water, changing the soiled bed linen, holding her to him, talking to her constantly though she could not hear him. On the morning of the fourth day her cysts burst, her body expelling the poisons. One of the priestesses of Artemis came to see her.
“She will live,” she announced, then left the room.
Fewer and fewer people were brought to the settlement over the next weeks. The survival rate began to rise.
Autumn rains began the day Odysseus, Penelope, and Bias left the settlement. As they walked along a cliff path toward Nestor’s palace, sunshine briefly speared through the thick gray clouds. Bias looked at his king. In the sunlight he saw the touches of gray at his temples, the weariness in his eyes.
Odysseus never spoke of the curse again. But that was the last summer the ships of Ithaka embarked on slave raids. Odysseus, the Sacker of Cities, the reaver, the pirate, became Odysseus the trader, the storyteller.
Bias lay back on the sand and stared up at the stars. In that moment he, too, remembered the laughter of Laertes. The boy would have been twenty now and a man, handsome and strong.
Yet his death had brought fourteen years of peaceful trading from Odysseus. How many villages would have been raided in that time? How many wives torn from their homes to be sold into slavery? How many fathers cut down in front of their families? The thought surprised him, and he cursed softly. Glancing across the campsite, he could see Odysseus sleeping soundly.
Why did you have to talk about threads and tapestries? Now
I
can’t sleep!
CHAPTER SIX
THE THREE KINGS
Kalliades was sitting staring out over the mist-shrouded sea. There was something sinister about the shimmering white wall and the smokelike tendrils drifting over the dark, half-submerged rocks. He shivered, drawing his cloak more tightly about him. Easy to believe legends about sea monsters and demons of the deep when you gazed upon such a mist. Anything could be hidden there, watching the sleeping men on the beach. Thinking such thoughts made him remember his childhood, when he had sat at the gathering fire listening to the bard tell terrifying stories of night creatures who crept into houses and ate the hearts of the young. He had both loved and hated those stories—loved them while he sat with the other children and hated them when he was alone later, listening for the soft footfalls of the night beasts. Many of the tales had involved magical mists that covered the movements of demons.
Kalliades suddenly smiled. “You are not a frightened child any longer,” he told himself aloud. Then the smile faded.
He had been six years old when the reavers had attacked the village, setting houses aflame, killing the men, and dragging out the younger women. His fourteen-year-old sister, Agasta, had grabbed him, and they had tried to flee. She had hidden him in a flax field. Then strong men had caught her. He remembered the look on Agasta’s face: desperation, fear, and anguish. She had fought them, scratching and biting as they raped her. In their fury at her resistance they had cut her throat. Kalliades had lain there watching the blood gush out.
Seeking to shut out the memory, Kalliades glanced up to where Piria was sitting beside her small fire. As a child he had been powerless to save his sister. As a man he had at least prevented a similar tragedy. Was there some small comfort in that?
A sound cut through his thoughts. Swinging back toward the mist, he heard it again, a strange creaking groan. Then he heard muted shouts. The mist parted briefly, and for a moment he saw a mast, canted at an odd angle, and the briefest vision of a hull. No sailors chose to spend the night at sea. Journeys upon the Great Green were dangerous enough without the added risk of blindly rowing in the dark, unable to see the reefs or sunken rocks.
Kalliades called out to the men around the campfire, and Odysseus, Bias, and the rest of the crew moved out to the sea line. The wallowing
“She will live,” she announced, then left the room.
Fewer and fewer people were brought to the settlement over the next weeks. The survival rate began to rise.
Autumn rains began the day Odysseus, Penelope, and Bias left the settlement. As they walked along a cliff path toward Nestor’s palace, sunshine briefly speared through the thick gray clouds. Bias looked at his king. In the sunlight he saw the touches of gray at his temples, the weariness in his eyes.
Odysseus never spoke of the curse again. But that was the last summer the ships of Ithaka embarked on slave raids. Odysseus, the Sacker of Cities, the reaver, the pirate, became Odysseus the trader, the storyteller.
Bias lay back on the sand and stared up at the stars. In that moment he, too, remembered the laughter of Laertes. The boy would have been twenty now and a man, handsome and strong.
Yet his death had brought fourteen years of peaceful trading from Odysseus. How many villages would have been raided in that time? How many wives torn from their homes to be sold into slavery? How many fathers cut down in front of their families? The thought surprised him, and he cursed softly. Glancing across the campsite, he could see Odysseus sleeping soundly.
Why did you have to talk about threads and tapestries? Now
I
can’t sleep!
CHAPTER SIX
THE THREE KINGS
Kalliades was sitting staring out over the mist-shrouded sea. There was something sinister about the shimmering white wall and the smokelike tendrils drifting over the dark, half-submerged rocks. He shivered, drawing his cloak more tightly about him. Easy to believe legends about sea monsters and demons of the deep when you gazed upon such a mist. Anything could be hidden there, watching the sleeping men on the beach. Thinking such thoughts made him remember his childhood, when he had sat at the gathering fire listening to the bard tell terrifying stories of night creatures who crept into houses and ate the hearts of the young. He had both loved and hated those stories—loved them while he sat with the other children and hated them when he was alone later, listening for the soft footfalls of the night beasts. Many of the tales had involved magical mists that covered the movements of demons.
Kalliades suddenly smiled. “You are not a frightened child any longer,” he told himself aloud. Then the smile faded.
He had been six years old when the reavers had attacked the village, setting houses aflame, killing the men, and dragging out the younger women. His fourteen-year-old sister, Agasta, had grabbed him, and they had tried to flee. She had hidden him in a flax field. Then strong men had caught her. He remembered the look on Agasta’s face: desperation, fear, and anguish. She had fought them, scratching and biting as they raped her. In their fury at her resistance they had cut her throat. Kalliades had lain there watching the blood gush out.
Seeking to shut out the memory, Kalliades glanced up to where Piria was sitting beside her small fire. As a child he had been powerless to save his sister. As a man he had at least prevented a similar tragedy. Was there some small comfort in that?
A sound cut through his thoughts. Swinging back toward the mist, he heard it again, a strange creaking groan. Then he heard muted shouts. The mist parted briefly, and for a moment he saw a mast, canted at an odd angle, and the briefest vision of a hull. No sailors chose to spend the night at sea. Journeys upon the Great Green were dangerous enough without the added risk of blindly rowing in the dark, unable to see the reefs or sunken rocks.
Kalliades called out to the men around the campfire, and Odysseus, Bias, and the rest of the crew moved out to the sea line. The wallowing
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