Shield of Thunder (25 page)

“I always liked him,” Kalliades said.

“Nothing to dislike,” Banokles agreed, “but the man’s as soft as puppy shit. He’s got a belly on him like a pregnant sow.”

“I talked to him once,” Kalliades said. “The night before we took Sparta. He was terrified and couldn’t stop throwing up. He said all he wanted was to be back at his farm. He’d been cross-breeding his herds with bulls from Thessaly. He claimed the milk yield from his cows had almost doubled.”

“Milk yield?” Banokles snorted. “By the gods, anyone can get to be a king these days.”

“They can if they are brothers of Agamemnon. But be fair to Menelaus. Though he was frightened, he still donned his armor and joined us in the attack. He didn’t have to. He could have waited with the rear guard.”

Banokles did not look convinced. Then he brightened. “You think there will be slave girls at Hektor’s palace?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” Kalliades chuckled. “If there are, I doubt they’ll be ordered to rut with sailors.”

“They might, though.”

“Better, I think, to find a whore. That way you won’t risk offending Hektor.”

“Oh, good plan,” Banokles mocked. “Whores have to be paid for.”

Kalliades reached into the pouch at his side, and drew out five silver rings. Banokles was astonished. “How did you come by them?”

“Odysseus gave them to me. And he says there will be fifty more. I sold him the breastplate of Idomeneos.”

“It is worth more than fifty-five silver rings.”

Kalliades shook his head. “Not to me. Idomeneos is a king. I cannot demand he honor his debt. Odysseus can. It is that simple. Now, do you want the rings?”

Banokles grinned. “I want what they’ll buy,” he said.

“Well, first let us locate Hektor’s palace.”

The two friends left the gathering field and wandered back through the city.

“How many women will five silver rings buy me?” Banokles asked.

“I neglected to ask Odysseus about the price of whores.”

“Not like you to forget the important things,” Banokles observed. “Will you be coming whore hunting with me?”

“No. I’ll return to the beach. Odysseus has told Piria to sleep on the
Penelope.
She’ll be coming to the palace later.”

“Why?”

“Odysseus wants to find out if any of the other kings are staying close to Hektor’s palace. It could be dangerous for her if she is recognized.”

“So you will spend the night guarding her?” Banokles shook his head. Ahead, the road widened, and they saw a marketplace packed with stalls. There were shops there and several eating places with tables set out beneath brightly colored canopies. Banokles grabbed Kalliades by the arm. “Come on,” he said. “We need to talk.”

“We were talking.”

“I need a drink for this kind of conversation,” Banokles said. Kalliades followed him to a small table placed against a cool stone wall. Banokles ordered wine, filled a goblet, and drained it. “Are you moonstruck, Kalliades?” he asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do. You’ve fallen in love with her.”

“I am merely concerned for her safety.”

“And pig shit smells like jasmine! I like the girl, Kalliades, so don’t misunderstand me. She has courage and she has heart, and if it was in her nature, she’d make a fine wife. But it
isn’t
in her nature. You know as well as I do that the lover she is searching for is a woman.”

Kalliades sighed. “I didn’t
choose
to love her,” he said. “But I did choose to protect her, and I did promise to see her safely to her lover. I will do that, and then we will part.”

“Is that a promise?”

Kalliades poured himself a cup of wine and sipped it. The silence grew.

“I thought not,” Banokles said. “So what are you really hoping for? That her lover will turn her away? That she will fall into your arms? That you will take all her sorrow from her? It cannot happen. Brothers cannot do that for sisters. And that is how she sees you, how she will always see you.”

“I know that,” Kalliades replied. “I know that everything you say is true, and yet…I also know there is a reason why she came into my life. I cannot explain it, Banokles. I was
meant
to meet her. That is a truth that my soul understands.”

Looking into his friend’s pale eyes, he saw no similar understanding there. Then Banokles shrugged and smiled. “You do what you must, my friend. You go and walk in the moonlight with the woman you love. I’ll find someone who doesn’t love me and shag her until my eyes bulge.”

The tension between them evaporated, and Kalliades laughed. “That is a good plan,” he said. “Simple and direct, with clear objectives. I hope you can stick to it.”

“Why would I not?”

“Because when full of wine, you tend to look for brawls to take part in.”

“Not tonight,” Banokles said. “Tonight is for wine and women. I give you my oath on that.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

A BOW FOR ODYSSEUS

Many people spoke of their love for Troy, growing misty-eyed about its beauty. To Big Red it was just a city of stone, a place to earn silver rings and gold trinkets. The truth, she believed, was that this emotion men spoke of was merely love of wealth. Troy was rich, and those who prospered within it became wealthy. Even the old baker whose house she was walking wearily toward wore rings of gold and had a carriage to ferry him about the city. His breads and his cakes were purchased by the nobles and served at feasts and gatherings. The baker owned six slaves and a farm close to the city, which supplied his grain. He was a fine client. His erections were semisoft and easily dealt with, his gratitude rich and rewarding. At the end of a long day Red had no wish to spend time with a younger client.

She plodded through the back streets, the silver rings she had earned that day neatly threaded on a thong and hidden within the folds of her long red robe. Between the silver rings were thin pieces of wood to stop the metal from clinking as she moved. These streets in the lower town were seething now with cutpurses and thieves, most of them working for Silfanos, and although she paid—as did all the lower town whores—a monthly tribute to Silfanos, it was still sensible to hide her wealth. In a pouch at her side she carried a handful of copper rings in case some enterprising robber should accost her.

The day had been profitable, and were it not for the fact that the baker paid her in kind, she would have returned home and sat in her small garden with a jug of wine. There was, however, no food in her larder, and she had a taste for the honey cakes he made.

Her lower back ached as she walked, and she was hungry. The thought of the honey cakes drove her on.

Passing through a low alleyway, she emerged onto a small square. The sound of laughter carried to her, and she glanced across to where a group of men were sitting. One of them was Silfanos. He and three of his men were drinking with a young, powerfully built warrior in an old breastplate. It was obvious the blond man was drunk and happy. A man should always die happy, she thought. Once night had fully fallen and the streets were empty, Silfanos and his men would fall upon the drunk and rob him. The breastplate was probably worth a score of rings.

Red moved on, but the drunk saw her and heaved himself to his feet. He staggered toward her. “Hold!” he called out. “Please!”

She stared at him malevolently, ready to brush aside any clumsy advance. He did not seek to touch her but stood open-mouthed before her. “By the gods,” he said, “I think you are the most beautiful woman I ever saw.”

“All women look beautiful to a man soused with wine,” she snapped.

“I’ve had wine before,” he said. “But I’ve never seen anyone like you. Here.” He pulled a silver ring from his pouch and thrust it into her hand.

“Take it back,” she said. “I have nothing for you.”

“No. That is for your beauty alone. Merely seeing you gladdens my heart. By the gods, it was worth traveling across the Great Green just to stand here and gaze upon you.”

Glancing beyond him, she saw the thin-faced Silfanos gesturing for her to depart. She nodded at him and moved away.

“What is your name?” the big man called out.

“I am called Red.”

“I am Banokles. We must meet again, Red.”

Ignoring him, she walked on. Silfanos was a wretch and a killer. If she and the drunk were to meet again, it would not be on this side of the Dark Road.

By the time she reached the house of the baker, the streets were dark. Red found she was still holding the silver ring the man had given her. She paused before the baker’s door and slipped the ring into her pouch. The fool had paid just to look at her. Despite herself, she was touched. Then anger swept over her. He was an idiot, she told herself.

The baker had prepared a tray of sweet cakes, but despite her hunger she ignored them, telling him how much she had looked forward to seeing him, stroking his face, and kissing his cheek. Putting his arm around her, he led her into his bedroom, then lay back as she cooed and stroked him.

“Why won’t you wed me, Red?” he asked her, as he had asked her many times before.

“Be content with what you have,” she told him.

“I want more, Red.”

“All men want more.”

“I cannot imagine a life without you.”

“Nor do you need to. I am here now.” With that she began to apply the skills of her twenty years as a whore. His happiness was complete within a few heartbeats. She lay beside him for politeness’s sake until he dozed, then walked out into his kitchen and ate several of the cakes. If he had been as good a lover as he was a baker, she would have wed him in an instant.

He had also prepared a basket of bread for her. Gathering it up, she left the house. She had intended to return home by a different route, having no wish to pass the body of the blond man or, worse, be there when Silfanos and his men were still in the act of murder. But she was tired and in no mood for a detour. She decided to creep to the edge of the square, peep around the corner, and then if necessary keep to the shadows, moving silently.

When she reached the corner, she could hear no sounds of laughter or song and guessed that the crime already had been committed. Peeping into the square, she was amazed to see the blond man still sitting there, nursing a cup of wine. Sprawled out on the ground around him were the bodies of four men. Involuntarily, she gasped. The warrior heard her and looked up.

“Red!” he shouted happily. “You came back!”

He stood up, then slumped back. “Oh,” she heard him say, “I think a little too much wine has flowed.”

Red moved across the square, scanning the bodies. Silfanos was not among them. “Are they dead?” she asked.

He considered the question solemnly. “Could be, I suppose.” He kicked out at the nearest man, who groaned. “Probably not, though.”

“Where is the other one?”

“Ran off. By the gods, I’ve seen hounds who couldn’t run that fast.” He chuckled, then burped. “It’s been a good day, Red. I’ve eaten my fill, shagged”—lifting his hand, he counted his fingers—“four times, and had a fine fight. Best of all, though, I’ve seen you.”

“You need to leave here,” she said. “The other man will come back, and he’ll bring more robbers with him.”

“I’ll swat them like flies,” he shouted, swinging his arm and falling off his seat. He grunted, then pushed himself to his feet. “Need a piss,” he said, lifting his tunic and urinating on the unconscious man lying closest to him. “Stupid thieves,” he muttered as he finished. “All the time I had rings they sat and drank with me. Then, when all the rings were gone, they sought to rob me.”

“They wanted your breastplate,” she said. “Now, come along. It is time to go.”

“I haven’t got any rings, Red. Nothing to give you.”

“Just walk with me, idiot!” she stormed. “Otherwise you’ll be lying here dead!” Stepping in, she took his arm and dragged him across the square. He grinned at her, then glanced down at the basket she was carrying.

“Oh, bread!” he said. “Can we stop and eat? I’m a little peckish.”

“In a while,” she assured him, pulling him on. “Where are you staying?”

“Palace,” he said. “Somewhere. With Kalliades. My friend.”

“I don’t know any Kalliades.”

They walked on through narrow alleys and side streets, emerging at last onto a broad avenue. “Need a little sleep now,” Banokles told her, slumping against the wall of a building.

Red heard the distant sound of angry shouts. “You can’t sleep here,” she said. “My house is close by. Can you walk that far?”

“With you? To your house?” Grinning at her again, he sucked in a huge breath and pushed himself away from the wall. “Lead on, beauty!”

They made it to another side street. Banokles halted there, fell to his knees, and vomited. “That’s better,” he said.

Two men ran around the corner. Red stepped swiftly back into the shadows. The men rushed at Banokles. One of them had a club. Banokles saw them, gave a great shout, and charged. Red saw him strike the first man, who was catapulted from his feet. The second attacker leaped upon Banokles. The warrior grabbed the man, hoisted him high, then hurled him into his unconscious comrade. Banokles staggered back a step, then rushed in as the man struggled to rise. A huge fist cracked into the attacker’s chin, and he slumped senseless to the ground.

Sweeping up the club, Banokles staggered back toward the avenue. Red ran after him. “Not that way, you fool!” she hissed.

“Oh, hello, Red. Thought you’d left me.”

“Follow me,” she ordered him. Obediently he swung behind her, the club on his shoulder. She led him through the gate at the rear of her house, then dropped the locking bar in place behind them.

Once inside the building, she lit a lantern. Banokles slumped into a chair. His head fell back, and his breathing deepened. Red stood there, looking at the man in the lanternlight.

“Built like an ox, brain like a sparrow,” she said.

Leaving him in the chair, she walked through to her bedroom at the rear of the house. Stripping off her gown, she laid it over a chair, then hid the thong of silver rings behind a recess in the wall before climbing into bed. She was just falling sleep when she heard the big man moving about. He called her name.

“I am in here,” she replied, irritated.

A naked figure loomed in the doorway. He stepped inside, stumbled over a chair, then bumped into the bed. Pulling back the covers, he slid in alongside her.

“I take no clients in my own bed,” she told him.

“Oh, don’t worry, Red,” he replied sleepily. “I couldn’t possibly shag just now.”

Within moments, his warm body nestled alongside her, he was asleep.

∗ ∗ ∗

Odysseus strolled across the gathering field, his bow Akilina in his hand, a quiver of long arrows hanging from his shoulder. He stared straight ahead, walking as if he did not have a care in the world, but his heart was hammering and he felt as nervous as a colt. Of all the pleasures in the wide world there were only two to compare with the joy of competing in the games: holding his wife close on a cold winter’s night and watching the first of the spring breezes billow the sail of the
Penelope.

Even the huge satisfaction of storytelling paled against the exquisite moment of true competition, when he would notch an arrow to beautiful Akilina and send a shaft hurtling into the target. Odysseus cared not if they were moving targets hauled on carts or straw models of beasts and men. If there was one talent Odysseus believed he possessed, it was to shoot a bow better than any man alive.

A huge crowd had gathered at the far end of the field, and many of the contestants were already standing by. Odysseus could see Meriones, who had beaten him once in five contests, and the callow sons of Nestor, who would be lucky to progress to the later rounds.

It was a fine day, the sun high and bright, a subtle breeze whispering across the field. Licking his finger, Odysseus tested the breeze. It was not strong enough to divert an arrow shot from Akilina.

Despite his excitement, the tensions of the previous day remained. The beaching of the
Penelope
a long ride from the city gates had both enraged and shamed him. To suffer such an indignity was bad enough, but to endure it in the company of Nestor and Idomeneos was unbearable. Neither of his fellow kings had commented on the slight, which made it worse. A little joshing would have given Odysseus the opportunity to make a jest of it.

Today, however, the world was beginning to look brighter. As soon as he had reached the city, Odysseus had inquired after Helikaon and had discovered that he was recovering from the assassin’s wounds. That joyous news lifted his spirits, but even so, in the back of his mind the insult slowly simmered. The beachmaster would not have dared make such a decision had someone in higher authority not ordered it. That someone could only be Priam. This was baffling to Odysseus, for though not a friend to the Trojan king, he was a neutral. In these troublesome times, with the world on the brink of war, it would be an act of madness to make an enemy of him. Perhaps, he decided, it was not about him at all. Perhaps it was intended as a slight to Idomeneos and Nestor. Even so, it would be foolish, for Priam would need both of those kings in his camp to thwart Agamemnon.

Pushing such thoughts aside, Odysseus strolled onto the archery field. He could feel all eyes on him as he approached the men waiting to participate in the tourney. He glanced down the shooting line and saw that the targets were dummies of straw set no more than fifty paces distant.

“By Hermes, Meriones, a man could throw an arrow over such a paltry distance,” he complained.

“Indeed he could, my friend,” the black-bearded Meriones responded. “At this range almost no one will be eliminated.”

To entertain the crowd both he and Meriones stepped forward, sending shaft after shaft into the farthest targets. Men began to cheer and stamp their feet. Eventually, their quivers empty, the two old friends wandered out onto the field to gather their arrows.