by Ben Blake
Chapter Five
The Weaving Streets
The road ran thirty feet above the rushing Scamander, here where the gorge was narrow and steep. In spring snowmelt on Mount Ida swelled the stream into a torrent of foam, washing down branches and stones that rattled together amidst the flow. Periso listened to that muted roar sometimes as he drifted into sleep. Now the river was quieter, but channels of froth still linked the pools that gathered above boulders left from the last flood.
There had been naiads here, before the town was built. Perhaps hundreds of them: when Tros and Ilos founded Troy, the gorge must have rung with the songs of nymphs at play. They were gone now… probably. Periso thought he’d seen one once, though as he turned his head all he’d really caught was a glimpse of long hair and startled eyes, and then a splash as she vanished into the water.
He turned to look up the side of the cleft, to where Zeleia squatted like a wolf looking down on a pasture. From this low down all he could see was the wooden walls, and a guard tower poking over the top. At the foot of the wall cliffs dropped away on three sides. Zeleia was noisy with the rush of water in spring, but it was out of the north wind, and it would be very hard to capture. If anyone was fool enough to try.
“They’re late,” Hyrca said.
Periso shrugged. “So the road was bad. They’ll be here.”
“We’ll be in trouble if she goes missing.”
“Not if she vanishes before she was handed to us,” Periso replied. “Stop fretting. You’re making me nervous.”
He wasn’t though, not really. The days when bandits infested the slopes of Ida were gone now. Troy had sent soldiers to clear them out years ago, back when Zeleia was first growing into a sizable town and its new wealth needed to be made safe. Later fighting men had been stationed there permanently, and in the way of things had married and had children, swelling the town further. Periso’ father had been such a man.
Now, any report of outlaws was met with a punitive raid within a day or two. The last had been more than five years ago, as far as Periso could remember. Pandarus had led the soldiers who killed half of them and captured the rest, to be brought back to Zeleia and spat upon and reviled. Then he’d had them thrown from the cliff into the gorge. One of them had somehow survived the plunge, and cried for mercy until someone went down and knifed him in the morning.
Of course, the activity that disposed of bandits had also driven away the naiads. There was a price to be paid for progress, Periso supposed. Sometimes it wasn’t you who paid. But he would have liked to hear the naiads sing, just once, as light grew back into the day.
Periso checked the straps of his cuirass, then his boots. For the tenth time, at least. Hyrca watched him ironically.
“Stop it,” the other man said. “You’re making me nervous.”
“Very droll,” Periso answered.
“If a driver is nervous his horses will sense it,” Hyrca said, parroting one of the first things a charioteer learned.
“They’ll sense it if I punch you on the nose, too.”
“Oh, very friendly,” Hyrca responded. “And you’re marrying my sister next week, too. Shall I tell her what a brute you are?”
“Althea already knows,” Periso said. “She relies on it so I can keep you from bursting in on us for supper every night.”
Hyrca grinned, not in the least put out. “Don’t worry about that. I know the taste of her cooking too well to risk it.”
Periso couldn’t help laughing. Althea was a decent cook in fact, perhaps not great but good enough for the wife of a soldier, a man used to eating half-cooked grain and mostly raw meat. And she was pretty enough, and made him feel content when she was there. What else could a man ask for?
Unless he was a prince, who could expect a beauty from far away to be laid at his feet like a prize. It would be easy to resent that, if the prince was anyone except Hector. Periso had only met him once but Hector had known him, remembering his name from the tale of a raid against Thracian rebels in the north. When Hector gripped his forearm and praised his courage, Periso had decided he’d run through Hades itself with Hector there to lead him.
“There,” Hyrca said.
Turning, Periso was just in time to see a chariot and wagon on the road further up the valley. He had only a glimpse before they vanished behind a spur, following the road around, but it must be the party he and Hyrca were waiting for. He went to his own chariot and team, taking the time to stroke his three horses and talk to them in a soft voice, easing their hearts. Horses were strong and tough, but their hearts could be fragile. All three nosed at his hand in the hope of treats, but he’d save that for later. Better to feed a horse after the ride than before.
The wagon and its escort came into view again, half a mile up the valley. The sound of the river hid any creak of wheels, so the vehicles seemed to approach in silence until they were almost on top of the waiting men. There were two people sitting in the open-topped wagon, he saw now, both of them women. The one on the right was clad in a plain green dress, with her hair gathered under a soft cap.
The other must be Andromache.
A beauty from far away, Periso thought as the wagon drew to a halt beside him. Thebe-under-Plakos wasn’t the far side of the world, but he’d only been further from home once in his life, when he went on that raid in Thrace. As for beauty, Andromache certainly had that. She was tall even sitting down, with smooth skin and green eyes, and bright beads sewn into her jet-black hair. The other woman must be her servant, Periso decided. He went up to the side of the wagon and bowed, not the full obeisance he’d give the king or queen, or even Hector, but a gesture of respect nonetheless.
“My lady Andromache,” he said. “I am Periso. It’s my honour to lead you to Troy.”
“The honour is mine,” she said. He blinked, surprised by the graciousness of her reply. Her voice was low and soft. “I’m sure the journey will be pleasant. Will we reach the city today?”
“With the gods’ blessing, I believe we will,” he said.
The other charioteer had drawn over to the side of the packed-earth road, putting one wheel on the jumble of twigs and small stones that lined the verge. He stepped down as Hyrca went to speak with him. Periso tried to eavesdrop but the water rushing below drowned their words.
“The road is clear?” Andromache asked.
Periso nodded. “Chariots have been running it for three days, my lady, all the way to Troy. Any obstructions have been moved, and any holes filled in. We’ll be in Troy by sundown, never fear.”
“I would like,” she said, “to enter the city standing in a chariot, not seated in a wagon. As a future queen should.”
“I wasn’t told about that,” Periso said. His mouth was suddenly dry. He could imagine how Hecuba, who was the queen, would feel about this idea. “Have you ridden a chariot before, my lady?”
“Once or twice,” she said, with a smile. “I leave it in your hands, warrior. If my promised husband trusts you to bring me to him, then I shall trust you too. Do as you think best.”
“Thank you,” he said. As he climbed into his chariot he realised what she had done, with those few simple words: he was going to let her ride into the city as she wanted to. She trusted him. How could a man not give his queen-to-be what she desired, after that?
Troy, he thought, was going to have a good king and queen, when Priam’s time came to an end. He prayed to all the gods that Hector wouldn’t be angry with him for letting his bride ride in a chariot. He didn’t want the prince of Troy to be angry with him, now or ever.
The road led down the gorge, keeping always high above the water. Periso drove ahead of the wagon and Hyrca behind, both men keeping their spears tucked into the side of the car where they could quickly be reached. But there was no need, no hint of trouble as they drove. Periso kept his eyes open anyway. He was not about to lose the lady Andromache before she even reached her new home.
He could see where the spring floods had reached, a line in the gorge bel
ow which vegetation and much of the soil had been swept away to expose bare stone. The steep slopes were dotted with poised pools, water clear as the moment it fell from the sky. Streams ran from them to join the Scamander below, some falling the last few feet in sprays as fine as mist.
Periso knew how cold that water was; he’d bathed in it often enough. Water from the mountain springs fizzed on your tongue, all the bubbles of air bursting in your mouth. By the time the river reached the plain it was slow and lazy, full of silt, all the energy sucked out of it by its long descent through the hills. He liked the plain, not least because it was full of horses, but he liked the mountain better. Pandarus said that though Troy was their father, no child wanted to live forever under his father’s roof.
After two miles the valley began to widen out, quite abruptly. The walls drew aside and the river between them changed, its plunges and pools replaced by a more sedate flow. It was still strong though: the current here could pull cattle off their feet, even at low water in the summer. Instead of cliffs there were now sloping pastures, dotted with sheep. Periso had spent long hours in those fields as a youth, watching the flocks with a sling at his belt and a spear in one hand. Every boy did, especially if he wanted to be a warrior. If you lacked the courage to confront a hungry wolf at twilight you didn’t have the guts to be a fighting man, and you might as well go back to the town and find work as a carpenter, or a miller. Something where the worst danger was a shrewish wife.
Then the valley drew tight again, closing on the river like a noose around a neck. The road climbed a ridge and ran out between two opposing faces of rock, the river gushing again far below. And spread out before them was the Plain of Troy, with the sea shining away to north and west, and the city itself perched on its ridge five miles across the prairie.
Periso reined in, clicked his tongue to tell the horses to wait, and stepped down from the car. He walked back to the wagon and bowed to Andromache again. “I thought you might wish to see Troy, my lady.”
She stood, and without waiting for his help she climbed down from the back of the wagon, careful to hold her dress so the hem wouldn’t drag in the mud. She went to the side of the road and stood there, gazing out over the land before her. Periso hadn’t expected her to do that. He thought it was all right though, so when Hyrca jumped down from his own chariot Periso waved him back.
The wind blew at them, sharp with hints of northern mountain snow, but the sun over Troy gleamed off turrets and walls.
“I’d heard the stories,” Andromache said at length, “but they don’t do justice to the sight. That men can build such towers astounds me.”
“Up close they’re even better,” Periso said. “And that’s where I must take you, my lady. If you will?”
She turned a smile on him. “Does this mean you will carry me in your chariot, master Periso?”
“Not quite yet,” he said. “Let’s get down to the plain first, past the bumpier part of the road. Hector would hang me from the wall by my ankles if I brought him a bride bruised by the rattle of a chariot.”
“But then?”
“Then I think it will be all right,” he said. He couldn’t help but share her smile. “If you’ll keep your husband from skinning me, at least.”
She laughed, genuinely amused he thought. “I will, I promise. Thank you. This matters to me.”
“Then it matters to me too,” he said.
She smiled at him again and went back to the wagon, still holding her skirts out of the mud. Her maid helped her climb up: Periso hadn’t heard her name, he realised, but he didn’t mind that. He swung back into his chariot and clicked his tongue, and the horses began to move again.