Shield of Thunder (10 page)

“Truth in that,” Banokles agreed.

CHAPTER EIGHT

LORD OF THE GOLDEN LIE

Banokles was still grumbling as they climbed the cliff path, but Kalliades closed his mind to it. Thoughts of Piria were troubling him. Banokles was right. He did like her. There was something about the tall, slender woman that touched him deeply. She was proud, strong, and defiant, though it was her loneliness that affected him most, and he sensed in her a kindred spirit.

Yet why was there such a price on her head? He already knew she was not a slave, but she was a runaway. Odysseus had said that the bounty on her was many times greater than that on Banokles and himself. If that was true, it must have been set by a rich king. And she could not have come far in that small sailboat. He thought of the lands and major islands round about. Odysseus was king of Ithaka and the islands around it, and Nestor was lord of Pylos. On the mainland far to the west there was Sparta, but that was now ruled by Menelaus, brother of Agamemnon, and he was as yet unmarried. And she could not have come that far, surely. Idomeneos, the king of Kretos, was here, and he obviously knew nothing of the runaway woman. If he had, he would have recognized Piria as he had walked past her to the campfire.

Then he remembered the great temple. They had sailed past a large island, and on the cliff top he had seen an astonishing sight: what appeared to be a colossal horse, staring out to sea. He had learned from the pirates it was the Temple of the Horse, built with King Priam’s gold. “An island of women,” one of the crewmen had told him, “all princesses or girls of noble birth. I wouldn’t mind a few days there, I can tell you.”

“No men at all—not even soldiers?” Banokles had asked.

“Not a one.”

“Then why isn’t it raided?”

The man had looked at Banokles scornfully. “The high priestess is Mykene, and the women are all daughters of kings. An attack on Thera would bring galleys from every city-state and every kingdom in pursuit of vengeance. They’d scour the seas until the last pirate vessel was burned. No one goes near Thera.”

Kalliades paused in his walk up the hill. Banokles looked at him. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing. I was just thinking.”

Piria had to have come from Thera. Kalliades knew little about the temple there, but Banokles had been interested and had questioned the pirates about it. As they walked, he said, “You recall that island we passed, with the horse temple?”

“Of course. An island of women.” Banokles grinned. “Be good to be shipwrecked there, I think. Gods, you’d never want to be rescued, would you?”

“Probably not. Do the women ever leave the place? To get married or go home?”

“I don’t know. No, wait! There was a girl last season, someone said. Sent off to Troy. That’s it! Sent to marry Hektor. Don’t recall her name. So yes, they must be allowed to leave.” Banokles walked on, then stopped. “Although somebody else said that a girl some years back was killed for leaving without permission. Why are you interested?”

“Just curious.”

They crested the cliff and saw Odysseus walking down the path on the other side, the pig ambling beside him. He was heading toward a beach where four ships had been drawn up.

Kalliades scanned the area. There were close to two hundred men on the beach. In the bright light of their campfires he could see that some of them bore wounds. Others were eating and drinking. “I think they are the pirates who attacked King Idomeneos,” he said.

“Then why is he going down to them?” Banokles asked. “You think he knows them?”

“Could you recognize a man at this distance?”

“No.”

“And the ships bear no markings. I do not think he knows them.”

“Then it is madness,” Banokles said. “They’ll kill him—and take that golden belt. And they’ll eat the pig,” he added.

“I agree, and Odysseus must know that, too. He is a clever man, and he has a plan,” Kalliades said. “And by all the gods he has nerve!”

Banokles muttered a foul oath. “You are thinking of following him down there, aren’t you? What little luck we have left is in a pot, and you are about to piss in it.”

Kalliades laughed. “You go back, my friend. I have to see how this plays out.” He moved on. After a few moments Banokles caught up to him, as he had known he would. The big man walked alongside him, saying nothing, his expression set and angry.

Kalliades saw Odysseus glance back, but he did not wait for them. He and Ganny went on, then strolled along the beach. Several pirates looked up, then nudged their comrades. A crowd gathered, staring at the odd sight of an ugly man in a gold belt and a pig in a yellow cloak. Odysseus walked on, apparently unconcerned by the interest.

Kalliades and Banokles were some twenty paces behind him when a lean figure stepped away from a fire and stood in Odysseus’ path.

“Whoever you are, you are not welcome here,” the man said.

“I am welcome anywhere, donkey face,” responded the Ugly King. “I am Odysseus, king of Ithaka and lord of the Great Green.” He looked past the insulted man and called out. “Is that you, Issopon, skulking by the fire? By the gods, why has no one killed you yet?”

“Because they can’t catch me,” replied a burly warrior with a black and silver beard. Heaving himself to his feet, he walked out to face Odysseus. He did not offer his hand but stood alongside the lean pirate who had first spoken. “I did not know you were in these waters.”

“The
Penelope
is on the next beach,” Odysseus told him. “As you would have known had you the wit to put out scouts. You boys look as if you’ve been in a fight, but since I hear no singing or bragging, I guess you lost it.”

“We did not lose,” the first man snapped. “It is not over yet.”

Odysseus turned and stared at the four galleys on the beach. “Well, you didn’t fight the
Xanthos,
” he said, “for I see no fire damage on your vessels.”

“The
Xanthos
is not sailing this season,” Issopon told him.

“You are wrong, my friend. I saw its black horse sail only yesterday. But no matter.” Walking to a nearby sailor, Odysseus leaned down and lifted the man’s jug of wine from the sand. Raising it to his lips, he drank deeply.

The silence grew, and Kalliades felt the tension within it. No one seemed to have noticed his arrival with Banokles. All eyes were on the Ugly King. For his part, Odysseus seemed utterly relaxed. He drank a little more, then patted Ganny, who slumped down beside him.

“Why is the pig in a cloak?” Issopon asked.

“I’d like to tell you,” Odysseus answered, “but poor Ganny here is embarrassed by it.”

“It was the Witch Queen, wasn’t it?” someone called out.

“Should never stare at a witch’s tits,” Odysseus agreed. “No matter how beautiful they are. No matter how plump and inviting. Ganny knew this. We all knew it. But when that cold wind blew and her nipples pushed out against the gold of her dress…well, it was just too much for the boy.”

“Tell us!” another man called out. That was followed by a chorus of entreaties. The noise startled Ganny, who lurched to his feet.

“Can’t do that, lads. Ganny here would die of shame. But I can tell you a tale of piracy and a fleece that rained gold, and a man with no heart, and a woman of such purity and beauty that wherever she trod, flowers sprang up about her feet. You want to hear it?”

A great roar went up, and the pirates settled down on the sand in a great circle around him. Kalliades and Banokles sat down among them, and Odysseus began his tale.

For Kalliades the time spent on that beach was a revelation. It was an evening he would never forget. Odysseus’ voice deepened, the sound almost hypnotic, as he told the story of a voyage many years before. He spoke of storms and omens and a magical mist that shrouded the ship as they sailed close to the coast of Lykia. “I was younger then, almost a boy,” Odysseus told them. “The ship was the
Bloodhawk,
captained by Praxinos. You might remember the name.”

Kalliades saw some of the older men nod. “Aye,” continued Odysseus, “the name lives on, usually in whispers on cold winter nights. He was a man possessed, for he had heard of the Golden Fleece, and it haunted his dreams and his waking.”

No one spoke as Odysseus told his tale. Not a man moved, not even to add fuel to the fires. Kalliades closed his eyes, for the words of the storyteller were forming pictures in his mind. He could see the sleek black ship and its blood-red sail and almost feel the coldness of the mist settling around it as the wind died.

“Now, the fleece had a strange history,” Odysseus said. “As many of you will know, there are men who use fleeces to collect gold in the high mountains of the east. They lay them down under gushing streams, and the gold dust and fragments cling to the wool. But this fleece was different. A wise old woman once told me that it came from a changeling, half man and half god. One day, as he was being hunted by angry men, he changed himself into a ram and sought to blend himself into a flock of sheep. However, the shepherd boy saw him and alerted the pursuers. Before he could change back, they fell upon him with swords and knives. Not a man among them wanted to eat the cursed meat, but the shepherd boy skinned the carcass and sold the fleece to a man hunting gold. And that, lads, was where the legend began. He journeyed into the mountains, found a likely stream, and laid the fleece below the water. Soon it began to shimmer and glisten, and by dusk it was so laden with gold that it took all the man’s strength to draw it clear. And that was only the beginning. He hung the fleece to dry and then began to brush the gold from it. He brushed and he brushed. Four small sacks he filled, yet still the fleece glimmered like stolen sunshine. All the next day he brushed and he brushed. Eight more sacks were filled. And yet the fleece was still full. Having no more sacks, he carefully rolled the fleece and sat back, wondering what to do. Other men began to come down from the mountain, complaining that all the gold was gone. Not a speck of dust remained. The man was no youngster, and he was not consumed by greed. He took his sacks down into the valley and used his gold to have a house built and to acquire horses and cattle. He bought a wife and settled down to a life of quiet plenty. He had a son, a beloved son, a child whose laughter echoed in the valleys like springtime. One day the son was struck down with the plague. The man was in despair, for the boy, who was the sun and moon to him, was dying. A workman on his farm told him of a healer who lived in a mountain cave, and he journeyed there, bearing his son upon his back.”

Odysseus paused and lifted the jug of wine to his lips, drinking deeply. Even in the silence the spell of his story continued. No one moved. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he told them of the woman in the cave. “Young she seemed, and beautiful, serene as the sunset. She gazed on the dying boy with eyes of love and laid a slender hand upon his brow. Then, with a low sigh, she closed her eyes and drew in a long, deep breath. All fever left the child, and his eyes opened. He smiled at his father. So great was the father’s relief that he returned to the woman later and gave her the magical fleece.

“Now, Praxinos had heard this story, and he was determined to find the cave, the woman, and the fleece of everlasting gold. Others had tried, it was said, but none had succeeded. For the woman was so pure that no man with even a speck of goodness within him could bring himself to cause her harm. This did not concern Praxinos, for there was nothing inside him but bitterness and bile. He would have the fleece and kill the woman. This he vowed. One of the crewmen told me he even made a blood pledge to the darkest of the old gods, Kephelos the Devourer, the black-fanged Lord of Shadows.” Odysseus shook his head. “Perhaps it was he who sent the mist that wrapped itself around the
Bloodhawk
like a shroud. We rowed on, slowly and carefully, expecting at any moment to see land or to feel the sea floor scrape beneath our keel. But we did not. Around us we could hear ghostly singing and whispering, our names being called by spirits of the night. Ah, lads, it was a frightening time, and I do not know on what sea we sailed that night. Come the dawn, the mist disappeared, and we found ourselves upon a wide river flowing through a mountain range.

“‘The fleece is close by,’ Praxinos shouted. ‘I can feel it calling to me.’

“We found a landing place and moved ashore. Praxinos split us into hunting parties, and we set off in search of the healer’s cave. There was me and old Abydos, plus a youngster named Meleagros and a Hittite called Artashes. Abydos was a foul-mouthed sheep shagger and one of the ugliest men you’ve ever seen, while the rest of us were little better. Not a handsome one in the group. We walked up through woods of scented pine and across a pretty meadow full of yellow flowers. That’s when we saw it. There was a cave and a large crowd of people sitting on the grass outside it. They were villagers, and they’d brought gifts of food for the healer. Must have been fifty people there, old and young, men and women.

“Well, there were only the four of us, so we wandered up to the cave and made no threatening moves. I looked inside. And there she was, sitting on a rug and talking to an old man and his wife. Beyond her, on the wall of the cave, shining like golden fire, was the fleece. We all saw it and fell under its spell. Before I knew what I was doing, I walked into that cave, jaw hanging, and stood there gawping. Abydos was beside me, slack-mouthed. The young Hittite whispered something that sounded like a prayer, and Meleagros reached out and touched the fleece, and his finger came away coated in gold.”