Odysseus had no wish for conversation. His mind was still reeling from the loss of his comrades. But this man had saved his life several times that day, so he drew in a deep breath and considered the question. “What is your skill?” he asked at last.
“I’m a fistfighter.”
“And Kalliades?”
“Swordsman.”
“There are no sword events in the wedding games. Only the Mykene have death bouts.”
“Ah. He’s also a fine runner.”
“Leukon is our fistfighter, Banokles. And you may recall that the last time I saw you in a fistfight, you were lying on your back with your arms over your head.”
“True,” Banokles said. “But there were five of your lads, and I told you I was only catching my breath.”
Odysseus smiled. “There will be some great fighters in Troy. Truly great. I couldn’t enter a man who might shame Ithaka.”
“I wouldn’t do that! I’m a terrific fighter.”
“You are a great warrior, Banokles. I’ve seen that today. But fistfighting is different.”
“I could beat Leukon,” Banokles said confidently.
Odysseus looked into his eyes. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said. “Tonight we will be having a funeral feast for our friends who died today. We will speak their praises and offer libations for their safe journey to the Elysian Fields. There are not enough men without wounds to stage any funeral games. But if Leukon agrees, you and he can fight in honor of the departed.”
“Wonderful,” Banokles said happily. “And if I win, we can be Ithakans in Troy?”
“You can,” Odysseus said.
He watched the big man amble away. More heart than sense, he thought. Glancing around the deck, he caught sight of Leukon and called him over. Swiftly he told the giant of Banokles’ request.
Leukon shrugged. “You want me to fight him?”
“Yes.”
“Then I will.”
“He says he can beat you.”
Leukon stared across at Banokles. “His reach is shorter than mine, which means he’ll take more blows. He’s got a good neck, strong arms. Chin looks solid. He has the makings of a fighter. Yes, it will be good practice.”
After Leukon had gone, Odysseus felt a fresh wave of weariness. He wanted to lie down on the deck and sleep, but his conscience pricked him. What kind of example will it set if you are seen sleeping as others labor?
A pox on examples, he told himself. I am the king. I do as I please. With that he stretched himself out, laid his head on his arm, and slept.
Toward midafternoon, the last of the clouds disappeared and the sky blazed with a brilliant blue. There was no breeze, and the heat increased. A section of old sail was raised to create a canopy over the port side of the Penelope’s stern deck. Nestor, his sons, and Idomeneos rested there.
Piria wandered to the prow and gazed out over the blue water. Sharp pain spasmed through her lower body, the agony so great that she almost cried out. Instead she closed her eyes, seeking to steady her breathing and ride the pain, blend with it, absorb it. It did not pass completely; it never had since the savagery of the attack on her. It merely ebbed and flowed, sapping her strength.
It has only been a few days, she told herself. I will heal. They will not break me. I am Kalliope, and I am stronger than any man’s hate. Yet the pain was worse than before, and it frightened her.
Opening her eyes, she tried to concentrate on the brilliance of the blue sea, sparkling with sunlight. It was so peaceful now that the events of the morning seemed almost a dream. She had killed men this day, sending sharp arrows to pierce their flesh, just as they had pierced hers. She would have thought that the slaying of pirates by her own hand would have been somehow fulfilling—like a just punishment. Yet where was the satisfaction? Where was the joy in revenge? Piria even felt a little sadness for the death of the young man Demetrios. He had not spoken to her, but she had observed him with his fellows, seeing his shyness and sensing that he felt inadequate in the company of such veterans. She had not seen him die but had watched as they laid his body alongside his seven dead comrades. In death he seemed little more than a child, and the expression on his face was one of utter shock.
Do not pity him, cried the dark voice of her fears. He was a man, and the evil of his gender would have shown itself as he grew older. Do not feel sympathy for any of them! They are all vile.
Not all of them, she thought. There is Kalliades.
He is no different! You will see! His kind words mask the same savage soul, the same need to dominate and possess. Do not trust him, stupid girl.
She saw him walking toward her, and the twin curses of her need and her fear clashed inside her. He is my friend.
He will betray you.
Kalliades smiled a greeting, then looked out over the water, as if seeking for something. She turned to lean on the rail, and the pain subsided a little. The relief almost brought tears to her eyes. Kalliades continued to scan the water. His expression was serious, yet again she thought that he did not give the impression of a man of violence. There was no suggestion of cruelty in him.
“You do not look like a warrior,” she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
“Is that a compliment or an insult?”
“Merely an observation.”
“Meriones was impressed with your bow skills. I would guess he didn’t expect you to be a warrior, either. Though obviously Odysseus did.”
“An astute man,” she said.
Kalliades laughed. “Astute he may be, but he’s terrifying to fight alongside. Twice he nearly took my ear off. I think I spent more time avoiding his wild slashes than I did fighting the pirates.” He fell silent for a moment, and she glanced at him. “It made me proud when Meriones praised you,” he said.
The dark voice in her head cried out triumphantly, You see! His pride. Already he seeks to own you. Anger flared. “What right do you have to be proud of me?” she stormed. “I am not like a horse of yours that has won a race.”
“That is not how I meant it. I was just…” He glanced down, and his face changed. “You are bleeding,” he said. “Are you wounded?”
Piria felt the trickle of blood running down the inside of her thigh. The sea breeze had flicked open her torn gown, exposing the scarlet stain. Pain tore through her, almost beyond bearing. Am I wounded? Stupid, stupid man! My body has been ripped and torn, my flesh pounded and bruised. My heart and soul have been assaulted and defiled.
Are you wounded?
Outrage spilled from her like floodwater bursting through a riverbank. Her eyes filled with tears, and her vision misted. The figure before her was no longer Kalliades. In that moment he became the father she had loved, who had betrayed her, the brother she had adored, who had spurned her. Hatred and despair vied for control.
Angry words poured from her in a torrent. “You think I don’t know what you really are?” she cried. “Your soft words are lies! Your friendship is a lie. You want what all men want. I see it in your eyes. Come on, then. Beat upon me with your fists, bite my flesh, curl your fingers around my throat and choke off my breath. Then you can step away from me and say: ‘Look what you made me do, slut!’” Her breathing ragged, she backed away from him. In the silence that followed she became aware that her outburst had been shrill and that crewmen were staring at her. Kalliades remained where he was, and when he spoke, his voice was soft, his tone conciliatory.