“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.”
Odysseus fell silent once more. He seemed to shiver at old memories, then shook himself. “Then the woman rose from her rug. She was no longer young, but a finer-looking woman you never saw. She walked over to old Abydos and laid her hand on his shoulder. He smiled at her. Now, I’ve told you he was an ugly man. But from that day on he was no longer ugly. Strangest thing, for his features did not change. He looked exactly the same, only there was no ugliness in him. ‘I welcome you,’ she said, and her voice was like honey, smooth and sweet, a sound you could feast on. Now, Meleagros had a boil on his neck, a great angry thing, leaking pus. She touched it, and the redness faded away, leaving only clean, sun-browned skin. Well, not one of us even thought of going to find Praxinos. But then, we didn’t have to. Just before dusk he stormed into the cave, sword drawn. We had no time to think and certainly no time to stop him. He rushed across the cave floor and plunged his blade into the woman. She fell back with a cry. Then he wrenched the fleece from the wall and fled with it back to the ship.
“We didn’t go with him. We were reeling from what we’d seen. Then old Abydos knelt beside the dying healer. There were tears in his eyes. Meleagros dropped down beside him. ‘I wish I had magic for you,’ he said. ‘Magic like yours.’ And he laid his hand on her brow. And you know what? That damned boil suddenly flared up again on his neck, and the wound in her chest seemed to close a little. There were some people close by. I swung to them. ‘Did she heal you?’ I asked them. They nodded. ‘Then have the courage to give back the gift,’ I urged them. One by one they came forward. It wrenched the heart to see it. One old woman touched her, and the crone’s hands began to twist grotesquely, her arms shriveling and withering. Another man leaned over her, and a huge growth appeared on his throat. And all the while the healer’s wound was closing further, shrinking. At last she sighed and opened her eyes. We helped her up, and she gazed around at the cripples and the dying all about her. Then she spread her arms, and a golden light blazed throughout the cave. I was blinded for a moment, but when my sight came back, all the sickness and suffering in the place had passed. Everyone was well again.”
His voice faded away.
“What about the fleece?” a pirate cried.
“Ah, yes, the fleece. I was angry as I headed back to the ship. I had decided then to gut Praxinos like a fish, throat to groin, and throw his body into the river. A lot of us felt the same way. When we reached the Bloodhawk, we saw him sitting in the captain’s chair, the fleece on his lap. We scrambled over the side and advanced on him. The light was fading now, and we heard him cry out: ‘Help me! For pity’s sake!’
“That was when I saw his hands. They had turned to gold—not covered in dust but solid metal. And as we watched, we could see the gold flowing slowly up his arms. Old Abydos moved alongside him and rapped his knuckles against Praxinos’ right leg. It clanged. I looked into the captain’s eyes then. By all the gods, I never saw such terror. We just stood there. He was dead before the gold reached his face, yet still it spread until even his hair was gold thread. Once it was over, we eased the fleece from his knees. Not a speck of gold remained. It was just a fleece.”
“What did you do?” another man asked.
“Nothing we could do. Abydos took the fleece back to the healer, and we broke up Praxinos and shared him among us. I used most of my share to have my first ship built. I did keep one small piece to remind me of the perils of being too greedy.”
Odysseus dipped his hand into the pouch at his side and pulled out a finger of solid gold, which he tossed to the nearest man. “Pass it around, lad. But don’t hold it too long. It is cursed.” The seaman looked at it in the firelight, then handed it swiftly to the man beside him. The finger of gold passed from hand to hand, coming at last to Kalliades. He held it up. It was perfect in every way, from the broken nail down to the creases at the knuckle joint. He offered it to Banokles. “I don’t want it,” the big man muttered, leaning back. Finally it was returned to Odysseus, who dropped it back into the pouch.
“Another tale!” a young pirate shouted.
“No, lad, too tired tonight. But if you are heading northeast, you can beach with us tomorrow. I’ll likely be in the mood for a tale then. I’ll be traveling with King Idomeneos. He’s also a fine storyteller.”
“He’s the man we are hunting,” said the first man who had spoken to Odysseus upon his arrival.
“I know that, donkey face. It is a foolish mission. You think to take him for ransom. And who would pay? Idomeneos has two sons, and both would like to be king in his place. They wouldn’t give you a copper ring. They’d let you kill him. Of course, honor would then insist they brought the entire Kretan fleet in seach of you. Memory tells me it is more than two hundred galleys. They’d scour the seas.” Then Odysseus chuckled. “But I read men well, and I see you already know this. Therefore, your quest is more about blood vengeance than ransom. What did Idomeneos do to you?”
“I don’t answer to you, Odysseus.”
“True. You’ll answer to them, though,” he said harshly, gesturing toward the waiting pirates. “They sail for plunder, not revenge. No profit in blood.”
“He stole my wife and killed my sons,” the pirate said, his voice shaking. “And when he’d finished with her, he sold her to the Gypptos. I never found her.”
Odysseus was silent for a moment, and when he finally spoke, his voice had lost its harshness. “Then you have reason to hate. No man would deny that. If anyone took my Penelope I would hunt them down and see them suffer. A man can do no less. But it is a personal matter, and the men with you will risk death for no reward. Idomeneos did not take their wives or slay their sons.”
With that the Ugly King prodded Ganny with his toe, then set off back toward the cliff path. The pig stood for a moment, then ran after him. Kalliades and Banokles followed.
“That was a fine story,” Kalliades said. “Where did you really get that golden finger?”
Odysseus looked tired, and his reply was toneless. “It is mine,” he said, waggling his index finger. “I had a goldsmith make a cast for me last summer and then fill the cast with gold.”
“How many pirate ships will come against us now?” Kalliades asked.
“Probably two, three at worst,” Odysseus said. “Issopon is a wise old fighter. He heard my words and will draw his galley from the action, I think. Donkey face is another matter entirely. He has a need for blood. And I cannot blame him. Idomeneos always was a cruel and selfish man.”
Piria slept a little, but her dreams were troubled. She saw again the day she and her brother had gone swimming for the last time in the rock pool beneath the marble boulders. Three years older than she, at fifteen Achilles was already a handsome young man, strong and athletic, delighting in his prowess with javelin and sword. He was also a fine rider and wrestler. Father adored him, pouring compliments upon him and showering him with gifts. Piria was never jealous. She adored Achilles and delighted in his successes.