I hung as limply as I could, trying to look unattractive so they wouldn’t want their turn too, and obviously I was successful because after one last laugh, they went on their way.
The gate was just a pile of rubble and twisted timbers. Guthrie clambered awkwardly over the wreckage. I lifted my head and watched, covering our retreat. Smoke drifted across the rubble and caught in my throat.
Hanging upside down made my head throb unbearably. His armour dug into my rib cage. I could barely breathe. My eye had closed and ribbons of blood and snot hung from my nose, mingling with my hair. However, I was alive and, if not safe, at least I was safer than I’d been ten minutes ago.
He found a sheltered corner away from the shouting and lowered me to the ground. I sat with my eyes closed as he carefully cleared my nose and wiped my face with more gentle care than I would have expected.
‘I don’t think your nose is broken, but you already have a world-class black eye. Can you see? How many fingers am I holding up?’
‘Seventy-three.’
‘Close enough. Does it hurt?’
‘A little. My face feels as if it’s going to explode.’ I could be the first woman in History to be killed by her own nose.
‘It’ll be quicker if I carry you. But painful.’
‘Whatever it takes, Major.’
The streets were unrecognisable from the Troy I had known. Bodies sprawled everywhere like broken puppets. None of them had died easily. Many had been trampled, either by incoming Greeks or by fleeing townspeople.
A little pink hand lay in the gutter.
I could see orange flames everywhere and caught the smell of burning meat on the wind.
The streets were thick with the detritus of war. Household goods, dead livestock, shattered roof tiles, and discarded weapons. I could see arrows lodged in the walls, broken javelins, smashed pottery, dead people – everything here was either broken or useless. Or dead. Anything with value was on the beach, waiting to be shipped.
Far-off voices rose occasionally in anger, or song, or fear, but Guthrie guided us surely through the smouldering remains of Troy.
Navigating the open spaces was nerve-wracking. Anyone could put an arrow through us.
‘Put me down. We can run faster.’
‘Not likely. Having you draped all over me is better than a shield.’
Our neighbours’ little group of houses were well ablaze. I could see two charred bodies in the doorway. I remember thinking how loud the crackling sounded in the evening air. The shop had been looted. A few broken pots lay on the ground, but everything else was gone.
And the tavern – the little tavern where Helios and Helike had lived …
Guthrie lowered me to the ground and we looked on.
‘I hope you’re getting all this,’ he said harshly and turned away.
Pieces of people lay everywhere. Except for Helike. They’d kept her intact.
We heard a shout behind us. Two Greeks appeared around the corner, each clutching a wineskin and prepared to defend their territory against all comers. Their eyes lit up when they saw me.
Guthrie indicated that he would be delighted to share his prize in return for a drink and pushed me towards them.
I took the one on the left. Guthrie dropped his in seconds and then zapped mine for good measure. We’re not allowed to kill people. It’s never a good idea to start decimating your ancestors.
‘Come on,’ he said, seizing my arm and we threaded our way through the smoky olive grove. The heat was fearsome and the fumes made my eyes run. We turned constantly, trying to cover all the angles, but there was no one else around. Rural areas aren’t anything like as exciting to plunder as urban ones. You can’t uproot olive trees and take them back with you.
Number Eight was intact. After what I’d put it through over the years, it was going to take more than a few flames and rioting soldiers to cause it any concern. The door slid open and Peterson covered our approach.
Now that I was safe, I couldn’t wait to get inside and busy myself. The last thing I wanted to do was think about that beach and what was happening there. And what would have been happening to me if not for Guthrie.
I said, ‘Thank you, Ian,’ and touched his forearm.
He pulled off his looted helmet and breastplate and dropped them on the ground with a clatter. His face was smoky and sweat-streaked.
‘An honour and a privilege, Max.’
I grinned at him. ‘Worst helmet-hair ever,’ and he thumped me on the shoulder.
Peterson checked us both over. ‘No foreign objects.’
We entered the pod.
No Chief Farrell.
I passed Guthrie some water, had a good glug myself and said to Peterson, ‘Report.’
‘Everyone got away safely. Just waiting on the Chief and then we’re off, too.’
‘Where did he go?’
He shifted uneasily. He didn’t know.
What the bloody hell did Leon think he was playing at?