Torn from Troy

by Patrick Bowman

  TORN FROM TROY

  Copyright © 2011 Patrick Bowman

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the publisher, or, in Canada, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from Access Copyright (the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency).

  RONSDALE PRESS

  3350 West 21st Avenue, Vancouver, B. C., Canada V6S 1G7

  www.ronsdalepress.com

  Typesetting: Julie Cochrane, in Minion 12 pt on 16

  Cover Art & Design: Branko Bistrovic

  Ronsdale Press wishes to thank the following for their support of its publishing program: the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund, the British Columbia Arts Council, and the Province of British Columbia through the British Columbia Book Publishing Tax Credit program.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Bowman, Patrick, 1962–

  Torn from Troy / Patrick Bowman.

  (Odyssey of a slave; v. 1)

  ISBN 978-1-55380-110-8 ISBN EPUB 978-1-55380-125-2

  1. Trojan War—Juvenile fiction. I. Title. II. Series: Bowman, Patrick, 1962– . Odyssey of a slave; v. 1.

  PS8603. O97667T67 2011 jC813'.6 C2010-907529-3

  To my two most steadfast supporters,

  the most marvellous daughters

  a father could have,

  Kathleen and Anitra

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The names of the many people who offered advice on the early versions of this book must go unmentioned here for space reasons. But you know who you are, and I thank you. I would like to single out for special thanks a number of individuals: my sister, Laurel Bowman, for her expert guidance on ancient Greek history and culture, as well as her laser-like ability to identify why my characters kept behaving as they did, and how to stop them; my indefatigable publisher, Ronald Hatch, for wading through multiple drafts with calm professionalism; and my wife, Barbara Cox, for her constant support and for not once complaining about the deteriorating state of the house for well over a year while I wrote this book.

  Contents

  Cover

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  About the author

  The Sea God's Curse

  Back Cover

  Chapter 1

  “ALEXI, WAKE UP!” My sister was leaning over me, her lanky frame silhouetted by the moonlight streaming in the window. Yesterday’s celebration had run long into the night, and I mumbled something and rolled over sleepily, face down on the pine planks.

  Melantha shook me again. “I mean it! Listen—something’s wrong!”

  Blinking stupidly, I tried to make sense of the noises from our narrow window. Sandals scuttering up the alleyway. Farther away, urgent shouts of command. And in the distance, screams.

  I got to my feet and leaned out. People were running up the laneway below, the fear in their faces clear in the moonlight. The blacksmith’s wife was dragging her two boys by their wrists, not looking back. A few paces behind, old Phylion the potter was hobbling along in his nightshirt and bare feet, cane tapping urgently against the cobbles. The warm night air was heavy with smoke, and from the direction of the city gates came a red glow and the bronze clash of what sounded like weapons.

  I called down to the blacksmith’s wife. “Ascania! What’s going on?”

  She didn’t look up. Her two boys were crying and trying to turn back as she dragged them grimly up the lane. An uneasy feeling stirred in my stomach.

  From nearby came a splintering crash. We craned our heads out farther. At the entrance to Pylacon’s smithy a few doors down, I could just make out the shapes of men in armour, torches flickering yellow in their hands. Melantha gasped and wrenched me away from the window. “Lex! Get down! Those are soldiers!”

  “Guards? So—”

  She shook her head. “Not city guards. Alexi, those are Greeks!”

  “Greeks?” I frowned at her. “The Greeks have gone, remember? Besides, how would they get over the wall? Fly?” High as an oak and wide enough for two chariots to race along the top, the city wall had protected us from the barbarians beyond it for as long as I could remember.

  “You know who it is? Just some guardsmen, coming home drunk after the party.” The Ilian Guard were notorious. I yawned and lay back down on the rough woollen blanket we shared. But as I twisted around, trying to get comfortable, I caught the hollow crunch of wood splintering nearby and a woman’s scream, very close. Mela ran to the door and peered out for a moment, then turned to me, her eyes white in the darkness. “Alexi, it’s Greeks. I can see them coming up the alley. We have to get out!”

  Another door splintered, closer, and there came a harsh, commanding voice. “Every doorway, every building! I don’t want a Trojan squadron coming up our backsides because one of you troglos missed a house! Now, move! Move!”

  I sat up. That was no drunken guardsman. He was speaking Greek! Sweat started from my brow.

  “It’s too late. They’re right across the lane,” Mela whispered frantically. “They’re checking everywhere. They’ll be up here in a moment. Alexi, we need to hide!”

  I shook off my panic and peered around the darkened room. Three years of poverty had forced us to sell nearly everything we owned, leaving only a small corner table and stool beside the battered tripod and pot we ate from. Nothing to hide us. I glanced at the window but could hear soldiers right below.

  As my hand brushed our tattered blanket, I had an idea. Rolling off it, I darted into the corner behind the door and pulled the blanket over my head.

  “Mela! Under here!” The moonlight from the window didn’t reach this far. If we were lucky, they might overlook a shapeless lump in the corner.

  Mela gave a quick nod but ran to overturn our tiny table and wrench a leg off the stool. As a clatter of brass-nailed sandals came from the stone staircase outside, she snatched up her small dagger and dashed over to squat beside me.

  I tugged the blanket over our heads just as two muscular Greek soldiers burst through our door in full battle armour, exploding into the room like huge bronze bulls, ripping the heavy door from its leather hinges. It smashed down across my bare toes and I clenched my teeth to choke off a scream.

  The two soldiers prowled around the room, the brass inlays clanking on their leather-strip skirts. Through a rip in the blanket’s coarse weave I could see a smoky tallow torch in the first soldier’s hand. They peered around suspiciously by its flickering light, their eyes black pools beneath their bronze helmets. I was too frightened to breathe. We’d all heard the stories of what the Greeks did to their prisoners. Struggling not to cough as the oily smoke caught my throat, I reached over beneath the blanket and clutched Mela’s hand. Her fingers gripped mine hard.

  The second soldier kicked the broken stool, sending it crashing against the rear wall. “Kopros,” he cursed, glancing at his companion. “Didn’t I say it would be empty? Let’s go.” He stalked out and clattered noisily back down the steps. The soldier with the torch glared around for a moment before heading for the door. I felt a surge of hope.

  Too soon. His foot stamped down hard on the do
or as he left, crushing my smashed toes further and sending a fresh bolt of agony through my foot. He spun toward us at my gasp, thrusting his smoking torch into our darkened corner.

  Melantha didn’t hesitate. Throwing off the blanket, she leapt to her feet, leaving me hidden.

  “Don’t kill me!” she called out, drawing her slender frame up tall and straight. She swept her hair over her shoulder with one hand as the other gestured urgently behind her back for me to stay still. Uncertain, I hesitated.

  The soldier stepped back in surprise, his hand leaping toward his knife. His helmet tilted as he looked her up and down in her thin shift, and a noise escaped from deep in his throat. “Hey, Takis!” he called out the door. “You missed something!”

  In a single swift motion he reached out and threw her over one armoured shoulder, then set off through our shattered doorway, Melantha dangling across his back. As he carried her out I saw her hand slip into her tunic.

  Ignoring the stabbing agony in my foot, I scrambled out from beneath the heavy door to hear a shriek from outside. Halfway down the stairs, my sister was hanging off the soldier’s back, bronze dagger in her hand. Blood was spurting from a wound on the back of his thigh, spattering the pale stone with droplets that glistened black in the moonlight.

  “Filthy kuna!” he shrieked. “I’ll kill you!” He dropped his torch, grabbing her with both hands to hoist her above his head. She snatched at him but he shook her off easily, his helmet tearing free of its strap and clattering down the steps.

  As I started down toward them, the dagger in her flailing hand slashed across the side of his neck, opening a long dark gash. Bellowing with rage, he flung her down the steps. I watched in horror as she tumbled down to smash against the stone well at the bottom. There was a crack like a branch snapping and her scream was abruptly cut off.

  Chapter 2

  “MELA!” I BLURTED. The soldier’s head whipped around, sudden blood spraying from the slash across his neck. Clapping a hand to the wound, he looked up and spotted me in the doorway. He opened his mouth to shout, but nothing came out. His deep-set eyes rolled up into his head and he toppled slowly off the side of the narrow steps to strike the cobbled street below with an armoured crash.

  Several Greeks darted out from a side street. “Someone get a healer! Brill’s been sheathed!”

  Praying for some sign of life, I peered down at my sister’s body, dimly lit by the soldier’s torch flickering on the ground nearby. She lay still, her head cocked at a harsh angle against the carved well face. The soldier sprawled motionless on the nearby cobbles, his greasy black beard glistening in the light of the torch of the Greek bending over him. I ducked back inside as the man glanced up and barked, “Someone’s up there! Dek and Takis, check it out!”

  As I reached the centre of our room, my feet slowed. “Mela?” I whispered.

  This couldn’t be real. Only moments ago we’d both been asleep in the corner. If I could just turn my head, surely she’d still be there, curled up under our blanket. But I couldn’t make my head move, afraid of what I wouldn’t see.

  Some part of me could hear sandals running toward the steps, but I stayed where I was, staring at the far wall. What did it matter now? Near the wall was the stool that Mela had overturned, its leg lying nearby. It had almost fooled them. And when that failed, she’d given herself up. To protect me.

  A screech of pain and some hurried footsteps from outside broke into my thoughts. I frowned. What would the gods say of someone who dishonoured a sacrifice like hers? What would Mela say, when we met again in the underworld?

  Sandals clumped up the stairs and I looked over at our window.

  The laneway below was swarming with Greek soldiers, glittering like armoured beetles in the moonlight. Above the window, unfinished roof beams jutted out from the wall over the street. The men below were looking elsewhere. As the soldiers tramped up the back steps, I scrambled onto the window ledge and leaned out. Ignoring splinters from the rough-hewn beam, I reached up to wrap my hands around it, swinging myself up across the protruding timbers.

  Before I could roll out of sight, a soldier’s head poked out below me, so close that I could smell his pungent sweat. A dent on his helmet glinted in the moonlight as he turned his head back and forth, scanning the alley below. A bead of sweat dripped from my nose to splash silently on his horsehair crest. He didn’t react. I began to creep silently off the beams and onto the roof.

  At that moment the moon came out from behind a cloud. The soldier glanced up and grabbed for me with a shout, but his armoured shoulders were caught in the narrow window. Pulling back with a curse, he thrust out one arm and stabbed blindly at me with a short sword. The blade snagged my tattered chiton as I rolled frantically off the beams and onto the flat roof.

  I leapt to my feet and teetered across the clattering roof tiles to Glaukon the weaver’s at the end of the row, wincing at the agony in my foot. It felt like at least two of my toes were broken. Ahead of me, a wooden bracing beam spanned the street between Glaukon’s and the carpenter’s workshop across the alley. Praying that the Greeks down the street wouldn’t notice, I edged carefully across it, then clambered down to street level along a woody grapevine growing against the workshop wall.

  Panting heavily, I leaned against the house wall for a moment, cooling my cheek against the cut stone. Sprawled on the road nearby were two soldiers. Around them, pools of blood shone a dark silver in the moonlight. One was Greek; the other wore the armour of the palace guards. I grimaced. At least he’d taken a barbarian with him. I wondered if their shades were still fighting in Hades.

  A soldier at a window spotted me and shouted. Armoured sandals clattered in the street nearby. Despairing, I pushed off from the wall and limped down Kymera Lane. Gods, would they never give up? I ducked inside the shattered door of the Pylacon smithy. A shaft of moonlight lanced the gloom to reveal the clay forge smashed on the hard earth floor. Blacksmithing tools were strewn nearby, and a crumpled form sprawled on a patch of stained earth in the corner. I looked away hastily and hobbled out the back to the packed dirt of Crutch Lane.

  As I turned the corner, a crash came from behind me. Two Greeks were stumbling out of the darkness of the smithy. A sewage culvert ran beneath the roadway nearby, and as I limped across it, I had an idea. Trying not to gag, I splashed down into the muck and wormed in feet-first. Hairy creatures brushed past my bare ankles as I disturbed some of Troy’s legions of hungry rats. A short way under the road my feet hit some collapsed bricks and I could slide no farther. Plastering some muck over my head, I turned my face to the side, hoping my black hair would be invisible at night. For once, being short for my age was an advantage.

  Feet pounded past me, crossing the ditch and continuing toward Brass Pin Lane. Despite the stench, I began to breathe again. Why were they so eager to catch an orphan, anyway? I shuddered, wondering what I’d done.

  The footsteps returned. “Hey! Where’d he go?” came a quick, nervous voice. Greek wasn’t my native language, but even I could tell he spoke with an accent. “He was straight ahead of us!” Their footsteps stopped above me. “What are we going to tell Ury?”

  “Ury can skewer and roast himself,” grunted a lower-pitched voice. There was a sniff and the first soldier spoke again. “By the Name! What’s that smell?”

  “Your hairy armpits,” the second one grumbled. “Let’s go. We’ve wasted enough time on this.”

  Directly above me, the first man spoke again. “Wait a moment. There’s a ditch here. You know, I think it goes under the road. Bring that torch over, would you?”

  Oh, gods. The terrified whimper in my throat was about to escape. I clamped my lips shut and struggled to slide farther in, but my feet were wedged hard, my broken toes throbbing painfully.

  The low voice was speaking again. “You want to go crawling around down there? Suit yourself. It might clean you up a bit.”

  “Look who’s talking, kopros-breath! You know that’s what they call you, do
n’t you?” The second speaker swore, and there was a clash of armoured bodies wrestling just above me amid muffled curses. I lay motionless, certain they would hear my heart pounding. Something hairy took an experimental nibble at a toe but I didn’t breathe.

  “Ah, forget it,” came the second voice, panting. “He’s gone. Let’s get back. Those suagroi are picking the city clean while we’re off chasing some brat. If Ury wants him so badly, let Ury hunt for him.” I heard them get to their feet and brush themselves off. As their sandals went back up the road, I caught the nervous voice again. “But you know, we have to decide what we’re going to tell Ury . . .” Their voices faded as they turned the corner.

  For a long while I lay still, listening for their return. But there was nothing. From the direction of the palace I could still hear the clash and scream of battle.

  In the air, overlying the pungent sewage, the sharp tang of smoke recalled my father’s description of Greek siege tactics. “If they ever take Troy, they’ll be merciless. They’ll kill any man or boy of an age to fight, enslave the women, and burn the rest to the ground.” On the wind, the smoke of a burning city was fulfilling my father’s prophecy.

  Chapter 3

  I LAY EXHAUSTED in the ditch, my foot throbbing. A swarm of thoughts buzzed through my mind: the Greeks in Troy; the siege of the city; and most of all—Melantha. I bit my lip.

  After our father left us three years ago, Melantha had tried to fill the gap. At nineteen, she was four years older, and should have been married long ago. But ten years of war had killed off a lot of potential husbands, and none of those left felt like courting a penniless orphan. Especially as she had insisted to the few who’d asked that I was part of the deal.

  She had to be dead. I had heard that same crack watching the butcher up in Temple Street on market day. He was a huge, ruddy man who slaughtered goats by snapping their necks with his thick hands. “Less mess on the vest, eh?” he’d say, flapping his bloody apron and winking at me, then roar with laughter. Later, when meat became scarce and soldiers scarcer, they’d drafted him into a heavy infantry brigade. But the armoury had no breastplates that big, and he went into battle in stiff leather plate. He died two agonizing weeks after stopping a Greek arrow on the Scamander plain.