Troy 02 - Shield of Thunder Read Online Free Page B

while in the cave mouth, his head resting against the rock wall. Banokles was snoring loudly and occasionally muttering in his sleep.
    In the predawn Kalliades left the cave and walked to the stream. Kneeling by the bank, he splashed his face, then ran his wet fingers through his close-cropped black hair.
    He saw the woman leave the cave. She, too, wandered down to the stream. Tall and slender, she walked with her head high, her movements graceful, like a Kretan dancer. She was not a runaway slave, Kalliades knew. Slaves learned to walk with their heads down, their posture submissive. He did not speak but watched her as she washed the dried blood from her face and arms. Her face was still swollen, and there were bruises around her eyes. Even without the swelling she would not be pretty, he thought. Her face was strong and angular, her brows thick, her nose too prominent. It was a stern face and one that he guessed was a stranger to laughter even in better times.
    When she had cleaned herself, she lifted the dagger. For a heartbeat Kalliades thought she was going to cut her own throat. Then she grabbed a length of her blond hair and sawed the dagger through it. The warrior sat silently as she continued to hack at her hair, tossing handfuls to the rocks. Kalliades was mystified. There was no expression on her face, no anger showing. When she had finished, she leaned forward and rubbed her hands across her scalp, shaking loose hairs from her head.
    Finally she stepped from the stream and sat down a little way from him. “Aiding me was not wise,” she said.
    “I am not a wise man.”
    The sky began to lighten, and from where they sat they could see fields covered with thousands of blue flowers. The woman stared at them, and Kalliades saw her expression soften. “It is as if the color of the sky has leached into the earth,” she said softly. “Who would have thought that such beautiful plants could grow in such an arid place? Do you know what they are?”
    “They are flax,” he said. “The linen of your tunic came from such plants.”
    “How is it turned to cloth?” she asked. Kalliades stared out over the flax fields, remembering the days of his childhood, when he and his little sisters worked the fields of King Nestor, tearing the plants up by the roots, removing the seeds that would be used for medicinal oils or the sealing of timbers, placing the stems in the running water of the stream to rot. “Do you know?” she prompted him.
    “Yes, I know.” And he told her of the backbreaking labor of children and women gathering the plants, retting the stems, then, once they had rotted and been left to dry, beating them with wooden hammers. Then the children would sit in the hot sunshine, scraping the stems, removing the last of the wood. After that came the hackling, the exposed fibers being drawn again and again through ever finer combs. Even as he told her of the process, Kalliades found himself wondering at the resilience of women. Despite all she had been through and what probably would lie ahead, she seemed fascinated by this ancient skill. Then he looked into her pale eyes and saw that the interest was merely superficial. Beneath it there was tension and fear. They sat in silence for a while. Then he glanced at her, and their eyes met. “We will stand to the death to prevent them from taking you again. On this you have my oath.”
    The woman did not reply, and Kalliades knew she did not believe him. Why should she? he wondered.
    As he spoke, Banokles came strolling from the cave, halted at a nearby tree, and raised his tunic. Then he began to urinate with rare gusto, stepping back and aiming the jet of water as high up the trunk as possible.
    “What is he doing?” the woman asked.
    “He is very proud of the fact that not a man he ever met could piss as high as he can.”
    “Why would they want to?”
    Kalliades laughed. “You have obviously not spent long in the company of men.” He cursed inwardly as her