“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.”