Free Troy 02 - Shield of Thunder by David Gemmell Page A

back. He saw Kalliades watching him. “Too far for a pig to swim,” the Ugly King said.
    “By a long way,” Kalliades agreed. “A shame, though,” he added.
    “I hate losing cargo,” Odysseus said, turning his gaze toward the beach. Then he bellowed at the crew: “Put your backs into it, you cowsons! You think I want to spend the night out here?”

    The light of the full moon was so bright that it cast shadows on the beach of Titan’s Rock. The crew had set two cookfires and a larger campfire on higher ground sheltered by rocks around which most of the crew sat in a ragged circle. From her vantage point on a stony outcrop Piria watched the men playing knucklebones, gossiping, and arguing. The smell of cooking fish reached her, and her empty stomach spasmed. She was reluctant to leave her seat and walk across to the crew. They had forgotten about her as they went about their evening tasks, and she was unwilling to remind them, to see their eyes crawling over her, speculation in their faces. For the first time in days she felt a measure of peace, and she guarded it jealously, wrapping the borrowed red cloak of Banokles around her.
    Her tension eased a little as she gazed at the brushwood enclosure where the pigs were settling for the night. The old woman Circe had been mischievous in her predictions. There had been no broken bones among the crewmen, only some scrapes and bruises as they had manhandled the pigs off the
Penelope.
    Now, in the moonlight, she could see that the herd had settled to sleep, their fat bodies pressed together, faint grunting sounds coming from the enclosure. Every now and then a beast would shift about, making his comrades squeal softly, before going back to sleep.
    Piria was grateful to the pigs. They had distracted everyone’s attention from her during the voyage. Pain from her injuries flowed over her in nauseating waves. Her head ached constantly, and her neck moved uncomfortably on her shoulders, as if it had been wrenched off and then replaced by an unskilled craftsman.
    She saw the black crewman Bias walking toward her, a bowl in one hand and a round section of corn bread in the other. Fear rose in her, and her hands began to tremble. She imagined him offering her the food and then making some crude approach. He came closer and handed her the bowl and the bread. She could smell fish and onions, but her fear had stripped away her hunger.
    “You should come down to the fire,” he said. “It is a cold night.”
    “I will sleep here,” she replied.
    Bias looked doubtfully at the rocky ledge. “It looks uncomfortable.”
    “I am used to discomfort.”
    He nodded and turned back to the warmth of the fire. Piria nibbled on the corn bread and dipped it in the fish juices. She felt the warmth reach down to her stomach and realized her skin was like ice. She pulled her cloak more closely around her. A wave of despair and loneliness suddenly overcame her, and she felt the prick of tears under her eyelids.
    “What have you done?” she whispered.
    She remembered that summer night by the prophecy flame in the great temple. She and Andromache had been giggling, soused on wine, drunk on love. The two young women had asked old Melite to prophesy their future together. It was more in drunken jest than with any serious intent. All the priestesses knew that Melite had once been a seeress, but now that she was half-blind and touched in the head, her words were often meaningless. And so it had seemed at the time.
    “No future here, young Kalliope,” Melite had said. “Before the days shorten, Andromache will be lost to the Blessed Isle, returned to the world of men and war.”
    Despite their disbelief the two women were dismayed by the prophecy, which cut through the wine, dashing their carefree mood.
    Eighteen days later came the ship, bearing the message from Hekabe, queen of Troy. Andromache was summoned before the first priestess and told she had been given leave to quit the Temple Isle in