‘And,’ I said, happily, ‘chicken tonight.’
He stopped dead.
‘Do you think he was wearing shorts under that tunic?’
‘Yes. Almost certainly. Probably. Maybe. No.’
‘So, just bread and cheese, then?’
‘Oh God, yes.’
We worked our socks off. I’d once spent three months in the Cretaceous Period and, up until now, that had been my longest assignment. We were six months down and slightly ahead of schedule. I estimated another six weeks or so. Six more weeks of solid, unspectacular observation and then, when that was completed, it would be back to St Mary’s for a month to consolidate our data. After that, we’d be back again for the really Big Job. The end of the Trojan War. I experienced a shiver of excitement every time I thought about it. Which was often.
The assignment was going well. Living here was no hardship. Life was good. The gods smiled on Troy and its people.
The inhabitants were prosperous and hard-working. Wealth poured into the city, resulting in fine public buildings and temples, a reliable water supply, clean (ish) streets and always, towering above everything, keeping us all safe, the walls of Troy.
These intimidating walls encircled the city. Walls so tall, so formidable that, even after a ten-year war, the greatest soldiers of the age would be unable to breach them. Walls behind which the Trojans were safe as houses. And yet, for some reason, they would tear them down and let in their enemies. Why would they do that? We would find out.
We lived quietly and happily. We established our daily routine. Up with the sun, breakfast on the remains of yesterday’s bread dipped in oil to make it soft and one – just one – precious mug of tea.
After that, there was housekeeping – and that took time. Wood gathering, going to the markets for what we could scrounge or exchange, shaking out the mats, and sweeping the pods clear of the all-pervasive gritty dust, and fetching water – lots of it. We got through gallons of the stuff, washing clothes and keeping the pods and ourselves clean.
We couldn’t leave the pods open because Trojan livestock appeared to be fearless and frequently wandered in and made itself comfortable. Shifting them could be perilous and in a battle of wills with a small flock of geese Markham had come off considerably worse. Small but determined, he’d rattled in again, eventually driving them from the pod, emerging not only triumphant but badly bitten and covered in goose shit as well.
After an early lunch, usually of bread and the local wet, salty cheese, we scattered to our real jobs. Having no set function, I seconded myself wherever needed, or went up through the busy streets to Site A for a bit of a catch-up.
The rule was that everyone was back by sundown, when we would prepare our evening meal. Meat or fish if we had it, and usually we hadn’t, bread, cheese, eggs (which seemed to be some kind of currency in Troy) a vegetable broth, and some fruit. Sadly, Markham had invented some kind of dreadful grey stodge, which he merrily doled out and people ate it. I can’t cook and therefore I can (and frequently do) eat pretty well anything put in front of me. But not Markham’s porridge. In vain did he protest its authenticity. Other people ate it – and lived. I made polite excuses.
We cooked and ate outside, sitting on our coarse mats, and afterwards we would report on our day’s findings for an hour or so and then I would make them stop. Historians can go all night if they have to – and that refers to discussing their findings, as well.
We would sit around the crackling fire, under the stars, chatting and laughing. Sometimes, Roberts would produce his guitar. Everyone had been allowed one personal item: a book, musical instrument, whatever. We would have a bit of a singsong; just like every other Trojan household across the city. It was certainly easy to become assimilated on this assignment. We had no troubles with the locals in any way. Except for being ripped off and robbed blind by the tiny, terrifying, elderly Trojan women in the markets, of course.
I looked up from the fire one night to see two small, curious faces peering through the trees. I’d seen them before. It was the little girl from the tavern and her brother. I’d often seen their father, serving customers outside under the trees. Sometimes he would wave. These were his children. Seeing me stare, Leon twisted around and, after a moment, held out his hand.
Guthrie, who had stiffened, relaxed, and Markham withdrew his hand from under his cloak.
The two children came forward and stood hesitantly, just outside the firelight. The little girl regarded us steadily and without fear. The little boy scraped the inside of his nostril with a grubby finger and held out the result for inspection.
Leon said nothing, but cut an old, wrinkly apple in two and silently offered them half each.