David Gemmell - Shield of Thunder

“I know the reason you came here,” Penelope said angrily, leaning forward, her voice low. “To show Odysseus that you could. You threaten his people—”

His face tightened. “I have not threatened you, and I will not.”

“Your very presence here is a threat. It is a message to Odysseus that he cannot guard those he loves. Your first words to me were to boast of attacking my kinsmen at Pylos. I am not a fool, Helikaon. I was queen here when you were a babe in arms. I know why you are here.”

“He left you poorly guarded,” he said, gesturing at the small Ithakan force.

They sat in silence for a while. Penelope was furious with herself. Her first priority was to save her people from attack. Antagonizing Helikaon was more than foolish. She could not believe he would set his killers on her people, yet tension etched into the skin around his eyes told of unresolved conflicts in his mind.

Calming herself, she asked pleasantly, “How is your little son? He must be three now.”

Helikaon’s face lightened. “He is a joy. I miss him every day I am away. But he is not my son. I wish that he was.”

“Not your son?”

Helikaon explained that the queen had been raped at the time of a Mykene attack and the boy was the result. “I had hoped it would remain secret—for Halysia’s sake. But such things rarely do. There were servants who knew, and the whispers began.”

“How does Halysia feel about him?” she asked.

Helikaon’s face darkened again. “She cannot look upon him without pain. To see him merely reminds her of the horror of the attack, her own child set ablaze and hurled from the cliffs, her body brutalized, raped, and stabbed. Such are the men your husband is now allied to.” She saw him struggling to contain his anger.

“But you love the boy,” she said swiftly.

He relaxed again. “Yes, I do. He is a fine child, intelligent, warm, and funny. But she cannot see that. She will not even touch him.”

“There is so much sadness in the world,” Penelope said. “So many children unwanted and unloved. And women who would give everything they possess to have a child. You and I, we have both lost those we loved.”

“Yes, we have,” he said sadly.

In that moment of empathy she brought out her strongest weapon. “I am with child, Helikaon,” she said. “After all this time. Seventeen years after little Laertes died. I am pregnant again. I never believed I could give Odysseus another son. Surely the Great Goddess herself is guarding me.” She watched his face carefully, saw it soften, and knew she was close to winning this battle. “Trade from the Seven Hills is growing,” she said. “Odysseus is holding your profits, as he promised he would. And there has been little trouble among the peoples of the settlement. There are walls of stone now to protect it.”

Helikaon pushed himself to his feet. “I must leave,” he said, “but I hope you believe me when I say it was good to see you, Penelope. You once welcomed me into your home, and my memories of Ithaka are fond ones. I pray your child is born safely and can grow in a world that is not at war.”

Walking away from her, he strode to a small thatched hut high on the beach. The Ithakan garrison watched him with suspicion as he reached up and pulled clear a handful of thatch from the roof and then returned to Penelope. Without speaking, he thrust the thatch into the welcome fire until it smoldered, then lit. He held it a few heartbeats, then threw it down on the beach. Drawing his sword, he plunged it through the burning thatch and into the sand. Then, without a word, he walked back down the strand and climbed aboard his warship.

Penelope watched him go with relief and regret. His meaning was clear. It was a message to Odysseus. By sword and flame he could have destoyed Ithaka and butchered her people. He had chosen not to.

This time.

Helikaon stood on the high stern deck of the Xanthos and gazed at the retreating cliffs of Ithaka. He could no longer see the proud figure of Penelope but could still make out the thin plume of smoke rising from the welcome fire on the beach.

He had not lied to her. The moment he had stepped ashore, all thoughts of war had seeped away as memories long forgotten had flowed through his mind: Odysseus, drunk and happy, standing on a table in the megaron, enchanting his listeners with tales of gods and heroes, Penelope smiling fondly at him, Bias shaking his head and chuckling.

I hope you burn, and your death ship with you. The words of Bias, so unexpected and harsh, had cut through his defenses, sharper than any blade.

Yet he and Bias had sailed together, fought pirates together, laughed and joked in each other’s company. To see such hatred in the eyes of a friend was hard to take. In his memories Bias was always good-humored. He had been helpful and supportive when Helikaon had joined the crew of the Penelope. Bias was the man the sailors trusted to settle disputes and arbitrate disagreements. The crew loved him, for his actions were always governed by his genuine affection for the men who served under him.

Now this man of kindness and compassion wanted him dead, and Helikaon’s heart was heavy with the burden of the old man’s hatred. Surely Bias knew that he had not wanted this war, that it had been forced upon him.

Once the ships were out of sight of Ithaka, Helikaon ordered a slight change of direction, heading north along the coast. There was no wind, and the twin banks of oarsmen began pulling to the steady beat called out by his first mate, Oniacus. Once the rhythm was set, the stocky, curly-haired sailor approached him. He, too, had changed since the war had begun, seeming more distant now. He rarely laughed or sang anymore. Long gone were the days when he would sit in the evenings alongside Helikaon and muse about the meaning of life or the antics of his children.

“Sad to see old Bias so crippled,” he said.

Helikaon glanced at the young sailor. “There seems no end to sadness these days,” he replied.

“Did you see the Penelope ? Just rotting away in the sun. Makes the heart sick. Always used to marvel when I saw her dancing upon the waters. And seeing her heading for the beach usually meant a night of great storytelling. I miss those days. They shine like gold in the memory now. I doubt we’ll see them again.” He walked away.

Oniacus was right. The days of storytelling and comradeship were long gone. Along with so many dreams.

Three years earlier Helikaon had been simply a merchant trader, sailing the Great Green, enduring its storms, exhilarated by its ageless beauty. Young and in the full glory of his strength, he had dreamed of finding a wife for love alone. No thoughts of dynastic treaties or alliances with rival nations troubled him. Those were problems his little brother would have to face, for he had been named heir to the throne of Dardania.

Three years.

How the world had changed in that time. Little Diomedes, the happy smiling child of his memories, had been drenched in oil and set ablaze by Mykene raiders. Then they had hurled him, screaming, from a cliff. And Helikaon had become king and had married for the good of the realm.

Staring out over the sun-dappled sea, he fought back the waves of bitterness threatening to engulf him. Such anger, he knew, was unfair to Halysia, who was a good woman and a good wife. But she was not Andromache. Even now he could summon Andromache’s face to his mind; so clear it was, as if she stood beside him, the sun glinting on her long red hair. When he pictured her smile, he was struck by an almost unbearable sadness. She now had a child, a delightful boy called Astyanax. Hektor doted on him, and to see them together was both a joy and a dagger to his heart.