On the day of the last swim the shaded rock pool echoed with their laughter. Such sounds were rarely heard within the palace high on the rocky hillside above them. Father was a hard man and quick to anger. Servants and slaves trod warily, and even retainers spoke in low whispers.
Awake now, in the light of a golden dawn, she felt the dream still clinging to her like sea mist upon rock. Piria shivered. He had not been cruel when she was young. Often he would sit her on his knee, twisting his fingers through her long fair hair. Sometimes he would tell stories. Always they were harsh tales of sword and blood, of gods donning human form to bring chaos and destruction to the world of men. Then a change had come over him. Looking back, she understood now that it had mirrored the pubescent change in her. His eyes were on her often, his manner becoming more surly and cold. Piria had been perplexed at the time.
On that terrible day understanding had arrived like a lance. She had been sitting naked with her brother when their father had stormed down the rock path, shouting abuse at her, calling her a whore. “How dare you cavort naked before the eyes of a man?” he screamed.
It was mystifying, for she and her brother had swum naked together throughout childhood. Father’s rage was towering. He ordered her brother to dress himself and return to the palace. When Achilles had gone, he grabbed Piria by the hair.
“You want to cavort with men, slut? Then I shall teach you what that means.”
Even now she could not suffer the memory of the rape that followed and closed her mind to it, her eyes scanning the beach, seeking something to divert her.
Odysseus was talking to a stout merchant who was walking around the pig enclosure, examining the beasts. Kalliades and Banokles were standing apart from the crew, talking quietly. She saw the black man Bias approaching her. He was carrying a breastplate of leather and a round leather helm.
“Odysseus told me to bring you these,” he said. “There is likely to be a fight, and that will be preceded by a rain of arrows.”
“Who are you fighting?”
“Pirates.”
Fear welled up in her, but she did not show it. Instead, she thanked him, removed the cloak of Banokles, and slipped on the breastplate. It was crudely fashioned, but it fitted her well. The helm was too large, so she put it aside. Moments later she saw Bias take another breastplate to Kalliades. As he donned it, he saw her looking at him and smiled. She looked away.
Odysseus approached her. “Best you get aboard,” he said.
“Did you get a fine price for your pigs?”
“No. Had to pay Oristhenes to look after the wounded we have to leave behind. Idomeneos assures me he will repay me, but the man is a miser with a poor memory when it comes to settling debts. I am still waiting for a wager he lost twelve seasons back.” He smiled and shook his head. “Kings! Not one you can trust farther than you can toss an ox.” He fell silent then and stood staring back at the pigs.
“I think Ganny will miss you,” she said.
Odysseus laughed. “He squealed when I took that yellow cloak from him. I think he had grown to like it. I may visit him next time I’m sailing these seas.”
“He will be smoked meat by then,” she said.
“No, not Ganny! Oristhenes assures me he will be treated like a king among pigs. He will be happy here.”
“And you trust Oristhenes to keep his word?”
Odysseus sighed. “I trust in his sense of self-preservation. I did not sell Ganny to him. Ganny is my pig. Oristhenes can use him for breeding, and for that he will ensure he is well fed. Oristhenes knows me. He will do as he promises.”
“Or you will kill him, Odysseus?”
“I would not kill a man over a pig. I might just burn his house and sell him into slavery. But I’d not kill him. But let us talk about you, Kalliope. Why did you run from Thera? It was foolish and beyond dangerous.”
“You think me some witless girl?” she snapped. “My time on Thera was the happiest of my life. No vile and devious men, no betrayers, no rapists. I am seeking a friend, for a seeress told me she would need me before the end.”
“The end of what?”
“I do not know. The seeress saw flames and burning and my friend fleeing savage killers.”
“And you will save her?” The question was asked gently, with not a trace of contempt.
“If I can, I will.”
Odysseus nodded. “I fear the vision may be true. A war is coming that cannot be long avoided. Your friend is Andromache. I met her on her way to Troy. Fine woman. I liked her. We made a pact, she and I, that I would always tell her the truth.” He chuckled. “Not a promise I made lightly. Storytellers fashion lies from truth and truth from lies. We have to. Truth is all too often dull.”
“Did she speak of me?” Piria asked before she could stop herself.
“She spoke of her love for Thera and how unhappy she was to be leaving. You love her greatly, don’t you?”
“She is my life!” Piria said defiantly, looking into his eyes for signs of contempt or disgust.
“Beware who you share that with,” he said softly.
“Are you not going to tell me that my feelings will change when the right man comes into my life?”
“Why so angry?” he countered. “You think I will condemn you? Love is a mystery. We embrace it where we can. Mostly we do not choose whom we love. It just happens. A voice speaks to us in ways the ear cannot hear. We recognize a beauty that the eye does not see. We experience a change in our hearts that no voice can describe. There is no evil in love, Kalliope.”
“Tell that to my father. Tell it to the priests, the kings, and the warriors of this cursed world.”
He smiled. “Ganny is a brave pig, and I like him. I would waste no time, though, trying to teach him the skills of sailing.”
Piria found her anger fading, and she smiled at the Ugly King. “Now, that is a good thing to see,” he said. They stood together for a little while, and Piria felt the warmth of the sun on her face and the freshness of the sea breeze in her cropped hair. She turned toward Odysseus.
“You said storytellers fashion truth from lies. How can that be?” she asked him.
“A question I have long pondered.” He pointed at Bias. “I once told a tale about a winged demon who attacked the Penelope. I said that Bias, the greatest spear thrower in the world, hurled a javelin so powerfully that it tore through the demon’s wings and saved the ship from destruction. Bias was so taken with the story that he practiced and practiced with the javelin and finally won a great prize at a king’s games. You see? He had become the greatest because I lied about it. And therefore it was no longer a lie.”
“I understand,” Piria said. “And how can the truth be made into a lie?”
“Ah, lass, that is something none of us can avoid.” Bending down, he scooped up the small clay plate on which Bias had brought her food the night before. “And what is this?” he asked her.
“A plate of clay.”
“Yes, clay. And it was fashioned by the hands of a man, using water and thick earth and then fire. Without the fire it would not have become pottery, and without the water it could not have been shaped. So it is earth, it is water, it is fire. All these facts are true. So is this a true plate?”
“Yes, it is a true plate,” she said.
Suddenly Odysseus struck the plate with his fist, shattering it. “And is it still a plate?” he asked.
“No.”
“And yet it is still pottery, still clay and water and fire. Do you think I changed a truth with my fist? Did I make it a lie?”