her identity, and Odysseus knew now that she had slashed away her hair for reasons other than lice. The last time he had seen her, as a child of around twelve, she had taken scissors to her golden locks, cutting the hair back to the scalp, nicking the skin in several places. It had been a sad sight.
He saw from her expression that she knew he had recognized her. “My name is Piria,” she lied, her pale gaze holding his own.
“Welcome to my camp, Piria,” he said, and saw the relief in her eyes.
Turning away from them, he watched the pirate galleys being launched. It gave him time to think. He was in a quandary now. She was traveling under a false name. That probably meant that she had left the Temple Isle without permission. Women sent to serve on Thera generally remained there all the days of their lives. In fact, he knew of only two women who had been released from the isle in more than thirty years.
There was a story, though, of another runaway, many years earlier. She had been returned to the isle and buried alive to serve the god below the mountain.
He pondered the problem. If this girl was a runaway and he was discovered to have assisted her flight knowingly, he could be cursed by the high priestess. The old woman was a princess of the Mykene royal family, and worse than her words would be the fact that her hatred could cost Odysseus dearly in his trade with the mainland and perhaps earn the enmity of her kinsman Agamemnon.
The pirate galleys rowed out onto the clear blue water, and Odysseus watched as they raised sail. Another problem struck him. Why had two Mykene soldiers been traveling with pirates, and why were they now seeking passage on a ship whose destination they could not know?
The words of Kalliades echoed in his mind. Odysseus had asked about Argurios, and Kalliades had said he had fought with him and against him. The only time Mykene soldiers had fought against Argurios had been in Troy the previous autumn. Agamemnon had ordered the murders of all involved. What was it Nestor had said? Two escaped and were declared outlaw.
Sweet Hera! He was standing with a runaway priestess and two Mykene renegades.
“The
Penelope
is a small ship,” he said at last, “and when our cargo arrives, there will be little room left. We are traveling to Troy for the wedding of the king’s son, Hektor. However, we will be stopping at a number of islands on the way. Did you have a destination in mind?”
Kalliades gave a rueful smile. “Wherever fair winds take us,” he said.
“No wind is favorable if a man does not know where he is going,” Odysseus told him.
“All winds are favorable to a man who does not care,” Kalliades responded.
“I need to think on this a while longer,” Odysseus said. “Come and join us for breakfast. Bias will stitch that cut on your face, and you can tell me how you came to be collecting heads.”
Kalliades sat beside the breakfast fire, his irritation growing. The black sailor Bias was kneeling alongside him, one hand pinching the skin of his face, the other pushing a curved bronze needle threaded with black twine through the flaps of the wound, drawing them together. Close by, Banokles was regaling Odysseus and the crew of the
Penelope
with a ludicrously distorted version of the rescue of Piria and the fight with Arelos. He made it sound as if Arelos had been a demigod of battle. The truth was more prosaic. The man had been merely skillful, lacking true speed of hand. The fight had been brief and bloody. Kalliades had stepped in swiftly to deliver the death wound. As he had done so, Arelos had slumped forward, butting Kalliades’ cheek and splitting the skin.
Kalliades looked into the dark eyes of Bias. The man was smiling as he listened to Banokles spinning his tale.
“A good tale,” they heard Odysseus say as Banokles concluded the overblown story. “Though it lacks a truly powerful ending.”
“But he won and survived,”
He saw from her expression that she knew he had recognized her. “My name is Piria,” she lied, her pale gaze holding his own.
“Welcome to my camp, Piria,” he said, and saw the relief in her eyes.
Turning away from them, he watched the pirate galleys being launched. It gave him time to think. He was in a quandary now. She was traveling under a false name. That probably meant that she had left the Temple Isle without permission. Women sent to serve on Thera generally remained there all the days of their lives. In fact, he knew of only two women who had been released from the isle in more than thirty years.
There was a story, though, of another runaway, many years earlier. She had been returned to the isle and buried alive to serve the god below the mountain.
He pondered the problem. If this girl was a runaway and he was discovered to have assisted her flight knowingly, he could be cursed by the high priestess. The old woman was a princess of the Mykene royal family, and worse than her words would be the fact that her hatred could cost Odysseus dearly in his trade with the mainland and perhaps earn the enmity of her kinsman Agamemnon.
The pirate galleys rowed out onto the clear blue water, and Odysseus watched as they raised sail. Another problem struck him. Why had two Mykene soldiers been traveling with pirates, and why were they now seeking passage on a ship whose destination they could not know?
The words of Kalliades echoed in his mind. Odysseus had asked about Argurios, and Kalliades had said he had fought with him and against him. The only time Mykene soldiers had fought against Argurios had been in Troy the previous autumn. Agamemnon had ordered the murders of all involved. What was it Nestor had said? Two escaped and were declared outlaw.
Sweet Hera! He was standing with a runaway priestess and two Mykene renegades.
“The
Penelope
is a small ship,” he said at last, “and when our cargo arrives, there will be little room left. We are traveling to Troy for the wedding of the king’s son, Hektor. However, we will be stopping at a number of islands on the way. Did you have a destination in mind?”
Kalliades gave a rueful smile. “Wherever fair winds take us,” he said.
“No wind is favorable if a man does not know where he is going,” Odysseus told him.
“All winds are favorable to a man who does not care,” Kalliades responded.
“I need to think on this a while longer,” Odysseus said. “Come and join us for breakfast. Bias will stitch that cut on your face, and you can tell me how you came to be collecting heads.”
Kalliades sat beside the breakfast fire, his irritation growing. The black sailor Bias was kneeling alongside him, one hand pinching the skin of his face, the other pushing a curved bronze needle threaded with black twine through the flaps of the wound, drawing them together. Close by, Banokles was regaling Odysseus and the crew of the
Penelope
with a ludicrously distorted version of the rescue of Piria and the fight with Arelos. He made it sound as if Arelos had been a demigod of battle. The truth was more prosaic. The man had been merely skillful, lacking true speed of hand. The fight had been brief and bloody. Kalliades had stepped in swiftly to deliver the death wound. As he had done so, Arelos had slumped forward, butting Kalliades’ cheek and splitting the skin.
Kalliades looked into the dark eyes of Bias. The man was smiling as he listened to Banokles spinning his tale.
“A good tale,” they heard Odysseus say as Banokles concluded the overblown story. “Though it lacks a truly powerful ending.”
“But he won and survived,”
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