dark wood decorated with strips of bronze. The fourth man had no instrument. He was older, his neatly trimmed beard shining silver.

Silence fell over the crew as the bards began. Music from the lyres rippled out, the notes sweet and pure. The slim red-headed man with the rhythm globe pressed thimbles to the fingers of his right hand and began to drum out a slow, insistent beat. The voice of the silver-haired bard rose above the sound of the lyres, rich and powerful.

The crew sat listening to the familiar lyrics of the Song of the Departed, and such was the skill of the bards that the lament seemed fresh, created solely for that one night. Some among the men shed tears, and all were moved by the performance. When the song was over, Odysseus approached the men to thank them and gave each a silver ring. Then he lit the funeral pyre. The oil-soaked seasoned wood flared instantly, the blaze so fierce that the crew had to move back from it. Most stood in silence as the fire lit up the beach, each lost in memories. Others, their wounds bandaged, sat upon the sand.