3. A Second Chance (10 page)

All except one.

I’d found Hector. Exactly where Homer said he’d be.

In the distance, Achilles abandoned the pursuit of Agenor and raced back across the plain, still on fire with his need to avenge the death of his friend.

With one voice, the people along the walls shouted a warning. Even Priam, the king himself, rose to his feet and gestured.

But Hector stood firm. His ornate bronze armour was heavily dented and his red horsetail streaked with dust. But he hefted his bronze and wicker shield, planted his feet firmly. And waited.

It’s not easy to stand quietly and watch someone die. Because that’s what we do and I wonder about us, sometimes. We were about to witness one of the greatest duels of the Ancient World. Hector and Achilles. The hero of Troy against the greatest killer of the age.

Silence fell.

The thud of Achilles’ footsteps was plainly audible even from my distance.

I craned my neck for a better view. The woman next to me, whose breath reeked of garlic and had the worst teeth I’d ever seen, pushed spitefully and said something nasty, but I was in no mood to give way. I jabbed back and muttered something very rude in German. One of the best languages there is for a really good curse.

Priam was joined by his wife Hecuba and then by Andromache, who turned her head and spoke. The nurse took Astyanax away. He wouldn’t see his father die today. It didn’t matter. He had only days left to live, anyway.

Troy’s time was running out.

That was when it hit me. Hard. This was not some remote event to be studied, picked over, and analysed. This was real. These were people’s lives. These people existed. They loved. They suffered. They were all about to die. And we were going to watch.

Whether the sight of his family, standing together, and pleading for his return was too much for even Hector to endure, I don’t know. He turned his head to look at the fast approaching Achilles, then back to his family again. His wife lifted her arm as if to plead with him, then let it fall. Hector looked back to Achilles and then suddenly took off, back towards the gates.

Which had closed.

All around the walls people screamed a warning, but there was no time to get them open.

Unprepared, no weapon drawn, and with Achilles close behind him, Hector did the only thing he could.

He ran.

He did not run three times around the walls as legend claims. He ran away from them, racing across the plain, hurdling the bodies of the slain, and dodging broken bits of chariot and discarded armour, as Achilles, roaring his fury, chased along behind.

Who knows how far and how fast they would have run? Achilles could not catch Hector and with his opponent between him and the walls, Hector could not get back to Troy.

He skidded suddenly to a halt, sliding in the dust and raising a cloud of it around him. Another figure stood nearby with two precious javelins. Now he had a fighting chance. Deiphobos had not abandoned his brother.

In the
Iliad
, Deiphobos is really that grey-eyed bitch, Athena, who leads Hector on and then abandons him to the wrath of Achilles.

The encounter was short and brutal. There were no fine speeches. No godly interventions.

Achilles threw his spear.

Hector ducked and it sailed harmlessly over his head.

Straightening, he threw his own spear. Achilles caught it square on his famous shield with a clang we could hear all the way back in Troy and deflected it away.

Hector turned for his second spear. But Deiphobos, maybe fearing for his own safety, had disappeared. Hector was abandoned and completely alone. Just as the
Iliad
describes.

The groan could be heard all over Troy.

Did he know? Did Hector know in his heart that he could not escape? In his last moments, did the gods grant him that knowledge? That his city could not escape? That his people could not escape?

He didn’t hesitate for one moment.

Casting aside his heavy round shield, he pulled out his sword, flourished it above his head, threw back his head to shout his last defiant battle cry, and hurled himself straight at Achilles …

… who stood his ground, head on one side, considering … then slowly, lazily even, lifted his spear and stabbed Hector a great blow in the neck.

A huge fountain of bright red blood arced through the air.

The champion of Troy fell on his back in the dust.

Not a sound could be heard on the walls. Not even from the watching Greek lines.

Hector lay in the dust in a spreading pool of red, twitching slightly. Not yet dead.

Achilles tilted back his head, clenched his fists, and roared his triumph to the gods, to the ghost of Patroclus, to the city of Troy, to the whole world.

With Hector still not dead, he stripped him naked, slashed his ankles and threaded them through with leather thongs. He tied the ends to his chariot and set off around the walls of Troy, with Hector’s still-living body bumping along behind him, leaving a long scarlet trail in the dust.

A great cry went up. The whole city gave voice to grief. The women sent up a wailing lament and Andromache dropped like a stone.

Her women rushed to her aid. Homer has her working her loom at the moment of Hector’s death, but she wasn’t. She was there. On the walls. She saw his death. She didn’t see her husband’s slowly disintegrating body being dragged time and again around the city of Troy whose walls, unfortunately, were not high enough to spare its occupants the sight of their hero’s humiliation. They wept.

All except one.

Paris, Hector’s brother, bare-chested but wearing an archer’s leather wrist guard, stepped carefully around the wailing women without even seeming to see them. Taking up his great bow, slowly and with great care, he selected a perfect arrow. Below, Achilles was approaching for yet another circuit of the walls. The thing bouncing off the rocks as it was dragged behind the chariot was no longer recognisable as a man.

Racing ahead of his own dust, Achilles approached at speed. Somewhere along the way he’d shed his helmet and his long, fair hair streamed behind him. Still he roared his victory at the Trojan forces, the words indistinguishable over the rumbling wheels. Galloping flat out, his black horses thundered across the plain, manes and tails flying. Foam flecked their flanks and flew from their bits. They looked as out of control as their driver.

I said softly, ‘Kal, your team is to stay with Achilles. My team – focus on Paris. Above the Scaean Gate.’

Because, unseen by most, with their attention fixed on the approaching Achilles, Paris had climbed on to the wall. Bracing himself with one knee, he leaned far out – almost too far – and slowly drew back his bow, seeking his spot. His face showed nothing but an intense concentration as he took aim. The sun was not low enough in the sky to dazzle and, as if the gods had spoken, the wind dropped.

I felt the world pause.

And then, smoothly, perfectly, he let loose his arrow.

I didn’t see the flight but I saw the impact, god-driven, straight into the famous heel. In his chariot, Achilles staggered, lost his balance, and control of his horses.

The chariot swerved wildly. One wheel hit a rock and the light vehicle bounced high off the ground.

Limbs flailing, Achilles flew through the air to land head-first and with massive impact onto the rocks. With a crack that could be heard from the walls of Troy all the way to the furthest of Agamemnon’s ships, his head burst open.

The world stopped. Silence fell.

The Greek ranks stood in stunned disbelief. The moment of their greatest triumph had become their greatest disaster. Even on the Trojan walls, people stood frozen in shock, while down on the plain, lacking their master’s hand, the horses had come to a halt.

By some freak of circumstance, or even the gods’ sense of humour, the broken bodies of the two greatest heroes of their age lay not ten feet apart.

Up on the Scaean Gate, Paris lowered his bow, spat over the walls, and walked slowly away.

Chapter Ten

We were up all night, transcribing that lot. We ran the tapes repeatedly, identifying the main protagonists, trying to bring order out of our chaotic recordings. We didn’t have time for leisurely interpretations. We needed to be perfectly clear what had happened that day so as to ensure we were in the right place for the next day’s events.

I got about an hour’s sleep and then was awoken by Kal, yammering in my ear. That really shouldn’t happen to anyone first thing in the morning.

‘Max! Wake up. They’ve gone. Get your people to the walls. They’ve gone. The Greeks have gone.’

I’m really not that good in the morning. I rolled off my mat, struggled to my feet, staggered a little as my limbs sorted themselves out, and blinked while my brain got itself into gear.

Others were stirring around me, banging their shoes together to dislodge scorpions and reaching for their equipment.

‘Right,’ I said, before they all scattered. ‘Stay in pairs. No one goes anywhere alone. Take a minute to check your equipment is working before you go. There won’t be any action replays so we have to make sure we get it right first time.’

I grabbed a waterskin and a recorder.

Guthrie was barking orders at his team. Every historian was to have an escort. Leon and Weller were to remain behind with the pods.

‘Move,’ I said, impatient at the delay and terrified of missing something. The Greeks had gone and standing on the beach should be one of the most widely recognised objects in all the world. In all of History.

The Trojan Horse.

The actual Trojan Horse.

Finally.

‘Remember,’ called Leon after me. ‘Check under the tail.’

Old joke.

We scattered to our tasks. Everyone knew the area for which they were responsible. We’d been over this so many times and now … now, finally, the moment was here.

I was going to see the Wooden Horse of Troy.

I flew through the streets, hardly caring whether Guthrie was with me or not, making straight for the western wall. Along with everyone else in Troy. I fought my way through the excited crowds. Guthrie stuck with me and it was a good job he did or I’d have been trampled half a dozen times. It wasn’t an ill-natured crowd. They just wanted to
see
.

As did I.

I had to see …

We struggled up a stone stairway and out on to the walls. The breeze tore at my hair. The walls were jam-packed with excited people. I bobbed up and down in frustration. In the end, Guthrie used his elbows and we fought our way to the front. I stood on tiptoe, craning my neck left and right, trying to take it all in at once. All around me, Trojans pointed and exclaimed.

Kal was right. They were gone. The Greeks were gone.

I could imagine the night they’d had. With Achilles dead, I guessed the heart had gone out of most of them. Their greatest fighter was dead. They were still on the beach. Ten long years had passed and they were no closer to taking the city than the day they arrived. The walls of Troy still stood strong. They’d had enough. They hadn’t even waited for the dawn.

I imagined them, one by one, pulling silently away into the night, eager to leave this cursed place behind them. And rather than let the world witness the humiliation of seeing his forces abandon him, Agamemnon had gone with them. I couldn’t blame him for not wanting to be left alone to face the mockery of the Trojans. Or even worse – the entire world. Everyone would know what had occurred here. The failure of his great venture. Ten years wasted and nothing to show for it. News of his shame would fly around the known world.

The Siege of Troy was over.

I heard a loud scraping noise and to my right the Scaean Gate was dragged open. A troop of heavily armed soldiers marched out. The Trojans cheered. The gate closed again behind them. They were taking no chances. These were war-hardened, cautious people. The legend that they had knocked down their own gate to give entrance to a giant wooden horse was suddenly completely unbelievable.

Because there was no Trojan Horse.

I could see pretty well the whole plain from where I was standing, up and down the coast, right down to the shoreline, and there was no Trojan Horse.

No giant wooden construction of any kind.

I felt a huge cold wave of disappointment and disbelief. First no Helen and now, no Trojan Horse. It shouldn’t make any difference, of course, but it did. To me, it made a massive difference. There never was and never had been a Trojan Horse.

I could hear excited chatter all around me. Next to me, an old man in a stained ochre tunic was shouting excitedly and pointing. I shut it all out and tried to concentrate.

The plain was far from empty. The shoreline was littered with debris left behind by the retreating Greeks. Useless pieces of armour, broken gear, chariot wheels, spars, pieces of ships that had been cannibalised, the smoking remains of campfires – all the unwanted detritus of war littered the plain.

There were even a number of horses, standing here and there, their heads down, thirsty, their manes and tails ruffling in the breeze – obviously too old to make the return voyage. They looked sad and abandoned on this long and lonely beach.

I could see no sign anywhere of the Greeks and their ships. The sea was empty and the horizon clear.

A swelling murmur ran along the walls. A man shouted. A horn rang out. The wind picked up again and, above me, flags and pennants streamed sideways, snapping in the wind. I blinked dust out of my eyes.

Another horn sounded a reply down on the plain. The soldiers broke ranks and began to poke around the remains, kicking over old pots and rubbish, looking for anything of value.

With no signal given that I could see, the Trojans left the walls. The Scaean Gate dragged itself open again and the citizens of Troy, confined behind their own walls for ten long, long years, streamed out across the plain.

We watched them go. I preferred to stay on the walls. The view was much better from up here. I pulled out my little recorder. Guthrie, as he always did, watched my back. I panned up and down the shoreline a couple of times. I got shots of the walls, and then turned back into the town, to record the last of the near hysterical exodus from the city.

That done, I stood resting my arms on the wall and had a bit of a think.

I called Van Owen, who confirmed she and Ritter were safe and working. I called Leon, who reported there was no one around – Helios and his family had gone to the walls, along with everyone else.

Peterson reported that he, Kal, and Evans were out on the plain and all was well. In fact, if I screwed up my eyes, I was pretty sure I could see Markham out there as well, turning over a broken javelin and talking to Roberts.

So what was making me so uneasy?

Beside me, Guthrie stood quietly, alone with his own thoughts, as usual.

The Greeks were gone. The Trojans liberated. No Trojan Horse. Was I confusing unease with disappointment? Disappointment that one of my favourite moments in all of History just hadn’t happened?

This was stupid. When you sit down and think about it – how likely was the Trojan Horse? That they would find enough wood to build such a huge structure in the first place? That men could conceal themselves inside and not be discovered? That the Trojans, after a ten-year war that had cost them so dearly, would actually bring down their own walls?

There never was and never had been a Trojan Horse.

I remembered my own, special little Trojan Horse, made for me by Leon all those years ago. Our arguments over where the trapdoor had been. He always maintained it couldn’t have been in the belly as so often depicted. He favoured under the tail. I had rather looked forward to seeing Greek heroes wriggling out from the Horse’s backside like so many giant tapeworms.

But it was not to be.

There was no Trojan Horse.

And then, thank the god of historians – I woke up.

Yes, there was!

Right here in front of me. I was looking at it. And another one over there. And two more over there. And a whole group of them over there. There wasn’t just one Trojan Horse. There were nine, ten, eleven – at least twelve that I could see, and maybe more.

My thoughts were tumbling all over the place. I let them. I let them wander wherever they wanted to go. They knew what they were doing.

I had part of the picture. Not the whole thing, but I had a beginning.

But, first things first. I called Van Owen. ‘Who’s with you?’

‘Ritter.’

‘Send him back to your pods. And Roberts and Evans. Get them to fill every available container with water. Fill the tanks. Get as much as they can. Secure all food supplies. From this moment, we are self-contained. We eat and drink nothing – nothing, do you understand? – from contemporary sources. I’m up on the west wall, under the pennant with the blue horse. Can you meet me here? Soonest.’

‘On my way.’

I called Leon, faithfully guarding the other pods, and gave him the same instructions. ‘Weller and Ritter will assist. I’ll explain later. We’re a bit busy, but it’s important.’

‘Understood,’ he said calmly, and now I could relax a little.

I called in Peterson as well and he, Guthrie, Van Owen, Kal, Markham, and I sat under a shady tree in the small square next to the fish market. We kept our voices low, but we needn’t have bothered. The city was empty. After ten years, only those who couldn’t actually walk were still inside the walls.

Peterson had liberated a couple of flat loaves since no one had had breakfast.

‘What’s this all about?’

‘Well, firstly – no Trojan Horse.’

People nodded. They were disappointed as well. It’s always important to know the truth, but we all need our stories.

‘Although, that’s not true. There isn’t one Trojan Horse. There are twelve of them. Think about it.’

Kal said, ‘There are a dozen horses out there. Is that what you mean?’

‘Yes. Horses are valuable. Very valuable. Trained chariot horses almost beyond price. They’ve left twelve behind. Why?’

‘They’re old. Or injured. Not worth space on the voyage.’

‘So why not slaughter them, cut them up, and eat them on the way home? No one in this part of the world has seen much meat go by recently.’

Van Owen said, ‘Because there’s something the matter with them. There must be.’

‘Yes,’ said Peterson, in sudden excitement, ‘if you read Homer, the
Iliad
opens with a plague. First, the dogs fell sick, then the horses, then the people. They put it down to the wrath of Apollo. These are some of the sick horses.’

I continued. ‘And the Trojans, who are hungry and without the benefit of Homer and hindsight, will take them inside the city. They’ll be slaughtered. There will be offerings to the gods – which the priests will eat afterwards. The soldiers will get the lion’s share and the rest divided amongst the people. A modern cow can feed over a thousand people.’

Don’t ask me how I know these things. I just do.

‘One of these admittedly rather stringy horses could feed, say, six hundred. Minimum. That’s over seven thousand people directly contaminated. Most of them soldiers. And it won’t stop there. The blood runs off into the gutters. Dogs and cats will lap at it and then roam the city and spread the sickness. No one will wash their hands properly. A baker will handle contaminated meat and then go on to bake his morning loaves. Which people will eat. Years of warfare and a restricted diet will have made these people vulnerable. In twenty-four hours, virtually everyone in the city could be puking and shitting uncontrollably. All right, some will hardly be affected and maybe not many will actually die – but they’ll be in no condition to defend themselves.’

I stopped and pulled off another piece of bread.

Kal said, ‘And then what? All right, it’s ShitCity for a couple of days, but how is that a problem?

‘Because if the Greeks come back, barely anyone will be able to lift a sword.’

‘But why? Why would the Greeks come back? Are you saying they left these horses deliberately? To poison people? And then they’ll come back and take the city?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, suddenly grinding to a halt. ‘I just don’t know.’

‘No.’ said Guthrie. ‘It doesn’t matter whether or not the Trojans can defend themselves. Even if the Greeks turn up, the Trojans will nip back inside their walls, shut the gates, and everyone’s back to square one. The one thing we do know is that the gates and walls make this city almost impregnable, whether manned or not. They could certainly hold out long enough for people to recover.’

‘True, Major. So you think the Greeks have gone for good?’

‘Yes. I think they’ve gone for good.’

I could hear people’s brains turning, still trying to reconcile the legend with the facts. And if we were having trouble, imagine how reluctant the rest of the world would be to learn there was no Helen, no Trojan Horse, no heroes, no gods, just an undetermined skirmish that lasted for ten years and then just petered out. People like their stories – their legends. They don’t give them up easily.

I sighed. ‘Well, we have a job to do. So long as we don’t eat or drink anything contemporary, we should be fine. Warn your people and let’s get on with it.’

We went back to the walls.

They were already leading in the horses. To modern eyes, they were scrawny-looking things – typical horses of the day. Big heads, barrel bodies, and thin legs. Their heads hung low, but they didn’t look sick.

So, this part of the legend was true. The Trojans themselves voluntarily brought their downfall into their city.

And the next part was true as well. Above the Scaean Gate, a lone figure raised her arms. Unlike the rest of the royal family who, with the exception of Paris, ostentatiously dressed in every shade of the rainbow and glittered with gold and jewels, she was simply dressed in white, as if personal appearance was of no importance to her. In contrast to the women around her, with their intricate hairstyles dressed with combs and pins of silver and gold, her red-gold hair exploded around her head like a sunburst.

Her voice, clear as a clarion, cut through the racket. I couldn’t make out the words, but we all knew whom this was.