David Gemmell - Shield of Thunder

At the last games, five years before, Polites had been merely a spectator. He had not appreciated the intensity of the work involved in preparation. Had it not been for the involvement of his half brother Antiphones, he knew he would have made a mess of it. It was a depressing thought. Polites left the track and climbed up onto the embankments, seating himself on a new bench and running his hand lightly along the polished wood. No sign of splinters.

“The first thing to do,” Antiphones had told him when Father first had given Polites his role, “is to find good foremen, men you can trust to see the work through. Assign each man a specific task, then appoint an overseer to coordinate the work.” Antiphones had been recovering from his wounds then, but he had kept a brotherly eye on the organization. Polites was grateful yet curiously resentful. Antiphones was clever and quick-witted, his mind able to grasp complexities with ease. Polites always needed time to think problems through and invariably would become lost in alternatives, unable to make a decision.

As he sat on the bench, his heart sank. In what do you excel, Polites? he asked himself. You cannot run, and you cannot ride well. You are no fighter, nor are you a thinker. He thought of his garden and the joy it gave him. Even that did not lift his spirits, for many of the new seedlings would die now that he had been forced to turn his palace over to Agamemnon. Uncared for, they would wither in the fierce sunlight.

In the distance Polites could hear the sound of marching feet. The regiments were moving, gathering there to select the hundred judges, the Incorruptibles. Now, there is something to be grateful for, he thought. You could have been a soldier and then been chosen for such a thankless role. He wondered why any common soldier would agree to become a judge. For five days, under the baleful gaze of kings and nobles, the judges would make decisions on races and events on which fortunes had been wagered. They would endure the wrath of monarchs and sometimes the fury of the crowds. For this they would receive no reward save a small silver token shaped like a discus and bearing the embossed image of Father Zeus. For five days these former peasants would have powers beyond those of kings and be expected to use them wisely and without favor.

Well, that was the theory. Would any judge go against Priam, knowing that within five days he would once again be no more than a soldier and subject to the whims of the king? Hardly.

Polites rose from the bench and made his way back along the racetrack, put on his sandals, and returned through the stables and the palaistra to watch the selection of the judges. Soon Father would be there. Polites’ stomach turned. What have I missed? he wondered. What hideous error will he discover?

In the middle of a large crowd Kalliades and Banokles made their way up the long slope to the Scaean Gate. Banokles was happy to be free of the ship, but Kalliades had felt a sinking of the heart as they had sighted the city. The voyage had been dreamlike, with no sense of the passing of time. Kalliades had stood with Piria on the deck of the Penelope, walked with her on moonlit beaches, laughed with her and joked with her. Now here they were, at the end of their journey. Soon he would be saying farewell to her, and the thought frightened him. She can never love you, he told himself. Better to say farewell than to watch her run into the arms of her lover with never a backward glance toward you. No, it was not better. To wake to a day when he could not gaze at her face was unthinkable.

“You ever seen Odysseus that angry?” Banokles asked. “I thought he was in a rage when we fought the pirates, but today his face was so red, I thought he’d bleed from the ears.”

“He was furious,” Kalliades agreed, recalling the moment when Odysseus had tried to steer the Penelope toward Priam’s private beach. A small boat manned by a beachmaster and several sailors had cut across them.

“You cannot beach here,” the master yelled.

Odysseus rushed to the prow and stared angrily down at the man. “You moron,” he shouted. “I am Odysseus, king of Ithaka. With me are Nestor of Pylos and Idomeneos of Kretos. This is where all the vessels of kings beach. Now move away or I’ll sink you.”

The beachmaster called out to some soldiers on the beach. Some twenty of them came running forward, hands on their sword hilts. “My orders are explicit, King Odysseus,” the beachmaster replied. “No more ships are to beach here. You may sink this craft if you will, but those soldiers will still prevent your landing. There will be bloodshed. I promise you that.”

Kalliades moved away from Odysseus. The man had been shamed before his crew and before his fellow kings. The Ugly King stood there, blinking in the sunlight, almost unable to speak. It was Bias who called out for the men to reverse oars and draw back, and the Penelope sailed farther along the bay. They beached some distance from the city, and the men clambered down to the sand. Odysseus remained at the stern, arms folded across his chest. The other kings, Nestor and Idomeneos, did not speak to him as they, too, departed the ship. Even Bias walked away without a word.

Piria approached Kalliades. “The slight has pierced him like a dagger,” she said.

“I fear so. Banokles and I are going into the city to enter the games,” he said. “Would you like to accompany us?”

“I cannot. I could be recognized by… by those who would cause me harm. Odysseus says I should remain here.”

And so Kalliades and Banokles had left her.

Kalliades stopped to ask directions from some soldiers at the Scaean Gate. Then the two comrades moved on, angling away from the crowd. Banokles spotted two whores standing in the shade of a building and waved at them.

“We need to find the gathering field,” Kalliades said.

Banokles sighed. “And we’ve no wealth. Should have known that bastard would not surrender his breastplate. A curse on all kings!” Kalliades paused. Streets branched off in all directions, and he was gazing at the columned buildings. “Are we lost?”

“Not yet,” Kalliades replied, heading on.

“Do we have a plan yet?”

“For what?”

“For life in Troy. Like… where are we going to stay?”

Kalliades laughed. “You were there when Odysseus told us we would be lodged at Hektor’s palace. You were standing right beside me.”

“I wasn’t listening. I leave that sort of thing to you. Did you notice the size of the walls as we walked up to the city? They looked large the last time we were here, but in daylight they are massive. I wouldn’t want to be on a ladder trying to scale them.”

“You won’t have to. We are Mykene no longer. Which reminds me: Should we see anyone we know, do not shout a greeting or walk up to them.”

“Why would I do anything that stupid?”

“I am sorry, my friend. I was merely thinking aloud. The city is under truce for the games, but there is still a bounty on our heads. And there will be many Mykene here.”

Finally they found their way to the gathering field northeast of the city. Scores of tents had been erected there, and scribes were taking down the names of contestants at dozens of bench tables.

Eventually both Banokles and Kalliades registered to take part and were given thin copper tokens embossed with numbers and an image of the event. They were told to return the next day at dawn for the preliminaries.

At the edge of the field a cooking area had been set up, two charcoal pits in which bulls were being roasted on spits. The two men sat in the shade of a large canvas canopy and ate. “I think this bull died of old age,” Banokles grumbled. “I haven’t eaten meat this stringy since we invaded Sparta. You remember? That old goat Eruthros killed? I swear it was all hoof, bone, and sinew. Not a piece of meat on it.”