‘Well, firstly – no Trojan Horse.’
People nodded. They were disappointed as well. It’s always important to know the truth, but we all need our stories.
‘Although, that’s not true. There isn’t one Trojan Horse. There are twelve of them. Think about it.’
Kal said, ‘There are a dozen horses out there. Is that what you mean?’
‘Yes. Horses are valuable. Very valuable. Trained chariot horses almost beyond price. They’ve left twelve behind. Why?’
‘They’re old. Or injured. Not worth space on the voyage.’
‘So why not slaughter them, cut them up, and eat them on the way home? No one in this part of the world has seen much meat go by recently.’
Van Owen said, ‘Because there’s something the matter with them. There must be.’
‘Yes,’ said Peterson, in sudden excitement, ‘if you read Homer, the Iliad opens with a plague. First, the dogs fell sick, then the horses, then the people. They put it down to the wrath of Apollo. These are some of the sick horses.’
I continued. ‘And the Trojans, who are hungry and without the benefit of Homer and hindsight, will take them inside the city. They’ll be slaughtered. There will be offerings to the gods – which the priests will eat afterwards. The soldiers will get the lion’s share and the rest divided amongst the people. A modern cow can feed over a thousand people.’
Don’t ask me how I know these things. I just do.
‘One of these admittedly rather stringy horses could feed, say, six hundred. Minimum. That’s over seven thousand people directly contaminated. Most of them soldiers. And it won’t stop there. The blood runs off into the gutters. Dogs and cats will lap at it and then roam the city and spread the sickness. No one will wash their hands properly. A baker will handle contaminated meat and then go on to bake his morning loaves. Which people will eat. Years of warfare and a restricted diet will have made these people vulnerable. In twenty-four hours, virtually everyone in the city could be puking and shitting uncontrollably. All right, some will hardly be affected and maybe not many will actually die – but they’ll be in no condition to defend themselves.’
I stopped and pulled off another piece of bread.
Kal said, ‘And then what? All right, it’s ShitCity for a couple of days, but how is that a problem?
‘Because if the Greeks come back, barely anyone will be able to lift a sword.’
‘But why? Why would the Greeks come back? Are you saying they left these horses deliberately? To poison people? And then they’ll come back and take the city?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, suddenly grinding to a halt. ‘I just don’t know.’
‘No.’ said Guthrie. ‘It doesn’t matter whether or not the Trojans can defend themselves. Even if the Greeks turn up, the Trojans will nip back inside their walls, shut the gates, and everyone’s back to square one. The one thing we do know is that the gates and walls make this city almost impregnable, whether manned or not. They could certainly hold out long enough for people to recover.’
‘True, Major. So you think the Greeks have gone for good?’
‘Yes. I think they’ve gone for good.’
I could hear people’s brains turning, still trying to reconcile the legend with the facts. And if we were having trouble, imagine how reluctant the rest of the world would be to learn there was no Helen, no Trojan Horse, no heroes, no gods, just an undetermined skirmish that lasted for ten years and then just petered out. People like their stories – their legends. They don’t give them up easily.
I sighed. ‘Well, we have a job to do. So long as we don’t eat or drink anything contemporary, we should be fine. Warn your people and let’s get on with it.’
We went back to the walls.
They were already leading in the horses. To modern eyes, they were scrawny-looking things – typical horses of the day. Big heads, barrel bodies, and thin legs. Their heads hung low, but they didn’t look sick.
So, this part of the legend was true. The Trojans themselves voluntarily brought their downfall into their city.
And the next part was true as well. Above the Scaean Gate, a lone figure raised her arms. Unlike the rest of the royal family who, with the exception of Paris, ostentatiously dressed in every shade of the rainbow and glittered with gold and jewels, she was simply dressed in white, as if personal appearance was of no importance to her. In contrast to the women around her, with their intricate hairstyles dressed with combs and pins of silver and gold, her red-gold hair exploded around her head like a sunburst.
Her voice, clear as a clarion, cut through the racket. I couldn’t make out the words, but we all knew whom this was.