The Way Home

Chapter 3

Chapter 2Aeneas tasted smoke upon the air, and the fumes made his eyes water. He might as well have stepped into the flames of the Underworld. The fire was around the corner, the crackles edging ever closer. Even from a few blocks away he could hear the sound of marching footsteps. A child standing by Aeneas’s house shrieked for his mother, a blanket tucked under his arm. An old woman clutching a bucket brushed past the boy and slopped water onto the cobblestones. People fled down the street with what they could carry. Sergestos stood fidgeting at the foot of the steps, the long plait that ran down his back swaying as he looked left and right. The scholar had already drawn his sword.

‘Let’s go,’ said Aeneas. He set off at a brisk pace up the street.

Sergestos jogged to keep up. ‘Slow down, Aeneas. I don’t have long warrior legs like—’

They both froze, seeing a glint of bronze from the alleyway ahead. Aeneas tensed as he heard a soft laugh.

An armoured figure swaggered from the darkness, his plumed helmet nodding. In his hand he held a wine sack. Two warriors weaved out behind him, unsteady on their feet. One was a giant, the other slight. Their skin was pale, like that of all invaders from the western lands, and they wore identical cloaks of blue. The strangers’ round shields were painted with the image of a wild boar, and Aeneas recognised it as a sigil from one of the Greek kingdoms.

The commoners in the street shrieked and scattered.

The commander of the Greeks leered. ‘Evening, young masters. This your street?’ He spoke the enemy’s liquid tongue, known to all peoples of the Middle Sea. He took a nip of wine and grinned at Aeneas. ‘Is your woman home? We’d love to pay her a visit.’ The Greek dropped the wine sack, and red spilled over the cobblestones. His hand drifted toward his blade.

Aeneas didn’t hesitate. He raised his spear, aimed, and threw.

The drunkard raised his shield an instant too late. The spear tip lodged in his throat, and the man crashed to the ground.

One Greek down, two remained.

Aeneas whirled to find the larger of the Greeks held Sergestos by the throat. Sergestos squirmed like a fish in a net, his face turning purple. The Greek’s sword flashed as he raised it.

Aeneas tightened his grip on his sword hilt. ‘Hey, you!’

The big Greek’s head snapped around and he dropped Sergestos.

Aeneas’s sword hissed from its sheath. They stared at each other for a moment, and then the Greek slashed at Aeneas with a snarl.

Aeneas deflected the blow with his shield, kept his eyes locked on those of his foe.

The Greek snorted and raised his blade above his head, ready to cleave Aeneas in two. Seeing the opening, Aeneas struck. The tip of his blade darted in and out through a gap in the man’s plate armour. Shock splashed across the Greek’s face, and then disbelief. He toppled forward, drew a last shuddering breath, and collapsed on the cobbles.

The shorter one still lingered in the alleyway. He was a cadet no older than fifteen, barely old enough to have received the marriage torch. The youth held Aeneas’s gaze for an instant, desperation reflected in his eyes. Then he turned and disappeared down the alleyway. No point chasing him.

Aeneas wiped his sword on his tunic and sheathed it, then pulled his spear from the first Greek’s throat. He walked over to Sergestos, offered him a hand up.

Sergestos clambered to his feet, but his eyes remained fixed on the heavens. ‘Evening’s first wanderer shines bright tonight. But so too does the red wanderer. Odd, I wouldn’t have expected to see either through the smoke.’

Aeneas raised an eyebrow. ‘Did you hit your head?’

Sergestos shook himself. ‘No. Well, yes. But I’m fine. Just …’ He grimaced, glanced over at the bodies. ‘They wandered off from the main group?’

‘I guess.’

A shrewd expression fell upon Sergestos’s face. He bent and started undoing the clasps on the Greek captain’s cloak, and then put it on himself. ‘What do you think? Do I look like a Greek?’

It wasn’t a bad idea at all. But still …

‘It’s hardly honourable.’

Sergestos gave a shaky laugh. ‘Is there any honour to be had tonight?’ He plucked up the shield, testing its unfamiliar weight.

‘Fair point.’ Aeneas swallowed, then crouched to undo the clasps on the big Greek’s cloak. He remembered Kreusa’s warning, and added: ‘But if you sight enemy gods, keep your distance.’

‘Got it. Let’s keep moving.’

A few Trojans were heading in the same direction, but nobody went near them as they passed through the streets. They might as well have been shadows.

The sound of footsteps marching in time came from around the corner. The soldiers wore crimson cloaks and their shields bore the sigil of a blood-red mountain lion. Aeneas’s eyes widened. These were no drunken brawlers. This was a company of the Red Capes of Epiros. Sergestos made to pull back into the shadows.

Aeneas grabbed him by the shoulder. ‘Forget it, they’ve already spotted us. Anyway, we’re Greeks, remember?’

At the head of the column marched a man wearing a Greek diadem. He gripped an axe in one hand and a burning torch in the other. Maybe it was a trick of the flickering light, but Aeneas thought there was something snake-like about his face. The king of Epiros looked as though he had been fed nothing but poisonous herbs all his life. Spikes of orange hair erupted all over his head.

A chill passed over Aeneas as the Epirote gave him a sidelong look.

‘What are you staring at?’ hissed the warlord, and he glanced at the sigil on Aeneas’s shield. ‘You’re meant to be at the palace already. Ithakan sluggards.’ And he moved on without a second glance, heading uphill toward the palace. His troops followed, row after row marching.

Aeneas released the breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. ‘Back streets. Through the marketplace.’

‘Definitely.’

They were about two blocks from the palace when the sharp smell of pinewood filled his nostrils.

In the dim light, Aeneas could just see the outline of the great wooden horse standing in the empty marketplace. It towered over them, a crude likeness. He exchanged a dark look with Sergestos. The Greek lords had clasped hands with King Priam just yesterday morning, and the rulers exchanged gifts as tokens of good faith. Priam had given each of the Greek warlords dishes of gold and silver. The king of Ithaka had left this. A monument, he’d said, to honour the fallen. Aeneas edged closer, for he’d not had the chance to look at it properly. He stared upward, lip curling. On the underside of the horse, an open hatch swayed upon hinges carefully concealed. A rope ladder dangled. Within the beast Aeneas saw only darkness.

So that was how the mongrels had gotten in.

The hiss of arrows filled the air. Aeneas pulled Sergestos into a crouch. He raised his shield, and Sergestos copied. Thud after thud came as arrows lodged in the layers of ox-hide and pinged from the shield’s iron boss. Shafts splintered on the pavement.

Who was shooting at them? Aeneas risked a quick peek over the bronze rim of his shield, spotted Trojan archers on the temple rooftop against the orange mist. He ducked just in time to avoid losing an eye.

Sergestos leaned over to Aeneas, a skull-like grin plastered across his face. ‘Worst idea we’ve ever had?’

‘Yeah, and that’s saying something. Any ideas?’

‘Wait for them to run out of arrows?’

Aeneas gave a hollow laugh.

Sergestos’s smile died on his lips. He pointed over Aeneas’s shoulder, pale and quivering.

The god leaped down from the rooftop behind them. Ares had no skin; perhaps an immortal warrior had no need of it. He was all iron and sinew. His bare chest rippled and ropey crimson muscles pulsated. The man-shaped beast wore a cloak of tattered hides. In his paws he wielded a sword of sapphire flame. A war helmet masked his face, everything but the eyes. Sergestos quailed under his red glare.

Aeneas choked back a sob. Ares fought for the Trojans. He must have come to finish the work the bowmen had started.

He squeezed his eyes shut and thought of Kreusa and Julos.