David Gemmell: Shield of Thunder

Kalliades added wood to the fire, then returned to the cave mouth. A cool breeze was blowing, and the sky was ablaze with stars. Banokles was right: There was no way off the island, and tomorrow the pirate crew would come hunting them. He sat lost in thought for some time, then heard a stealthy movement behind him. Rising swiftly, he turned to see the blood-smeared woman advancing on him, a fist-sized stone in her hand. Her bright blue eyes shone with hatred.

“You won’t need that,” he said, backing away. “You are in no danger tonight.”

“You lie!” she said, her voice harsh, trembling with anger. Kalliades drew his dagger and saw her tense. Casually he tossed the blade to the floor at her feet.

“I do not lie. Take the weapon. Tomorrow you will need it, for they will be coming for us.”

The woman crouched and tried to pick up the fallen dagger. But she lost her balance and half fell. Kalliades remained where he was. “You need to rest,” he said.

“I remember you now,” she told him. “You and your friend fought the men who were attacking me. Why?”

“Oh, Great Zeus, let him answer that question,” Banokles said sleepily from his place by the fire. Sweeping up the dagger, the woman tried to turn to face him but stumbled again.

“Blows to the head can do that,” Banokles said, getting up and wandering over to join them. “You should sit down.”

She stared hard at Kalliades. “I saw you from my boat,” she said. “You were on the second ship. You saw them cut across my bows and throw grappling lines. You watched as they dragged me aboard.”

“Yes. We were sailing with them.”

“You are pirates.”

“We are what we are,” Kalliades conceded.

“I was to be passed to your ship tomorrow. They told me that while they were raping me.”

“It is not my ship. I did not give the order to attack you. Nor did I or my comrade take part in what followed. No man could blame you for your anger, but do not direct it at the men who saved you.”

“Now let us hope someone saves us ,” Banokles added.

“What do you mean?” the woman demanded.

“We are on a small island,” Banokles replied. “We have no gold and no ship. Angry men will come looking for us tomorrow. Now, we are great warriors, Kalliades and I. None better. Well… not now that Argurios is dead. Between us I reckon we could survive against seven or eight warriors. There are around sixty fighting men in the pirate crews. And not one soft-bellied puker among them.”

“You have no plan of escape?”

“Oh, I do not make plans, woman. I drink, I whore, I fight. Kalliades makes plans.”

“Then you are both fools,” she said. “You have brought about your doom.”

“Where I come from slaves are respectful,” Banokles said, an edge of anger in his voice.

“I am no man’s slave!”

“Have the blows to your head knocked all sense from you? Your craft was taken at sea. It carried no banner and no safe conduct. You were captured, and now the pirates own you. Therefore, you are a slave according to the laws of gods and men.”

“Then I piss on the laws of gods and men!”

“Be calm, both of you!” Kalliades ordered. “Where were you sailing to?” he asked her.

“I was heading for Kios.”

“You have family there?”

“No. I had some wealth on the boat, gems and trinkets of gold. I was hoping to find passage on a ship to Troy. The pirates took everything. And more.” She rubbed at her face, scrubbing away at the dried blood.

“There is a stream over there,” Kalliades said. “You could wash your face.”

The woman hesitated. “Then I am not your prisoner?” she asked at last.

“No. You are free to do as you please.”

She stared hard at Kalliades, then at Banokles. “And you did not help me in order to make me your slave or to sell me to others?”

“No,” Kalliades told her.

She seemed to relax then but continued to hold the dagger in a tight fist. “If what you say is true, I should… thank you both,” she said, struggling with the words.

“Oh, don’t thank me,” Banokles said. “I would have let you die.”

Kalliades dozed for a while in the cave mouth, his head resting against the rock wall. Banokles was snoring loudly and occasionally muttering in his sleep.

In the predawn Kalliades left the cave and walked to the stream. Kneeling by the bank, he splashed his face, then ran his wet fingers through his close-cropped black hair.

He saw the woman leave the cave. She, too, wandered down to the stream. Tall and slender, she walked with her head high, her movements graceful, like a Kretan dancer. She was not a runaway slave, Kalliades knew. Slaves learned to walk with their heads down, their posture submissive. He did not speak but watched her as she washed the dried blood from her face and arms. Her face was still swollen, and there were bruises around her eyes. Even without the swelling she would not be pretty, he thought. Her face was strong and angular, her brows thick, her nose too prominent. It was a stern face and one that he guessed was a stranger to laughter even in better times.

When she had cleaned herself, she lifted the dagger. For a heartbeat Kalliades thought she was going to cut her own throat. Then she grabbed a length of her blond hair and sawed the dagger through it. The warrior sat silently as she continued to hack at her hair, tossing handfuls to the rocks. Kalliades was mystified. There was no expression on her face, no anger showing. When she had finished, she leaned forward and rubbed her hands across her scalp, shaking loose hairs from her head.

Finally she stepped from the stream and sat down a little way from him. “Aiding me was not wise,” she said.

“I am not a wise man.”

The sky began to lighten, and from where they sat they could see fields covered with thousands of blue flowers. The woman stared at them, and Kalliades saw her expression soften. “It is as if the color of the sky has leached into the earth,” she said softly. “Who would have thought that such beautiful plants could grow in such an arid place? Do you know what they are?”

“They are flax,” he said. “The linen of your tunic came from such plants.”

“How is it turned to cloth?” she asked. Kalliades stared out over the flax fields, remembering the days of his childhood, when he and his little sisters worked the fields of King Nestor, tearing the plants up by the roots, removing the seeds that would be used for medicinal oils or the sealing of timbers, placing the stems in the running water of the stream to rot. “Do you know?” she prompted him.

“Yes, I know.” And he told her of the backbreaking labor of children and women gathering the plants, retting the stems, then, once they had rotted and been left to dry, beating them with wooden hammers. Then the children would sit in the hot sunshine, scraping the stems, removing the last of the wood. After that came the hackling, the exposed fibers being drawn again and again through ever finer combs. Even as he told her of the process, Kalliades found himself wondering at the resilience of women. Despite all she had been through and what probably would lie ahead, she seemed fascinated by this ancient skill. Then he looked into her pale eyes and saw that the interest was merely superficial. Beneath it there was tension and fear. They sat in silence for a while. Then he glanced at her, and their eyes met. “We will stand to the death to prevent them from taking you again. On this you have my oath.”

The woman did not reply, and Kalliades knew she did not believe him. Why should she? he wondered.

As he spoke, Banokles came strolling from the cave, halted at a nearby tree, and raised his tunic. Then he began to urinate with rare gusto, stepping back and aiming the jet of water as high up the trunk as possible.