3. A Second Chance (6 page)

And so it began. I’d done this before and I knew from experience that the lead-in to an assignment was often more strenuous than the mission itself.

I spent hours in the Library, building data-stacks and assembling info packs with Dr Dowson.

I ran a series of lectures on Troy and all matters Trojan, tailored to the special needs of the technical and security sections.

I spent a lot of time arbitrating between Dr Dowson, our librarian, and Professor Rapson, head of R & D, as they fluctuated between their normal states of armed neutrality, frigid formality, and bull-headed hostility.

I spent even more time avoiding Major Guthrie, who wanted to talk to me about latrines, which was a subject I found considerably less fascinating than he did. He pointed out most people had a colon that worked more than twice a year.

I commiserated.

Everywhere I went, glassy-eyed people with earpieces wandered around muttering, ‘Kuis – who. Kuwari – where. Kuwati – when.’ Only to bump into a group of people wandering back the other way, intoning, ‘Isarwilis – right. Ipalis – left.ʼ

As I expected, I spent a considerable amount of time adjudicating between team leaders as they selected their teams. Phrases like, ‘I’ll swap you half of Miss Yilmaz if you let me have the use of Spencer and Travis every second day,’ were common. Whole peace initiatives were worked out more easily than this. I stayed well out of it, intervening only when things looked like getting bloody. We had eleven historians, for heaven’s sake. Back in the day, it had been just Kal, Tim, Sussman, and me and we managed.

They got themselves sorted out eventually, but it was hard work and I was anxious we didn’t wear ourselves before we even started. I remembered the three months lead-in to our jump to the Cretaceous Period. This was very similar with the same enormous amount of information to assimilate. And even if I didn’t have to compile my own
Dinosaurs for Dummies
guide this time, there was still another language to learn, customs and traditions to remember to observe, fractious historians to soothe, and the latrine-fixated Ian Guthrie to avoid.

I’m not paid anything like enough.

I ran lectures for everyone, liaised with Leon over the shuttle schedule, discussed our wardrobe with Mrs Enderby, listened while Mrs Mack talked at me about supplies, and tried to remember to meet Leon for lunch. Not always successfully.

But we inched our way forwards. Teams were selected and agreed upon. I laid down the historian rules and regs. Leon did the same for the pods and Major Guthrie left no one in any doubt over what would happen if anyone even thought about not complying with his security protocols. Helen terrified us all with a series of illustrated medical lectures that put even St Mary’s off its collective lunch.

One day, however, I woke up and every box had been ticked. Every eventuality prepared for.

We were ready.

Chapter Six

I stood outside Number Three, running through things in my mind. Even though this was only the pre-visit – a quick in and out to decide on our two sites – the excitement was still there.

I was going to Troy.
The
Troy. The Troy of legend. The Troy of Priam and Hector and Andromache and all the rest of those never-dying characters whose deeds and voices still reverberate down the ages.

I was going to see the legendary city of Troy.

Whether the Trojan War did or did not happen – or Achilles – or Odysseus – or the Trojan Horse – no one can deny the impact the legend has had on western civilisation. And now … no matter how many times I did this, I never, ever lost the excitement. The anticipation. The eagerness to see … to be there …

And then I remembered that this was the beginning of my last mission. That I wouldn’t be doing this for much longer. I felt a little twist inside. But I wasn’t finished yet. The end of this mission was still a long way off.

Hawking was packed. All of St Mary’s hung over the gantry or waited behind the line. The Boss wished us luck. We stepped inside.

The coordinates were all laid in. I took the left-hand seat. Leon seated himself alongside. Guthrie checked his weapons and waited. Leon ran his eyes over the console and nodded.

This was it.

I said, ‘Computer, initiate jump.’

And the world went white.

We were set to land about a mile from the city. And we did. Not in a swamp. Or at the bottom of the river. Or two miles out to sea. We were exactly where the Pathfinders had intended us to be. Excellent work.

Leon shut things down while Guthrie checked the screen. I preferred to get my first view from outside. I swung a faded woollen cloak around my shoulders, shouldered a wicker basket, and waited by the door. Farrell and Guthrie both carried stout sticks and, in Guthrie’s case, any amount of hidden weaponry.

‘All set?’

They nodded.

‘Door.’

They let me go first, which was wise of them. They must have guessed I’d have trampled both of them into the dirt in my haste to get outside and
see …

We’d landed near a small copse, on the western bank of the Scamander. I turned slowly, keeping Troy for last. To the west, the Aegean glinted, bright in the sunshine, and a forest of masts dipped and swayed with the breaking waves. The harbour was on the western coast with direct access to the sea. Turning back to the north, I could see that the sheltered bay, which must have seemed such a benefit to the city many years ago, was badly silted. Small boats weaved their way up and down the narrow channels, but nothing big could ever get that far inland now.

Well-defined cart tracks led from the cluster of haphazard buildings around the harbour, across the dust plain to the ford. We could cross there too and then it was just a hop, skip, and a jump to the city.

To Troy.

I took a deep breath and lifted my eyes.

Troy stood about a mile away, although the heat haze made it difficult to judge distances accurately. Rising from the flat plain around it, the city dominated the entire area – the Troad, the Aegean, and access to the Black Sea. Standing foursquare on the plain, it made the statement.
Fear me, for I am Troy. I am mighty and powerful, and you are as dirt beneath my feet
. Just as it had been designed to do.

And it was so much bigger than I expected. The extent of the lower city was far greater than modern-day archaeology had suggested. Estimates had put the population between five and ten thousand. I put it at ten thousand and possibly more. And although I could see defensive ditches and fences, the lines of the city had blurred to some extent. Small clusters of buildings dotted the plain. Patches of cultivated land nestled between olive groves and small areas of woodland. I saw fields and livestock, especially horses.

From where we were standing I could see streams of people moving along the tracks, dragging carts or driving livestock. Traffic moved both ways, in and out. This was good news. We could join this stream of humanity and not be noticed.

We’d stood long enough. Guthrie went first, with Leon. I followed along behind with the basket. In my experience, the only time women get to go first is when walking through a minefield.

Heads down, we joined the trail of people streaming towards the South Gate. In front of us an elderly woman and a young boy drove three goats who had their own ideas about forward progress. We sidestepped them and tucked ourselves in behind a family group, purpose unknown.

This was the Bronze Age. There would be no papers for us to show. I ran through my carefully prepared Luwian words and phrases. Not that I would be called upon to speak, but, in an emergency, I could stand behind Guthrie and mutter the words he needed. It might not matter. Language in those days was a very local affair and it was perfectly possible that someone living as little as ten miles up the road would speak a very different dialect. Possibly a completely different language altogether. If all our attempts at communication failed, we would revert to Plan B – looking stupid. For some reason, that never fails for St Mary’s.

We approached the South Gate – the city’s first line of defence from the south. If archaeologists had guessed right over the years, there should be a primary ditch and wall with one gate. Enter through that and we would find ourselves in an area dominated by warehouses and storage for goods on their way to and from the harbour. Passing through this we would have a choice of two gates cut into the outer walls and from there into the lower part of the city itself.

Here goes.

I could see Ian had a firm grip on his staff, the other casually resting on his belt from where he could get to his stun gun. This part of the mission was under his control and his instructions were clear. ‘In the event of trouble, I’ll cover your escape. You and Farrell get away and meet me later at the pod. Understood?’

I did understand but we all knew the possibility of us leaving him to cover our escape, alone against ten thousand Trojans, was never going to happen. I sent a quick request to the god of historians that we wouldn’t ever have to put it to the test. Apparently that notoriously bubble-headed deity was on the job today, because none of the guards even looked at us. Nor in my basket. In fact, they couldn’t even be bothered to emerge from the vine-covered shelter, in which they were lounging, into the hot sunshine to check people over. Finally, we stepped through the second gate, the people ahead of us melted away and we were inside Troy.

We were inside Troy!

As per standard operating procedure, we drew aside, standing in a doorway, while the foot traffic flowed past us and we could get our bearings.

It wasn’t my first experience of Mediterranean life lived outdoors and I know I’d put the population at about ten thousand, but for one moment I really got the impression that all ten thousand of them were here in this street with us.

Everything happened outside. Narrow streets were made even more so by old women squatting on their heels, holding up goods for sale. Vegetables, clumps of greenery, squawking chickens tied by their feet; they shouted the virtues of their wares at the tops of ancient, cracking voices. Everyone seemed to have something to sell. Small children raced through the crowds, shouting and laughing. Inevitably, one of them tripped over the uneven paving and went sprawling. A man bent and set him on his feet again, not even pausing in his conversation with someone standing out of sight in a doorway.

People shoved and shouted. Livestock bleated, neighed, or clucked. A cat slunk past with something twitching in its mouth. Somewhere high up behind an open window, a woman scolded and a child cried.

A group of soldiers shouldered their way through the crowd. They all wore swords, their light, ceremonial armour was burnished to a high shine and the cream-coloured horsehair crests on their helmets nodded and swung as they moved. Abruptly, they turned off through a curtained doorway. A man shouted for service and a group of women laughed and shrieked. Ah, that sort of service!

The houses were built of mud-brick and whitewashed to dazzling brightness. Such windows as they had were small and set high up, probably to deter thieves. Clay tiles covered flat roofs. I was pleased. The pods would fit right in here. All we had to do was locate appropriate sites.

We set off.

It was hot. The sparkling sunshine and cool breezes of the plain hadn’t made it as far as the city, and the narrow streets were stuffy and airless. The smells of dust, animal manure, cooking, people, and wood smoke were overwhelming and it was with relief that we got to the end of the little street and found ourselves in an open space.

We were to discover that the lower city was by no means as densely packed as the upper citadel. Sometimes quite large areas of land separated small clusters of houses and workshops. These semi-rural environments contained olive and fruit trees, cultivated land, pasture, cattle-yards, stables, and smithies.

‘Let’s try down here,’ said Guthrie and we followed a well-rutted path past three or four squat houses, a shop with a lean-to and what looked like a tiny tavern. The path led through a small olive grove and out the other side. A half-demolished wall stood to our right. I suspected it had fallen down of its own accord and then been plundered for building materials. However, judging by the tangle of undergrowth, no one had bothered for a while.

Pausing, I looked back. I could just make out the backs of the buildings through the trees.

Close, but not too close.

I turned to Leon. ‘What do you think?’

He paced out the area. Guthrie began investigating behind the wall. I sat on a rock and looked around.

Not bad. A little close to the southern gate and a little close to existing inhabitants, but it was flat, mostly rock-free, not swampy, and, in this crowded city, comparatively quiet. There were no signs of winter floods – this whole area is prone to flash floods even in modern times. Best of all, we could orient the pods north which would help to keep them cool in the harsh summer heat.

Guthrie reappeared. Now he was pacing away as well. The two conferred then joined me on my rock.

‘Max? What do you think?’

‘Very promising. Quiet and secluded. Firm underfoot. No one close by. Good orientation. And most importantly, it looks deserted. These olives haven’t been pruned for a few years. And if it does belong to someone – well, we’ll think of something. Bribery is usually good. Chief?’

‘Agreed. We can get three pods in here quite easily. The usual configuration – a three sided square. We’ll throw up awnings of some kind that will give us shade and cover. And there’s room for the shuttle pod around the back, too. So long as it comes and goes under cover of darkness, we should be fine. I like it.’

‘I like it too,’ said Guthrie. ‘Flat land all around. We can see everyone coming. But still private. We can dig the latrines over there. One man on the roof as lookout. I don’t think we’ll do better.’

‘Me neither. Just give me a minute.’ He pulled out his scratchpad, cast a swift glance around, and began to type. Guthrie walked off again and I pulled out a recorder and began a slow three-sixty degree sweep. That done, I swept back the other way.

The whole thing took about twenty minutes and in all that time, we saw no one, which was encouraging.

Stowing away the electronics, we prepared to depart. We did a quick FOD plod (Foreign Object Drop. Leaving anything behind is punishable by death, to be painfully inflicted by me), followed by a quick check that we hadn’t inadvertently picked something up, known as the POD plod. Satisfied we were clean, we retraced our steps. Our little cluster of buildings still looked deserted. Maybe they were all at the market.

We were definitely in a working-class area. I could hear the sounds of hammers on metal. Horses neighed in the distance. Troy was famous for its horses. Hence the Wooden Horse of Troy. We saw leather workshops. And carpenters. I inhaled a sudden smell of fresh wood as we walked past an open doorway.

Everyone seemed to keep livestock; either tethered or restrained behind piles of old brushwood to make a temporary pen in the corner of a yard. Small greasy sheep hobbled around on skinny legs. They had to be raising them for wool because I’ve seen more meat on a chip. Evil-eyed goats balanced precariously on top of low walls and glared. One of them reminded me of Rosie Lee.

As we moved away from the South Gate, the buildings grew larger and less commercial. Streets were wider and most were paved. Houses were more tightly packed together, but there were signs of organisation and planning. Things weren’t anything near as higgledy-piggledy as the more southern end.

The streets were jam-packed with people, with no signs of traffic management anywhere. Everyone from high officials to mangy dogs claimed right of way. Those who made the most noise seemed to take priority.

Again, we paused to take a look up.

Making an unmistakeable statement, the citadel walls towered over everything. They were quite unlike anything I’d ever seen before with large blocks of limestone at the bottom, smaller as the walls increased in height and finished with the ubiquitous mud bricks at the top. They sloped inwards and appeared to have been built in irregular sections with vertical insets. For decoration, maybe, or to accommodate irregular contours.

I knew there would be two main gates. The Dardanian, more or less in the centre and the infamous Scaean Gate; the one the Trojans would dismantle to admit the Wooden Horse. I was speculating on the likelihood of that ever having happened when Guthrie nudged me back to the present and we moved on.

There was plenty more to see. The colossal north-east bastion dominated the citadel, serving the dual purpose of protecting the water cistern and acting as lookout tower, with uninterrupted views over the town and all the surrounding area.

We strolled casually towards the Dardanian Gate. And that’s when we realised how easy we’d had it so far, because they wouldn’t let us in. Not that we tried. It would have been a complete waste of time. Smartly dressed guards in full armour were turning nearly everyone away. Would you believe it? Bronze Age Troy: the first gated community.