Had Nestor not been drinking heavily, he would have noticed the harsh edge in Odysseus’ reply. Penelope took a deep breath, preparing herself to intervene.
“I would have thought, kinsman, that you might have shared your good fortune with others of your blood rather than a foreigner,” Nestor said.
“And I would have,” Odysseus said, “save that the foreigner you speak of discovered the Seven Hills and opened up the trade route. It is not for me to share his secrets.”
“Only his gold,” Nestor snapped.
Odysseus hurled his wine cup across the room. “You insult me in my own palace?” he roared. “We had to fight for the Seven Hills against brigands and pirates and painted tribesmen. That gold was hard-won.”
The angry atmosphere lay thick in the megaron, and Penelope forced a smile. “Come, kinsmen. You sail for Troy tomorrow for the wedding feast and games. Do not let this night end with harsh words.”
The two men looked at each other. Then Nestor sighed. “Forgive me, old friend. My words were ill advised.”
“It is forgotten,” Odysseus said, gesturing at a servant to bring him another cup of wine.
Penelope heard the lie in the words and knew that Odysseus was still angry. “At least in Troy you will be able to forget Agamemnon for a while,” she said, seeking to change the subject.
“The western kings are all invited to see Hektor wed to Andromache,” Odysseus said glumly.
“But Agamemnon will not be there, surely?”
“I think he will, my love. Sly Priam will use the opportunity to bend some of the kings to his will. He will offer them gold and friendship. Agamemnon cannot afford not to go. He will be there.”
“Is he invited? After the Mykene attack on Troy?”
Odysseus grinned and imitated the pompous tones of the Mykene king. “I am saddened”—he spread his hands regretfully—“by the treacherous attack by rogue elements of the Mykene forces on our brother King Priam. The king’s justice has been meted out to the outlaws.”
“The man is a serpent,” Nestor admitted.
“Will your sons compete in the games?” Penelope asked him.
“Yes, they are both fine athletes. Antilochos will do well in the javelin, and Thrasymedes will beat any man in the archery tourney,” he added with a wink.
“There’ll be a green moon in the sky that day,” muttered Odysseus. “On my worst day I could spit an arrow farther than he could shoot one.”
Nestor laughed. “How coy you are with your wife in the room. The last time I heard you brag about your skills, you said you could fart an arrow farther.”
“That, too,” Odysseus said, reddening. Penelope was relieved to see good humor restored.
On the beach the Penelope was finally fully loaded, and the crew members were straining on ropes in the effort to get the old ship refloated. The two sons of Nestor were there, both waist-deep, their backs against the timbers of the hull, pushing her out into deeper water.
The queen of Ithaka stood and brushed pebbles from her dress of yellow linen and advanced down the beach to say farewell to her king. He stood with his first mate, Bias the Black, dark-skinned and grizzled, the son of a Nubian mother and an Ithakan sire. Beside him was a massively muscled blond sailor named Leukon, who was becoming a fistfighter of some renown. Leukon and Bias bowed as she approached, then moved off.
Penelope sighed. “And here we are again, my love, as always,” she said, “making our farewells.”
“We are like the seasons,” he replied. “Ever constant in our actions.”
Reaching out, she took his hand. “And yet this time is different, my king. You know it, too. I fear you will have hard choices to make. Do not make bullheaded decisions you will regret afterward and cannot change. Do not take these men into a war, Odysseus.”
“I have no wish for war, my love.” He smiled, and she knew he meant it, but her heart was heavy with foreboding. For all his strength, his courage, and his wisdom, the man she loved had one great weakness. He was like an old warhorse, canny and cautious, but at the touch of the whip he would ride into fire. For Odysseus that whip was pride.
He kissed both of her hands then turned and stomped down the beach and into the sea. The water was chest-high before he grabbed a rope and hauled himself up on board. Instantly the rowers took up a beat, and the old ship started to glide away. She saw him wave his arm, silhouetted against the rising sun.
She had not told him of the gulls. He would only scoff. Seagulls were stupid birds, he would say. They have no place in prophecy.
But she had dreamed of a colossal flock of gulls that blotted out the sun like a black wind rising, turning the midday sky to night.
And that wind brought death and the end of worlds.
The young warrior Kalliades sat in the mouth of the cave, a dark cloak wrapped around his slim frame, his sword heavy in his hand. He scanned the arid hillside and the fields beyond. There was no one in sight. Glancing back into the gloom of the cave, he saw the injured woman lying on her side, her knees drawn up, the red cloak of Banokles covering her. She seemed to be sleeping.
Bright moonlight speared through a break in the clouds. Kalliades could see her more clearly now. Her yellow hair was long, and her pale face was bruised and swollen, smeared with drying blood.
The night breeze was cold, and Kalliades shivered. From the high cave he could see the distant sea, reflected stars glittering on the water. So far from home, he thought.
The vivid red scar on his right cheek was itching, and he idly scratched it. The last of many wounds. In the quiet of the night he remembered the battles and the skirmishes that had seen sword and dagger blades pierce his flesh. Arrows and spears had cut him. Stones shot from slings had dazed him. A blow to the left shoulder from a club had left him with a joint that ached in the winter rains. At twenty-five he was a ten-year veteran and carried the scars to prove it.
“I’m going to light a fire,” his huge comrade said, moving out of the shadows. In the moonlight Banokles’ blond hair and full beard shone like silver. Blood had spattered over his breastplate, dark spots on the bright bronze disks fastened to the heavy leather undershirt.
Kalliades turned toward the powerful warrior. “A fire will be seen,” he said quietly. “They will come for us.”
“They will come for us anyway. Might as well be now, while I’m still angry.”
“You have no reason to be angry at them,” Kalliades pointed out wearily.
“I’m not. I’m angry with you. The woman meant nothing to us.”
“I know.”
“And it’s not as if we saved her for long. There’s no way off this island. We’ll likely be dead by noon tomorrow.”
“I know that, too.”
Banokles said nothing more for a while. He moved alongside Kalliades and glared out at the night.
“I thought you were going to light a fire,” Kalliades said.
“Don’t have the patience,” Banokles grumbled, scratching at his thick beard. “Always end up cutting my fingers on the flints.” He shivered. “Cold for this time of year,” he added.
“You wouldn’t be so cold if you hadn’t covered the woman who means nothing to us with your cloak. Go and gather some dead wood. I’ll start the fire.” Kalliades moved away from the cave mouth, took some dried bark from the pouch at his side, and shredded it. Then, with smooth strokes, he struck flint stones together, sending showers of sparks into the bark. It took some time, but finally a tiny plume of smoke showed. Dropping to his belly, Kalliades blew gentle breaths over the tinder. A flame sprang up. Banokles returned, dropping a pile of sticks and branches to the ground.