Bias smiled at the memory, then sheathed his fighting knives and stood. Odysseus was walking toward him.
“You idle cowson,” the Ugly King said. “What’s the point of being built like a bull if you don’t use your strength when it’s needed?”
“I use it,” Bias said. “Not for pigs, though. And I don’t see you hauling them up to the deck.”
“That’s because I’m the king,” Odysseus replied, grinning. He sat himself down, gesturing to Bias to join him. “So what do you make of our passengers?”
“I like them.”
“You don’t even know them.”
“Then why ask me?”
Odysseus sighed. “The men are Mykene outlaws. I’m thinking of handing them over in Kios. There’ll be gold for them.” Bias laughed then. “What is amusing you?”
Bias looked at his king. “I have served you for nigh on twenty-five years. I’ve seen you drunk, sober, angry, and sad. I’ve seen you mean, bitter, and vengeful, and I’ve seen you generous and forgiving. By the gods, Odysseus, there’s nothing about you I don’t know.”
At that moment the last of the pigs broke away from the men trying to load it into the canvas sling. It ran along the beach, squealing. Several crew members raced after it. Bias fell silent, watching the chase. It was Leukon who caught the beast, hoisting it up in his huge arms and striding back toward the Penelope.
“It is like this pig venture,” Bias continued. “You say it is about profit. It is not. It is about dead Portheos. His stupid plan, a plan that meant so much to him. You laughed at him for it. Now you grieve for him, and this is your tribute to his memory.”
“I can only suppose there is a point to this,” Odysseus snapped.
“Yes, and you already know what it is. You can talk all you like about selling Kalliades and the big man for gold. It is not in you, Odysseus. Two brave men rescued a young woman on this island, and they have come to you for help. You want me to believe you are minded to betray them? I think not. If all the gods of Olympos descended on us and demanded you give them up, you’d refuse. And I’ll tell you something else: Every man in the crew would stand alongside you when you did.”
“Why would they do anything so foolish?” Odysseus asked softly, his spurt of anger fading.
“Because they listen to your stories of heroes, Ugly One, and they know the truth of them.”
The day was calm and the breeze light as the Penelope put to sea. Kalliades, Banokles, and Piria stood on the left of the small aft deck. On the right Odysseus manned the long steering oar while Bias called out the beat for the rowers. Nestor and his two sons were on the foredeck, some twenty paces forward.
Kalliades stood silently, marveling at the beauty of the old ship. Drawn up on the beach, she had looked blocky and coarse, her timbers worn. But she glided upon the Great Green like a dancer. The pirate ship had wallowed and struggled through the waves, but her keel had been encrusted with barnacles, her crew careless and lacking in skill. The thirty men of the Penelope were highly trained, the oars rising and dipping in perfect unison.
The small herd of pigs was clustered in a rectangular enclosure on the main deck. It had been cunningly crafted, two masts on raised wooden blocks with a fence of knotted rope between them. The animals seemed calm enough as the voyage began.
Kalliades glanced at Piria. In the bright sunshine her face was tired and pale, the heavy bruises standing out. There was swelling beneath her right eye, and Kalliades saw deep, angry scratches on the skin of her neck. Who are you? he wondered. How is it you know Odysseus?
He had noted her hesitation when speaking of the visits Odysseus had paid to her father. The word “home” had been used in place of something else. What? Farm? Palace? Estate? There was little doubt in Kalliades’ mind that Piria was from a wealthy family. She was staring out to sea, lost in thought and oblivious to his gaze. Kalliades had told the pirate he considered her beautiful. He had said it to deflect the casual insult the man had offered her. Now he realized there was truth in the compliment. How strange, he thought, that the slashing away of her hair should have revealed such beauty. Her neck was long and slender, her profile exquisite. She saw him looking at her, and her gaze hardened, her mouth tightening. Then she turned away from him.
He thought about speaking to her, offering soft words, but decided against it. You have other concerns, he chided himself. Odysseus knew your name. That had been a surprise. Kalliades did not consider himself famous and had no reason to believe his name was known outside areas of Mykene influence. The fact that it was meant the king of Ithaka might also know of the bounty Agamemnon King had placed on his head.
He looked across at Banokles. The man was completely untroubled by thoughts of betrayal or capture. He had wandered down the narrow gap between the enclosure and the rowers and was chatting amiably to the blond sailor Leukon. Banokles had a gift for making friends.
Odysseus called Bias to him, instructing him to take the steering oar. Then the stocky king eased past Piria and moved toward the foredeck. As he came abreast of the enclosure, the largest of the black pigs gave a little grunt and leaned toward him. Odysseus halted and scratched at the beast’s ear. The pig tilted its head up. Odysseus patted it, then moved on to stand beside Nestor. The black pig watched him.
“Always had a way with animals,” Bias said. “Except horses. Worst rider you’ll ever see.”
As the morning wore on, the sun grew warmer and the breeze faded away. Banokles’ warning about the pigs proved false. In fact they were fastidious animals. The floor of their enclosure had been covered with dry grass to soak up any urine, but the animals used only the forward end of their pen to defecate. This was fortunate for those on the aft deck—not so lucky, though, for Nestor and his sons. The elderly ruler was holding a cloth over his nose. Unluckiest of all, however, were the lead oarsmen, whose rowing seats were immediately to the left and right of a growing pile of ordure.
By midafternoon, as the Penelope sailed serenely past a cluster of islands, heavy clouds began to form above the ship. The wind picked up. Kalliades glanced at the darkening sky. “Storm brewing?” he asked Bias.
The black man shook his head. “Going to be brisk, though. Not a problem for us. The island yonder is where we are headed.” He pointed to a distant golden mound close to the horizon. “We’ll beach on Titan’s Rock before sunset.”
The Penelope was sailing past a group of islands with high cliffs and narrow beaches. In the distance Kalliades saw what appeared to be a fast-moving dark cloud traveling against the wind. He pointed it out to Bias. It was a colossal flock of birds heading out to sea. Just then a school of some twenty or more dolphins burst into sight, leaping and twisting, then swimming at speed past the ship, heading in the same southerly direction as the birds.
“Something has alarmed both fish and fowl,” Bias said.
Someone groaned loudly. The lead rower, Leukon, overcome by the stench of the manure, let go of his oar and leaned over the side, emptying his belly into the sea. Banokles ran down the narrow gap between the pigpen and the rowers.
“I can take his place for a while,” he shouted.
“Do it, lad,” Bias called out.
Odysseus moved down from the foredeck as Leukon made his way toward the rear of the ship, away from the stench. Kalliades saw the largest of the pigs pushing through the herd toward Odysseus. Rearing up, it placed its front legs on the horizontal mast and squealed loudly. Leukon was passing by. Angrily he lashed out, his huge hand cracking against the pig’s snout. The animal gave a mighty scream and scrambled over the makeshift fence, launching itself at Leukon. All the pigs began to snort and squeal. Leukon was hurled from his feet, but he kicked out at the lunging pig, desperate to keep it away from him. The rower immediately to the left rose from his seat to aid his comrade. The pig lunged at him, then scrambled up onto the low rowing bench. Its trotters slid helplessly on the sleek wood, and before anyone could reach it, the beast plunged squealing into the sea.
>
Odysseus, furious now, ran at Leukon. “Why did you hit the pig?” he shouted.
“It annoyed me!” Leukon responded angrily.
“Ah,” Odysseus said. “Well, that’s fine, then. Something annoys you and you hit it. Did it make you feel better?”
“Yes.”
Without another word Odysseus threw a straight left that hammered into Leukon’s face, hurling the man from his feet once more. He hit the deck hard and lay there blinking in shock. “Well, you were right this time, dung brain,” Odysseus said. “I do feel better.” Swinging to the crew, he said: “Now let’s get Ganny back on board.”
At the beginning the task seemed simple. Several of the crewmen dived into the water, and looped ropes were lowered, ready to be tied around the errant pig. But every time the crewmen swam toward him, he attacked them, butting and biting. Finally Odysseus took off his golden belt and leaped into the sea himself.
Another huge flock of dark birds soared above the Penelope. Then the ship began to tremble. Kalliades grabbed for the rail. The wind died down, yet the sea, so calm only moments before, was choppy and uneven. Kalliades heard a distant rumble and saw boulders tumbling down a hillside on the nearest island.
Piria was staring at the distant avalanche. She looked at him. “Someone the gods loved just died,” she said. “Now they stamp upon the earth in their anguish.”
The men in the sea had forgotten the pig and were swimming swiftly back to the Penelope. Odysseus was hauled back to the deck and stood there glowering down at the pig.
“It’s only one beast. It is not worth risking the ship for,” Bias said. “That earthquake will bring some ship-cracking waves in its wake.”
Odysseus swung toward Leukon. “The cost of that pig comes from your share,” he said. “Any complaints?”
“No, my king.”
“Good! Oarsmen to your places.”
Heavy clouds were massing above the Penelope, but there was no rain. The wind was stronger, the sea less calm. The ship began to sway with the swell, and the rowers were forced to work hard to head for a narrow bay on the headland of Titan’s Rock. Odysseus had returned to the steering oar, while Bias walked along the deck calling out the beat.
“Lift… set… pull.”
Kalliades saw Piria looking back over the sea. “Can you still see it?” he asked.
“Yes. A long way back.”
Kalliades scanned the surging sea. Every now and again he saw a dark shape appear and then be hidden by the waves.
“You think it might make it to the shore?” Piria asked.
“No. It will die out there.”
“How sad.”
“No sadder than being slaughtered to feed a family. All living creatures must die. This is his time.” He smiled then. “You are concerned for a pig?”
Piria shrugged. “He has a name. Ganny. So he is not just a pig anymore.”
Odysseus was also glancing back. He saw Kalliades watching him. “Too far for a pig to swim,” the Ugly King said.
“By a long way,” Kalliades agreed. “A shame, though,” he added.
“I hate losing cargo,” Odysseus said, turning his gaze toward the beach. Then he bellowed at the crew: “Put your backs into it, you cowsons! You think I want to spend the night out here?”
The light of the full moon was so bright that it cast shadows on the beach of Titan’s Rock. The crew had set two cookfires and a larger campfire on higher ground sheltered by rocks around which most of the crew sat in a ragged circle. From her vantage point on a stony outcrop Piria watched the men playing knucklebones, gossiping, and arguing. The smell of cooking fish reached her, and her empty stomach spasmed. She was reluctant to leave her seat and walk across to the crew. They had forgotten about her as they went about their evening tasks, and she was unwilling to remind them, to see their eyes crawling over her, speculation in their faces. For the first time in days she felt a measure of peace, and she guarded it jealously, wrapping the borrowed red cloak of Banokles around her.
Her tension eased a little as she gazed at the brushwood enclosure where the pigs were settling for the night. The old woman Circe had been mischievous in her predictions. There had been no broken bones among the crewmen, only some scrapes and bruises as they had manhandled the pigs off the Penelope.
Now, in the moonlight, she could see that the herd had settled to sleep, their fat bodies pressed together, faint grunting sounds coming from the enclosure. Every now and then a beast would shift about, making his comrades squeal softly, before going back to sleep.
Piria was grateful to the pigs. They had distracted everyone’s attention from her during the voyage. Pain from her injuries flowed over her in nauseating waves. Her head ached constantly, and her neck moved uncomfortably on her shoulders, as if it had been wrenched off and then replaced by an unskilled craftsman.
She saw the black crewman Bias walking toward her, a bowl in one hand and a round section of corn bread in the other. Fear rose in her, and her hands began to tremble. She imagined him offering her the food and then making some crude approach. He came closer and handed her the bowl and the bread. She could smell fish and onions, but her fear had stripped away her hunger.
“You should come down to the fire,” he said. “It is a cold night.”
“I will sleep here,” she replied.
Bias looked doubtfully at the rocky ledge. “It looks uncomfortable.”
“I am used to discomfort.”
He nodded and turned back to the warmth of the fire. Piria nibbled on the corn bread and dipped it in the fish juices. She felt the warmth reach down to her stomach and realized her skin was like ice. She pulled her cloak more closely around her. A wave of despair and loneliness suddenly overcame her, and she felt the prick of tears under her eyelids.
“What have you done?” she whispered.
She remembered that summer night by the prophecy flame in the great temple. She and Andromache had been giggling, soused on wine, drunk on love. The two young women had asked old Melite to prophesy their future together. It was more in drunken jest than with any serious intent. All the priestesses knew that Melite had once been a seeress, but now that she was half-blind and touched in the head, her words were often meaningless. And so it had seemed at the time.
“No future here, young Kalliope,” Melite had said. “Before the days shorten, Andromache will be lost to the Blessed Isle, returned to the world of men and war.”
Despite their disbelief the two women were dismayed by the prophecy, which cut through the wine, dashing their carefree mood.
Eighteen days later came the ship, bearing the message from Hekabe, queen of Troy. Andromache was summoned before the first priestess and told she had been given leave to quit the Temple Isle in order to be wed to Hekabe’s son, the warrior Hektor. Piria had been with her in the council chamber.
“My sister, Paleste, is betrothed to Hektor,” Andromache had argued.
The high priestess had looked uncomfortable. “Paleste died in Troy. A sudden illness. Your father and King Priam have agreed that you will honor the pact they made.”
Piria knew that Paleste had been dear to Andromache and saw the shock register on her face. Her head dropped, and she was silent for a while; then her expression hardened, and she looked up at the high priestess, her green eyes glinting with anger. “Even so I will not go. No man has the right to demand that a priestess quit her sacred duty.”
“These are special circumstances,” said the high priestess, her tone uncomfortable.
“Special? You are selling me for Priam’s gold. What is special about that? Women have been sold since the gods were young. Always by men, though. It is what we have come to expect from them. But from you!” Andromache’s contempt filled the room like a seething mist, and Piria saw the high priestess blanch. She expected an angry response. Instead the older woman merely sighed.
“It is not just for Priam’s gold, Andromache, but for all that gold represents. Without it there would be
no temple on Thera, no princesses to placate the beast below. Yes, it would be wonderful if we could ignore the wishes of powerful men like Priam and do our duty here unmolested. Such freedom, however, is a dream. You are a priestess of Thera no longer. You will leave tomorrow.”
That night, as they had lain together for the last time, listening to the breeze whispering through the leaves of the tamarisk trees, Piria had begged Andromache to flee with her. “There are small boats on the far side of the isle. We could steal one and sail away.”
“No,” Andromache said, leaning down and kissing her tenderly. “There would be nowhere to run, my love, except into the world of men. You are happy here, Kalliope.”
“There can be no happiness without you.”
They talked long then, but finally Andromache said: “You must stay, Kalliope. Wherever I am, I will know you are safe, and this will strengthen me. I will be able to close my eyes and see the isle. I will see you run and laugh. I will picture you in our bed, and it will comfort me.”
And so, her heart seared, the woman now called Piria had watched the ship sail east in the morning sunlight.
Despite her sorrow she had tried to immerse herself in her duties, in the prayer chants and the offerings to the Minotaur rumbling beneath the mountain. The days had ground on, bleak and empty, through the winter. Then, in the spring, old Melite had collapsed while gathering crocuses and white lilies for the midday ritual. They had carried her to her room, but her breath was rasping, and all knew that death was not far off.
Piria had been watching beside her, late in the night, when the old woman had sat upright in her bed, her voice suddenly rich and strong. “Why are you here, child?” she asked.
“To be with you, Sister,” Piria replied, putting her arms around the old woman and easing her back onto the pillows.
“Ah, yes. On Thera. Where is Andromache?”
“She has gone. You remember? To Troy?”
“Troy,” the old woman whispered, closing her eyes. She was silent for a while; then she cried out, “Fire and death. I see Andromache now. She is running through the flames. There are savage men pursuing her.” The old woman began waving her arms. “Run!” she screamed.