Torn from Troy

by Patrick Bowman

  “Yer in luck, boy, ” he wheezed as he undid the drawstring. “Traded for this with Agamemnon’s chief storesmaster just before we shipped. Thought old Odzy might want some for a treat. Picked up a half dozen oars and some sailcloth with it, hah.”

  He muttered as he fumbled at the knot. “Hera-cursed thing. Anyone’d think he didn’t want it opened.” His face brightened. “But d’you know what it was we traded him? Our spare mast, heh! Looked sound, but ’twas so rotted out you could break it on your knee. By the time he finds out there’ll be a month’s water between us.”

  Grunting in frustration, he pulled out a short knife and sawed through the drawstring. “Here y’go, boy, ” he said proudly, pulling the bag open. “Honey. Like I says, a good storesmaster can get you anything. Be sure and tell your master.” He reached into the bag, and his face changed. “What in Hades—” He snatched his hand out again and dumped the bag on the deck. A musty, dry smell enveloped us as a dozen moths fluttered out. I looked at what he’d poured out. It had once been a honeycomb, but now it was broken into rotten chunks, the wax dark and crumbling, small grubs crawling on the surface. Tangled threads draped like cobwebs across the open combs.

  “The gods! Wax moths? That Caractacos! I trusted him, and he trades me wax moths? I hope that mast snaps on his head!” He kicked the pile of rotten comb fragments angrily, scattering them across the floor as several more moths fluttered out, heading deeper into the hold.

  He grunted uncomfortably as he bent down to clean up, then glanced at me and straightened again, wheezing. “Well, there she is, boy. Your honeycomb, hah.” He gestured at the crumbling mess. “Now pick that up. And make sure you get it all. I like to keep ship’s stores tidy.”

  I looked at the grub-infested mess, dismayed. “But you dumped it out!”

  He swung a fat fist at me but I dodged. “You listen to me, boy, ” he grunted. “I may be fat, but you don’t want to find out what kind of trouble I can make for you. Me and old Odz, we go way back. Now clean that up and clear out. I’ve got some napping to catch up on, heh.” He clambered ponderously back up the ladder and I heard his sandals stumping across the deck above me, returning to his shaded corner. Lazy barbarian.

  With a sigh of frustration, I started to scoop the scattered bits of moth-infested comb into a pile. I grimaced as my finger poked through a comb cap and sank into a rotten bee larva beneath. When I picked up the bag to put the mess back, it felt heavier than it should. I brought it out into the light. At the bottom of the bag was a cloth-wrapped bundle, tied off with a bit of sailor’s ox-hide rope. Inside were another two sections of comb. Unlike the others, they had no strands of moth silk or grubs on the surface. I scratched off a waxy cap and sniffed gingerly. It smelled like honey. Dabbing a bit on my finger, I tasted it. Very sharp, but sweet. I wasn’t sure what honey was supposed to taste like, but at least it didn’t taste like moth. Well, it would have to do. Silently thanking whoever had packed them separately, I swept the rotten comb fragments into the bag, picked up the cloth bundle and went off to find Pen.

  He was propped on his elbow in the grassy shade near the other wounded men. “Hi, Alexi!” he called, waving happily as he spotted me, then glanced around at the nearby Greeks and added gruffly, “I mean, um . . . you, slave! Come here now!”

  I came over, seething. Why was I bothering to help him? “I’m really sorry,” he blurted as I approached. “It’s just, they make so much fun of me already. If they knew I was friends with a slave . . .”

  “Fine with me,” I interrupted, eyeing him coldly. “I don’t want them thinking I’m your friend either.”

  “Oh. Yes. I see,” he said uncertainly. His eye fell on the bundle I was carrying. “What’s that?”

  Suddenly I wished I had never thought of honey, never fetched it from the ship’s stores. I was about to lie, but something in his desperate expression stopped me. Annoyed, I explained what I was planning.

  “Um, if you think so, Alexi,” he said, watching nervously as I unwrapped the bundle. “But is it,” he lowered his voice to a whisper and glanced around, “safe?”

  What an idiot. “Look, if you don’t trust me, I’ll just go,” I grunted as I scraped the wax caps off a section of comb. “Of course it’s safe, it’s just honey. What did you think I had here, bees?”

  Pen looked embarrassed. Keeping his voice low, he said, “Well, maybe it’s different for you Trojans. But the soldiers, they say it’s up to the gods if we live or die.” Leaning in toward me, he continued in a whisper, “And they really don’t like it when you try to change their plans.”

  I squeezed some honey out and smeared it over his wound. “So what do they expect you to do?”

  He swallowed. “Well, we’re supposed to wait and see. If the gods want, they’ll heal you.”

  I sat back in disbelief. “Are you serious? I always thought we worshipped the same gods. But yours sound as dumb as a whole sack of axes.” I tied off his bandage with an angry yank.

  Too late, I noticed several soldiers nearby frowning at me, and realized I’d been speaking louder than I’d thought. From behind me came a deep, slow rumble. “Saying what, boy? Thinking our gods be the lesser of yours?”

  I stood up and turned around slowly to find myself staring at a hairy navel. Craning my head back, I squinted up into the sunlight until I found his face. It was Pharos, the giant soldier I’d heard advocating sacrifices on board. Slow of thought but as strong as any two men, he was said to practise a muscular devotion to the gods. Around us, several Greeks were drifting over in anticipation.

  Unnerved, I reacted without thinking. “Kopros, wouldn’t anyone?” I snapped. “What sort of gods would tell you not to treat your wounds?”

  His expression turned sorrowful. “Gods like not this talk, ” he said, shaking his head slowly. “Not respectful. Young slave needs to learn respect. Respect for gods!” A hand the size of my head made a sudden grab for me. I darted out of his way, but the soldiers closed ranks to block my escape and a painful kick in my side sent me staggering back. There were chuckles and some jeers. Pen and the other wounded soldiers nearby scrambled out of the way.

  Pharos had turned and was heading for me once again. I dodged as he thudded past me, his fingers just brushing my hair. He’d eventually figure out that if he walked slowly, he’d have me. That tongue of yours is going to get you in a lot of trouble. Lopex had foreseen this. Why couldn’t I control myself? I rolled again to dodge and rose to one knee in the sand to catch my breath, trying to think. Pharos hadn’t come looking for me; he had never even spoken to me before. He’d just overheard something I’d said, and then I’d gotten mad and made it worse. Stupid.

  Time to change tactics.

  Leaping sideways as he thundered past, I called out, “Wait, Pharos! That’s not what I meant!” He circled around toward me, and I dodged again.

  “I mean, of course we all respect and fear the gods. They control our lives, don’t they?” I said, improvising frantically. “But you know the real problem? The gods tell Greeks and Trojans different things!”

  Pharos slowed, his head tilting as he scratched his chin through a curly beard as black as Ury’s. I glanced around, hoping for inspiration, when my eye fell on the honeycomb, lying in a nearby patch of beach grass. I reached over to pick it up. “Look here! When I talked to Kallikrates about healing, he said he’d never even heard of using honey!” He’d never spoken a word to me, but no one would be asking him anytime soon.

  From behind me came impatient catcalls. Pharos stared at me with his arms folded, an impassive gaze that clearly said that a fast tongue could not outrun slow fists. At least he was still listening.

  “In Troy, any healer could tell you about it. They—” I caught myself. “I mean, we used honey to treat eksepsis.” I scrambled up onto a rock to get closer to his eye level.

  “Pharos, everyone knows you’re a man who respects the gods. So I’m sure that of all people, you will know the story of the bees that protected Fath
er Zeus as a child.” Inspiration struck. “But in Troy we discovered what he gave the bees in return!”

  Lifting the dripping piece of honeycomb above my head, I tried to give my voice the singsong cadence I’d heard from our priests. “In his gratitude, deathless Zeus, king of all the gods, gave their honey the power to heal!” I paused to let the murmuring die down, then added loudly, “But only, ” I paused again, “for those who are truly worthy!”

  A buzz of conversation broke out around me. I wiped the sweat from my forehead with my free hand. Pharos was still listening, but a single misstep would break the spell. I chose my next words carefully. “Pharos! They say you are the most devout man in this command. There can be no doubt that immortal Zeus looks on you with favour.” I held out the honeycomb toward him. “Let us show the rest of these men together. Permit me to treat your wound with his gift.”

  Holding my breath, I reached out and gently began to unwrap the filthy bandage around his shoulder. He had refused treatment after Ismaros, and his bandage was ragged and dirty. Quickly, before his ponderous thoughts could crystallize into doubt, I unwound it, wiped out the angry weal beneath and smeared on some honey. Filthy though it was, there was little sign of eksepsis. It had a good chance of healing. As I bound him again with a clean bandage from the bag on my waist, I spoke to the watching soldiers, trying to sound confident.

  “I believe that divine Zeus will heal this man. Who else here is brave enough to submit their wounds to his mercy?”

  There was some uneasy shuffling of feet. “Come!” I called out, suddenly bold. “Is Pharos the only man here who respects the gods enough to accept their gift?”

  After a further pause, someone shuffled forward from the crowd, then two more. Keeping my expression carefully neutral, I unbound their bandages, squeezed the rest of the honey from the comb, and rebound their wounds with fresh cloth.

  The comb empty, I stepped down from the rock and walked off toward the circle of men. To my intense relief, they moved aside and let me pass. I took a deep breath, not daring to smile until I was well away.

  Later that day Kassander fell into step with me as I was carrying water to the ship’s cistern. “Impressive, ” he commented. “Nice to see your tongue getting you out of trouble for a change.” I checked my irritated reply as I caught his faint smile.

  Chapter 12

  THE NEXT MORNING’S sky held a thin layer of hazy cloud, just enough to hide the sun. The men had recovered from their thirst, and a new problem had emerged: food. We were low on stores, and in particular had no more dried meat or fish. Zosimea and I were set to preparing a large pot of porridge over a driftwood fire. As the thick, mealy odour wafted down the beach, the grumbling began. Ury was one of the loudest.

  “What’s this kopros, slave?” he demanded, striding up as I stirred the pot. I’d taken care to stay out of his way since our encounter after Ismaros, but somehow I didn’t think he’d forgotten. He snatched the long wooden spoon from me and snarled. “Millet again? This might suit Trojans, but Greek warriors need meat!” He flicked the spoon to splash boiling, sticky porridge across my face. As I yelped and wiped it off, he scooped the spoon into the porridge again. I dodged him and darted off, nearly running into Lopex, who was walking back from the direction of the hills behind the beach.

  “Don’t like porridge?” he asked. “Good. Then you’ve both just volunteered for a scouting mission. Along with—” he looked around for a moment and raised his voice. “Pharos. Over here.” Pharos lumbered over.

  “There’s a clean road a few hundred paces back in the hills.” He gestured back behind the beach. “And where there’s a road, there’s a town. Find it. But we’re in no condition to raid. Ury, take these two and go visit them. We have plenty of dyed cloth; trade that for food. You can also trade away a dozen tanned cowhides. And there’s a box of powders and oils that I took from Troy. Bring that as a sample. Tell them it’s powerful Trojan magic that we found in a temple.”

  I blinked. “It is?”

  His gaze flickered to my face. “I don’t know what it is, boy, and I don’t care. Just trade it for food. Dried meat if you can, fresh otherwise. Also pitch and hide rope. Now get moving. I’m going to start repairs to the ship.” He turned back for a moment to look directly at me. “Oh. And get some more honey.”

  Ury pressed his ugly face close to mine. “I’ll see you dead yet, boy, healer or no. Lopex can’t protect you when he’s not around. Now stay here while I round up some men.”

  Pharos swivelled his head to look at him. “Rounding up men? To take only two, Pharos thought.”

  “Keep your big stupid thoughts to yourself,” Ury snapped at him. “I’m not going near an unknown town with only a moron and a slave for backup. Now get your armour on.” Pharos said nothing.

  A few minutes later, Ury returned with the six swarthy, thick-browed men he spent most of his time with and thrust a heavy wooden box at me, bound closed by tight leather cords. “Carry this, slave.” It had a very faint, familiar scent, but I didn’t have a chance to examine it before we set off up the hills behind the beach.

  Beyond the first line of dusty hills, we found a wide sandy road, lined on either side with small black stones. We were following it through a valley when Ury yanked me back savagely with a hand on my shoulder. “Open your eyes, slave, ” he hissed in my ear. “Someone’s coming!” He waved his men into a stand of trees while he, Pharos and I crouched behind a low tamarisk tree near the road. As we hunkered down, a young woman came down the road, singing to herself. She was slender, her long black hair hanging in a neat plait over a bare shoulder and contrasting with the white dress that brushed the ground as she walked. Her hips swayed as she balanced a cloth bundle on her head; I could hear coarse muttering behind me.

  As she came past, I could make out the words of her song. It was a form of Trojan, but with a more liquid, melodic quality. I strained to listen.

  Beside me, Ury grunted impatiently. “That’s not Greek.”

  Pharos shook his slow head. “Pharos knows it not.”

  Ury snorted. “Did I ask you, gloutos-breath?” He turned to look at me. “So, boy?” he sneered. “Recognize that?”

  I frowned, listening hard. “I think—it’s a song about a boy.”

  Ury reached for his knife. “You understand that yowling?” he said, an unpleasant smile crossing his face. “Pharos, grab her. We’ll find out what defences this place has. Maybe we won’t be trading with them after all.”

  Pharos shook his head slowly again. “Must not harm young girls. The gods like it not.”

  “Oh, for Ares’s sake,” Ury snarled. “I’ll do it.”

  To my surprise, Pharos grabbed his arm, forcing it down as though it were a kitten’s paw. “Not you. The boy. He will talk only. To find out more.”

  “Let go, you big stupid oaf,” Ury growled, struggling, but Pharos’s arm didn’t budge. Ury grunted in exasperation. “Fine. We’ll do it your way. Boy, get out and talk to her. Hurry up, she’s getting away.”

  As I scrambled to my feet he waved his knife at me. “And if you try to run, boy, I’ll trench you before you take two steps. Now move!”

  I stepped out uncertainly, brushing bracken from my tunic as she continued down the road away from us. Suddenly I was aware of how long it had been since I’d washed. At least I was wearing a new chiton. “Miss? Miss?” I called. “Um. Are you from around here?” Gods, I sounded like an idiot.

  Turning around, she saw me and gasped, her hands flying to her mouth and her bundle spilling out across the hard-packed road. “Wait, ” I called, holding my hands out. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” I started down the road toward her, palms up in what I hoped was a gesture of friendship.

  She glanced expressionlessly at me before bending over to collect the sheets and tunics strewn across the road. As I approached, she scrambled up, giving me a better look at her. About my age, she had a smooth, pale complexion and pretty, doll-like cheekbones. Her eyebrows and long, st
raight hair were a shiny black. But what I noticed most were her eyes. Almond shaped and exotic, they were carefully outlined with a thin black line. A second glance revealed something else: her pupils were contracted to tiny pinpricks, giving her a disconnected, faraway look.

  She said something I couldn’t make out, gesturing at the remaining clothing in the roadway, a frown on her face.

  “Uh, I’m sorry, ” I said. I came over and stooped to help pick it up. I must have been doing it badly, because after a moment she giggled and nudged me out of the way. Laying a single white sheet on the ground, she put the rest of the laundry in it and quickly tied it into a loose bundle, then stood up, the bundle balanced on her head. She glanced back over her bare shoulder as she set off down the road. I fell into step beside her.

  Gods, this was awkward. This close, her warm, distracting scent filled my nostrils. I scratched the back of my neck, trying to think of something to say. Back in Troy, I’d never spoken much to girls.

  “Um. Can I help you carry the laundry?”

  She turned her head and looked at me curiously, and I stole a peek out of the corner of my eye. Gods, she was pretty. Her head tipped to one side as she tried to understand. I tried again, aiming for the same liquid quality I’d heard in her song.

  Her eyes widened, and she replied. Listening closely, I got it. “Who are you?” she was asking.

  “My name’s Alexi. I’m from—I’m not from here.” My tongue seemed thickened and clumsy, and I changed the topic. “What’s your name?”

  It took a little while before we could speak without repetition. Her name was Apollonia, from the town of Midhouna, a few minutes away. Down the road the other way, where we were headed, was a river. No, there were no other towns that she knew of nearby; the closest was Han Sghira, about a morning’s walk inland. How big was Midhouna? Pretty big, she guessed.