Torn from Troy

by Patrick Bowman

  Pen woke up. “Ow!” he said, jerking his leg away and getting more sand in it. “What are you doing, slave?”

  “Stop moving, would you?” I said, irritated. “This wound will kill you if it isn’t treated. Your healer can’t do it, he’s halfway to Hades.”

  “Kallikrates? But he isn’t even sick!”

  I shook my head. “Not sick. Wounded. In the battle yesterday.”

  Pen stared at me. “But he shouldn’t have been fighting at all. He’s just a healer.”

  “That’s right,” I grunted. “Now be quiet a moment.” I concentrated.

  “Clean wound, clean bandages, air and time,” my father’s voice came back to me. I continued wiping the dirt and dried blood away with the tunic I had just boiled.

  “Hey!” Pen yelped. “That’s hot!”

  “Keep your voice down,” I muttered. “Do you want everyone to hear?”

  “But it hurts!” he replied, his eyes filling with tears. “Aren’t healers supposed to make it feel better?”

  “It’s something my father always did,” I said. “He was a healer. He said the heat helped. I don’t know why.” I finished wiping the dirt out of the wound as Pen whimpered, then wrapped it with a second strip and tied it off as my father had shown me.

  As I stood up to go, he called, “Slave?”

  I turned.

  “Thank you,” he said awkwardly. “For saving my life. Back at Ismaros. And this.” He gestured to his bandage.

  I shrugged. “Keep it clean.” I walked away to keep him from saying anything more.

  I looked around for Ury as I stirred the lumpy porridge, wondering why I’d just done that. Pen was one of them. He’d most likely killed someone I knew. Why did I care what happened to him? Watching the thick bubbles burst on the surface of the porridge, I let my attention wander.

  A massive hand grabbed my shoulder and roughly yanked me around. It was Ury, his grimy, black-haired face inches from mine. “I told you what I’d do to you, boy,” he snarled, his meaty fingers squeezing my shoulder hard. “I’ll cut that sharp tongue of yours right out of your mouth.”

  Dropping me behind the cooking tripod with the same quick move he’d used to capture me, he fell heavily on me, pulling my jaw open with one filthy paw while he pulled out his knife with the other.

  I struggled to yell, to scream, to bite, but with his huge hand grappling for my tongue I could barely squeak. He slid the long bronze hunting blade between my teeth, slicing savagely into the corner of my mouth. Gods—he was really going to do it! Desperate, I struggled to push his arm away, but he was unstoppable.

  “Open up boy, or I’ll cut right through your cheek,” he grunted, his breath hot on my face. The sharp edge of his dagger was sawing deeper into the side of my tongue. Heedless of the fresh burst of agony it caused, I clamped my teeth hard on his blade, taking some pressure off my tongue but levering the edge deeper into my cheek and releasing a further gush of blood down my throat.

  My flailing left hand struck something and I snatched it up, a thick olive-wood branch from the cooking fire, the other end glowing. Without pausing to think I stabbed it at his face. It sizzled where it struck. Ury roared and clapped a hand to his cheek, letting go of his knife, and I snatched up a handful of sand to throw into his eyes. He rolled off me, rubbing his eyes and cheek at the same time.

  I scrambled to my feet and ran. Gods, what had I done? Any slave knew that attacking a free man meant instant death. Running blindly through the camp, I tripped over Elpenor, still stretched out on his blanket, and fell on my face in the sand. Bronze-hard fingers gripped my shoulder and hauled me upright. “What’s going on here, boy?” a voice barked. It was Lopex.

  I began to stammer a reply, but Ury charged up. “Do you know what that filthy little scut did? He attacked me! He’s a vicious little cur. I warned you he was feral, Lopex. Didn’t I warn you?”

  I squirmed frantically to get free but Lopex didn’t notice. “He attacked you?”

  “Look at this!” Ury pulled his hand away to show a patch of burnt beard surrounding an angry red blister. “He’ll never train, Lopex. Give him here.”

  Lopex held me out at arm’s length for a moment. “You’re right, Ury.” He sounded tired. “He didn’t work out. Trench him. But make it quick.”

  Ury grabbed me roughly by the neck and bent down to put his meaty lips beside my ear. “Quick? I don’t think so, ” he whispered, sliding the point of his knife up my cheek. “And this time it’ll be more than your tongue, boy.” His knife point stopped beside my eye. “Maybe those little grey eyes next. Or—”

  On the ground before us, Elpenor sat up. “Wait!” he blurted. “He’s not like that! He saved my life!” He cast around desperately and his eye fell on the bandage. “Look at this! He bandaged me, where the Cicones got me yesterday!”

  Lopex frowned. “Ury, hold it.” He knelt to run his fingers over the wrapping on Pen’s leg, then stood up and turned to me. “Boy. Did you do this?”

  Ury’s hand on my throat suddenly clenched so hard it cut off my breath. “The slave?” he broke in, as I struggled to speak. “Of course he didn’t. Elpie’s lying. Here, I’ll just trench the little scut now.” His knife flashed up in an arc from his waist but Lopex’s hand snapped out and intercepted it a finger’s width from my throat.

  “I said hold, Ury,” Lopex said firmly, his hand gripping Ury’s wrist. “Now release him. Answer me, slave. Did you do this?”

  Ury reluctantly let go of my throat, and I gasped for air. Unable to speak, I nodded, my eyes watering.

  Lopex looked down at the bandage again. “This is a surgeon’s knot. How did you learn this? Who taught you?”

  Pen broke in. “His father! He’s a healer!”

  Lopex’s gaze swivelled back to me. “Your father? A Trojan healer? What’s his name?”

  I finally caught my breath. “Aristides. Of Herakleon.”

  He frowned. “Tall man? Combed beard? Scar on his forehead?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s him. It—was him.”

  Lopex’s eyebrows rose. “Him!” He paused in thought. “I knew of your father, boy. Relieved the pain for men of mine after more than one battle, Trojan and enemy though he was.” His voice seemed to be coming from somewhere far off. “A waste,” he added. “That arrow was a stray. We don’t target healers.” He turned toward me again. “So you’re his son. Can you heal, boy?”

  I stammered. “A bit, I guess. I helped my father with cuts and burns, and—”

  He grabbed me by my burned shoulder and I winced. “Well, boy, our healer’s hurt. So until he gets better or you die, you’re taking his place.”

  Ury broke in. “What? You’re making him a healer? He’ll kill us all in our sleep!” He reached for me. “Give him here, Lopex. I’ll fix him now.”

  Lopex grabbed Ury’s wrist and clenched until Ury gasped and dropped his knife. “Listen to me, Ury,” he said. “He’s mouthy and disobedient. But I don’t believe he would attack you unprovoked.” His eyes flickered to the fresh cut at the side of my mouth, and I chose that moment to spit out a mouthful of blood.

  “As long as I am commander of this expedition,” he continued to Ury, “you will obey my orders. Is that clear?” Ury grunted something.

  Lopex led me to the ship, pulled high on the beach, and climbed the stern boarding net behind me. “Men of Ithaca!” he called from the stern, addressing the entire camp. “Kallikrates the healer was wounded in the battle yesterday. But I have prepared for this!” He grabbed my wrist and hauled my arm into the air. “I have here the son of Aristides of Herakleon, the famous Trojan healer, who taught him all the skills of healing.”

  I plucked at his shoulder. “I didn’t say that! He wasn’t famous, and he didn’t teach me that much—”

  He looked down at me impatiently. “Shut up, boy. Of course he didn’t. The men need to believe you know what you’re doing. So make sure they never doubt it.”

  He lifted his head to address the camp aga
in. “Until Kallikrates recovers, I declare this slave hagios. He is not to be harmed.” His gaze swept over Ury before turning back to me. “Don’t get ideas, boy. If any of your patients die, I’ll kill you. And if you ever raise a hand to a free man again, I’ll give you to Ury. Now start healing.” He gave me a shove toward the ladder that sent me stumbling across the sloping deck.

  As I picked myself up, I recalled crazy Cassie’s prediction, back in Troy. Survive. Accept your father’s gift. I’d come within a blade’s breadth of being killed today. Perhaps, just once, Cassie had gotten it right.

  Chapter 9

  THAT EVENING WE were sitting by the slaves’ campfire, eating scraps the Greeks had left. For once, the cisterns were full and our other chores done early enough that we had time to talk, although my injured tongue made it hard. Soldiers nearby were playing some kind of game by dropping rocks on each other’s bellies until someone grunted. Typical Greek stupidity.

  Cross-legged in the sand, Zosimea was gnawing gristle from a pig’s hock when I told them what Lopex had said. She looked up from her meal. “He did? That’s good news, boy. Means you’re no longer a slave!”

  Sitting on a piece of driftwood he had dragged over to the fire, Kassander shook his head. “He’s still a slave, and his master can still withdraw hagios and kill him if he chooses. But,” he added, “even Ury wouldn’t dare transgress against hagios, so at least you’re safe from him.” He paused. “Probably.”

  A knot popped in the fire, and I brushed a spark from the chiton the fat storesmaster had given me, white wool with a pattern of gold squares along the edge. Lopex clearly didn’t want his new healer in rags.

  Kassander leaned forward. “Alexi? Have you treated Kallikrates, the old healer, yet?”

  He sat back, satisfied, as I shook my head, my mouth full. “Good. Then you know what you have to do.”

  “No. What?”

  Kassander looked me in the eye. “Kill him, of course.”

  I choked, coughing a spray of half-chewed millet into the fire. “What?” I peered through the flames at him. “You’re serious, aren’t you? What do I look like, an assassin?”

  “Your influence with Lopex will last only as long as Kallikrates is sick,” he explained patiently. “The moment he’s back on his feet, you’ll be back to fetching and carrying.”

  “But Lopex said he’d kill me if any of my patients died!”

  Kassander shook his head. “That’s a standard Greek threat for any slave in a position of power.” He paused for a sip of water, then added, “Just don’t be obvious about it.”

  I stared at him. “But he’s just lying there!”

  Kassander shrugged. “Best time for it. Or would you rather wait until he’s back on his feet?”

  I started to object, but he held up a hand. “Look here, to the side of the neck. Here, where it pulses. Nick him with his own knife. Healers do it on the battlefield when the wounds are too bad. His blood will run out, and he’ll die quietly in a few minutes. Your father was an expert.”

  “My father?” I was caught off guard. “How do you know? Did you—were you in the army before you were captured?”

  He looked down. “Yes. I was a soldier,” he said quietly. But he wouldn’t say any more.

  The next morning Lopex ordered me to examine the wounded. Some had bad slashes and stab wounds, but I discovered that I knew more than I had thought. Thank the gods there were no limbs bad enough to cut off. My father had never let me stay when he was doing amputations, but I had heard the screams.

  My tongue had stiffened up to the point where it was hard to talk. Fortunately most of the taciturn Greek soldiers weren’t interested in making conversation with a slave. Several of them were already showing signs of eksepsis: swollen, angry tissue and red streaks under the nearby skin, and in one case, the nauseating smell of rotting meat. As I rebandaged their wounds, I wondered whether they’d killed anyone I had known. The Greeks were just as suspicious of me, a healer who was not only Trojan but a slave, and a boy at that. But Lopex had spoken for me, and that seemed to count for something. Besides, as one older warrior remarked while I cleaned out a nasty gash on his chest, “Can’t say I think much of your Trojan healing, boy, but Krats was no prize either.”

  That afternoon I was examining a soldier named Theron, one of the dark, scowling men I’d seen around Ury. His face and arms were cratered with at least a half a dozen old wounds, and there were two fresh ones on his cheek and his thigh. The thigh wound was especially deep, and had crusted over with sand and dried blood.

  I pulled a boiled rag from my bundle and was about to wash his thigh when a knife flashed in front of my face. “You just put that thing down, boy. I don’t need any of your Trojan healing. Wrap and wax, that’s what it wants.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Fine,” I said thickly. “It’s no grease off my axle.” The Greek method was to wipe a wound out with whatever dirty cloth was available, wrap it tightly, then pour hot wax over the bandage to seal it. With treatment like that, I couldn’t see how anyone ever survived. Well, it was his leg.

  As I stood up to fetch some wax from the ship’s stores, I was stopped by a sudden, vivid memory from when I was very young. My father’s strong, capable fingers were treating one of his patients when his voice asked me to hold one end of a long bandage while he wrapped the other around the man’s forearm. My father had been passionate about his calling. I couldn’t imagine him waxing a wound, even at knifepoint.

  “S’matter, boy? Forget what you’re doing?” Theron sneered.

  “No.” I looked down at him. “I think I’ve just remembered.” I knelt and began to unwrap the bandage again.

  Ignoring his yelps of pain, I set about sponging out the dirt and dried blood from the slash. The blood was heavily encrusted and needed hard scrubbing, inflaming the exposed flesh below. Theron wasn’t one to suffer in silence. “Apollo’s gloutos, boy, didn’t I tell you to treat me properly?” He groped on the sand for his knife.

  I glanced up from the filthy wound. “You know something, Greek? I wouldn’t care if you died. But I’m your healer now. I won’t let your stupid prejudice keep me from doing it the right way.” I gave the wound a savage swipe with the rag, eliciting another angry yelp. “Just be quiet or I’ll walk away and let you do it yourself.” He slumped back and glowered at me, but held his tongue.

  By late afternoon I’d seen everyone else and couldn’t put it off any longer. Kallikrates was with the other badly wounded on the edge of the camp. I knelt nervously in the sand beside him. From his greying beard and flabby arms, he was clearly no warrior. The confusion of the battle yesterday must have caught him in the front lines.

  I unwrapped his tunic. My father had always kept his tunics a glowing white, boiling them daily to keep them clean, but Kallikrates’ was as filthy as those of the soldiers around him. I shrugged.

  A stab wound just below his ribs had leaked dark blood across one side of his tunic and turned the sand beneath him a sticky black. My father had once said that when the blood was dark, it was old and tired. And it was true that the bright red blood was what spurted; dark blood mostly oozed, as if its strength were gone. My father didn’t miss much.

  Examining the spot on his neck, I couldn’t see it moving, but could feel a slow pulse under my fingers. Whatever it did, only the living had one. If I cut into it now, Kallikrates would die. The thought was shocking, horrifying, and yet somehow . . . invigorating. To take a Greek life. A chance for vengeance, of a sort. I licked my lips.

  A hand was stealing toward the knife on Kallikrates’ rope belt. Were those my fingers? Suddenly the knife was in my hand, cold bronze against my palm.

  “Boy! What do you think you’re doing?”

  Startled, I dropped the knife and spun around. Lopex had come up behind me.

  I fumbled for something to say. “I’m sorry, master. I thought, I mean, he was nearly dead anyway . . .” I trailed off under his gaze.

  “So you thought you’d ste
al his knife?” Lopex’s tone was sharp.

  “I’m sorry, it was wrong, I know,” I babbled, relief washing over me.

  “Only a ghoul loots the living. The son of Aristides should have more honour than that.” He reached down to tuck the knife back into Kallikrates’ belt. “Get on with your duties.”

  As Lopex walked away, I turned back to look at the unconscious Kallikrates, stretched out helpless before me, knife glinting from his belt. My hand crept toward it once again, but stopped. This felt wrong. I reached angrily for a rag from my sailcloth bag to wipe out his wound. Lopex was right. The son of Aristides had more honour than that.

  Chapter 10

  THE STORM SWEPT down on us like a beast from Tartarus. Nobody noticed just when the coastline vanished in the pounding rain and spray, our whole attention consumed by bailing. As the ship climbed to the peak of each mountainous wave, it paused for a moment at the top, then dropped headlong into the trough in a sickening plunge that squeezed my stomach into a hard ball. At the bottom, the bow of the ship vanished beneath the surging grey surface for an endless moment before emerging with a fresh flood of water to be bailed out with sponges, buckets, whatever came to hand. We couldn’t stop for a moment: the water had to be scooped out before we took on more at the bottom of the next trough.

  The waves around us were alive with the hiss of gale-borne rain sleeting into the sea and the angry thunderbolts of father Zeus. Trapped in a monstrous struggle between the gods of sea and sky, we clung to the prayer that we were not their target. Forged on Olympus by Hephaestus the smith-god himself, the bolts of Zeus never missed.

  Terrifying though the howling wind and lightning were, the noises from the ship itself were worse. As it teetered at the top of each wave, its timbers groaned like a wounded animal, threatening to split in half under the strain. The constant pitching wrung my stomach dry, disgorging what little it held. I wasn’t alone: at least a third of the Greeks spent that day retching over the side.