They made it to another side street. Banokles halted there, fell to his knees, and vomited. “That’s better,” he said.
Two men ran around the corner. Red stepped swiftly back into the shadows. The men rushed at Banokles. One of them had a club. Banokles saw them, gave a great shout, and charged. Red saw him strike the first man, who was catapulted from his feet. The second attacker leaped upon Banokles. The warrior grabbed the man, hoisted him high, then hurled him into his unconscious comrade. Banokles staggered back a step, then rushed in as the man struggled to rise. A huge fist cracked into the attacker’s chin, and he slumped senseless to the ground.
Sweeping up the club, Banokles staggered back toward the avenue. Red ran after him. “Not that way, you fool!” she hissed.
“Oh, hello, Red. Thought you’d left me.”
“Follow me,” she ordered him. Obediently he swung behind her, the club on his shoulder. She led him through the gate at the rear of her house, then dropped the locking bar in place behind them.
Once inside the building, she lit a lantern. Banokles slumped into a chair. His head fell back, and his breathing deepened. Red stood there, looking at the man in the lanternlight.
“Built like an ox, brain like a sparrow,” she said.
Leaving him in the chair, she walked through to her bedroom at the rear of the house. Stripping off her gown, she laid it over a chair, then hid the thong of silver rings behind a recess in the wall before climbing into bed. She was just falling sleep when she heard the big man moving about. He called her name.
“I am in here,” she replied, irritated.
A naked figure loomed in the doorway. He stepped inside, stumbled over a chair, then bumped into the bed. Pulling back the covers, he slid in alongside her.
“I take no clients in my own bed,” she told him.
“Oh, don’t worry, Red,” he replied sleepily. “I couldn’t possibly shag just now.”
Within moments, his warm body nestled alongside her, he was asleep.
Odysseus strolled across the gathering field, his bow Akilina in his hand, a quiver of long arrows hanging from his shoulder. He stared straight ahead, walking as if he did not have a care in the world, but his heart was hammering and he felt as nervous as a colt. Of all the pleasures in the wide world there were only two to compare with the joy of competing in the games: holding his wife close on a cold winter’s night and watching the first of the spring breezes billow the sail of the Penelope.
Even the huge satisfaction of storytelling paled against the exquisite moment of true competition, when he would notch an arrow to beautiful Akilina and send a shaft hurtling into the target. Odysseus cared not if they were moving targets hauled on carts or straw models of beasts and men. If there was one talent Odysseus believed he possessed, it was to shoot a bow better than any man alive.
A huge crowd had gathered at the far end of the field, and many of the contestants were already standing by. Odysseus could see Meriones, who had beaten him once in five contests, and the callow sons of Nestor, who would be lucky to progress to the later rounds.
It was a fine day, the sun high and bright, a subtle breeze whispering across the field. Licking his finger, Odysseus tested the breeze. It was not strong enough to divert an arrow shot from Akilina.
Despite his excitement, the tensions of the previous day remained. The beaching of the Penelope a long ride from the city gates had both enraged and shamed him. To suffer such an indignity was bad enough, but to endure it in the company of Nestor and Idomeneos was unbearable. Neither of his fellow kings had commented on the slight, which made it worse. A little joshing would have given Odysseus the opportunity to make a jest of it.
Today, however, the world was beginning to look brighter. As soon as he had reached the city, Odysseus had inquired after Helikaon and had discovered that he was recovering from the assassin’s wounds. That joyous news lifted his spirits, but even so, in the back of his mind the insult slowly simmered. The beachmaster would not have dared make such a decision had someone in higher authority not ordered it. That someone could only be Priam. This was baffling to Odysseus, for though not a friend to the Trojan king, he was a neutral. In these troublesome times, with the world on the brink of war, it would be an act of madness to make an enemy of him. Perhaps, he decided, it was not about him at all. Perhaps it was intended as a slight to Idomeneos and Nestor. Even so, it would be foolish, for Priam would need both of those kings in his camp to thwart Agamemnon.
Pushing such thoughts aside, Odysseus strolled onto the archery field. He could feel all eyes on him as he approached the men waiting to participate in the tourney. He glanced down the shooting line and saw that the targets were dummies of straw set no more than fifty paces distant.
“By Hermes, Meriones, a man could throw an arrow over such a paltry distance,” he complained.
“Indeed he could, my friend,” the black-bearded Meriones responded. “At this range almost no one will be eliminated.”
To entertain the crowd both he and Meriones stepped forward, sending shaft after shaft into the farthest targets. Men began to cheer and stamp their feet. Eventually, their quivers empty, the two old friends wandered out onto the field to gather their arrows.
“A strange event yesterday,” Meriones said.
“It was a slight, right enough,” Odysseus told him. “Perhaps it was not intended for me. Priam has little love for Idomeneos.”
Meriones nodded. “True enough, but would he risk alienating him with so much at stake? Have you done anything to incur Priam’s wrath?”
“Not that I’m aware.”
As they made their way back to the other bowmen, a Trojan soldier wearing the yellow sash of a judge came walking along the line, calling out for those with tokens marked from one to twenty to step forward.
Odysseus, whose token was embossed with the number eleven, strode forward with Meriones.
The judge was a handsome young man with fiery red hair and keen blue eyes. He glanced at the bows the men carried. “Be so good as to leave your weapons with friends,” he said. “All archers are to be issued with standard bows from the city armory.”
“What?” Odysseus roared, his anger erupting. Similar cries of outrage came from some of the other bowmen.
The judge raised his arms for silence. “By order of the king this contest is to be fairly judged on the merits of each archer. Many of you carry beautifully made bows, some of horn, some of wood and leather. You, King Odysseus, have the legendary Akilina. It is well known that it can shoot an arrow farther than any bow in the world. Would any contest therefore be fair? We have men here who have no wealth and who have cut their own bows from shriveled trees. Should they be at a disadvantage because you have Akilina?”
Odysseus said nothing, but then Meriones spoke. “It is a fair point,” he agreed. “Bring on your bows. Let us at least practice with them.”
Several soldiers then marched out, carrying slender weapons in the Egypteian style, each carved from a single length of wood with no composite to provide extra strength and elasticity. A young soldier approached Meriones. He was carrying two bows, and as he offered the first to the black-bearded archer, he seemed to hesitate. Then he drew it back and turned toward the judge. “Go ahead,” he was ordered. The youngster then reached out with his right hand, offering a bow to Meriones, who took it and drew back several times on the string. The second bow he offered to Odysseus.
“By the gods,” Odysseus said loudly as he hefted it. “I could shape better weapons than this from dried cow dung. Strike a rabbit with a shaft from this and it would scratch its arse and wonder which flea had nipped it.” Laughter broke out among the crowd.