David Gemmell - Shield of Thunder

Penelope drew her blue shawl around her and peered out to sea. It seemed so calm today, yet far beyond the line of her sight there would be men dying in despair as their ships foundered or their villages burned. In lands all around the Great Green wives and mothers would be weeping for the lost, their dreams impaled on the spears of angry men. The seed of new hatreds would be spread with every raid, planted in the hearts of those who survived, children who would grow into men filled with a desire for vengeance.

Yet even with the knowledge of the evils of war, she had supported Odysseus in his actions. “You could do no less, my husband,” she had said when he had returned to her three years earlier, cursing and fuming still over his insulting treatment in Troy, “for such slights cannot be ignored.”

In her heart she wished they could have been. If the kings of the world were reasonable men, clear-thinking and far-sighted, such wars would never occur. Yet reasonable men rarely ascended to thrones, and when they did, it was even more rare for them to survive for long. Successful kings were brutal and greedy, men of blood and death, warriors who believed in nothing but the power of sword and spear. Penelope sighed. The husband she loved had tried to be a reasonable man. Yet beneath the affable surface there had always lurked the warrior king.

He had spent that first winter with her, nursing his anger through the long nights, then in spring had left to go raiding in the lands of his new enemies. The name Bloodhawk now inspired fear from the coasts of Thraki down the great isles of the eastern mainland to Lykia in the south. She had last seen her king early in the year. After being forced to winter on Kypros while his damaged ship was repaired, Odysseus had hurried back to Ithaka for a brief visit. Penelope smoothed down the front of her dress, remembering the few precious days and nights they had spent together.

Her sadness grew with each passing season, for each time he returned to her, he seemed to be moving backward in time. At first he had entered the war with some regrets, spurred on by anger and pride. But now she knew he was reveling in reexperiencing his youth. Odysseus the bluff genial trader, sliding slowly into comfortable old age, was gone, replaced by Odysseus the reaver, the cool and calculating planner, the strategos. Her heart ached for the man he once had been.

Shading her eyes with her hand, Penelope saw movement on the horizon, and a line of ships appeared there. They were heading straight for the island. Her heart leaped for a moment. Could it be Odysseus? The hope lasted mere heartbeats. She had heard only days before that the Bloodhawk had been seen heading north from the Mykene settlement on Kos.

She could see now that it was a large fleet with one great ship plunging through the waves far ahead of the others.

The Xanthos ! A warship that size could be no other.

She heard running feet behind her and turned to see Bias. The old warrior had a sword in his left hand. A round wooden buckler had been clumsily strapped to the stump of his ruined right arm.

“Lady! It is the Xanthos ! We must make for the hill fort.”

Behind him fisherfolk were emerging from the huts, and the men of the small garrison of Ithaka, many of them merely boys or ancients, were racing down to the beach, some faces grim, many frightened. Odysseus had left a force of two hundred to guard his fortress and his queen. Penelope studied the fleet. Thirty-one ships she counted. Close to two thousand fighting men.

She said to Bias, raising her voice so that the soldiers could hear, “I am the queen of Ithaka, wife to the great Odysseus. I do not hide like a frightened peasant.”

The Xanthos was heading toward the shore at ramming speed, its great prow carving the waves with the speed of a running horse. Penelope could hear the lusty chant of the rowers and clearly see the bearded face of a sailor looking over the prow.

“Hold!” came the bellowed order from the ship, and the chanting ceased suddenly as oars were raised. There was a moment when the Xanthos seemed suspended above the beach; then she crashed onto the shore, her keel ripping into the sand and spraying gravel on all sides.

As the huge galley lurched to a halt, sluicing water from her planks, the queen turned to her small force. “Go to the fort and prepare to defend it. Now!” For a moment they stood unmoving. “Go!” she repeated. Reluctantly they retreated past the palace and up the hillside to the ephemeral safety of the wooden stockade. Bias did not move.

“Does the queen not have your loyalty?” she asked him.

“She has my love and my life. I’ll not hide behind wooden walls while you risk yours.”

Anger touched her, and she was about to order him back, when the round buckler slid from his shriveled stump and clattered to the sand. She felt his embarrasment and his shame.

“Walk with me, Bias,” she said. “It will be comforting to have your strength by me.”

They strode side by side down the beach. Penelope had never seen the Xanthos before, and she marveled at its size and beauty, though her face remained serene.

A rope was thrown over the side, and Helikaon climbed down to the beach. Penelope looked with sadness upon the notorious killer who once had been a boy she loved. He was wearing a faded linen kilt, and his black hair was pulled back with a leather thong. He was bronzed dark by the sun and bore a stitched, barely healed scar on one thigh and a recent unhealed one on his chest. He glanced at the hulk of Odysseus’ old ship as he strode up the beach, but his face betrayed no expression.

“Greetings, lady,” he said, bowing his head slightly. She looked into his violent blue eyes and saw tension and tiredness. Why was he there? To kill her and her people? She realized she knew nothing about him now save his reputation as a killer without mercy or restraint.

She avoided looking at the other ships as they sailed toward the beach and forced a welcoming smile.

“Helikaon, greetings! It is too many summers since we last welcomed you here. I will have food and wine brought down. We can talk of happier times.”

He smiled tightly. “Thank you, lady, but my ships are well provisioned. We enjoyed the hospitality of old Nestor and his people on our way here. We have food and water for many days.”

Penelope was shocked, although she would not show it. She had no idea Pylos had been attacked. How many dead? she wondered. She had many friends there and kinsmen.

“But you will break bread with me, the way we used to?” she asked, ruthlessly dismissing from her mind thoughts of the dead of Pylos. She could not help them; she could only save her own people.

He nodded and gazed assessingly at the old fort and the armed men who now lined the stockade walls. “Yes, lady, we will break bread.” He turned to Bias. “I heard you lost that arm at a battle off Kretos. I am glad you survived.”

The black man’s eyes narrowed. “I hope you burn, Helikaon,” he said coldly, “and your death ship with you.”

Penelope gestured for him to move back, and the old man, staring balefully at Helikaon, retreated several steps. The queen turned to him. “I am in no danger now, Bias. Return to the fort.” Bias bowed his head, glared once more at Helikaon, then strode away.

Servants brought a blanket to lay on the sand, and Helikaon and the queen sat down. Though the sun blazed in the sky, Penelope ordered a welcome fire lit, as was the custom when entertaining friends. Wine and bread were laid before them, but they ate and drank little.

“Tell me news, Helikaon. Little reaches us here in far Ithaka.”

Helikaon looked into her face. “The only news is of war, lady, and I’m sure you have no genuine wish to hear of it. Many are dying up and down the Great Green. There are no victors. Your husband lives, I am told. We have not encountered each other. I have no recent news of the Bloodhawk. I came here for one reason, to pay my respects to you.”