David Gemmell - Shield of Thunder

“Yes. Most nights.”

Hektor sat down on the sand and looked out over the starlit water. “Those were good days, Odysseus. I had killed no one then, led no charges, stormed no walls. All that mattered was shipping the olive oil to Kypros and the copper ore to Lykia. I do not see the world as I did then. I look out over a valley and see battlegrounds where once I saw fields and hills bright with flowers. You know there were six thousand dead at Kadesh? Six thousand!”

“Men will tire of women and song before they tire of war,” said Odysseus, crouching down beside him.

“I am tired of it. So tired. When I was young, Father told me I would come to revel in combat and victory. It was never true. I have even come to loathe the fistfighting, Odysseus. All I want is to live on my farm and raise horses. Yet there is always a battle somewhere. The Egypteians raiding Hittite towns, allies begging for help with insurrections or invasions. Now it is the Mykene, seeking to bring war to Troy.”

“Perhaps… but not this spring. This spring you are to be wed. Can you not put off such gloomy thoughts for a while and enjoy your bride?”

For a heartbeat only Hektor’s expression changed, his shoulders sagging. He turned his face away, staring once more out to sea. “Andromache is wonderful… breathtaking and enchanting. She traveled with you, I am told.”

“For a short time. I liked her enormously.”

“And she met Helikaon then.”

“Yes, I believe she did.”

“Did they… become friends?”

“Oh, I don’t think they got to know each other well enough,” Odysseus lied. “Why do you ask?”

“She nurses him now, exhausting herself.”

“She did that for Argurios, I am told, after assassins brought him low. It is the nature of the woman, Hektor—perhaps the nature of all women—to nurture and to heal.”

“Yes. I expect you are right.” He smiled. “Even my father speaks highly of her, and that is rare. He uses women freely but has no respect for them.”

“She will make a fine wife, Hektor, loyal and true. Of that I have no doubt. She is like my Penelope and will bring you great happiness.”

“We should be getting back to the others,” Hektor said, pushing himself to his feet.

Odysseus spoke quietly. “You know, lad, sometimes a problem shared grows in weight. Most times, though, it lessens when spoken of. You know that you can talk to me and that I will not repeat what you say. I tell you this because it seems to me you are carrying a great burden. It should not be so. You are Hektor, prince of Troy. Your fame is known around the Great Green. There is not a man on this beach who would not give ten years of his life to be you.”

Hektor looked into Odysseus’ eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was full of sorrow. “I cannot share my burden, sea uncle—even with you. Believe me, though, when I say that if the truth was known, not one of those men would wish to be me.”

With that, he strode back to the campfire.

Dawn was breaking, and there were rain clouds to the south when Piria woke. A little way from her Banokles was snoring. Kalliades was stretched out alongside him. He opened his eyes as Piria stirred and smiled before falling asleep again.

She lay quietly for a while on the soft sand. For the first time in months her dreams had not been troubled, nor had she been woken by the pain of her injuries. Carefully she sat up. The pain was less now, and she sensed that her body had begun to heal. The rising sun shone down on Apollo’s Bow, bathing the cliffs in soft gold, and Piria felt a lightness of spirit that had long been absent. The outburst at Kalliades the previous day had been remarkable in its effect. It was as if she had been holding poison inside her and it had flowed out with the angry words. Everything was different this day, the sky more beautiful, the scent of the sea more uplifting. Even the air felt clean as it filled her lungs. She had not felt this happy since she and Andromache had been together on Thera with no thought of ever leaving.

Breakfast fires had been lit, and Piria wandered across to a stall, where she was given a wooden bowl filled with a nameless stew and a hunk of dry bread. The stew was greasy, brimming with lumps of stringy meat, yet the taste was divine. She wondered idly whether this stew would have seemed inedible back on Thera and decided it probably would. Yet here on this chilly morning it was delicious.

The meal finished, she stood and returned to the stall, collecting two more bowls to bring to Banokles and Kalliades. The idea of doing it made her smile. How amazing it was, she thought, to be growing fond of two men.

Kalliades was sitting up when she returned, and he thanked her for the stew. Banokles groaned as he awoke and took the stew without a word. He ate noisily, complaining of a loose tooth.

Men were stirring around the Penelope campfire, and farther on, the crewmen of the Xanthos were preparing to depart. She saw Hektor sitting alone, and her thoughts darkened as she gazed upon him. This was the man who would chain Andromache’s spirit, who would plant his seed in her, who would pin her down and invade her body. In that moment all the old hatreds sought to rise. They had no power over her now, and she pushed them back. Even so, she felt uneasy watching Hektor.

Rising to his feet, he stripped off his tunic, waded out into the sea, and dived forward into the blue water. He swam with long, easy strokes almost to the edge of the bay, then turned and headed back toward the shore.

“Tell me,” she heard Banokles say behind her, “did a herd of cattle stampede over me last night?”

“Not that I noticed,” Kalliades told him.

“I am trying to find some part of my body that doesn’t hurt,” Banokles grumbled. His right eye was swollen badly, and there were dark bruises on both cheeks.

Piria glanced at him. “Perhaps your feet,” she said. “He didn’t hit you in the feet.”

Banokles grinned, then winced. “You are right. My feet are fine.” He looked over at Kalliades. “I woke last night and saw you talking to Leukon. Does he hurt as much as me?”

“No.”

“I thought not. Bastard! So what were you talking about?”

“He has agreed to train you for the games.”

“Ha!” Banokles snorted. “Like I need to be trained by a man I beat?”

“Yes, you do, idiot. He is a skilled fighter, and you know it. You beat him with a lucky punch. You know that, too. If you are going to win wealth in Troy, his training could prove vital. So I have promised him that every night, when we beach, you will do exactly as he tells you.”

“Won’t hurt to practice, I suppose,” Banokles agreed. Then he glanced across to where Hektor was emerging from the water. “I remember him as far more frightening,” he said. “Very strange. Here he just looks like a big friendly sailor. Even Leukon is more chilling. And bigger. Back in Troy Hektor looked like a giant—a war god.”

Banokles suddenly leaned forward, shielding his eyes with his hand. “Trouble looming,” he said. Piria glanced across the beach. Hektor had pulled on a linen kilt and was standing bare-chested, toweling himself dry. Some twenty sailors were walking toward him, led by a massive man with a red forked beard. Piria knew what Banokles meant by trouble looming. The expressions on the men’s faces were set and hard, and they were grouped together as if on a hunt rather than strolling along a beach.

“That is Hakros, the Rhodian champion,” Kalliades said. “Leukon told me of him last night.”

“By the balls of Ares, he’s a monster right enough,” Banokles said. “Come on, I don’t want to miss this.”

The three companions made their way across the sand. Others had spotted the group, and men began to gather, watching intently.