‘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.
We did what we could, strolling unobtrusively past the gate a couple of times, including a period of about ten minutes when Leon pretended to fiddle with the shoulder straps on my basket, which now contained my cloak. Because it was hot. It was bloody hot. Trapped heat was reflected from stones and bricks. You could have cooked eggs on the road. Guthrie sighed in pretended exasperation, leaned against a wall in the shade, picked his teeth, and watched the gate through half-closed eyes.
I took the opportunity to have a good stare as well.
The structures through the wide gate were large and porticoed. Unlike the lower city, where most buildings were added on as required by the family unit, these were freestanding. Many had second floors, supported by pillars. And, tantalisingly obscured, I could just make out a complex of some kind. It was easily the biggest structure there – the palace perhaps – and maybe combined with a temple and treasury as well. Something else to check out.
Finally, Guthrie heaved himself upright and we wandered away, keeping the walls to our left.