Shield of Thunder

CHAPTER FIVE THE ROYAL PRIESTESS

Kalliades was sitting alone, away from the fire. The sea was calm again, but the night was cool, a chilly breeze whispering over the rocks. Most of the crewmen were asleep. He glanced up to where Piria was sitting, huddled against a rock that shielded her from the wind. He was about to walk over to her when he saw the big black man Bias carrying firewood to where she sat and lighting it with a brand from the main campfire. Then he brought her a blanket. Kalliades wished he had thought of that.

Closing his eyes, he leaned back against a rock, his thoughts somber. Then he heard movement behind him, and his heart leaped, for he thought it might be Piria come to sit with him. Opening his eyes, he saw the stocky figure of Odysseus. The Ugly King sat down beside him.

“There is something about the sea at night that makes a man feel small,” he said.

“I feel like that when I gaze upon mountains,” Kalliades told him.

“Ah, that’s because you are a landsman. You are right, though. The seas and the mountains are eternal and unchanging. We are just here for a little while, and then we fade into the dust of history.” He fell silent for a moment, then said, “So tell me, what happened that night in Troy?”

It was innocently asked, but Kalliades felt his stomach tighten. Odysseus knew, then. Kalliades felt suddenly foolish. The previous day on the beach he had spoken of fighting against Argurios. That had been a stupid slip of the tongue. What now? he wondered. There was a Mykene garrison on Kios. Would that be Odysseus’ plan? Sell them for Agamemnon’s gold? He saw Odysseus looking at him intently and realized he hadn’t answered the man’s question.

“We lost,” Kalliades said curtly. “Shouldn’t have. We were led by a fool.”

“How was he foolish?”

“I have no wish to talk about it,” Kalliades said. “What do you intend to do with us?”

“Oh, stay calm, lad. I don’t intend to do anything. As far as I am concerned, you are merely passengers.”

“You are not interested in Agamemnon’s bounty? I find that hard to believe.”

Odysseus chuckled. “To be honest, it crossed my mind. Unfortunately, I have a gullible crew. So you are free to do as you please.”

Kalliades was intrigued. “How does their gullibility affect your decisions?”

“It was pointed out to me that you and your friend are two fine heroes who risked their lives for a woman they didn’t know. In short, the kind of men I tell stories about. So, much as Agamemnon’s gold would have been welcome, I must forsake it.”

Kalliades said nothing. He doubted that the wishes of the crew would have any real effect on Odysseus’ decisions and recalled the words of Sekundos about the contradictory nature of the man.

Then Odysseus spoke again. “Are you ready now to tell me why your general was foolish?”

Kalliades’ mind drifted back to that blood-filled night, and he heard again the cries of the wounded, the clash of swords, and the grinding of shields. He saw once more the mighty Argurios holding the stairs, the dread Helikaon beside him. “Why foolish?” he said. “He let the enemy dictate the strategy. Once we’d stormed the walls of the palace and were fighting in the megaron, Argurios pulled his men back to the great staircase. Then he and Helikaon stood there, as if daring us to attack them. We had greater numbers. We should have taken ladders and scaled the gallery above the stairs. Then we could have hit them from two sides. But we didn’t. We just kept trying to defeat the two heroes. On the stairs our greater numbers counted for nothing. Then Hektor came, and it was we who were surrounded.” He talked then of how Kolanos had tried to bargain for his life by offering to betray Agamemnon and how King Priam had refused him. “I still don’t understand it,” Kalliades said. “The king we sought to kill allowed us to live, and the king we sought to serve ordered us murdered. Perhaps you can make a story out of that, Odysseus.”

“I expect that I will one day.”

“And what of Piria?” asked Kalliades. “Is she also free to do as she pleases?”

“You care for her?”

“Is that so strange?”

“Not at all. Merely a question. But to answer yours, yes, she is free to do as she wants. She will not stay with you, though. You realize that?”

“You don’t know that, Odysseus.”

“There are many things I do not know. I do not know where the wind begins or the sky ends. I do not know where the stars go in the daytime. But I know women, Kalliades, and Piria is not a woman who desires men. She never was.”

“Where do you know her from?”

Odysseus shook his head. “If she has not told you, lad, then it is not for me to say. But to be close to her is to court danger.”

“She has suffered enormously these last few days,” Kalliades said. “Her hatred of men is understandable. Yet I think she likes me.”

“I am sure that she does. Like a brother,” Odysseus added. “I shall see her safely to Troy. Once there, however, she will be in great peril.”

“Why?”

“Like you, she has a price on her head—many, many times greater than yours.”

“Why tell me this?”

“I like her,” Odysseus said, “and I think she will need friends in the days to come. Loyal friends.”

“Do you know why she is heading for Troy?”

“I believe I do. There is someone there she loves—and loves deeply enough to risk her life for.”

“But not a man,” Kalliades said softly.

“No, lad. Not a man.”

Odysseus rose and walked away from Kalliades to the brushwood pigpen. The beasts were sleeping, huddled together on the landward side of the enclosure. He glanced back to the main fire, and saw Ganny, the yellow cloak stretched over him. The pig’s head came up, and he looked at Odysseus. The king strolled over to him. “You’re a lucky fellow,” he said softly. “The waves from that quake were what brought you in. Perhaps the gods love you.” Ganny gave a soft grunt, then fell asleep again. Odysseus smiled. “Stupid pig,” he said fondly. “I shall speak to Oristhenes and ensure you end up on no man’s table.”

And now you are having moonlight conversations with pigs, he chided himself.

Adding wood to the fire, he stretched himself out on the sand, hoping to sleep. Random thoughts fluttered across his mind like irritating bats. The woman Piria, whom he had known as the Princess Kalliope, was a danger to all who came into contact with her. Then there was the Mykene warrior and his lout of a companion. Agamemnon had declared them outlaws—renegades. To help them would undoubtedly earn the enmity of the Mykene king. Odysseus rolled over and sat up, brushing sand from his tunic.

The enmity of Agamemnon. There was a chilling thought.

And yet, was there anyone Agamemnon did not hate? Even his friends were only enemies in waiting. Moving to a water sack, Odysseus drank deeply. Bias was sleeping close by. Odysseus prodded him with his foot. “Are you awake?” he said, digging his toe harder into Bias’ ribs. The black man grunted.

“What is it?”

“Well, as long as you are awake, I thought we’d sit and talk of old times.”

Bias yawned and cast a baleful glance at his king. “Why do you never wake anyone else when you can’t sleep?”

“They don’t get as irritated as you do. It is less entertaining.”

“They get just as irritated, Ugly One—they simply don’t show it.”

“I was thinking of keeping Ganny and selling the others. A mascot for the Penelope.”

Bias sighed. “No you weren’t. You’re just saying that to rile me.”

“It’s not a bad idea, though.”

“What? To rile me or keep the pig?”

“Both have merit, but I meant the pig.”

Bias chuckled. “I can see that it would be amusing. Yes,” he said after some more thought, “I like the idea.”

“It is a stupid idea,” Odysseus snapped. “Pigs are sociable creatures. He would be lonely. He’d also stink the ship out.” He glanced at Bias and read the knowing look on his face. “Oh, all right, there is no tricking you tonight. I do like that pig, though!”

“I know. I heard you talking to it. Getting thick out there,” he added, pointing out to sea, where a white wall of mist was slowly seeping over the rocks.

“A good bright morning will clear it.” Odysseus rubbed at his eyes. They were gritty and tired.

“Have you considered what you’ll do with our passengers?” Bias asked, reaching for the water sack and taking a swig.

“Take them wherever they want to go.”

“That’s good.”

“The woman, too.”

Bias looked at him. “I didn’t think there was any doubt about the woman.”

“Ah, did I not mention her?” Odysseus said, dropping his voice. “She’s a runaway priestess from Thera. It will mean death for anyone known to have helped her.”

“A runaway… Pah! You are still trying to trick me.”

“No, I am not.”

“Stop this now, Odysseus,” Bias said. “I am in no mood for such jests.”

Odysseus sighed. “You say you know me, Bias, my friend. Then look into my eyes and see if I am jesting. She is who I say.”

Bias stared at him, then took another drink. “I am beginning to wish this was wine,” he said. “Now speak truly, my king. Is she a runaway from Thera?”

“Yes.”

Bias swore. “Did they not burn the last runaway?” he whispered, looking around nervously to see if any of the crewmen were awake.

“Buried her alive. They burned the family who took her in and the captain of the ship she escaped on. Oh, yes, and cut the head from the man she fled to be with.”

“Yes, I recall it now,” Bias said. “So who is Piria? Please tell me she is the daughter of some tribal chieftain far from the sea.”

“Her father is Peleus, king of Thessaly.”

“Triton’s teeth! She is the sister of Achilles?”

“Indeed she is.”

“We could hand her over in Kios,” Bias said. “There is a temple of Athene there, and the priests could hold her until her family was notified.”

“Hand her over? Bias, my lad, was it not you who pointed out that two brave men rescued this maiden? And that my stories are all of heroes? Where is the difference?”

“You know very well what the difference is,” Bias hissed. “The two Mykene will vanish away, join some foreign garrison, and no one will be the wiser. The girl is the sister of Achilles. Achilles the Slayer, the Blood Drinker, the Disemboweler. When she is captured—and she will be captured, Odysseus—the word will go out that the Penelope was involved in her escape. You want Achilles hunting you? There is no more famous killer in the lands of the west.”

Odysseus laughed softly. “So your argument is that we can be heroic when there is little chance of discovery, but if there is real risk, we should be craven?”

Now it was Bias who sighed. “It doesn’t matter what I say. Your mind is set.”

“Yes, it is. Understand this, though, my friend. I agree with everything you’ve said.”

“Then why risk it?”

Odysseus fell silent for a moment. “Perhaps because there is a story here, Bias. And I do not mean some tale to be told on a moonlit beach. This is a thread in a great tapestry. Perhaps I want to see the weave complete. Think of it. A royal priestess flees the Temple of the Horse and is captured by pirates. Two of those pirates turn on their companions and risk their lives to save her. Then we happen along. Now, the Great Green is massive. What are the odds that she would end up on a ship captained by a king who recognizes her? And where is she heading? To the Golden City, where all the kings of west and east are gathering. Into a city seething with schemes, plots, and dreams of plunder.”

“And Achilles will be there,” Bias pointed out.

“Oh, yes. How could he stay away? Hektor and Achilles, two giants of battle, two legends, two heroes. Pride and vanity will drive Achilles to Troy. He will hope that Hektor chooses to take part in his own wedding games. He will dream of bringing him low so that men will talk of only one great hero.”

“So we are to sail into Troy bearing the renegade sister of Achilles? And what will she do there? Wander the streets until someone recognizes her?”

Odysseus shook his head. “I believe she will seek out another former priestess of Thera, a friend.”

Realization dawned on Bias. “You are talking of Andromache?”

“Yes.”

“Achilles’ runaway sister will go to Hektor’s betrothed?”

“Yes. Now can you see what I mean about the thread and the tapestry?”

“I don’t care about threads,” Bias said with feeling. “However, the crew must not learn her identity.”

“She will not tell them. And the less they know, the more content they will be.”

“I would have been more content not knowing,” Bias said angrily.

Odysseus grinned. “Still think you know me better than I know myself?”

Bias was silent for a while, and when he spoke, Odysseus heard the sadness in his voice. “Oh, there is nothing in this that does not match what I know of you, Odysseus. The man I truly did not know was myself.”

“I think we never really know ourselves,” Odysseus said with a deep sigh. “I used to be the Sacker of Cities, a slave trader and a reaver. I thought I was content. Then I became the trader, the man with no enemies. And I think I am content. I was wrong then; am I wrong now?” He looked at Bias. “Sometimes I think that the more I learn, the less I know.”

“Well, I am more content serving the man with no enemies,” said Bias.

They sat in silence for a while. Finally Odysseus rose. “I still dream of him, you know,” he said. “I still hear his laughter.”

Sadness flowed over Bias as he watched the Ugly King wander away.

I still dream of him, you know. I still hear his laughter.

Fourteen summers had drifted by since those dreadful days of death and despair, but for Bias the memory remained, harsh and bright and painful.

During a slave raid on a foreign village Bias had been struck on the left forearm by a club. The bone had snapped and was long in the healing. Still, they had captured eighteen women and set sail for the slave markets of Kypros. The slaves had remained silent during the voyage, sitting huddled in the center of the deck. But when they had arrived at the island, one of them, a tall woman with fierce dark eyes, had stared malevolently at Odysseus.

“Bask in your triumph, Sacker of Cities,” she had said. “Yet know this: Before this season ends you will know the same anguish we suffer. Your heart will be sundered, your soul bathed in fire.”

Odysseus had shaken his head. “You ungrateful bitch,” he had said. “Were you raped? Were you beaten? Have I not seen you all fed and looked after? You will all be as well off on Kypros as you were in that lice-infested village.”

“And who will give us back the husbands you slew, the children you left behind? The curse of Set sits upon your shoulders, Odysseus. Remember my words when the days shorten.”

Two more succesful raids had been made before the Penelope and the three other ships returned to Ithaka. Bias had been left there while his broken arm mended. Odysseus had spent three days with Penelope and his son, the six-year-old Laertes, and then had sailed on one more plunder raid.

Toward season’s end Penelope told Bias she was going to Pylos with Laertes. Nestor had invited them to one of his sons’ marriage celebrations. Bias had traveled with her on the short voyage east.

The first three days had been massively enjoyable. Bias had been popular with the female slaves at Nestor’s palace. One night two of them had shared his bed, one blond and big-breasted, the other dark with huge eyes. It was a fine night. Toward dawn they heard wailing coming from the palace.

Bias did not know it then, or even sense it through his joy, but the wailing heralded the days of death.

Plague had broken out ten days earlier in a village close by. King Nestor had ordered soldiers to quarantine the place, allowing no one out. Later it transpired that a soldier had smuggled his sister from the village, and she had come to the palace. By the fourth day of her visit several slaves had shown the first symptoms: fever and swellings in the armpits and groin. Within days the plague was rife.

The sick were taken to the stricken village and placed in a large house owned by the merchant who supervised the flax gathering in the area. He had been the first to die. The villa became known then as the Plague House. Bias had been terrified. Apart from the broken arm he had never been sick in his life, and he dreaded the thought of incapacity almost more than death itself.

Then the child Laertes fell ill. Penelope insisted on traveling with him to the Plague House. Bias felt like a coward, for he did not offer to go with her. He might just as well have. Two more nights went by, and he woke with a dry throat, sweat streaming from his body.

At first he tried to hide the symptoms, but the slave girl sharing his bed told her mistress, and soldiers came to escort Bias from the palace with several others who had fallen sick.

By the time the wagon reached the Plague House, Bias was delirious, and he remembered little of the next few days save that his body was racked by terrible pain and his dreams were of fire-breathing monsters whose burning breath blistered his flesh. But he was strong, and he survived the fever and the pus-filled cysts that burst the skin of his armpits and groin. Penelope came to his bedside often during the following days, bringing him broths and clear, cool water to drink. She looked weary, for she was working tirelessly with three priests of Asklepios. More people were being brought in every day, and now many of the houses in the village were filled with fresh victims of the plague. Death was everywhere, and the screams of the dying echoed throughout the settlement. The sickness killed four in every five of those who contracted it.

Then Penelope fell ill. Bias carried her to the wide bed in which her little boy lay and placed her beside him. Laertes had slept for the previous two days, unable to be roused even to drink cool water.

By the tenth day two of the three priests had also fallen ill. Now only the few survivors tended the victims. Bias left the house one morning and called out to the soldiers who were guarding the fence that had been erected around the settlement, telling them that more help was needed inside. That afternoon four elderly priestesses of Artemis arrived with the food wagon. They were stern-eyed, unfriendly women who took charge with brisk efficiency. They directed Bias and three other male survivors to gather all the bodies and move them to open ground, where a pit was dug and filled with oil and brushwood. There the corpses were burned.

Bias recalled the bright morning when Odysseus had appeared at the fence, shouting out for Penelope.

Bias left the house and saw his king standing at the perimeter, a cape of green upon his broad shoulders, the sunlight glinting on his red beard.

“Where are they, Bias?” he called out. “Where is my wife, my son?”

“They are sick, my lord. You must stay clear of this place.”

Bias already knew that Odysseus, fearless in battle or storm, was terrified of sickness. His own father had died of the plague. So he was surprised on that day when Odysseus walked to the makeshift gate and lifted the leather latch. Soldiers surrounded him, grabbing his arms and hauling him back. Odysseus lashed out, sending one man spinning from his feet. “I am Odysseus, king of Ithaka,” he thundered. “The next man who lays hands on me will have that hand cut off!” They fell back then, and Odysseus opened the gate and strode in.

Together they had entered the house. Odysseus had faltered then as he saw the scores of plague victims laid out in the megaron. The air was foul with the stench of vomit, excrement, and urine. Bias had led his king to an upper bedroom where Penelope lay, Laertes alongside her. Odysseus had slumped down beside them, taking Penelope’s hand and lifting it to his lips.

“I am here, my love,” he said. “The Ugly One is by your side.” Then he stroked his son’s face. “Be strong, Laertes. Come back to me.”

But Laertes had died that night. Bias had been there. Odysseus had wept, his body shaking. He had hugged the dead child to his chest, his huge hands cradling the boy’s head. Bias had seen Odysseus hug the boy many times. Laertes would laugh happily and kiss his father’s bearded cheek. At other times he would giggle helplessly as Odysseus tickled him. Now the child was utterly still, his face as pale as marble. After a long while Odysseus fell silent. Then he looked up at Bias. “I brought this doom upon them,” he said.

“No, my king. You did not bring the plague.”

“You heard the slave woman. She cursed me. Said I would know the same anguish she had suffered.”

At that moment Penelope gave a soft groan. Odysseus gently laid his son back on the bed and moved to Penelope’s side. He leaned over her, brushing the sweat-drenched hair from her glistening brow. “Don’t leave me, girl. Hear my voice. Stay with me.”

And there he had remained for three days, bathing her fevered body with warmed water, changing the soiled bed linen, holding her to him, talking to her constantly though she could not hear him. On the morning of the fourth day her cysts burst, her body expelling the poisons. One of the priestesses of Artemis came to see her.

“She will live,” she announced, then left the room.

Fewer and fewer people were brought to the settlement over the next weeks. The survival rate began to rise.

Autumn rains began the day Odysseus, Penelope, and Bias left the settlement. As they walked along a cliff path toward Nestor’s palace, sunshine briefly speared through the thick gray clouds. Bias looked at his king. In the sunlight he saw the touches of gray at his temples, the weariness in his eyes.

Odysseus never spoke of the curse again. But that was the last summer the ships of Ithaka embarked on slave raids. Odysseus, the Sacker of Cities, the reaver, the pirate, became Odysseus the trader, the storyteller.

Bias lay back on the sand and stared up at the stars. In that moment he, too, remembered the laughter of Laertes. The boy would have been twenty now and a man, handsome and strong.

Yet his death had brought fourteen years of peaceful trading from Odysseus. How many villages would have been raided in that time? How many wives torn from their homes to be sold into slavery? How many fathers cut down in front of their families? The thought surprised him, and he cursed softly. Glancing across the campsite, he could see Odysseus sleeping soundly.

Why did you have to talk about threads and tapestries? Now I can’t sleep!