“I will not enter your home, Kalliades. I do not like you, and you have no affection for me.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I want Banokles to come home safely. I do not want him drawn into your need for death.”
The words surprised him. “I don’t want to die, Red. Why would you think that?”
She looked at him, her expression softening. “I have changed my mind. I will come in. You have wine?”
He led her through to the small garden at the rear of the house, and they sat together on a curved bench in the shade of a high wall.
The wine was cheap and mildly bitter on the tongue, but Red did not seem to mind. She looked him in the eye, her gaze direct. “Why did you rescue the priestess?” she asked.
He shrugged. “She reminded me of my sister, who was killed by violent men.”
“That may be true, but it is not the whole reason. Banokles talks of you with great respect and affection, so I have heard all the stories of your travels. I am not young anymore, Kalliades, but my wisdom has grown with the years. I know men. By Hera, I know more about men than I would ever have wished to know. So many of you are quick to notice flaws and weaknesses in others while being completely blind to your own faults and fears. Why do you have no friends, Kalliades?”
The question made him uncomfortable, and he began to regret inviting her in. “I have Banokles.”
“Yes, you do. Why no others? And why no wife?”
He rose from the seat. “I do not answer to you,” he said.
“Are you afraid, Kalliades?”
“I fear nothing.”
He could not escape her gaze, and it disconcerted him. “Now, that is a lie,” she said softly.
“You do not know me. No one does.”
“No one does,” she repeated. “And you are wrong again. I know you, Kalliades. I don’t know why you are the way you are. Perhaps a favorite pony died when you were young or you were buggered by a friendly uncle. Perhaps your father fell off a cliff and drowned. It doesn’t matter. I know you.”
Anger surged through him. “Just go!” he said. “When I need the wisdom of a fat whore, I’ll send for you.”
“Ah,” she said, no trace of anger in her voice, “and now I see that deep down you also know. You are just too frightened to hear it.”
In that moment he had wanted to strike her, to wipe that smug look from her face. Instead he had stepped back away from her, feeling trapped in his own home.
“Tell me, then,” he demanded. “Speak this dreadful truth. I do not fear it.”
“The dreadful truth is that deep down you have one great fear. You fear life.”
“What is this nonsense? Have you been chewing meas root?”
“You saved a woman who meant nothing to you and faced almost certain death as a result.”
“She was worth saving.”
“I’ll not disagree with that. On its own it was a fine deed. Heroic. The stuff of legends. When Odysseus walked down to face the pirates, you went with him. You told Banokles you wanted to see what would happen. You are an intelligent man. You know what should have happened. They should have cut you to pieces. Banokles thinks you are a man of enormous courage. But I am not Banokles. There is a part of you, Kalliades, that yearns for death. An empty part with nothing to fill it. No love, no intimacy, no dreams, no ambition. That is why you have no friends. You have nothing to give them, and you fear what they could give to you.”
Her words cut through his defenses like an icy blade. “I have known love,” he argued. “I loved Piria. That is no lie.”
“I believe you. And that is how I came to know you. You are close to thirty years old, and you have had one great love. How curious, then, that it should have been for a woman who could never return that love. A woman you knew could never return it. Shall I tell you what you saw in that frightened, abused, and doomed girl? A reflection of yourself. Lost and alone, friendless and deserted.” She stood then and brushed the creases from her robes.
“Banokles is my friend,” he said, hearing just how defensive those words were.
She shook her head, dismissing even that small attempt to stand his ground. “My Banokles is not a thinker or he would have understood you better. He is a friend to you, yes, but in your mind, whether you know it or not, he is no more than a big hound whose adoration allows you to deceive yourself, to let you believe you are like other people. He saved your life, Kalliades, and you have dragged him into every dangerous folly. Friends do not do that. The day you finally decide to die, do not allow Banokles to be beside you.”
She had walked away then, but he had called out to her. “I am sorry that you despise me, Red.”
“If I despise you,” she had told him, sadness in her voice, “it is only that I despise myself. We are so alike, Kalliades. Closed off from life, no friends, no loved ones. That is why we need Banokles. He is life, rich and raw, in all its glory. No subtlety, no guile. He is the fire we gather around, and his light pushes back the shadows we fear.” She had fallen silent for a moment. Then she had looked at him.
“Think of a childhood memory,” she said.
He blinked as an image flared to life.
“What was it?” she asked him.
“I was a child, hiding from raiders in a flax field.”
“The day your sister died?”
“Yes.”
She sighed. “And that is your tragedy, Kalliades. You never came out of that flax field. You are still there, small and frightened and hiding from the world.”
High in the rocks Kalliades pushed thoughts of Red from his mind. The men had lit cookfires, and he was about to stroll down and eat with them, when he saw riders in the distance.
At first they were little more than specks, but as they came closer, he recognized the glint of Trojan armor.
On the far side of the pass he saw that his archers had also spotted the group and were notching arrows to their bows. Calling out to them not to shoot, he climbed down and walked out to meet the small group.
Banokles came riding up toward him, then lifted his leg and jumped clear of the weary gray horse he was riding. “Good to see you,” he said. “We’ve rescued the sons of Rhesos, and now you can take charge. I’m sick of command.” He gazed around. “Where’s the army?”
“Heading for Carpea. I am in charge of the rear guard.”
“You’ve not enough men. We caught sight of the Idonoi horde. They’re close. Thousands of the cowsons.”
“We only have to hold them for two days.”
“Ah, well, I expect we can do that.”
“There is no ‘we,’ Banokles. This is my duty. You must take the sons of Rhesos on to Carpea. Hektor will be glad to see them.”
Banokles pulled off his helm and scratched his short blond hair. “You are not thinking clearly, Kalliades. You’ll need me and my boys here. These Thrakian sheep shaggers will probably run at the first sight of a painted face.”
“No, they won’t.” Kalliades sighed and thought back to his conversation with Red. “Listen to me,” he said. “This is your troop. Ursos told Hektor he had placed you in command. So I am now ordering you to ride on with them. I’ll see you at Carpea or over in Dardania if you have already crossed the Hellespont.”
“Have you forgotten we are sword brothers?”
Kalliades ignored the question. “Stay wary as you head east. There are other, smaller passes through the mountains, and there may be enemy riders out there.”
“I take it you won’t object if we rest the horses for a while,” Banokles said coldly. “The climb has taken it out of them.”
“Of course. Get yourself some food, too.”
Without another word Banokles led his horse up the pass. Kalliades watched his riders follow him.