The Shadow of Xeno's Eye

By Jerry Soffer

Huddled in the Trojan horse, Xeno's at the breaking point. Smothered in darkness and the stench of frightened men, forced into the coalition for another troop surge, he climbs down and the butchery begins. As the armies rampage through the city, Xeno learns the truth about the war. It's been festering for years, a conflict over resources and failed diplomacy. Troy will be a Greek base on the Dardanelles, controlling access to the Black Sea. Helen was the war's excuse, but not its cause, Antiquity's arsenal of phantom WMDs.
Ethnic violence and suicides rack the armies. The coalition will bring them home and return with a new force, leaving a small garrison to hold Greek Troy. But this garrison is undermanned, mostly with rejects and a small core of good soldiers. Leadership struggles and conflicts between core and rejects plague the garrison. Then re-supply ships bring news: Odysseus was lost at sea; Agamemnon was murdered by his wife. Without the money and vision needed to maintain Greek Troy, the men will be left to die inside the walls.
Former Trojan allies swarm out of the north and seize Troy. Xeno embeds with a local tribe, but he's alienated from any culture's emotional symbols or beliefs. A western superpower invades with shock and awe, but withers in its own deceit. Iconic myths and images aren't what they seem. They never were.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jerry Soffer
• Release date: Jul 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476256429

Jerry Soffer

New Joizey skeptic and misfit, aspiring author. Retired criminal lawyer, proud (and lucky) father of terrific twin daughters, with a far better wife than I deserve. Amateur jazz musician and classical music lover [Miles Davis and Beethoven were kindred spirits in different worlds, musically reinventing themselves to sidestep their tumultuous personal lives.] email: [e-mail]

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the shadow of Xeno's eye

by jerry soffer

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Copyright 2012 jerry soffer

Smashwords Edition

cover art: Tatiana Villa

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Chapter 1

No! No! This is not music- flies buzzing, vomit, the slaughter of goats, they speak wretch and sing pig squeal, stink turned to sound, and our own people lie to us about what they don’t know and do, leading us blind up here into our own filth.

Sit and wait.

Sit and wait.

The Old Man nods to himself like he knows what’s out there. He don’t know shit, he thinks we’ll panic, panic after all this- well, yeah, it’s close, and it’ll be on him if we do, he’s the reason we’re here. Him. Who else could tell us this shit and not sound crazy? So he has that sly smile and I don’t know if anyone believes him any more but we’re scared so he might fool us or make us fool ourselves and he knows he’s working us both ways, maybe that’s why he’s smiling. I’m wondering if our own stink will seep through and betray us, but he won’t worry himself about that, he already turned away his face like he’s too good for it, so we sit and wait, sit and wait.

Back when we loaded in, yesterday, last night, I forgot already, he talked like we were kids: empty your bowels, sit down, be still. The rags they put on us to muffle noise made us look like swaddled babies and he tried to be serious but couldn’t help laughing. Mitri can fart at will and he put his thumb in his mouth and cut a ripe one while he shook his feet in the air; he sounded like those pigs outside. The Old Man slapped Mitri’s helmet but the rags softened it and Mitri didn’t even know he’d been hit. He put his helmet back, thinking his own blast moved it, waving the air away from his face. It made us all laugh, even Old Graybeard, but now I wonder if the Old Man hadn’t set it all up to relax us before we locked in. Sometimes he thought of everything; sometimes. He’d kept food from us all that day, but by now we were too scared to shit. Good thing, that; it smelled enough in here.

He played us again, we just didn’t see it then. He lay back droopy-eyed against the planks, sighed, drew his knife slow like he had nothing to do, and blinked as he looked at it like he’s fighting off sleep, making himself stay awake as he checked the blade for dings. He wiped it clean and sheathed it, real slow so there’s no scraping sound, like they’d hear anything out there. His eyes drooped but he caught himself and motioned us to check our own knives. We did, and damn if I didn’t start to feel tired. I couldn’t have been alone. Who’d blame us after all this? He had this fatherly look on his face, still laid back, and he motioned for us to do the same, slow and lazy, and we did. I still watched him, I don’t know why. His eyes looked like he was thinking about something but they got loose and looked straight ahead, real loose, and then they closed. Then they opened, not with a start but like it didn’t matter. He looked around at us, started to fade again, and shrugged like there was no point keeping himself awake, and I’m thinking he may be right, and I couldn't have been alone in that either. What could we do? Sit and wait; lay back and relax. A stillness settled in, the squall outside faded, and rest weighed on my eyes. I couldn’t tell when stillness changed to dreams:

{The fire dims; Gramps slumps against the wall like his bones fell and pulled the rest of him along. Soup-faced, jaw dangling one way, tongue another, only his eyes show life. He’s talking to my father but one of those eyes strays over and looks at me. I’m too scared to squirm away. His hand tremor stops and he raises one into a crook-fingered boat hook, trying to rasp out words. The wheeze takes form:

"His own girl ... He ... He murdered his own ... girl ... for a wind."

Anger and the wine, sap his strength and he folds himself back to the wall, teeth jutting out here and there like javelins in the sand. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead. He scares me either way.}

-X-

Yesterday morning- this morning- I don’t know, would have been a better time to sleep; we had to be still, and it hadn’t started yet. But we weren’t tired, and waiting for it, not knowing what to expect, made us too jittery. The Old Man, high born, had the only portal. He saw the dawn break and passed the news along in whispers. Something could happen soon, we got edgy, I thought I smelled meat cooking over a fire but figured it was nerves, and I was too scared to be hungry. Nothing happened and our thoughts wandered inside ourselves, and no one noticed the voices at first, they sort of snuck up on us. Graybeard thought we were talking and wheeled around angrily. That made everyone look back at him, and we all realized that they were coming from outside, soft because they were far away, then louder as they neared, chattering, shouting, dogs barking, or maybe some of their words just sounded like that; maybe both. The Old Man looked calm, but I could see he was trying to look calm and really wasn’t. I don’t know if anyone else saw it; I don’t know if anyone else distrusted him like I did, at least at that moment. We’d been waiting and waiting for this to happen, but now that it was here we were all scared.

They and their dogs came up chattering, hollering, barking, like pot shards dumped on the ground. They didn’t know what to make of it, and we didn’t know what they were saying. Our ears got used to their mouths and a few of us started to pick out the word hchoarse; it came out like a sneeze when they said it. The Old Man whispered to pass along that hchoarse meant horse, like our own word, and I’m thinking that these fuckers will steal anything, even our own words. Then I wonder how he knew what it meant? He never told us he spoke their language, and if he did, there were probably other things he didn’t tell us when we volunteered for this. They’re shrieking outside and I’m thinking that his cunning was like a knot that turned in on itself, and his whole plan might be a trick on them wrapped around a trick on us. I wouldn’t put anything passed him, but it was too scary to worry about all at once, so I just steadied myself and waited for whatever would come next. Sit and wait, sit and wait. ^* *^p Then there were new noises below, ropes, maybe wet ropes on wood. His plan was working, or so it seemed, but there were other voices in the distance, angry, wrathful. Men shouted lacuna, LA- COO- NAH and the angry voices got louder, angrier and closer. The work stopped when they were almost under us and they all seemed to be arguing; angry voices in a rage, and some men yelled la- coo-nah and others yelled something like gah- yee and the lacunas and the gahyees were shouting each other down while one wrathful voice whipped everyone into a rage. We looked at the Old Man but if he knew what was going on he wasn’t saying, his eyes were far away, like in thought. Again I wondered if he knew the language and wasn’t telling us. But that smell came to me again, the smell of meat roasting far away, and it made me think of fire.

Guys have gone mad if they’ve been here too long. Sometimes you see it coming; empty eyes and too much screaming at night, but sometimes it comes without warning. A friend’s death can bring it out; men reach into open wounds and smear blood on their own faces to keep the blood line alive, but for some reason it often comes out in fire. Guys set their gear on fire, their tents, even themselves. I’ve seen men walking around ablaze, talking to spirits like they were ghosts. At mess one time, a guy pulled a hot kettle out of the fire and hurled boiling soup at everyone until the kettle scorched the flesh off his hands; he cried and wiped his eyes with the charred stumps. People just look away or pretend that these things are normal and let them pass. That may be the best way, but that roasting meat smell got me thinking. If one of those yapping dogs threw fire or lit something we’d have no way out of here and we would die.

So they raged outside and we sat up here smelling ourselves, our own fear. The wrathful voice, the lacuna I think, rose above the others, loud and slow like he knew the only truth and the yapping faded around him. This wasn’t good, we all knew it, even before he screamed and grunted. The wood popped like a drum and Talaos jumped. Mitri grabbed him and I clamped my hand on his mouth, more out of fear than cleverness. Then we saw the blood on his ass and the blade through the wood where he’d sat, and we knew we were dead, dead because we’d listened to that old fart because- who knows why? Talaos was shivering, tears and snot ran down on my hand. Mitri unwrapped his weapons, the Old Man went to stop him but Mitri looked right through him like he wasn’t there; he was no longer in command. A few others armed themselves. The Old Man ignored them and comforted Meges who was also on the verge of panic. The Old Man was trying to act like he still mattered; the rest of us knew better, but as we started to draw our own weapons we noticed that it was quiet again; no buildup, no follow through. Quiet, and then the blatting of sheep, real sheep, not their stupid talk, and then sobbing, and through the sobbing we heard words, words in our own language, that we understood.

Woe is me. Woe is me, I am hated by all.

The Old Man almost jumped up but checked himself, then rose slowly to his full height like he owned the place, smiling, confident, in command once more. I thought birds or cats had come with the sheep, but that might have been their women or kids, the way they sound. We had no idea what was happening and looked at the Old Man because he seemed to, though I didn’t always trust him. But we waited; something had changed. Someone was translating for the wailer outside. He’d say something, they’d translate, they’d say something, he’d respond and they’d translate again. The translator stunk but we’d get pieces of it here and there.

Hoo eez youah? Hooze you name?

At first I thought he said my name, but his name was Sinnon. Then he said he was from Belus and that threw them off and they chattered and barked until they came up with See-inon, uh ... owv Bayluze, ah? See-inon-a Bayluze. Seeinona Bayluze! They laughed, it must have sounded odd to them. It sounded odd to us too and we’d of laughed but we were still scared, except for the Old Man who nodded like he knew everything, but he was the only one, and I had my doubts.

Way, uh, war dems, war day ... war your pibbles?

He says they’re gone, we’re gone, that’s the plan of course, and I realize that he’s part of the plan too, part of it from the beginning, which means that Graybeard thought through the details, which was good, but he never bothered to tell us, which wasn’t. Hell, if we’d have known that, we wouldn’t have panicked over Talaos’ bloody ass, Mitri wouldn’t have defied him, and he wouldn’t have lost command, and that was bad even if he was regaining it now. And of course it makes me wonder what else he didn’t bother to tell us. He thinks he’s smarter than everyone, which is probably true, and that the guys making his schemes happen don’t matter, which is not true, not true. His conceit makes him less smart as he thinks he is. I’m mad just thinking about it, but they translate Sinnon’s answer and the squawk settles down so I listen.

Wha you here?

This is what I mean. Sinno starts talking about the Old Man, telling them what a lying thieving bastard he is, but if he’s pointing at us as he does it we’re dead, DEAD! All eyes are on Graybeard, who listens and nods like he’s expecting this, but I look at Mitri who’s angry and still has his weapons ready, and he’s not the only one, and I’m not the only one who sees it. Graybeard’s haughty look isn’t enough, he finally realizes it, so he tip-toe’s over and puts his face directly into Mitri’s face and mouths the exact words that Sinnon is saying as he says them. So the words are part of the plan too; thanks for telling us. Mitri doesn’t get it at first, but he looks around for support and sees that a lot of us do, and it starts to dawn on him, and he backs off, but it should never have been that close.

And then it all came together. Sinnon bad-mouthed the Old Man just so he could tell them that the Old Man said they were too dumb and clumsy to bring it all home and celebrate like they really wanted to. So they clucked and coughed in their wretch-talk but I could tell, just from their sound, that they were gonna do it, do it just because the Old Man said they couldn’t and they’d prove him wrong, even though they thought he was long gone like the rest of us. So Old Graybeard tricked them into tricking themselves. The way he played us paled in comparison, but he wouldn’t have had to play us if he’d respected us and told us what we needed to know. I don’t know if anyone else saw it this way, but if they did, they’d know they couldn’t always trust him, at least not the way he wanted to be trusted.

And like I said, sometimes he thought of everything. This wasn’t one of those times. Just as it all seemed to be going well, that lacuna voice started howling again, louder and angrier than ever, and a few shouted LA-COO-NAH like they were still with him, but some shouted lacuna! like they wanted him to shut up, and all the gahyees still yelled gahyee, and it sounded like a fight might break out, and that could start something that ended with us being dead, so we were right back where we’d started from, scared to death and not knowing what to do.

Then the Old Man wheeled towards the back, like the guys there were making noise but they weren’t; he was hearing something there that we weren’t, at first. Then we heard it, like grinding sand, half hissing, half roaring, and we realized that the yelling down there had changed, they were screaming, terrified, and a few of them were yelling purdgenarrkh! which was so weird it made us crazy as well as scared to death.

Back when things were at their worst, not that long ago, actually, they’d taunt us in what they thought was their moment of triumph and they’d yell purdgenarrkh and point to their crotches, and we got the idea well enough though we didn’t get the other words they snorted. So now they’d been getting ready to fight each other and suddenly they were frightened of something that came from the back, maybe from the sea, and they’re screaming purdgenarrkh in abject terror, and I’m wondering if they’re pointing to their crotches like before, and if so why, and what could possibly be going on?

Sinnon barely has his wits about him but he’s trying to tell us what’s happening without giving us away but the roaring and hissing is too loud and they’re shouting and screaming so we only catch a part of what he’s saying, and I thought I heard mountain but someone thinks it’s monster and neither makes any real sense, so I look at the Old Man whose face is in the portal but his chest is going up and down real slow and steady; he’s pacing his breathing so he doesn’t panic, I know him all too well by now and I’m not too thrilled at what I see, and he turns away trying to look calm and everyone can see that he’s trying, and it’s not good.

Then the hissing-scraping roar comes right up along the left side and jostles us and I almost yelled, maybe I did but it was drowned out in the ruckus and then the most horrible screams I ever heard cut through all the other noise, so horrible that it froze us rigid, we panicked but we couldn’t move. I smelled shit but didn’t even care if it was me, and it sounded like the screams were being wrung out of them like snot rags and a few guys were crying but were too scared to make much noise, and then it started to quiet down. No one knew why, no one knew anything. The Old Man looked straight ahead like he was thinking what to do next but his neck muscles were locked; he was barely controlling himself.

No one moved, in or out. Only a stillness was left. Then quiet sounds came back; breathing, swallowing inside, groans outside, they weren’t hiding from us. They must have fled and come straggling back, whispering at first, half to themselves, not knowing what to make of it; we knew even less. A voice repeated something, it sounded like a question, the question turned worried, sad, then sadness to grief. A wail came up from it, choked itself mute, then turned to sobs so deep they plumbed the very earth.

La coo ... La-ah coo ... ooo ...

The despair took us out of ourselves; he was worse off than us, choking on his own grief before his words could form.

La-ah-cooon ...

I felt his throat close like it was my own, gasping for air before trying again.

La-ah ... La-ah-cooon-ah ... ah ... ah ... ah.

The desolation almost welled up in my own throat but it faded into air, emptiness, and left me. Then another voice spoke softly, and another, but they couldn’t quiet the wracking sobs so the two voices spoke to each other, calm, thoughtful, and in a while the three sounds moved away. I felt Mitri looking at me but I couldn’t meet his eyes.

There must have been others caught up in whatever had happened, or maybe they’d just trickled back. Voices started chattering after the three sounds were gone, in whispers, then normal voices, then men calling to each other, ropes on wood, still wet with dew, climbing, moving about. Graybeard perked up because he heard Sinnon’s voice, he was asking his interpreter questions but was really telling us what was going on. The interpreter spoke directly to him, at first.

They’re getting ready to move it?

Ghakh ... uh ... yaze.

Do you have enough men?

Mow, more, to coming

Where will you bring it?

Een ... eenside ... een.

Sinnon spoke loud and slow, as if trying to make himself understood, but he was really making sure that we could hear. That was part of the plan, I could see it in the Old Man’s smile. The interpreter spoke to someone else like he was explaining something. If he was summarizing what Sinnon was asking, someone might guess what he was really up to, even though the interpreter was focused just on the words. It made me nervous, even though Graybeard kept nodding and smiling like everything was going well. Maybe I was the only one who thought of it; maybe Graybeard thought of it too but wasn’t letting on. But it never came to pass.

The sounds of cats and squealing pigs muffled some of Sinnon’s words, but I heard others or the others and realized that more men had arrived and that women and children had begun singing. There was a drum, then several drums, and some other sounds that must have been musical instruments to them. I couldn’t tell those sounds from the work below, or why anyone would think of it as music, or why you’d make those noises if you were happy, or for any reason.

The Old Man frowned and leaned over so he could hear better. He shook his head and motioned for us to do the same; we did. Sinnon kept asking Will my poor life be spared? I whispered it to Mitri who’d heard the same and whispered it to Graybeard, who asked "poor life; you’re sure?" and we both nodded. He looked around and passed an order to wrap and stow all equipment. Mitri still had his short knife out and the Old Man pointed at it and made a motion to wrap it, but his face was friendly, like he wanted to forget what had happened. Mitri wrapped all his gear tightly and with extra padding, smiling at the Old Man like he was happy to let it all pass, but something told me he was playing Mitri to get us through the rest of the plan, and that he’d never forget Mitri’s defiance. Maybe I’d warn Mitri later. Maybe not.

The women’s squealing came to an end, like someone just went over and shut them up. I was glad until the men started singing, not as badly, but something about them, it was really two songs and it reminded me of something that bothered me. A few men would sing and the rest would repeat, or the few men would sing and the rest would answer, in rhythm, like our songs when we hoisted sail or had to pull our boats through shallow water - that was it; a work song to set their pace; they were getting ready. Others sensed it too; we looked around at each other. It got louder out there making it harder to hear Sinnon. We heard ... so very very very grateful for my life ... but there was no translation; they weren’t paying attention to him anymore, except for the Old Man who held out three fingers.

" ... very very grateful he shouted again, and the Old Man held out two fingers and looked around, saw something loose and signaled for someone to grab it so it wouldn’t rattle. We waited, the song got louder, the rhythm stronger, some were swaying to the beat until Graybeard scowled at them, then Sinnon just yelled VERY" and the Old Man motioned us down flat. We dropped as fast as we could without making noise and felt the first rocking motion, felt and heard it as they chanted outside. The women squealed again and it sounded like squeaking wheels; maybe it was at first, it made me shudder. The rocking got wider, then we swayed, drums came in on the pulling end of the chant and I rolled a little because I was sideways to the pull. Drum, chant, sway, squeal grates over everything, drum, chant, sway, drum, chant, sway. Slowly, slowly, we started to move.

This should have been the easy part, the victory parade they gave us under their own noses, with Graybeard’s smile of false modesty because they dragged him here as their only hope. It should have been where we laid back and left them to their own undoing, but we were too suspicious to take much for granted. Too much happened that he never imagined, too much in too short a time, so he didn’t know all he’d led us to believe he knew, and there were other things he knew that he wasn’t telling us. We’d all been through too much because of it, all of it, and we hadn’t recovered, yet, maybe never. So we hugged the bottom like wide-eyed rats, scared of what might come at us from any direction. I glanced over at the Old Man and he was face-down, trying to get his strength back, not scheming like he was ten steps ahead of us. The floor bounced him whenever we passed over a rut.

-X-

No, no, I did not fall asleep.

We just rolled, bumping along with their chanting and squealing and drumming and I got used to it after a while and my thoughts wandered, in no particular way, and I heard the banging in the distance and figured it for what it was and just let it get louder, and I’m thinking of dad for some reason, dad, not gramps, and I didn’t notice the quiet until the big crash ended it and everyone’s yelling and drumming and someone grabs me because I must have jumped, but I was not asleep. I was ready for anything. I wouldn’t have jumped if I was sleeping.

We may have slowed down for the big crash but we didn’t stop, kept going until we’d gone a little more and a huge cheer broke out as we came to rest, and those instruments that sounded like carpenters and stable cleaners got as loud as they could and the women and young girls outdid their pigs and cats, and I realized we were in, eenside, een, and they laughed and sang and shouted and didn’t stop. This was the next part of the plan and we should have felt good but we were nervous. They were out of control. And they were all over us, scratching, banging, climbing- climbing- they were on top as well as under us and their puking talk and awful music was everywhere and we were at their mercy. I looked over at the Old Man and I knew he had to have expected this but he probably didn’t figure it would be this much, and he looked like he was listening and thinking, but there was no reason for him to listen unless he liked their music or knew their language, so he was either keeping things from us or pretending to be calm when he was really scared.

Which he should have been. We were. They had more fury pent up in them than any of us realized. Graybeard couldn’t have known it would be this bad or he wouldn’t have offered the plan, or at least wouldn’t have offered to lead it. The scratching, banging, and climbing went from happy, to giddy, to angry to riot in no time, and they would have torn us apart if someone hadn’t stopped them. There were voices that kept kept shouting a word, one word, but it wasn’t a chant, it must have been a command, and something else was going on because they came down off the top and started to quiet down; maybe soldiers were pushing them back. It took a while, I don’t know what it was that saved us, but things finally settled. Then a deep voice shouted something loud and dramatic, and a hush fell over everything. It was scary in its own way, they’d gone from riot to silence, and we’d been through enough to know that we couldn’t predict what would happen next. But what did come next was a voice, a strange voice, old and tired but in command, though more like a grandfather than a war leader, frail but confident, maybe reassuring, and murmurs of approval rippled here and there as he spoke. Then something he said brought silence, I think it was something he said, and it seemed like everyone waited, us in here and them out there. Then the voice spoke slowly and a little deeper, he would say words, pause, and the crowd would repeat them, slowly, solemnly, a tired old voice and a mob just back from the edge of riot. They were praying, it seemed to me, with a depth and power that was beyond anything we’d felt in the best of times or the scariest of times. We tried not to shudder; it didn’t work out too well.

It didn’t get much better when they stopped. They just stopped. We didn’t know it until the pause just stayed paused, and we had no idea what would happen next. I don’t think they knew quite what to do either. Things could have gone in any direction, but the tired old voice came back, changed, still tired and old but with a smile in it, tired but happy, and it said something quiet and they said something quiet back. He chuckled at whatever they said, and said something that sounded like a question, with a little chuckle still in it, and they said ach or ghakh, something I’d heard before, and they had their own chuckle in the way they said it. Then he said something louder than before, it ended with a laugh, and they cheered, and he may have said something else but the cheering drowned it out and the celebration began, joy instead of rage, and a sigh of relief came out of us, at least out of me, but the noise outside buried it so we were safe. Finally. This was the end phase of the plan and we were on course again. That old voice outside saved us, and that would be the very reason he’d die without facing the torment of what he’d done; it was cruel and funny at the same time, almost too big for my thoughts, but there wouldn’t be much else to do for a while so I just let it sink in. But it stayed big. Even now I think of it and shake my head in wonder.

Graybeard was at the portal but I could see from his body that he was just peeking at the celebration. He backed away and sighed, and we couldn’t tell if it was out of relief or because of the wild partying he saw; his eyes said a little bit of both, and it made me smile, several of us who saw him. He walked, quietly but upright, over to Mitri and said All we needed was patience, the strength to wait and persevere. Mitri nodded sadly, you could see he was sorry, and I thought maybe he was forgiven; maybe. The Old Man patted him on the shoulder and it looked like all was well, but you could never be sure. I wasn’t, but the guys around them relaxed and started to talk, and the Old Man waved them quiet, but then smiled and motioned them to speak softly. We were safe unless we got careless, he was right about that. We had to relax, wait, and save our strength, and knowing a lot that they didn’t know helped us do that because it felt like power, something we hadn’t felt in a while.

Feeling confident and relaxed meant that all the usual stuff we’d overlooked came back to us. Meges, face dried and smiling again, was staring at a large bundle of swaddling he’d been leaning against. Nothing else to do, he pulled away the swaddling and found an urn. There were several bundles like that in the back, all the same, and we looked at each other, realized how long it had been, and that nobody knew quite what to do. We’d been on low rations for a while, limited water and a bit of bread, but now that we were safe this was important again, and no one wanted to be the first, in front of everybody, cramped so close together. So we looked down, up, away, anywhere but at each other, until Talaos, whose bloody ass almost got us killed, fashioned the swaddling into something like a curtain and stuck it on a beam in the back in front of the urn. Some of the guys motioned for him to use it but he pointed to his stomach, shook his head, and sat down somewhere in the middle, like he’d done his part and was content. Sure. Mitri nodded towards the Old Man, who was back at the portal and wouldn’t back away from it, though you could tell from his body that he wasn’t seeing anything that looked like trouble. He just didn’t know what to do and didn’t want to admit it. His great mind thought of cunning schemes and master stratagems but moms with babies knew more about shit than he did. He’d led us this far and he’d lead us again later, but he couldn’t lead us here, now, so he planted his face in the portal and wouldn’t back away.

So we just sat, sat and waited, in our own stink, while they had a wild time out there and he stayed at the portal so no one was in charge in here again, and our insides were messed up from not eating and not anything else, and they sang and hollered and probably danced and who knows what else and our bodies ached and that noise wouldn’t stop, would not stop.

No! This was not music, and he was not leading us. He was trying to lull us to sleep because he couldn’t think of anything more or different than we could, which was nothing useful until they were done, and we wouldn’t know when they were done until after they’d been done for a while. But we were so tired, so tired, fear no longer kept us awake, just that noise, and if we could sleep we could close that out of our ears, so when he lay back droopy-eyed it touched something in all of us, angry as we were, at him, at everything.

My eyes closed without me telling them to and my body ached all over and a sigh came out of me and out of the others, so the old bastard may have been still leading us after all, and a stillness settled in on us, and I couldn’t tell when it changed over to dreams.

{The fire dims; Gramps slumps against the wall like his bones fell and the rest of him just went along. Soup-faced, jaw dangling one way, tongue another, only his eyes show life. He’s talking to my father but one of those eyes strays over and looks at me. I’m too scared to squirm away. His hand tremor stops and he raises one into a crook-fingered boat hook, trying to rasp out words. The wheeze takes form:

His own girl ... He ... He murdered his own ... girl ... for a wind.

Anger and the wine, sap his strength and he folds himself back to the wall, tongue and jaw free again, teeth jutting out here and there like javelins in the sand. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead. He scares me either way.} … {This is

music, real

music, our music

and I feel it inside me and it’s sweet, and the smell of sweat here is delicate and inviting, not

putrid, and I’m wearing clean clothes and a bull mask, and the girl across from me is beautiful and knows

it’s a mask but thinks I’m a god hiding underneath. Women aren’t naturally drawn to me, but she gazes at me with hope and desire, flowers in her hair; I inhale flowers and her sweat and the pulse of the music and we can’t take our eyes off each other.

I cup her breast with my hand and she reaches for my wrist as if she wants to stop me but she really doesn’t.

Our lips move closer and she moves my hand all over her soft body, but her grip tightens on my wrist ...

* *

/Gramps tells

me to stop screaming but he’s hurting my wrist and talking drunk-breath in my face.

Wine sometimes makes him crazy, today it makes him strong as well and I can’t get free. He drags me over to the cart and ties my arm and hand to the wheel but he doesn’t look angry or anything and I’ve learned that the best thing to do is go along with him until he gets tired or forgets himself but when he reaches for the knife I start screaming and can’t stop. He tells me to stop squirming like he’s scolding me but I don’t so he jams his knee in my back and squeezes my wrist hard. The knife just touches my hand when everything shakes and I’m able to breathe again. Dad’s tackled him and has him pinned to the ground.

He doesn’t look angry either, not at gramps or at me

when he turns away from gramps’ breath and sees that I'm still tied to the wheel. He

rolls off him and fusses with drunk-made knots. Gramps just stays down but he’s mad.

"We gotta shave ... shaa the boy ... shabe ‘im" he slurs.

I think he wants to shave me, but dad seems to understand.

"Jus fingers ... one hand ... fingers ... they won’t take him wifout fingers, no. Dey’ll take ebryone dey can find and dey’ll all die there- we gotta save him from it. Jus fingers, one hand, shabe ‘im."

Dad unties me but I don’t cling to his leg even though I’m still scared. He still isn’t

angry at anybody and I feel my face twist up and start to cry and can’t stop and I know he doesn’t want to see that, neither one of them, so I put my hands in front of my face to hide it and it muffles the sound as well.

" sha ... shabe ‘im ... da boy … "}

-X-

Xeno

It wasn’t deep like dad’s voice, and gramps just called me boy.

Xeno

His hand’s on my chest and the other just over my face and I clench my fists so he can’t cut-

Xeno, it’s me I know the voice, even in whisper, but it’s not either of them and I recognize Mitri and let my hands go as it all starts to come back to me; slowly, in the quiet.

They’re ready now. I can see his face in the shadow and he’s nodding, he’s serious.

We’re gonna have to gear up and go in soon. It’s time.

Shadows moved around me. We stowed our gear in sequence so we could get ready in the dark. I grabbed the helmet pad but forgot what it was and sat befuddled. Sleep breath passed my face; I wasn’t the only one just waking up. Quiet, the sound of air rustling, then a rip and someone hissed shit! Talaos’ curtain- we froze, nothing came out of the silence. A quiet word and then a slow quiet ripping and it was gone. Popping sounds from the front, snapping fingers, we slowed to a stop, then the Old Man’s whisper.

We can’t let that happen again.

"We ... can’t let that happen again."

I’m thinking- I guess I was awake by then- I’m thinking that he was angry at himself for not seeing the curtain’s danger and planting his face at the portal, missing a chance to lead as the scheming thinker. Then I realized- I know I’m awake by then- that I’m starting to think like him- been thinking like him for a while. My lips almost cursed.

I went through the drill just to focus. Inner clothes and pads first, bottom to top. Metal moves only to padding, top to bottom to avoid scrapping sounds, but he didn’t plan for the closeness, so there were dings and scrapes here and there, just a few. It was like a dance in the dark that I felt around me, wordless, but we were all part of it.

We saw shapes in dim light. The Old Man snapped again and we looked front. He waved us away from the middle, counted paces from the portal down the center line, knelt and groped for something, then breathed deep as he stood up, letting it out real slow. He looked around to get our attention and held up one finger and put it to his lips, then he put his hands on his chest and spread his arms wide. He did it again. I could feel the helmets nod. The first thing was to silently, secure the gates. I thought ‘who’d forget that after all these years?’ but he was right. We’d lost brothers and fathers here; we’d been waiting for this since we were boys. It would only take one guy making one mistake to destroy everything.

He turned left and pointed at two men I couldn’t see and then down at their feet. They lifted the ladder and aimed one end at him. He scanned around to make sure we were ready, or that he was ready, and raised the hatch. It came up slow and silent, and no sounds came in from outside. He motioned to me and we slid the ladder down, nodding to each other when it touched bottom. He fingered the grease on my bedroll and I nodded in readiness before he could peer at me in question.

I got on the ladder and went in without waiting for any signal from him. It was all on me now.

But I carried his thoughts from the top rung down, just too nervous to see it then. Twenty one rungs, stop at seven and look around for movement and the gates. No movement, I guessed the gates were directly behind me. Do the same after the next seven, two hands on the ladder at all times until both feet touch bottom, I turned to see that I’d guessed right. It stunk as bad as inside; wine, sweat, piss, vomit. A torch flickered here and there, but the only good light was the crescent moon.

A noise spun me around, but it was a fart. A naked woman lay sprawled on her back, eyes shut, motionless, drunk; no man near her, fart was the only sign of life. Hairy legs and ass over on the other side anchored a man’s body hanging over the edge, head bashed open, brains puddled on the ground. I wondered if it happened before or after that old coot’s speech saved us, but it was creepy either way. I put a stick in the puddle and drew an arrow from the ladder out towards the gates. The Old Man was in my thoughts again, I knew that arrow put a smile on his lips. Shit; two old geezers in two thoughts. I scanned the area for movement and signaled the next man down.

I still smelled wine and piss as we moved off the base. Mitri almost slipped in puke as we wound around bodies but there were fewer bodies as we moved towards the gates. After all these years even drunks shied away from those gates. They were ajar and off the frame on one side. Graybeard signaled the others to move up faster and they did, still quietly up the steps. A sentry was propped against the battlement like he’d half fallen there, snoring, vomit covered the net of vines insignia on his chest. Another lay naked from the waist down on the stone, eyes open but unseeing. A girl slept with her head on his stomach, it bobbed up and down as he breathed. I would have laughed, but they were our first kills of the night.

Someone slapped my bedroll. It was the Old Man, he looked annoyed and motioned me outside, then came after me and moved me to a spot close to the wall but away from the gates., so they couldn’t see from inside.

My bedroll had a resin that burned green, and I’d packed twigs and dried leaves. The flint sounded like thunder, but only to me; no one stirred. The resin smoked into a small flame, and then strange green fire.

-X-

The coalition armies was too vast to hide in one place, even at night. Spotters waiting for the green fire would send signals bringing formations from the harbor to the north and from the river bend to the south. My job was to keep the flame until all units massed silently at the front. More sitting, more waiting, I got nervous, or bored, and snuck back for one last look inside. Stillness blanketed the city, stillness and the odor of too many people in too little space, ten years without fresh air or cross-winds; even now the broken gates leaked more stink into the night than they let fresh air in. Nothing moved. Our great wooden horse looked so out of place in Troy, like something they dragged in to use for firewood or pray to for release. Wrong shape, wrong setting, it clashed with everything but the wasted flesh it could have spewed all over the ground around it. Now the genius of Odysseus, his monument to himself, was just lumber stacked up over bodies and slop. That soft snapping sound made me look up to the battlements; a hand waved me back to the flame, jerking angrily. I knew it was him.

He knew we couldn’t fight in formation inside the walls. Small units would have to rush down their streets and alleys, house to house, room to room inside the palace, so all units would go in as light infantry, fast and quiet, sneak in as far as possible before they woke, drown their defense before it began. I’d always imagined a great final battle, but now we’d kill them in their sleep. By now I didn’t care.

I hovered over green fire under the crescent moon, waiting for the massing like a silent wave, but like a dog, my ears told me something was wrong. I heard marching, weight, strength from the south, to my left. I thought, hoped, that it was me, high strung, jumping at the smallest sounds, but waves of lances swayed over the shadows that became ranks as they drew near. Lances! The Mycenaeans were coming up in phalanxes, as heavy infantry, with Agamemnon in armor that shone like a star even in this pale light.

Both groups should have converged at the gates, but I saw nothing from the north. There was motion from the gate tower; the Old Man was running towards them, waving his arms, shaking his head, almost losing his balance. Maybe they saw him as he ran passed the fire but they didn’t stop, so he ran out to meet them. Agamemnon looked straight ahead and kept going; the Old Man had to walk backwards to talk to him but it did no good. He veered out of their path and came back to the fire.

He ... they won’t ... he panted, but quickly became a king again and told me to run north towards the bay and get them to hurry in. I knew what he was thinking and ran as soon as he pointed. Shapes soon came out of the night: Menalaous led his Spartans, their armor smeared with ash to hide in darkness; Ajax, son of Telemon, led the men of Salamis; Old Nestor and the Pylons were supposed to bring up the rear but I couldn’t see that far back.

Before I could say a word Menalaous looked past me at the gates. The ranks closed on them slowly, locking lances in position, moving faster, then through them at a run, their heavy steps like drums. Someone screamed, another voice yelled in Trojan, and the formations broke down. Individual soldiers stormed through, disorganized, clotting under the gate tower. Baffled, then enraged, Menalaous cursed but regained his composure. He said something about a tunnel at the weak side and sent a detail around towards the back wall, then ordered double time, waited for the order to pass down the line, and grabbed me as they started to run. Somehow I’d become a Spartan. Dawn would come all too soon.

Chapter 2

Going in was like I’d never seen it, hadn’t just been here. Stillness to riot, slaughter, running, hack and stab, screaming drunks, murder. Blood and body parts soaked the central open space, soldiers chased people into alleys, dropping lances in the muck to squeeze through. Light Spartan units followed them into the side streets. Menalaous’ commands were drowned in the chaos and he couldn’t rally them; only his guard stayed close. Graybeard was gone, dead for all I knew.

Someone shoved me, a body fell hard where I’d been; the girl on the drunk’s lap from the gate tower. She crunched hard but had been dead a while and didn’t bleed much. I thought Medusa’d shoved me, snake-haired and slash-faced, but it was an Arkadian officer with those knot braids they wear and a face like too much combat on the plains. Slashed eye half closed, nose bent one way, mouth torn the other, his unit was up on the battlements and he signaled them down. I don’t know how he caught their eye in this madness or why they were up there in the first place, but I didn’t like Arkadians and steered clear of them.

Slash-face had seen something up there but I couldn’t understand his dialect; sounded like he said big goose. He formed his unit in ranks and ran them double-time up the central street. Menalaous squinted at first but must have understood; he rallied his guard and followed Slash-face up the street. I went with them because there were no Ithacan units around, no other units at all. The place was in a killing frenzy and we were the only organized group in the city.

We called Arkadians rockheads. Wild men and fierce fighters, Agamemnon brought them at his own expense. They were herdsmen with speech crabbed in mountain pastures and no heart for seafaring, so they kept to themselves, content with their own company. But they ran into battle without fear, and died or went mad and vanished in the night. They were proud, those still alive, and we formed in behind them by habit.

We’d taken Troy by complete surprise, in spite of Agamemnon, and were meeting no resistance from the front or the buildings along the sides of the central street. Killing sounds poured out from both sides. For some reason it occurred to the King of Sparta that we were lighter than Arkadian heavy infantry and should be faster, so he made us pass around them and take the lead. We hadn’t exactly been crawling up their backs, but this king thought that light infantry should protect a phalanx from whatever we’d encounter when we got to wherever we were going. They didn’t laugh as far as I could see through their helmets, but they made no effort to regain the lead. I was starting to wonder about kings.

But I think I figured out that when slash-face said big goose he meant big house, but my eyes, like my ears over green fire, told me it wasn’t right. It was a broad, high roofed house with wide low steps leading to three peaked doorways. There was a second floor and a large balcony on top of it where the roof should have been. A net of vine leaves was etched into the whole front wall, the doorways had no doors and there were no guard posts. It was where Priam’s palace should have been, looming in the distance when you passed through the gates, but it did not say that a king lived there. It looked wrong to all of us so we slowed and the Arkadians almost ran over us, too fearless or too heavy to stop quickly. It seemed to bring Menalaous back to his senses.

He sent scouts around back to look for other doors and spoke to Slash-face; I guess he spoke rockhead, because they came up with a plan. We’d divide into three groups and rush the doorways, rockheads leading with locked shields and the lances they still had. If all was clear we’d pass them and fan out to check smaller spaces while they stayed in phalanx formation. It made more sense than what we’d been doing, for whatever that was worth.

We rushed the peaked doorways directly from the outside, no surprise advantage but no resistance. The three doorways led to a vestibule with three solid doors, unpeaked, closed, but not locked. It really didn’t feel right. We formed up again and