“What of him?”
“That is Nestor of Pylos. When I was a child, I worked in his flax fields. I was a slave and the son of a slave. The king has many sons. Every one of them was sent to work among the slaves in the fields for a full season. Their hands bled; their backs ached. My mother told me the king did this so that his sons would understand the harshness of life beyond the palace and not be scornful of those who worked in the fields. Nestor himself journeyed through his lands, talking to those who labored for him, seeing that they were well fed and clothed. He is a good man.”
“Who still owns slaves,” she said.
Kalliades was bemused by the comment. “Of course he owns slaves. He is a king.”
“Was your mother born a slave?”
“No. She was taken from a village on the Lykian coast.”
“As I was—by pirates?”
“I suppose so.”
“Then Nestor is just like them. What he wants, he takes. But he is called a good man because he feeds and clothes the people he has torn from their loved ones and their families. The evil of it all sickens me.”
Kalliades fell silent. There had always been slaves, as there had always been kings. There always would be. How else would civilization flourish? He glanced toward the Penelope.
Several crewmen had harnessed a canvas sling to two ropes. They had lowered the ropes from the deck of the beached ship, and men on the shore were trying to lift a pig into the sling. The beast began to squeal and thrash its legs. The sound panicked the other pigs. Four of them began to run along the beach, chased by sailors. The old crone with the staff shook her head and walked away from the mayhem. Kalliades saw Banokles hurl himself at a large pig, which swerved as Banokles was in the air. The warrior sprawled into the sand and slid headfirst into the water. Within moments the scene on the beach was chaotic. Odysseus began bellowing orders.
The pig in the sling had been hauled halfway to the deck but was thrashing so wildly that the ropes were swinging from side to side. Suddenly the beast began to urinate, showering the men below. The remaining pigs, some fifteen in all, bunched together and charged down the beach directly toward Odysseus. There was nothing for him to do but run. The sight of the stocky king in his wide golden belt being chased by a herd of squealing pigs was too much for the crew. Laughter broke out.
“It is going to be a long day,” Kalliades said. He glanced at Piria. She was laughing, too.
It was good to see.
At that moment Odysseus halted in his run, swinging around to face the herd. “Enough!” he bellowed, his voice booming like thunder. The animals, startled by the noise, swerved away from him. One huge black pig trotted up to the king and began to nuzzle his leg. Odysseus leaned down and patted its broad back. Then he strode back toward the Penelope, the black pig ambling along beside him. The other animals began to made soft squealing sounds and fell in behind the king.
“Laugh at me, would you, you misbegotten cowsons,” Odysseus stormed as he approached his crew. “By the balls of Ares, if I could teach these pigs to row, I’d get rid of you all.”
“An unusual man,” Kalliades observed. “Can he be trusted?”
“Why are you asking me?” Piria said.
“Because you know him. I saw it in his eyes when you spoke.”
Piria remained silent for a while. Then she nodded. “I knew him. He visited my father’s… home… many times. I cannot answer your question, Kalliades. Odysseus was once a slave trader. Years ago he was known as the Sacker of Cities. I would not willingly put my trust in any man who earned such a title. As it is, I have no choice.”
CHAPTER FOUR
VOYAGE OF THE PIGS
Bias the Black was sitting quietly among the rocks, an old cloak around his broad shoulders. The crew was still struggling to load the pigs. Bias was not tempted to help them. Close to fifty, he needed to protect his javelin arm if he was to have any chance in the games at Troy. So he sat quietly, honing his bone-handled fighting knives. Odysseus claimed his liking for knives was part of his heritage as a Nubian, but this seemed unlikely to Bias, who had been born on Ithaka and had known no other Nubians as a youngster. His mother certainly had never spoken about knife fighting.
“You could be the grandson of the king of Nubia,” Odysseus had said once. “You could be heir to a vast kingdom with golden palaces and a thousand concubines.”
“And if my prick had fingers, it could scratch my arse,” Bias had replied.
“That’s the problem with you, Bias. You have no imagination,” Odysseus had chided him.
Bias had laughed then. “Why would a man need imagination who travels with you, King of Storytellers? Why, with you I have journeyed through the sky on a flying ship, fought demons, hurled my javelin into the moon, and strung a necklace of stars for a jungle empress. I have had sailors ask me when I am returning to my homeland to take up my crown. Why is it that so many people believe your stories?”
“They like to believe,” Odysseus had told him. “Most men work from dawn to dusk. They live hard, they die young. They want to think that the gods smile down on them, that their lives have more meaning than in fact they do. The world would be a sadder place without stories, Bias.”
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.”