Greek Warriors

by Chris Blake

  “Move where, exactly?” the soldier answered. “Shall I sit on your shoulders instead?”

  Tom ran his fingers through his sweaty hair. The body heat from the soldiers squashed on either side of him made him feel like he was being blasted by a furnace. The only light in the belly of the horse came from the slight gap around the trapdoor by his feet. He could just about make out Isis as she elbowed the stocky soldier so hard that he toppled on to the man next to him.

  “Chief Commander, sir!” the soldier complained to Odysseus. “Do I have your permission to beat this little Spartan? He just pushed me over.”

  Odysseus’s muffled voice replied, “Behave yourselves!”

  A noise ripped through the darkness.

  “Aw, Demodocus has just let one go, boss,” another man complained.

  Everyone inside the horse groaned as the smell of rotten eggs wafted round the cramped space.

  “He who smelt it, dealt it!” a deep voice barked.

  “Shut up, Demodocus. Everybody knows it’s you!”

  “Men! Hold your tongues now!” ordered Odysseus. But no one was listening to him.

  “Move up, you bunch of stinkers. I’ve got cramp in my calf.”

  “Ow! Eugenius shoved his stinky foot on my—”

  “SILENCE!” came the voice of Commander Leandros.

  Everybody instantly hushed.

  Tom felt his bones judder and heard the wooden wheels squeaking as the Spartan soldiers rolled the wooden horse over the uneven ground beneath them. When the horse ground to a halt, Tom knew the horse was in position outside the city gates, as planned. He imagined the walls of Troy looming above them.

  It felt like hours had passed, but sitting there in the dark Tom had no way of knowing how much time had actually gone by. Every moment seemed to drag as they waited nervously inside the wooden horse, and Tom got pins and needles in his feet from standing still for so long.

  Atishoooo! Suddenly the sweaty silence was torn apart by a sneeze.

  “Eeuw, I felt that on the back of my neck!” came a voice in the gloom.

  Then… Achoooooo!

  Isis shrieked. “It’s raining snot!” she cried.

  Tom squinted in the murk to see who was responsible. There, just by Isis’s shoulder, was Odysseus. He was wiping his nose on his tunic. Stretching his skinny arms out wide, he started to grope everyone he could reach.

  “Who’s wearing fur?” he asked. “Out with it! I know one of you is… is… IS… ACHOOO! ATISHOO! WHAAAHOO!” There was no let-up, as Odysseus sprayed the soldiers with snot again and again and again.

  The soldier who was crouched next to Isis held his shield over his head like an umbrella. “No, boss,” he said. “Everyone here knows that fur makes you sneeze like the gods themselves have cursed you.”

  A legendary Greek warrior with a terrible fur allergy. And a fluffy cat in an enclosed space. Whoops, thought Tom.

  “All of you! Reach out to your right and have a good feel,” Commander Leandros said. “We must find out who is wearing fur!”

  In the dim light, Tom saw Isis’s eyes widen with horror. She snatched the sack away from her neighbour’s reach. Suddenly Cleo mewed.

  “There’s a cat in here!” Odysseus spluttered, sounding as though he had a bag of marbles stuffed up each nostril.

  “No,” Isis said. “It was my tummy rumbling.” Isis started to make a groaning noise.

  Just as Odysseus was about to grab Isis by the shoulder, an almighty creaking noise stopped him. The whole wooden horse had started to shake.

  “The gates are being opened!” Isis whispered.

  Tom held his breath. There was not a single trump or burp or sneeze to be heard now. The soldiers inside the wooden horse strained to listen to the gatekeepers.

  Beneath the trapdoor, Tom could hear the scuffling of sandals in the sand.

  “What do you think to that then, Aeneas?” one man said.

  There was a belch. Then a sniff. “Dunno. Who ever heard of a wooden cow being left at the gates of Troy?”

  “Do you think it’s a cow? Looks like a giant goat to me. Or a horse, maybe. Go and fetch Heroditus. He’s a clever fellow. He’ll know what to make of this.”

  More and more men seemed to gather beneath the horse. Tom wondered whether they could hear the thumping of his heart in his chest. Across from him, he could see Odysseus holding his hand to his face, desperately trying to stifle another sneeze.

  The hubbub from the excited Trojans beneath them suddenly fell silent.

  “Here he is! Go on, Heroditus!” said the first man who had spoken. “Tell us what you make of it.”

  “Why! This is a gift to the gods from the Greeks,” Heroditus said in a hearty voice.

  “A gift? Yes! A gift!” called out several voices.

  Everybody seemed to be listening to Heroditus, as though he was in charge.

  “It is an apology from the Greeks, for them spending ten years trying to break down our mighty city walls,” Heroditus said. “It is a fitting tribute. Wheel it inside, men!”

  But amongst the babble of general agreement, Tom heard the croaking voice of what sounded like an elderly man.

  “It’s a trap, I tell you!”

  “Oh, be quiet, you old fool.”

  The trembling voice started up again. “Beware gifts from the Greeks!”

  Isis clasped her hand to her forehead. Some of the soldiers breathed in sharply, their shoulders hunched up near their ears.

  Is this it? Tom thought, waiting to be discovered. We get to the gates and we’re turned away? No ambush? No amulet!

  A fist rapped on the underside of the horse. “Seems solid enough to me,” Aeneas said. “Ignore the old misery guts there. Wheel it in, men!”

  Inside the belly of the horse, some of the soldiers thrust up their thumbs through the fingers of their clenched fists and punched the air. Tom remembered from his history books that this was an Ancient Greek way of wishing each other good luck. He couldn’t help but join in. Suddenly it didn’t feel as gloomy in there as it had before.

  The wooden horse started to rumble and shake again as the Trojans pushed the giant gift into the city. Tom heard the gates clang shut behind them.

  “We’re in!” he whispered to Isis. “Now all we have to do is find the amulet and go home!”

  “Right men, ATISHOO!” Odysseus finally whispered. “The sun has been down for a good while. It’s time to spring our attack!”

  Tom marvelled that the Trojans had not discovered the Greek soldiers, hidden away in the belly of the horse. But judging by the shouting and singing that had been going on outside for hours, the Trojans had been too busy celebrating the Greeks’ departure to hear Odysseus’s constant sneezing. Now though, the sound of merriment had faded.

  The Greek soldiers shifted about in the blackness. They grunted and groaned. Pins and needles jabbed at Tom, as the life started to flow slowly back into his arms and legs.

  “On the count of three, pull the trapdoor up!” Odysseus said quietly. “One… ACHOOO… two!”

  Tom’s heart started to gallop. There was a rattle as the soldiers round him gathered up their weapons. Tom found himself wishing that he and Isis had swords of their own.

  “Three!”

  In almost perfect silence, the trapdoor was lifted up. Cool night air and the salty smell of the sea wafted up into the crowded wooden horse. All was silent below. The first few soldiers swung down on the rope. Tom quickly followed, then Isis. They hit the ground with a dull thud and looked about.

  They were in a large, paved square, dimly lit by flaming torches and surrounded by buildings. In the centre of the square, close to the wooden horse, was an enormous, gurgling fountain. Long black shadows covered the ground like giant slugs.

  “What are those?” Tom whispered. He squinted in the flickering firelight. The shadows were snoring. “Sleeping soldiers!”

  Isis yelped and grabbed Tom’s arm.

  “Aargh!” cried Tom.


  Standing only moments away from where he and Isis had landed, Tom saw a gang of Trojan soldiers. They were swaying slightly and seemed to be propping each other up. In their hands, they held jugs of wine. Open-mouthed and bleary-eyed, they stared up at the trapdoor, watching in silence as the Greeks dropped out of the horse’s belly.

  The silence didn’t last for long.

  “Attack! Attack!” the Trojan soldiers cried. “Raise the alarm! Seize your weapons!”

  The Trojan soldiers charged towards the Greeks, with deadly looking spears outstretched.

  “We’ve got to get out of here!” Isis shouted.

  She skipped nimbly over a snoring Trojan and hid behind a column. “But first I must let poor Fluffpot out of this horrible bag,” she said, loosening the drawstrings.

  With a delighted yowl, Cleo leaped out of the sack. She stretched and twitched her whiskers, then strutted off. After a short distance she turned to meow at Tom and Isis.

  “I think she wants us to follow her,” Tom said. He looked back to see three Trojans running towards them with their daggers drawn.

  “Run!” Isis shouted.

  Cleo sprang away towards the far side of the square. Tom and Isis followed, hurdling drunken Trojans and dodging Greek arrows meant for the startled city guards.

  Pretty soon they found themselves sprinting down dingy, narrow alleys, lit only by the glow of the full moon.

  Tom peered up at crumbling buildings. The narrow windows seemed to be watching him. Ragged, grotty clothes hung from the window ledges.

  Cleo slowed down. She padded past battered-looking doors and rubbish-strewn steps. A deep gutter carried stinky black liquid down the length of the alley.

  Isis wrinkled her nose in the moonlight. “It’s kind of grotty round here,” she said.

  “What do you expect, Princess?” Tom said. “They’ve been under siege for the past ten years!” He stopped and stood still. “Listen!”

  Isis held her hand to one ear. The only sound was the distant crashing of the sea against the shore. “I don’t hear anything,” she said, frowning.

  “Exactly!” Tom exclaimed. “No fighting!”

  Isis grinned at her pet in the silvery moonlight. “Clever Cleo brought us to a safe part of the city.”

  Walking a little further, they came across a deep hole set into the thick city wall.

  “I’m pretty sure this is some kind of alcove,” Tom said, looking at the hiding place. “If you’re tired, we can sit here and rest a minute.”

  “Tired? Pah! Not a chance!” Isis said, still panting after their sprint. “Don’t blame me if you need to rest your wimpy boy bones. I’m going to keep going and find King Priam.”

  Tom ignored her and removed his helmet. “If we’re going to survive, we’d better start looking like Trojans. Take off your helmet.”

  “All right! Stop bossing me around, Professor Smartypants.”

  As Isis tugged her plaits free of her plumed Greek army helmet, Tom heard footsteps approaching. He pulled Isis and Cleo into the shadows of the alcove. A boy tottered into view. He was carrying a huge pile of logs that looked far too heavy for him. Despite that, he was whistling a merry tune.

  “Do you think he’s dangerous?” Isis asked. “Could he be a spy?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! He’s just a kid,” Tom whispered to Isis. “Maybe he can help us.”

  Tom jumped out of the alcove so suddenly that the boy dropped some of his logs with a clatter.

  “Hello there!” Tom said in a friendly voice. He tried to think of the sort of thing his dad would say to a stranger he’d just met. “Nice evening, isn’t it!”

  The boy looked at Tom and frowned. Then he glanced up at the moon and shrugged. “Yes, I suppose it is,” he said. “I’m Hermon. I haven’t seen you round here before. Who are you?”

  Tom stooped to gather up the fallen wood. “I’m Tom. This is Isis,” he said, pointing to Isis, who was stroking Cleo. “We were out for a walk and got lost. Where are you heading with this heavy load?”

  Hermon wedged the tall pile of wood underneath his chin. “I’m just taking some firewood to the palace,” he said. “That near where you want to go?”

  Tom looked over at Isis, who suddenly sat bolt upright. “Priam’s palace?” Tom asked.

  Hermon chuckled. “The one and only.”

  Isis bounded over to them. She grabbed some of Hermon’s logs. “Let us help carry these. We’ll walk with you to the palace,” Isis said, looking sideways at Tom and winking.

  Hermon shovelled a pile of logs into her arms until Isis started to buckle at the knees.

  “Hang on! I said I’d help!” she grumbled. “I didn’t say I’d take all of them.”

  Tom stuffed a pile of wood under his arm. “Thanks, Hermon. I think Priam’s palace might be just the direction we need to head towards!”

  Together, Tom, Isis, Cleo and Hermon trudged through the moonlit warren of alleys and silent squares. Isis told Hermon a story about having travelled from Egypt to visit her uncle, a trader who had sailed across the sea, selling exotic goods, until he met a Trojan woman and settled down. The story was so convincing, even Tom started to believe it!

  Finally they ambled down an olive tree-lined road that led to the back of the palace.

  “If you don’t mind helping me into the servants’ quarters with these,” Hermon said, “I can probably sort you out with some goat’s milk and bread for your trouble.”

  Tom couldn’t believe their luck. He nodded vigorously. “You bet,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  Hermon led them into the hustle and bustle of the palace kitchens. Even at that late hour, servants darted to and fro, preparing food by the light of flaming torches. But just as Tom and Isis piled their logs next to the fire in the centre of the room, the sound of angry men’s voices started to bounce off the stone walls. Tom strained to hear where the sound was coming from.

  “I’m going to burn this palace down, and everyone in it!” one of the men bellowed.

  Were they Greek soldiers? Tom wondered in alarm. Oh no! How would they ever find the amulet if the palace was under attack?

  “Let’s run away before we get burned to a crisp!” Tom yelped.

  Isis snatched up Cleo. “Quick! Where can we hide?” she asked Hermon.

  Hermon chuckled and shrugged. “Hide? You’re kidding, aren’t you? They always argue like that.”

  Tom frowned. He breathed deeply, willing his heartbeat to slow down. “What? Who?”

  “King Priam and his son, Paris,” Hermon said. “The king blames Paris for starting the war with the Greeks because he stole Helen from Menelaus of Sparta. Don’t worry. Nobody’s going to burn the palace down.” Hermon wiped his hands on his tunic.

  “Imagine that! King Priam’s just down that corridor!” Tom said, blinking hard as he stared into the gloom beyond the kitchen.

  Hermon nodded. “Yes. That’s right. It’s not that exciting, though.” He pointed to a stool by the wall. “Sit there out of the way. I’ll get you something to eat.”

  Isis dashed over to the stool and sat down. Tom pinned himself to the wall, keeping out of the way of the servants who scurried past, carrying platters of food and jugs of wine.

  “No one here knows about the attack yet, do they?” he whispered to Isis.

  “No,” she said. “This could be our only chance to get close to Priam. We just need a plan…”

  As they waited for Hermon to return with their bread and milk, Tom looked about the kitchen, racking his brain for a bright idea that would get them into the royal quarters.

  “I’m hungry!” Isis complained. “Where’s Hermon with my snack?”

  “Shh. I’m trying to think,” Tom said. But the smell of food was distracting.

  In the centre of the room, lamb was turning on a spit and roasting over the open fire. The greasy smoke wafted straight up through a hole in the ceiling. Tom sniffed the air and breathed in the smell of stewing vegetables. Women were straining watery w
hite cheese through muslin cloths. A male servant was arranging figs, olives and grapes on a large silver platter.

  “Oh, it’s no use!” Tom said, sighing. “It’s hours and hours since we ate anything. I just can’t concentrate.” His mouth started to water.

  All the while, a grumpy-looking young man was barking instructions at the many servants. Those who didn’t do as he said quickly enough were hit on the head with a wooden spoon.

  “What a monster!” Isis said.

  Hermon returned with four pieces of flatbread, some white, crumbly goat’s cheese that smelled like socks, and a jug of goat’s milk. “Oh, talking about Phineus, are you?” he asked, setting a bowl of milk on the floor for Cleo. “He’s the boss here. Don’t let him catch you hanging about. Or you’ll get The Spoon!”

  Tom and Isis both bit hungrily into their breads. They watched as Phineus prodded the meat on the spit with a fork.

  Suddenly a mouse darted across the kitchen floor. Cleo’s ears immediately flattened against the side of her furry head. With a hungry yowl, she streaked after the mouse as it scurried between Phineus’s feet.

  “Aargh!” Phineus cried.

  He jumped, dropping the spit from the sticks that held it up over the fire. The hot, greasy lamb hissed as it hit the flaming logs below. Tom watched in horror as the lamb then fell on to Phineus’s thigh. There was a nasty sizzling noise.

  “Aaaaargh! Get it off me!” Phineus screamed.

  Hermon rushed over to Phineus. With a cloth wrapped round his hand, he tossed the lamb to one side. Tom winced as he looked at Phineus’s leg. The skin was bright red and shiny.

  “You need to put ice on that,” Tom suggested.

  “Ice?” Hermon asked. “What on earth is ice? What this needs is a wet rag.”

  Hermon soaked a length of cloth in a bucket of water and wound it tightly round Phineus’s burn. Phineus slapped him away.

  “Get off! You’re hurting me!” he shrieked.

  Just as Hermon was knotting the end of the bandage, a voice boomed round the kitchen. It sounded like it was coming from the same corridor that King Priam and Paris had been arguing in.