This was Kassandra, daughter of Priam, one of only two people in Troy who warned against bringing the Trojan Horse into the city. And no one listened to her.
Her beauty supposedly caused the god Apollo to fall in love with her, and when she spurned his love – which you just don’t do to a god – he cursed her twice. Firstly, with the ability to know the future. And secondly, and most cruelly, that no one would ever believe her.
They didn’t believe her now. King’s daughter or not, she was just that mad bat Kassandra, the one who was always ranting on about something or other. They laughed and pointed. And laughed again.
She redoubled her efforts.
They redoubled their laughing.
And then, in mid-rant – she stopped. She lowered her arms, turned her head and, for one moment, I thought she looked directly at me.
I couldn’t look away. I wanted to. But I couldn’t.
Then Guthrie spoke and the spell was broken.
Considerably shaken, I stepped behind him, out of her sight, just to give myself a moment.
The horses were followed by cheering crowds. All over the city, butchers would be sharpening their knives. Priests were lighting fires. Troy was preparing to party. Party until it dropped.
We were out there, of course. We’d have been mad not to be. So long as no one ate or drank anything, we’d be fine.
The party started as the sun slipped below the horizon. The last carefully hoarded supplies were broached as people flung years of restraint straight out of the window. After ten long, bitter years, they finally had something to celebrate.
And celebrate they did. The entire city was one giant street party. Every lamp was lit. Drink flowed. The smell of roasting meat was everywhere. Long lines of people danced along the streets, picking up and discarding others as the fancy took them. Many couples peeled off into dark doorways and a whole new generation could have been conceived that night.
Every square had at least one bonfire and winding queues of waiting people. Roasting horsemeat smells quite good, but none of us was tempted. I’d made it a hanging offence, anyway. I’d personally checked our supplies and I knew Kal had done the same on the other side of the olive grove. We would only ever have this one opportunity and I wasn’t going to squander it by having half my team on the sick list.
So we moved among the crowds, laughing, dancing, recording, and, in my case, wondering what the hell would happen next.
I’d never actually been on an assignment where this had happened. We jump to specific events, already having a fairly clear idea of what will happen. Sometimes minor details are wrong, but if we jump to Hastings 1066, we know the Normans will win. We might not know how, and the arrow in the eye is something we’re going to have to sort out one day – but the point is – we know the Normans win. As Professor Penrose had once pointed out to me, our work was hazardous but predictable.
Now, we had no idea how this would end. Anything could happen. It was quite exciting. I said so and Guthrie rolled his eyes.
I called a halt at midnight, expecting some muttering about party pooping, but we were all exhausted. We’d been at it since dawn.
And starving, too. I ate nearly two mouthfuls of Markham’s ghastly stodge before I realised what I was doing.
And then we all went to bed.
I woke early the next morning and lay for a while, staring up at the fading stars and still thinking about yesterday and what I was missing. Around me, I could hear my team moving around. I sat up. Roberts and Markham were tea monitors this morning. I took mine a little way off, sat with my back against an olive tree and thought.
And got nowhere. I just couldn’t see how this would end. By now, of course, most of Troy would be groaning in the gutters and pebble dashing every available surface. Even those who had escaped food poisoning would have the hangover from hell. Some – possibly many, given their weakened state – would die, but not enough for Troy to fall.
I was still missing something.
We had bread left over from yesterday, which we ate with some cheese and made plans for the day.
Peterson and his people were deployed around the lower town. I was going back on the walls. Guthrie was to accompany me.
Leon, bless him, volunteered to remain behind and secure the two sites.
‘Non-historian,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Slightly less useful than the fifth wheel on a bike. Go, my children. Flutter forth. Make your way in the world and do whatever it is historians do all day long. I shall remain here, feet up in the shade – but vigilant. Always vigilant.’
Peterson snorted and we all set out. I had Guthrie again. Silent, as usual.