Copyright © Julian Barr 2018

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Published by Odyssey Books in 2018

www.odysseybooks.com.au

ISBN: 978-1-925652-35-2 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-1-925652-36-9 (ebook)

Cover design by Chris Shepherd

Illustrations by Matt Wolf

Map by Linc Morse

This one’s for Kelly, who never stopped believing.

Chapter 1

‘Aeneas, for the love of the gods, open up!’ cried Sergestos, pounding on the front door.

Aeneas ran to the door and wrenched it open. ‘Stop yelling, would you? My father will flay me if you wake him.’ He stopped short as he realised Sergestos’s round face was covered in soot and he reeked of smoke. The scholar wore a studded baldric over his tunic. ‘What’s happened?’

‘It’s the Greeks, they’re here.’

Aeneas swore. ‘Let me get my gear. I’ll be at the main gate in—’

Sergestos shook his head. ‘Aeneas, they’re here. Inside the walls.’

Aeneas staggered. The sea god had built the walls himself. They stood over forty cubits tall. No mortal power could break them.

‘What? How can that be? They sailed home yesterday.’

Sergestos shrugged. ‘Something to do with that horse. Point is, half the city’s in flames.’

Aeneas rushed upstairs to see for himself, and Sergestos followed.

Fire.

All his life Aeneas had loved to look down upon the city, to gaze at the twinkling lanterns in the streets. Now thatched rooftops were alight, the flames glaring like eyes in the night. The fire was spreading from the outer city, where the peasants lived. The screaming echoed heavenward. He blinked sweat out of his eyes, straining to peer past the flames. Far off, the city gate gaped like an open wound. Column after column of Greek warriors passed through, hungry to pillage the defenceless Troy. They were making a beeline toward the palace, marching up the main road. The bronze of their helmets and armour glistened in the burning.

What in Hades was going on? Somebody should have rung the warning bell. This wasn’t a battle. It was defeat, the end of everything. The thought twisted in his belly like a knife.

‘Daddy?’ Little Julos waddled out of his bedchamber at the foot of the stair, rubbing his eyes. His curls were tousled with sleep.

‘Hey, little man,’ said Aeneas. ‘Where’s Mummy?’

‘I’m here,’ said Kreusa. ‘Has something happened?’ She emerged from the bedchamber opposite Julos’s, tying her hair back with one hand. Looking up, she saw the embers spiralling into the sky. ‘The city,’ she breathed.

Sergestos swallowed. ‘Gods help us, our training never prepared us for this. Troy has fallen.’

Aeneas shook his head and jutted his jaw. ‘Not yet. Not if we save the king.’

Sergestos glanced from Kreusa to Aeneas. ‘Right. See you shortly, then.’ He clapped Aeneas on the shoulder and bolted down the stairs past Julos and out the door.

Tightening her lips, Kreusa beckoned Aeneas downstairs and into their bedchamber. ‘Julos, wait in your bedchamber, please. I won’t be long.’

‘But I’m—’

‘It’ll be fine, son,’ said Aeneas.

Kreusa passed Aeneas his sword belt, her hands steady.

He buckled it to his side, put on his leather jerkin. Aeneas glanced up at his polished helmet and breastplate mounted on the wall. Father had given them to him for his eighteenth birthday last year. No self-respecting warrior would go into a fight without full armour, but there was no time.

Father gave a snore from down the hall.

‘I’ll get him up,’ Kreusa said, reading Aeneas’s mind. Julos padded into their bedchamber, slurping on his fingers, and she scooped him into her arms. ‘Go on. We’ll be fine.’ Kreusa looked him in the eye, resolute.

Aeneas had always loved Kreusa for her ability to take charge, right from their betrothal day. He reached for her and Julos.

Kreusa kissed him once, hard, on the mouth. Then she pushed him away gently. ‘There’ll be time later. You need to go,’ she whispered. ‘Please, love. Just go. And if you run into enemy gods, stay out of their way.’ Kreusa turned, but it didn’t hide the tear streaking down her cheek. She swept out of the chamber, holding their son tight. Julos peeked over her shoulder at Aeneas, eyes wide and green as his father’s.

Aeneas stared after them for a moment, then shook himself. Kreusa was right, he’d wasted enough time already. He snatched up his gear on his way out, found the weight of his spear a familiar comfort. The leathery smell of his ox-hide shield reassured him it was ready to protect.

Taking a deep breath, he passed over his doorstep.

Chapter 2

Aeneas tasted smoke upon the air, and the fumes made his eyes water. He might as well have stepped into the flames of the Underworld. The fire was around the corner, the crackles edging ever closer. Even from a few blocks away he could hear the sound of marching footsteps. A child standing by Aeneas’s house shrieked for his mother, a blanket tucked under his arm. An old woman clutching a bucket brushed past the boy and slopped water onto the cobblestones. People fled down the street with what they could carry. Sergestos stood fidgeting at the foot of the steps, the long plait that ran down his back swaying as he looked left and right. The scholar had already drawn his sword.

‘Let’s go,’ said Aeneas. He set off at a brisk pace up the street.

Sergestos jogged to keep up. ‘Slow down, Aeneas. I don’t have long warrior legs like—’

They both froze, seeing a glint of bronze from the alleyway ahead. Aeneas tensed as he heard a soft laugh.

An armoured figure swaggered from the darkness, his plumed helmet nodding. In his hand he held a wine sack. Two warriors weaved out behind him, unsteady on their feet. One was a giant, the other slight. Their skin was pale, like that of all invaders from the western lands, and they wore identical cloaks of blue. The strangers’ round shields were painted with the image of a wild boar, and Aeneas recognised it as a sigil from one of the Greek kingdoms.

The commoners in the street shrieked and scattered.

The commander of the Greeks leered. ‘Evening, young masters. This your street?’ He spoke the enemy’s liquid tongue, known to all peoples of the Middle Sea. He took a nip of wine and grinned at Aeneas. ‘Is your woman home? We’d love to pay her a visit.’ The Greek dropped the wine sack, and red spilled over the cobblestones. His hand drifted toward his blade.

Aeneas didn’t hesitate. He raised his spear, aimed, and threw.

The drunkard raised his shield an instant too late. The spear tip lodged in his throat, and the man crashed to the ground.

One Greek down, two remained.

Aeneas whirled to find the larger of the Greeks held Sergestos by the throat. Sergestos squirmed like a fish in a net, his face turning purple. The Greek’s sword flashed as he raised it.

Aeneas tightened his grip on his sword hilt. ‘Hey, you!’

The big Greek’s head snapped around and he dropped Sergestos.

Aeneas’s sword hissed from its sheath. They stared at each other for a moment, and then the Greek slashed at Aeneas with a snarl.

Aeneas deflected the blow with his shield, kept his eyes locked on those of his foe.

The Greek snorted and raised his blade above his head, ready to cleave Aeneas in two. Seeing the opening, Aeneas struck. The tip of his blade darted in and out through a gap in the man’s plate armour. Shock splashed across the Greek’s face, and then disbelief. He toppled forward, drew a last shuddering breath, and collapsed on the cobbles.

The shorter one still lingered in the alleyway. He was a cadet no older than fifteen, barely old enough to have received the marriage torch. The youth held Aeneas’s gaze for an instant, desperation reflected in his eyes. Then he turned and disappeared down the alleyway. No point chasing him.

Aeneas wiped his sword on his tunic and sheathed it, then pulled his spear from the first Greek’s throat. He walked over to Sergestos, offered him a hand up.

Sergestos clambered to his feet, but his eyes remained fixed on the heavens. ‘Evening’s first wanderer shines bright tonight. But so too does the red wanderer. Odd, I wouldn’t have expected to see either through the smoke.’

Aeneas raised an eyebrow. ‘Did you hit your head?’

Sergestos shook himself. ‘No. Well, yes. But I’m fine. Just …’ He grimaced, glanced over at the bodies. ‘They wandered off from the main group?’

‘I guess.’

A shrewd expression fell upon Sergestos’s face. He bent and started undoing the clasps on the Greek captain’s cloak, and then put it on himself. ‘What do you think? Do I look like a Greek?’

It wasn’t a bad idea at all. But still …

‘It’s hardly honourable.’

Sergestos gave a shaky laugh. ‘Is there any honour to be had tonight?’ He plucked up the shield, testing its unfamiliar weight.

‘Fair point.’ Aeneas swallowed, then crouched to undo the clasps on the big Greek’s cloak. He remembered Kreusa’s warning, and added: ‘But if you sight enemy gods, keep your distance.’

‘Got it. Let’s keep moving.’

A few Trojans were heading in the same direction, but nobody went near them as they passed through the streets. They might as well have been shadows.

The sound of footsteps marching in time came from around the corner. The soldiers wore crimson cloaks and their shields bore the sigil of a blood-red mountain lion. Aeneas’s eyes widened. These were no drunken brawlers. This was a company of the Red Capes of Epiros. Sergestos made to pull back into the shadows.

Aeneas grabbed him by the shoulder. ‘Forget it, they’ve already spotted us. Anyway, we’re Greeks, remember?’

At the head of the column marched a man wearing a Greek diadem. He gripped an axe in one hand and a burning torch in the other. Maybe it was a trick of the flickering light, but Aeneas thought there was something snake-like about his face. The king of Epiros looked as though he had been fed nothing but poisonous herbs all his life. Spikes of orange hair erupted all over his head.

A chill passed over Aeneas as the Epirote gave him a sidelong look.

‘What are you staring at?’ hissed the warlord, and he glanced at the sigil on Aeneas’s shield. ‘You’re meant to be at the palace already. Ithakan sluggards.’ And he moved on without a second glance, heading uphill toward the palace. His troops followed, row after row marching.

Aeneas released the breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. ‘Back streets. Through the marketplace.’

‘Definitely.’

They were about two blocks from the palace when the sharp smell of pinewood filled his nostrils.

In the dim light, Aeneas could just see the outline of the great wooden horse standing in the empty marketplace. It towered over them, a crude likeness. He exchanged a dark look with Sergestos. The Greek lords had clasped hands with King Priam just yesterday morning, and the rulers exchanged gifts as tokens of good faith. Priam had given each of the Greek warlords dishes of gold and silver. The king of Ithaka had left this. A monument, he’d said, to honour the fallen. Aeneas edged closer, for he’d not had the chance to look at it properly. He stared upward, lip curling. On the underside of the horse, an open hatch swayed upon hinges carefully concealed. A rope ladder dangled. Within the beast Aeneas saw only darkness.

So that was how the mongrels had gotten in.

The hiss of arrows filled the air. Aeneas pulled Sergestos into a crouch. He raised his shield, and Sergestos copied. Thud after thud came as arrows lodged in the layers of ox-hide and pinged from the shield’s iron boss. Shafts splintered on the pavement.

Who was shooting at them? Aeneas risked a quick peek over the bronze rim of his shield, spotted Trojan archers on the temple rooftop against the orange mist. He ducked just in time to avoid losing an eye.

Sergestos leaned over to Aeneas, a skull-like grin plastered across his face. ‘Worst idea we’ve ever had?’

‘Yeah, and that’s saying something. Any ideas?’

‘Wait for them to run out of arrows?’

Aeneas gave a hollow laugh.

Sergestos’s smile died on his lips. He pointed over Aeneas’s shoulder, pale and quivering.

The god leaped down from the rooftop behind them. Ares had no skin; perhaps an immortal warrior had no need of it. He was all iron and sinew. His bare chest rippled and ropey crimson muscles pulsated. The man-shaped beast wore a cloak of tattered hides. In his paws he wielded a sword of sapphire flame. A war helmet masked his face, everything but the eyes. Sergestos quailed under his red glare.

Aeneas choked back a sob. Ares fought for the Trojans. He must have come to finish the work the bowmen had started.

He squeezed his eyes shut and thought of Kreusa and Julos.

Chapter 3

Hot ash blew across the balcony.

The fire roared, just a few houses down. It crept toward Kreusa’s home like an angry beast. She had pitched in to fight enough blazes to recognise this one wouldn’t be quenched without divine intervention, and it didn’t look like that was forthcoming. Panic rose within her, and she swallowed it.

Enough time remained to grab a few things and flee, but no more than that.

Julos tugged on her skirt. ‘Mama? Where’s Daddy?’

‘Come on.’ She hoisted Julos into her arms and together they clattered down to his bedchamber. ‘We’re going on a big journey. And if you’re a very, very good boy, I’ll give you a fig.’

‘I don’t want a fig.’

‘What? Arms up.’ She pulled off the tunic he’d worn to bed. Julos’s skin was still soft from the bath she’d given him earlier.

‘Not a fig. I want a plum.’

‘Fine, plum. Arms up, I say.’ Kreusa tugged a warmer tunic over his head, and a shock of downy curls emerged from the folds. Soon she had Julos in his soft boots and little cloak. ‘Now we need to wake up Papa.’

Julos fidgeted. ‘Papa always gets mad.’

Kreusa tried to hide her frown. The old man had a temper, all right. ‘I have a very important job for you, Julos. We need to bring the household gods. Can you fetch the figurines out of the shrine?’ The idols weren’t powerful like the Twelve gods of Olympus, but right now they needed all the help they could get.

Julos brightened. ‘Me? All right.’ He toddled off to drag a chair over to the shrine, his chest puffed out with pride. While Julos was busy at the shrine, she would take the brunt of Ankhises’s anger. She tiptoed into Ankhises’s bedchamber, stood over him.

When Kreusa was Julos’s age, she’d thought Ankhises was a satyr, he was so wizened and bowlegged. Aeneas must have inherited his smooth skin and laughing eyes from his mother, gods rest her soul.

Ankhises coughed as she shook him by the shoulder.

‘Old Father,’ she urged.

‘Hmph. Go ‘way. Sleeping.’ He snored on.

‘Wake up.’ She tapped his cheek.

Ankhises cursed and grabbed her by the wrist. His grip was hard, too hard. In her belly lurked the fear that he would hit her again. But no, she would not let it show—she was nineteen now, not a frightened little girl. Kreusa forced herself to meet the old man’s hawkish stare. Then he blinked, and he dropped her wrist.

Her sigh of relief was imperceptible, or so she hoped.

‘What’s …?’ He sniffed, caught the whiff of smoke on the air. ‘It’s begun, then. Said this would happen, didn’t I? Aye, I did.’ Ankhises rolled out of bed and she helped him to his feet. ‘Damnable hip.’ He looked around. ‘What’s Aeneas doing?’

‘His duty.’ Kreusa fastened a traveller’s cloak over his crooked shoulders. ‘As for us, we’re getting out of here. Julos, where are you?’

Julos scooted in from the atrium with a lead figurine tucked under each arm. ‘Look, Papa! I’ve got the household gods.’

‘Give me those!’ snapped Ankhises. He hobbled across the hall and snatched them. His eyes flashed. Julos cowered, stricken. ‘These have been in my family for generations. They belonged to the first kings. And you let the boy—’ His next words dissolved into a choking cough.

Smoke flooded through the window to claw at the back of Kreusa’s throat. The wax death masks mounted in the atrium were weeping, heat radiating from the wall. Outside, people were shouting. The hiss of flames was nearer.

‘Yell at me later,’ she spluttered. ‘Come on!’ She threw the door open, put an arm around Ankhises’s shoulder. Julos clutched at her other hand, and she steered them out into the night.

People surged through the streets, scrambling to get away from the flames. A few were dousing their houses with