Troy: A Brand of Fire

by Ben Blake

  *

  Hiram was trying to push past, eager to join the fight at the town gate. All of thirteen, and he wanted to kill raiders. Balzer shoved him back with one arm, hard enough to send him sprawling on the wooden floor.

  “You will stay here,” Balzer said. “No argument! You have a sister and brother to protect. Do your duty to them.”

  “But the Greeks –”

  “Must I tell you again?”

  The street outside was full of shouts and running feet. Someone screamed, a sound of pure terror that brought Balzer’s heart into his mouth. It had sounded like his wife; half the cries he heard made him think she was dying out there. He took a step towards Hiram. Behind the boy Paltal and Išbardia stood by the door, their eyes wide. “Must I?”

  Hiram dropped his gaze. “No, Papa.”

  “Then stay here. Get into the pantry and bolt the door. If the first man in is a Greek, then kill him.” Gods, let that not happen. Tarhun guard them, Arinna smile on their souls. He forced himself to go on. “I will fight for all of you.”

  “Mother’s out there,” Hiram said.

  “I know that. She’ll know how to take care of herself.” He hoped she would. “Go now. Go!”

  Hiram scrambled up. He was turning to his siblings when the door flew open behind Balzer, who yelled and spun around with his sword already rising for the strike. It was too late, far too late: one of the black-armoured warriors would have killed him already. But instead it was Didia, streaks of dirt on her face and a rip in her dress, and his heart leapt to see her.

  “Husband!” she shouted. “We must –”

  She stopped speaking. One hand reached out to rest against the door jamb, taking her weight. It was only then that Balzer noticed the blood running from her mouth, saw the bronze blade projecting from her chest. He screamed and sprang forward just as her body fell, rattling the door against the wall. Behind her stood a large man in a sable cuirass and helmet, hiding everything of his face except jaw and eyes.

  Balzer screamed and struck at him, his chipped sword slashing down at the raider’s shoulder. The blow was taken on the man’s shield, and a return cut knocked the blade from Balzer’s grip and sent it skittering across the floor. He jumped back and fell over his dead wife’s body, crashing down on his back. Behind him Hiram scuttled for the sword.

  “Leave it!” Balzer shouted, and the boy froze.

  “Good advice,” the Greek said, in accented Luwian. He stepped through the door, a muscular man made bulkier by the tough leather cuirass he wore. “We would rather have slaves than corpses. Do you yield?”

  Slaves. Balzer longed to seize his sword again and cut this man down, hack at him until there was nothing left but shredded flesh and broken bones beneath. But he would never reach the blade – and if he did, then what? The raider would almost certainly kill him first, and even if not there were more in the streets. Hundreds more. Balzer swallowed hard.

  Slavery. For his children.

  “We yield,” he said.

  “Medon!” the man shouted, over his shoulder. A second Greek appeared in the doorway, as large as the first and spattered with blood down his left side. “Bind them for me. You have rope?”

  “Of course I do.” The newcomer rested a spear against the wall and pulled cord from his belt. “You make us all carry it, Eudorus.”

  Balzer didn’t resist as his hands were tied behind him. He was careful not to look at his wife though, certain he’d weep if he did. Didia had been his first love, his only; he’d known her since they were both small. There had never been any question but that they would marry, when they were old enough. Their families had never considered anyone else. She had been killed with such suddenness that he still hadn’t taken it in. He would cry when he did, he knew that, but he hoped it would not be in front of the Greeks.

  “This one’s older than I thought,” Medon said. He’d tied the two boys and was now hauling Išbardia to her feet. “What are you girl, sixteen?”

  “Leave her alone!” Balzer shouted. A moment later something hammered into the side of his head and he fell sideways, his skull bouncing off the floor. For a moment he couldn’t see, and heard only his daughter’s scream. He spat blood, feeling a loose tooth.

  “The next one will be harder,” the man called Eudorus said. His tone was quite pleasant. “The third time I’ll take the horsewhip to you. You’re a slave now, Mysian. Start behaving like one.”

  Balzer spat again, still feeling woozy.

  “Seventeen,” he heard Išbardia whisper. The other man must have asked her age again. Balzer knew why they wanted to know. There was only one outcome when a pretty young girl was taken captive.

  He managed not to weep, but he thought that was mostly because he was too appalled for tears.