“Men of Ithaca! At last the great war is over. Within a month, with the gods’ favour, we will be back home with our loved ones.” He paused to let the men cheer.
“It has been a long and brutal war. Each of us has called the death names of brothers, cousins and close friends. But at last it is over! Troy is destroyed, the thousand ships bound for home. Fair Helen has been returned to her rightful husband, and the honour of the house of Atreus restored. But most important—every man here is returning home rich!” He paused as the men cheered again.
“But the war has given you more than wealth: each of you has been sculpted into a battle-hardened warrior. We now have before us a perfect chance to put those skills to use. A short march from here is the town of Maronia, at the foot of the mountain of Ismaros. Allies of that blackened heap of rubble once known as Troy. A fatal mistake! Tomorrow morning, at first light, we will march on the town and sack it.” The cheers that greeted this were quieter and died out quickly.
“Unlike what we were told at Troy, this will truly be a quick assault. The town is unfortified. Its inhabitants, the Cicones, are unprepared. But”—he leaned over the rail to peer down at them— “we must be in and out by noon and set sail before the Cicones can regroup. Short swords and hatchets only: this is close-quarters work. Archers, leave your bows and quivers on the stern deck of your ship. No cooking fires tonight, the wind is onshore.” He pointed. “Post sentries two hundred paces up the valley and the stream bed. Trench anyone who approaches. We march at first light.”
There was no cheering this time, but Lopex didn’t seem to notice. He turned and went down the ladder amidships.
I spent all evening lugging heavy goatskin bags of water from the river to refill the ship’s cistern. One of the soldiers explained that with river water, you had to add some wine before drinking it. “It’s a sacrifice to the river spirit, boy. Don’t skip that unless you want him angry. Angry enough to taint the water and make us all sick, sometimes.”
With the cistern full, I was immediately ordered onto the ship to help grind wheat. “See that basket?” the guard grunted as I climbed down into the hold. “Tell your Trojan friends nobody gets out until it’s full.”
Two other slaves looked resentful as I translated, but Zosimea, the sharp-faced woman who had advised me not to run, was unmoved. “You’re both alive, aren’t you?” she said tartly, her arm methodically working the pestillos. “And that’s more than can be said for many.” She dropped another handful of grain into her mortar bowl. “Now keep grinding. I’m not filling this basket by myself.”
Beside her, the older man who had spoken to me on the beach nodded. “We’ve been fortunate. At least with Odysseus as our master, the archers won’t use us as human targets.”
Odysseus? I looked up. “I thought they called him Lopex.”
The older man shook his head. “That’s just a nickname. His men have called him that for as long as I can remember. That is to say, ” he added, “since the Greeks first attacked us ten years ago.”
I stared at him. Back in Troy, even I’d heard the name of Odysseus the trickster. It was said he told two lies with every breath. Then again, what I’d heard about the other Greek commanders was worse.
At someone’s request, I translated what Lopex had said when we landed.
“Can’t you men keep working while you talk?” Zosimea snapped at us. “No, not like that, ” she added, exasperated. “You’re not killing roaches, for Hera’s sake. Twist, don’t pound.”
It was well into the night before we had filled the basket and crept out of the hold, my savagely aching wrists adding to the pain in my toes and shin. Despite the chill and the dew that had soaked the ground, slaves didn’t get blankets, of course, so we ended up packing ourselves in a row on the beach like wooden spoons in a basket. I found myself wedged between a loose-skinned older man in a loincloth with a loud voice and a louder snore, and Zosimea, who jerked awake violently every few minutes, groaning and jabbing me in the stomach with her elbow.
After the night’s chill, an early morning mist spread from the river valley. Someone kicked us awake and ordered us to fetch the soldiers a cold breakfast of figs and dried fish from storage. I was about to scrounge something for myself when Lopex called.
“Boy! Now!”
I trudged wearily over to where he was holding a pair of grieves. “Tie these on,” he said, extending a leg. The heavy bronze plates were shiny with oil, and I struggled not to drop them. Nearby, the other soldiers were getting into their own armour. For all that Lopex had said about being a trained fighting force, no two of them wore the same thing. Most were missing grieves, arm guards or bronze collars, and much of what they still had was dented and worn, helmets missing plumes, leather straps broken and re-knotted. Ten years of war hadn’t been kind to the Greeks either.
After they marched up the valley, leaving only a few soldiers to guard us, I set about pilfering some breakfast from the ship’s stores and sat down on a fallen log someone had dragged into camp. I had begun to brood about my sister again when Zosimea and the greying man who’d spoken to me on the beach sat down nearby, talking. Most of the captives looked familiar—I’d seen them around Troy—but I didn’t recognize his face. Well, it was a big place.
Zosimea grunted as she tore some flesh from a smoked fish with her teeth. “That Greek tramp? Can’t see what you men saw in her, myself. Her and her Greek ways.” She spat out the word like a bone.
“Mind, I don’t know what old Lopex meant about her rightful husband,” she added. “From what I heard, she didn’t take her hands off that fancy-boy of hers since Chryses made sacrifice at their wedding. Wouldn’t let him alone, the hussy.”
The man shook his head seriously. “That’s the story Prince Paris put about—that Helen came back with him from the Greek islands as a virgin bride—but there’s more to it.”
I sat up to listen. I’d seen Helen once or twice myself, up on the wall with her husband Paris, one of King Priam’s many sons. Just thinking about her sent my pulse racing. She had to be fifteen years older than I was, but I’d never seen a woman even half as good looking. Perfect high cheekbones, almond eyes, smooth—
His voice brought me back. “The truth is, Paris isn’t her first husband, he’s her second.”
Zosimea snorted as she gnawed at her smoked fish. “Hah! What killed the first one? Overuse?”
The man ignored her. “Her first husband isn’t dead. Technically, they’re still married.”
“Aha! I knew it, the little tramp!” Zosimea crowed.
I jumped in. “Was that what Lopex was talking about?”
He nodded, turning to me. “That’s why w—” he coughed and started again “—why the Greeks went to war against us. King Agamemnon wanted to bring Helen back to her first husband, his brother Menelaus.”
Zosimea choked on her fish. “That’s what all this was about? Ten years of war, because his brother couldn’t satisfy that little minx?”
The man shrugged. “Well, that was the excuse. But the real reason was different. Why do you think Troy was so rich?”
I made a rude noise. As long as I could remember, Troy had been a war-starved dump.
He glanced over at me. “Before the war, I mean. You wouldn’t remember, but Troy was rich. From where it sat, it controlled the only water route to the Sea of Propontis. Troy took a share of the cargo from every Greek trading ship that went past.”
He sat back to chew on a sprig of wild oregano to clean his breath. “That’s what the Greeks were really after. Control of trade routes.”
Shaking her head, Zosimea tossed the fish skeleton into the fire, picked clean. “Kassander, I can’t think where you find these stories. Next you’ll be saying that the whole thing was the fault of the gods.”
Shortly after noon I heard voices. The raiding party wasgreek tramping noisily back through the cypress valley just off the beach, their armour clanking. As they approached, I caught snatches of their conversatio
n.
“What were they thinking? Where were the men?”
“Out in the back fields with the sheep, of course!” There was a roar of laughter.
The raiding party emerged from the valley. As they neared the camp, another voice called out. “Hey, Elpie boy! Guess what we got you! Baby clothes!” This time the laughter was even louder.
Every man was carrying something: goatskin bags of wine, brass plates, armour or other plunder. Some of the soldiers had stolen donkeys and carts that they’d loaded with heavier items. As the stream of men continued to spill from the river valley onto the beach, more men appeared, driving shambling cattle before them. They would never fit on the ships. I wondered what they were planning.
I soon found out. Within a few minutes, cooking fires had been lit from the shipboard fire pots, and the soldiers, their armour already stripped off, had begun to slaughter and skin the animals. Others were distributing goatskin bags of wine and some small, round loaves from a wagon. The noise grew rapidly.
A little while later, Lopex arrived with the final wave of returning soldiers, dragging a reluctant grey donkey by its halter as it pulled a rattling cart loaded with wine skins. He stared around the beach for a moment.
“Men!” he called. “What are you doing? Load the ships and clear the beach immediately!”
The din of celebration was too loud for him to be heard, so he climbed onto our ship and called out from the stern, his voice booming across the camp. “Fellow Achaeans! Listen to me! Our victory today was swift and simple for one reason: we followed a plan. But the plan is not yet complete. We must be off the beach before the Cicones can counterattack. Load the ships and prepare to sail!”
A few men glanced up, but most couldn’t hear, or didn’t care. He tried again, louder. “Men of Ithaca! Ask yourselves: why was this so easy? Because we caught them unprepared! But that will not last. Since we attacked this morning, they will have sent runners to nearby villages. Those villages are now sending reinforcements. Our strength is speed, not size. We must be gone before they return in force.”
He was a strong speaker, but the wine was stronger. The soldiers near me were dismissive. “We kicked them senseless! The way we beat them, they won’t come out of their villages until spring!”
I shook my head. Greek army discipline. Not that ours had been much better. Suddenly Lopex caught sight of me on the beach. “Boy! Come here!”
He pointed down at the cart he had brought back. “Unload this cart and stow it in the stern hold of the Pelagios.” He stalked off down the beach.
I glanced over as Kassander emerged from the shade of the ship. He caught my puzzled expression. “What’s the matter?”
I gestured at Lopex a little distance away, now picking up some breastplates from the sand and heading toward a knot of men squirting wine over each another from goatskins. “I’m supposed to put this stuff in a—what was it? A Pelagios. What’s he talking about?”
Kassander patted the overlapping wooden planks of the hull beside us. “This, of course. Lopex’s ship.”
“He named his ship?” I peered closely at him. “Come on, don’t grease the goat. What is it, really?”
He shook his head. “I’m serious. Ships always have names.” He added quickly, “I mean—Greek ships do.” He clapped his palms together. “So. What was Lopex saying to the men?”
I told him and he nodded thoughtfully.
“All these little coastal villages come to one another’s defence,” he said. “I expect he’s right—the Cicones are probably heading this way right now.”
I climbed the ladder gingerly and dropped the first wine skin on deck. It landed with a thud that was hardly audible above the noise from the beach. A thought struck me and I called down to him. “Will they make us fight?”
He shook his head up at me. “No. They won’t put weapons in a slave’s hands. Not until they’re sure they’ve beaten our spirit out. But,” he added, “Lopex may use you to carry messages in battle.”
I shuddered as I came back down. “What should I do?”
“If I were you, I’d help him. If he’s right—and his nickname isn’t ‘the fox’ for nothing—then the best thing we can do is help the Greeks win. If the Cicones win, they might well kill both of us too.”
“Kill us? Why? We’re—” I choked on the word “—slaves.”
Kassander shrugged. “We could be soldiers in disguise. They’ll play it safe. That’s what the Greeks would do.”
I thought about it as I finished loading Lopex’s stolen goods, but it wasn’t until later that it occurred to me to wonder how a Trojan knew so much about Greek strategy.
Once the last skin was up the ladder, I balanced it on the stern railing and draped one arm across it. If Lopex came by it would look like I was just taking a breather. The few clouds providing occasional shade had drifted away, and the afternoon sun was making me squint. As I leaned against the rail, I spotted a flash among the green trees of the river valley, then more. I peered harder. That wasn’t sunlight on the river, it was bronze. Bronze armour.
I looked around urgently for Lopex but he was away off up the beach, forcing armour onto a group of sceptical swordsmen in loincloths. I called anyway, waving my arms, but he couldn’t hear me. The Cicones were clearly visible now through the trees. They’d be emerging onto the beach any second. Were the Greeks all blind?
I waved my arms angrily from the deck. “Hey, Greeks! Look over there!” I pointed. A few of the nearer men looked up. But I was just a slave, and they returned to their wine. For a moment I was tempted to give up. Serve them right if they were slaughtered. But recalling Kassander’s warning, I tried again.
As I waved at them, my toe kicked the bronze fire pot at the stern, making me wince. The Greeks kept two shielded oil lamps burning at all times to light their cooking fires from. I frowned for a moment as I stared at it, an idea coming to me. Dashing over to the benches, I began rummaging through a stash of looted plates beneath them until I spotted a small bronze goblet. Perfect. I yanked it out and tied it to one end of a cast-off rowing loincloth, then poured some of the yellow lamp oil onto it and thrust the tip into the flame.
“Hey! Greeks!” Standing at the rail, I spun the goblet in the burning cloth over my head like a sling before releasing them both to fly toward the Ciconian army, now emerging from the trees. Long practice at bringing down birds for supper had given me a strong throwing arm, and weighted by the goblet, the bundle soared over the Greeks, the burning cloth fluttering like a tail.
Even drunk, the soldiers who saw it fly overhead turned automatically to mark its fall, while others turned to follow their gaze. There was a momentary silence as they absorbed what they were looking at. Then the entire camp erupted in a flurry of yells and activity as the Greeks bolted for their weapons.
Bronze blazing in the sun, the Cicones swept down on the encampment like avenging Furies. A soldier at the edge of the camp stared drunkenly at the approaching army just a little too long. A moment later his head came spinning through the air, sliced from his shoulders by a Ciconian battle axe, blood spraying from it in a grisly arc. I saw two other Greek soldiers die in the first few seconds, one spitted through the eye with a Ciconian spear, the other slashed open from unarmoured shoulder to waist. He stared wide-eyed as his intestines spilled out onto the ground, then collapsed on top of them.
I decided I’d stay where I was.
But Lopex was right about one thing: the Greeks had experience. Their drunken stupor shaken off, they immediately formed a defensive line, fronted by the men who had gotten their armour on first, and slowed the Ciconian advance to a crawl. I stood up at the stern rail for a better look. The air was on fire with the ringing clash of sword on shield, shouts and agonized screams. Every few moments brought another cry of khalash! It was a shock to realize that the cry came from Ciconian warriors whenever they drew blood.
There must have been three Cicones to every Greek, but the Greek shoulder-to-shoulder format
ion was preventing the Cicones from bringing their numbers to bear. All the same, powered by sheer rage, the attackers were gradually pushing the Greeks off the beach toward the ships. I wondered what else the Greeks had done to make them so furious.
Lopex was dragging a wounded soldier out of the battle when he spotted me on the stern deck and waved an arm. Angry with myself for not staying hidden, I climbed down the ladder. Blood was pouring from a cut under his eye and he was sweating like the Helios horse, but his voice was calm. He leaned down and spoke into my ear, pointing. “Do you see the captain of the archers over there, the tall man with the tusk helmet and the red horsehair plume?”
I nodded. Giving me messages for him and several others, he clapped me hard on the shoulder, spinning me around and powerfully shoving me on my way before I could object. “Now get moving!”
As I staggered off, he called to me again. “Oh, and boy? Nice trick with the burning rag.”
I stared at the struggling mass of men. Walk into that? I’d sooner walk into Hades. Which was where I’d find myself if I did as he asked. Could I just ignore him? The Cicones clearly had the upper hand, their fearsome khalash! ringing out continuously across the battlefield.
I watched anxiously, hoping the battle would break one way or the other, but Lopex spotted me. Frowning, he jerked his head angrily toward the front line, waving his knife.
There was no doubt what would happen if I disobeyed any longer. I crept up nervously behind the surging mass of warriors, noting the captain of the archers, took a deep breath and plunged in, head down. Within moments a bronze shield had smashed me in the temple. An elbow preparing a sword thrust jabbed me in the stomach, and I doubled over to be knocked to the ground and stepped on heavily by a Greek soldier dodging a Ciconian spear. Someone screamed hoarsely behind me and a heavy hand thumped onto my back—and then slid wetly to the ground.
Gagging, I struggled to my hands and knees and was halfway to my feet when a sword slashed wickedly just above my head, clanging off someone’s armour. I dropped back to the ground, sweating. It suddenly came to me that I was safer down here: most of the action was up at sword height.
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