I could hear excited chatter all around me. Next to me, an old man in a stained ochre tunic was shouting excitedly and pointing. I shut it all out and tried to concentrate.
The plain was far from empty. The shoreline was littered with debris left behind by the retreating Greeks. Useless pieces of armour, broken gear, chariot wheels, spars, pieces of ships that had been cannibalised, the smoking remains of campfires – all the unwanted detritus of war littered the plain.
There were even a number of horses, standing here and there, their heads down, thirsty, their manes and tails ruffling in the breeze – obviously too old to make the return voyage. They looked sad and abandoned on this long and lonely beach.
I could see no sign anywhere of the Greeks and their ships. The sea was empty and the horizon clear.
A swelling murmur ran along the walls. A man shouted. A horn rang out. The wind picked up again and, above me, flags and pennants streamed sideways, snapping in the wind. I blinked dust out of my eyes.
Another horn sounded a reply down on the plain. The soldiers broke ranks and began to poke around the remains, kicking over old pots and rubbish, looking for anything of value.
With no signal given that I could see, the Trojans left the walls. The Scaean Gate dragged itself open again and the citizens of Troy, confined behind their own walls for ten long, long years, streamed out across the plain.
We watched them go. I preferred to stay on the walls. The view was much better from up here. I pulled out my little recorder. Guthrie, as he always did, watched my back. I panned up and down the shoreline a couple of times. I got shots of the walls, and then turned back into the town, to record the last of the near hysterical exodus from the city.
That done, I stood resting my arms on the wall and had a bit of a think.
I called Van Owen, who confirmed she and Ritter were safe and working. I called Leon, who reported there was no one around – Helios and his family had gone to the walls, along with everyone else.
Peterson reported that he, Kal, and Evans were out on the plain and all was well. In fact, if I screwed up my eyes, I was pretty sure I could see Markham out there as well, turning over a broken javelin and talking to Roberts.
So what was making me so uneasy?
Beside me, Guthrie stood quietly, alone with his own thoughts, as usual.
The Greeks were gone. The Trojans liberated. No Trojan Horse. Was I confusing unease with disappointment? Disappointment that one of my favourite moments in all of History just hadn’t happened?
This was stupid. When you sit down and think about it – how likely was the Trojan Horse? That they would find enough wood to build such a huge structure in the first place? That men could conceal themselves inside and not be discovered? That the Trojans, after a ten-year war that had cost them so dearly, would actually bring down their own walls?
There never was and never had been a Trojan Horse.
I remembered my own, special little Trojan Horse, made for me by Leon all those years ago. Our arguments over where the trapdoor had been. He always maintained it couldn’t have been in the belly as so often depicted. He favoured under the tail. I had rather looked forward to seeing Greek heroes wriggling out from the Horse’s backside like so many giant tapeworms.
But it was not to be.
There was no Trojan Horse.
And then, thank the god of historians – I woke up.
Yes, there was!
Right here in front of me. I was looking at it. And another one over there. And two more over there. And a whole group of them over there. There wasn’t just one Trojan Horse. There were nine, ten, eleven – at least twelve that I could see, and maybe more.
My thoughts were tumbling all over the place. I let them. I let them wander wherever they wanted to go. They knew what they were doing.
I had part of the picture. Not the whole thing, but I had a beginning.
But, first things first. I called Van Owen. ‘Who’s with you?’
‘Ritter.’
‘Send him back to your pods. And Roberts and Evans. Get them to fill every available container with water. Fill the tanks. Get as much as they can. Secure all food supplies. From this moment, we are self-contained. We eat and drink nothing – nothing, do you understand? – from contemporary sources. I’m up on the west wall, under the pennant with the blue horse. Can you meet me here? Soonest.’
‘On my way.’
I called Leon, faithfully guarding the other pods, and gave him the same instructions. ‘Weller and Ritter will assist. I’ll explain later. We’re a bit busy, but it’s important.’
‘Understood,’ he said calmly, and now I could relax a little.
I called in Peterson as well and he, Guthrie, Van Owen, Kal, Markham, and I sat under a shady tree in the small square next to the fish market. We kept our voices low, but we needn’t have bothered. The city was empty. After ten years, only those who couldn’t actually walk were still inside the walls.
Peterson had liberated a couple of flat loaves since no one had had breakfast.
‘What’s this all about?’