Banokles grinned and sat up. “I wish I had something to wager,” he said. “Doesn’t seem right to have a fight without a wager.” Pushing himself to his feet, he noticed Piria sitting in the shadows of the rocks. She wasn’t his type, but it seemed an age since he’d last enjoyed a woman. He grinned at her, and she scowled back. Perhaps she’s a witch, he thought, and she knows what I’m thinking. Guiltily he looked away. Over by the Penelope campfire he saw Leukon swinging his arms over his head, then twisting his body from side to side. “He looks like a fighter, at least,” Banokles said.
“I think we should assume that he is one,” Kalliades said. “His reach is longer than yours. Best to get under those long arms and go for the body. Fight in close.”
“Good plan,” Banokles said. “There should be a wager, though.”
“We don’t have anything to wager. Everything I took from Arelos I gave to Odysseus for the journey.”
“I could bet my breastplate.”
“Just concentrate on the fight.”
“Then let’s get started,” Banokles said. “I could kill for a jug of wine.”
Together the two men walked across to where the crew of the Penelope sat around a large campfire. Banokles saw the Trojan Hektor sitting with Odysseus. He didn’t seem so daunting on this peaceful spring night, but Banokles’ stomach tightened at the memory of his arrival at the battle in Troy. He had looked invincible then.
Odysseus rose to his feet and approached them, summoning Leukon to stand alongside him. Idomeneos joined them. He was wearing his glittering breastplate inlaid with gold and silver. It gleamed in the firelight.
“Shall we have a friendly wager?” Idomeneos asked.
“I suggested that earlier,” Banokles said. “But we don’t have anything. Except my breastplate.”
“There is your friend’s sword,” Idomeneos said. “I will wager my own breastplate against it.”
“That’s right!” Banokles exclaimed. “The sword, Kalliades. We forgot about that.”
“Yes, we forgot,” Kalliades said, looking coldly at the Kretan king. Banokles saw that Odysseus also looked annoyed. It was mystifying. Here was a chance for Kalliades to win a fabulous breastplate, and he seemed reluctant. A dark thought occurred to him.
“You do have faith in me?” he asked.
“Always,” Kalliades answered. “The sword it is,” he told Idomeneos.
Odysseus stepped forward. “We are following Olympian rules for this fight,” he said. “Are you aware of them?”
“Yes,” said Banokles, who didn’t know what he was talking about.
“Perhaps you should explain them,” Kalliades put in swiftly.
“The bout will be closed hand only. No grabbing, pulling, head butting, kicking, or biting. Merely fists.”
“Pah!” Banokles grimaced. “Where’s the skill in that? Head butting is part of the craft of boxing.”
“Oh, I am obviously not making myself clear to you,” Odysseus said affably. “Let me put it another way. If you break these rules, I will smash your hands and feet with a club and leave you on this beach to rot.” He leaned in close. “Do not grin at me, you half-wit. It is no jest. Look into my eyes and tell me if you see any humor there.”
Banokles looked into Odysseus’ baleful gaze. The man wasn’t joking.
“All right,” he said. “No head butting.”
“And no biting, pulling, kicking, or gouging.”
“You didn’t mention gouging before,” Banokles observed mischievously.
“I’m mentioning it now. When a man is knocked down, his opponent will move away. The fallen man must rise and touch the spear that will be sticking in the sand. If he does not wish to continue, he pulls the spear and drops it to the ground.”
“What if he’s unconscious?” Banokles asked, his expression innocent.
“By the gods, did a bull stamp on your head when you were a babe?”
“It is a reasonable question,” Banokles argued. “If he’s unconscious, he can’t touch the spear, can he?”
“If he’s unconscious, then he’s lost, you moron!”
“You only had to say that,” Banokles observed amiably.
“The first man to be knocked down five times will be judged the loser,” Odysseus continued. “Is this all understood?”
“Yes,” Banokles said. “When do we start?”
“Whenever you’re ready,” Odysseus told him.
Banokles nodded, then slammed a ferocious right into Leukon’s mouth, dumping the big crewman to the sand.
“I’m ready,” Banokles said.
Leukon surged to his feet with a roar of anger and ran at him. “Got to touch the spear,” Banokles yelled, dancing away.
Odysseus grabbed Kalliades by the arm, drawing him away. Leukon stalked to the spear and slapped his hand against it. Then he turned and advanced. Banokles charged at him—and ran into a straight left that jarred every bone in his body. Only instinct caused him to duck just as an overhand right slashed through the air above him. Coming up fast, he thundered two blows into Leukon’s midriff. It was like hitting timber.
This is going to take longer than I thought, he realized—just as a left hook connected with his temple, lifting him from his feet and catapulting him to the sand. He rose groggily, shook his head, then spit blood from his mouth. “You can hit. I’ll give you that,” he told Leukon.
Now the whole crew gathered around, and other sailors from camps close by came to watch the bout.
Banokles moved in more warily. It didn’t help. Leukon’s left hand kept flashing out through his defenses and slamming against his skull. Twice more he was dumped to the sand, and twice more he rose to slap the spear. Leukon grew more cocky, stepping in with combination blows, lefts and rights that came in a blur. Banokles took them all, seeking an opening. Leukon missed with a straight left. Banokles darted in, sending a wicked uppercut into Leukon’s exposed jaw. It hit with all the weight Banokles could muster, and it shook the big man, who staggered back. Banokles rushed in, clubbing two more rights, then a roundhouse left that sent Leukon tumbling to the sand.
He was up swiftly.
Banokles fought on gamely, but he was beginning to realize that he was outclassed. He caught Leukon with several good blows, but the big crewman merely shrugged and came on, his fists hammering at Banokles’ face and body. Banokles was fighting now through a sea of pain, unremitting and unending, but he struggled on, ever hopeful for the one blow that might make the difference.
When it came, it was a total surprise. Leukon seemed to slip. His jaw jutted out. Banokles put everything he had into the punch, and the big man tottered and fell heavily to the sand. Amazingly, he did not rise. The roar of the crowd faded away. Banokles stood blinking in the firelight. He leaned forward to peer more closely at the fallen man, then toppled to his knees. Odysseus moved alongside Leukon, then signaled the fight was over. Kalliades ran to Banokles’ side and hauled him to his feet.
“You did it, my friend,” he said. “Well fought.”
Banokles said nothing for a moment. One eye was swollen shut, and his face hurt from the hairline to the jaw. “A little wine would be good,” he mumbled.
Kalliades helped him back to their small campsite in the boulders. With a groan Banokles lay down by the fading fire. Piria arrived, bearing a bucket of seawater and a cloth. Gently she cleaned the blood from his face. Finally she took a flat stone from the bucket and pressed it gently against the swollen eye. It was wonderfully cool, and Banokles sighed.
Her fingers lightly brushed the blond hair back from his brow. “You should rest,” she said to him. “You took a fearful beating.”
“I won, though.”
“You are a brave fighter, Banokles.”
“I think… I’ll sleep now,” he told her.