The Way Home

Chapter 5

Chapter 4A breath of air feathered the back of Aeneas’s neck.

A few heartbeats passed.

He opened an eye.

Ares stood atop the temple on the opposite side of the marketplace. The Trojan archers lay on the roof tiles at his feet, their bows useless. The war god must have leaped. Ares threw back his head and gave a howl of victory. Aeneas covered his ears. Ares’s war cry was like that of a falcon, and it echoed in Aeneas’s skull. The god pointed at Aeneas, gestured toward the palace.

‘Go forth and kill,’ he boomed. ‘This is the command of Hera, queen of the gods.’

With that, Ares bounded over the temple and out of sight.

Aeneas stood. ‘What was that about?’

Sergestos straightened and tightened the strap on his baldric. ‘The gods of Olympus have turned against us. We’re on our own.’

Aeneas baulked at the thought, but there was no denying it. The only reason they were still alive was because Ares had thought they were Greeks.

‘Let’s keep going,’ he said. ‘We’re almost there.’

The sound of a battering ram against the palace door was like a hammer upon an anvil. The Greeks had the palace surrounded. Siege ladders pressed against the ivy-covered walls, the bravest of the Greeks hauling themselves upward hand-over-hand. Aeneas silently blessed the courage of the grey-clad Trojans on the roof. They were flinging broken roof tiles and bits of masonry onto the besiegers’ heads. On the ground, Greek archers dipped their arrowheads in a stinking barrel of oil, lit the tips from a roaring bonfire, and loosed flaming bolts against the defenders.

Aeneas noticed the king of Ithaka amidst the ranks. It was easy to spot him; Odysseus always went into battle wearing the same leather skullcap with rows of polished boars’ tusks sewn upon it. His beard plaited and oiled, Odysseus oversaw the siege works with sharp eyes. He encouraged the men groaning under the weight of the battering ram.

‘Heave, men of Ithaka, heave! The sooner we gain the palace, the sooner we can be home.’

The door shuddered with each impact. Aeneas knew it was reinforced from inside with bands of iron, but it wouldn’t hold much longer.

He beckoned Sergestos. ‘Listen. There’s a secret entrance on the east wing of the palace. Only the king’s heirs know about it.’

Sergestos raised an eyebrow. ‘How do you—’

‘Doesn’t matter. Think you can create a distraction?’

Sergestos glanced over at the barrel of oil. Fiendish glee played upon his features. ‘You ask a fool’s question.’

‘Good. Then get out of the city. Head for the mountain. I’ll meet you there. Fates willing, I’ll have the royal family with me.’

‘Aeneas …’ Sergestos’s lips tightened.

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Just don’t die, all right?’

Aeneas gave a bark of laughter. ‘You know me. I’m going to live forever.’

‘Right. See you soon.’

Aeneas sidled toward the eastern wing of the palace, careful not to speak or look anyone in the eye. He hid in the orchard like an assassin. Two soldiers were in his sights, too busy exchanging obscenities with the Trojan guards above to notice him at their backs.

Or the hidden doorway right in front of their noses.

After a moment’s pause, he set his shield and spear down on the grass. The shaft would be too unwieldy at close quarters. The sword would have to do.

From around the corner came a crash and burst of light. A horse whinnied in fright. Harsh voices yelled, overlapping. Aeneas recognised Odysseus’s among them.

‘He’s not Ithakan. Don’t just stand there, get him!’

The two Greeks standing near the hidden entrance exchanged a wary look and joined the chase, spears in hand.

Aeneas didn’t waste an instant. He ran up to the palace wall, parted the ivy, and pressed against the whitish spot on the stone shaped like a wolf.

A section of the wall sprang aside. Aeneas had to stoop as he stole his way inside. There was nothing in the passageway but stale air and matted cobwebs. He sealed the entrance behind him and pressed on, feeling his way. Moments later, he reached the other end of the passageway and pushed the door open.

The ceilings in the atrium were high, the rugs luscious. A handful of the king’s purple-cloaked guards had barricaded the entrance against intruders, but the door’s hinges rattled and dust fell from the ceiling as the battering ram did its work. The door had already started to splinter.

The battering ram stopped, and the Greeks started hewing at the door with axes instead. Chunks of timber fell away to reveal a pale face. The men cried out in alarm. Breath caught in Aeneas’s chest. It was the Epirote he’d run into earlier. The king of Epiros stared at Aeneas for an instant and hissed. He pulled the axe back and swung again.

‘Where’s the king?’ said Aeneas.

‘Shrine!’ one of the palace guards yelled, not taking his eyes from the door. ‘Go! We’ll hold them as long as we can.’

Aeneas turned and sped down the hall. He made his way through the labyrinth of twisting corridors, past the stores and workshops, until he found the royal shrine, the innermost sanctum of Troy.

Thousands of beeswax candles bathed the shrine in a golden glow. Incense prickled his nostrils. Standing in an alcove in the rear wall, a statue of a thunderbolt-wielding Zeus loomed over all.

Before the altar, Aeneas recognised the snowy-haired king and his wife Hekuba. They were kneeling in supplication before the great god. The king and queen chanted soft prayers to the cult statue, beseeching all-powerful Zeus to protect his city. Priam wore a ratty linen corslet, and a spear lay next to him. Hekuba’s trailing robes were bright green.

Aeneas cleared his throat. ‘Great King?’

The old man rocked to and fro, but did not acknowledge him. Prayers continued to pour from his lips.

‘King Priam?’ said Aeneas.

The old lord raised his hands skyward, but did not answer.

‘Queen Hekuba?’

Hekuba turned. ‘Oh, it’s you, nephew.’ Her eyes narrowed at the sight of him. ‘Why are you dressed like a Greek?’

‘There’s no time. We need to—’

Priam turned at last. ‘Ah. Aeneas. Oh yes, I remember you. You used to play with my boys, yes? But that was before …’ He sniffed.

Aeneas’s cheeks burned. ‘Sire, Troy is lost. We need to get you to safety, before—’

The old man’s eyes seemed to glow, the whites clear. His features fell into a wily grin. ‘Go? Oh, Aeneas, you never were much of a believer. The gods will protect us, don’t you see?’

Aeneas stared.

Priam waved an arm toward the statue of Zeus. ‘The city can’t really be falling, can it? Not while he’s watching over us. Our fate has been foretold—the prophecy is no secret. The children of Troy shall someday rule the world, led by the true king.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Priam grinned, mouth wide. ‘It is our destiny to subjugate every race—the Greeks, Phoenicians, Skythians, Egyptians, the mad Kelts—all shall bow before us. Anyone who resists shall be put to the sword.’

Hekuba nodded as though that settled the matter, and resumed her chanting.

Aeneas stared in disbelief. They were delusional, the pair of them.

A cry of alarm and the clash of bronze echoed from the entrance hall. The Greeks had broken through. Aeneas turned to face the door. He squared his stance and pulled his blade from its scabbard.

Nobody lived forever, but it would be better to die with a sword in hand.