David Gemmell - Shield of Thunder

“What is he doing?” the woman asked.

“He is very proud of the fact that not a man he ever met could piss as high as he can.”

“Why would they want to?”

Kalliades laughed. “You have obviously not spent long in the company of men.” He cursed inwardly as her expression hardened. “A stupid remark,” he said swiftly. “I apologize for it.”

“No need,” she said, forcing a smile. “And I will not be broken by what happened. It is not the first time I have been raped. I tell you this, though: To be raped by strangers is less vile than to be abused by those you have trusted and loved.” Taking a deep breath, she transferred her gaze back to the fields of blue flowers.

“What is your name?”

“When I was a child, they called me Piria. That is what I will use today.”

Banokles walked over to where they sat and slumped down beside Kalliades. He looked at the woman. “That’s an ugly haircut,” he said. “Did you have lice?” Piria ignored him and looked away. Banokles turned his attention to Kalliades. “I’m hungry enough to chew bark off a tree. What say we walk down into the settlement, kill every cowson who comes against us, and find something to eat?”

“I can see why you are not the one who makes plans,” Piria said.

Banokles scowled at her. “With a tongue like that you’ll never find a husband,” he said.

“May those words float to the ears of the Great Goddess,” she said bitterly. “Let Hera make them true!”

Kalliades walked away from them and stood by a twisted tree. From there he could see down over the flax fields to the distant settlement. People were already moving, women and youngsters preparing to work the fields. There was no sign yet of the pirate crew. Behind him he could hear Banokles and the woman bickering.

Troy was where it all had gone wrong, he decided. Before that doomed enterprise he had been considered a fine warrior and a future captain of men. And he had been proud to be selected for the raid on the city. Only the elite had been considered.

It should have been a resounding success, with plunder for all. Hektor, the great Trojan warrior, had been slain in battle, and a rebellious Trojan force would attack the palace, killing King Priam and his other sons. Mykene warriors would follow them in, finishing off any loyal soldiers. The new ruler, his allegiance pledged to the Mykene king, Agamemnon, would reward them royally.

The plan was perfect. Save for three vital elements.

First, the general Agamemnon placed in charge of the raid was a coward named Kolanos, a cruel, malevolent man who had used lies and deceit to bring about the downfall of a legendary Mykene hero. Second, that hero—the great Argurios—had been at the time of the raid in Priam’s palace and had fought to the death to hold the last stairway. And third, Hektor was not dead and had returned in time to lead a force against the Mykene rear. The prospect of victory and riches had vanished. Only the certainty of defeat and death had remained.

The gutless Kolanos had tried to bargain with King Priam, offering to give all Mykene plans to the Trojan king in return for his life. Amazingly, Priam had refused. To honor Argurios, who had died defending him, Priam freed the surviving Mykene, allowing them to return to their ships, along with Kolanos. He had asked only one thing in return: that he might hear Kolanos scream as the ships sailed away.

And he had screamed. The furious survivors had hacked him to pieces even before the galleys had cleared the entrance to the bay.

The journey home had been without incident, and the men, though demoralized by defeat, had been happy to be alive. Back in Mykene they were greeted with scorn, for they had failed in what they had set out to achieve. Worse was to follow.

Kalliades shivered as he recalled how three of the king’s men had burst into his house and sprung upon him, pinning his arms. One had yanked his head back, and then Kleitos, aide to Agamemnon and kinsman to the dead Kolanos, had stepped forward, a thin-bladed dagger in his hand.

“Did you think you were beyond the king’s justice?” Kleitos had said. “Did you think you would be forgiven for killing my brother?”

“Kolanos was a traitor who tried to sell us all. He was just like you: brave when surrounded by soldiers and gutless when faced with battle and death. Go on, kill me. Anything would be better than smelling your stinking breath.”

Kleitos had laughed then, and a cold fear had seeped into Kalliades’ bones.

“Kill you? No, Kalliades. Agamemnon King has ordered you to be punished, not killed immediately. No warrior’s death for you. No. I am to put out your eyes, then cut off your fingers. I will leave you your thumbs so that you can gather a little food from beneath the tables of better men.”

Even now the memory was enough to make Kalliades sick with fear.

The thin-bladed knife had been slowly raised, the point creeping toward his left eye.

Then the door had crashed in, and Banokles had surged into the room. A huge fist had hammered into Kleitos’ face, hurling him from his feet. Kalliades had torn himself clear of the startled men holding him. The fight that followed had been brutal and short. Banokles had broken the neck of one soldier. Kalliades had struck the second, forcing him back, giving himself time to draw his dagger and slash it across the soldier’s throat.

Then Kalliades and Banokles had run from the house to the nearby paddock meadow, stolen two horses, and ridden from the settlement.

Agamemnon later called it the Night of the Lion’s Justice. Forty of the men who had survived the attack on Troy were murdered that night; others had their right hands cut off. Kalliades and Banokles were declared fugitives, and golden gifts were offered to any who captured or slew them.

Kalliades gave a rueful smile. Now, having escaped skilled assassins, highly trained soldiers, and doughty warriors seeking bounty, here they were, waiting to be killed by the scum of the sea.

Piria sat with the huge warrior, her manner outwardly calm, her heart beating wildly. It seemed to her that a frightened sparrow was caged within her breast, fluttering madly, seeking escape. She had known fear before, yet always she had conquered it with a surge of anger. Not so now.

The day before had been brutal, but she had been filled with fury and then desperation as the pirate crew had overwhelmed her. The savage blows and the piercing pain somehow had rendered her fearless. Piria had ceased to struggle, endured the torment, and waited for her moment. When it came, she had felt a surging sense of triumph as she watched the pirate’s blood spraying from his severed jugular, his open, astonished eyes above her. He had struggled briefly, but she had held him close, feeling his heart beat against her chest. Then the beating had slowed and stopped. Finally she had pushed his body from her and slipped away into the shadows.

Only then did the real terror strike her. Lost and alone on a bleak island, she felt her courage melting away. She ran to a rocky hillside and crouched down behind an outcrop of stone. At some point, though she had no inkling of when it started, she found she was sobbing. Her limbs trembled, and she lay down on the hard ground, her knees drawn up, her arms shielding her face, as if expecting a fresh attack. In the bleakness of her despair she heard the words of the First Priestess lashing her: “Arrogant girl! You boast of your strength when it has never been tested. You sneer at the weakness of the women of the countryside when you have never suffered their distress. You are the daughter of a king, under whose shield you have lived protected. You are sister to a great warrior whose sword would cut the heads from those who offended you. How dare you criticize the women of the fields, whose lives depend on the whims of violent men?”