Troy: The Ancient Dead

By Ben Blake

Troy still stands, and the Greek army threatens to revolt. But Odysseus has a plan, dreamed up with the storyteller Thersites. The scheme centres on the south gate of Troy – the Horse Gate.

In Greece itself revolt has already torn the nations apart. The kings will return to more war, with armies shrunk by the losses of Troy – if they return at all. For the gods are fickle, and the Greensea and its islands are full of perils even Odysseus has not guessed.

PRAISE FOR BEN BLAKE

“A beautifully crafted tale, full of action well told by a great storyteller.” (Avid Reader)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ben Blake
• Release date: Dec 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310240645

Ben Blake

I've been a writer since I was a kid, but only recently decided to publish on the internet. A few books will be coming now, since I have several backed up: what Stephen King calls "trunk novels".Away from writing, I like to watch football (soccer) and rugby, enjoy a drink and going to the cinema, and like good food.

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TROY: The Ancient Dead

Ben Blake

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © Ben Blake

The author has asserted their moral rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thie ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for you own use only, please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any real persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Cover art by Mark Watts

Also available in print at online retailers..

Also by Ben Blake

The Risen King

Blood and Gold (Songs of Sorrow volume 1)

The Gate of Angels (songs of Sorrow volume 2)

A Brand of Fire (Troy volume 1)

Heirs of Immortality (Troy volume 2)

Praise for Ben Blake

For Blood and Gold

A compelling read… I thoroughly recommend you to read this book. (SGT)

For The Risen King

Mr Blake has a great understanding of culture; how to weave it into a story. I really would like to see a sequel. (C Sheehan)

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Caesura

Troy

Volume Three

The Ancient Dead

How blind you are

You tramplers down of cities! You who cast

Temples to destruction and lay waste

Tombs, the untrodden sanctuaries where lie

The ancient dead – yourselves soon to die!

Euripedes

Book Five The Tower of Horses

Chapter One

A Broken Sword

Stars shone in a clear sky. The north wind had died and the air was still, and more unusually yet the sea had quieted too. The Hellespont current ran slow and calm. All along the strand Greek ships lay silent in the water, no creak of timbers, no soft wash of water on sand.

Odysseus didn’t like that. At home in Ithaca sailors said a calm sea meant a storm was gathering its strength.

East of the wooden wall, fog had swallowed the Plain of Troy. Lines of treetops showed where the branches of the Scamander River ran. Beyond them the city rose out of the mists, like a palace of the gods on cloud-strewn Olympus. Odysseus hoped the comparison wouldn’t occur to too many of the soldiers, but he knew it would. It was too obvious to miss.

On a night like this a man thought of ghosts. It was that which had driven him from his bed, dreams of the dead waking him when his body and mind cried out for rest. So many had fallen, kings and commoners alike. Odysseus imagined their shades out there in the fog, over the ground where they had fallen as living men. Mourning the loss of blood in veins, warm flesh, a heart that beat. Crying out in soundless voices, their souls trapped here until the long struggle ended at last.

So many lost, and Troy still stood.

At home Penelope was fighting pirates. She had learned to shoot and led women in combat now, a thing unheard-of in masculine Greece. Word of it had come on the supply ships from Aulis. Odysseus’ heart swelled proudly at the thought, and quailed in terror at the danger she was in. He should be there with her. A king’s first duty was to his people, his second to his wife and children, and Odysseus neglected them both by staying here, on this beach across the sea with countless shades of the dead.

Meanwhile the Greek kings squabbled over who was responsible for what. For defeats and losses, griefs and wounds, but most of all for their still being here, marooned on this strand beneath windy Troy. For their armies being smaller and more humble than those they had led before. If dreams had sent Odysseus from his bed, then those arguments had driven him to it first, unable to stand any more vitriolic finger-pointing.

Ah, well. One more cast, for Nestor’s sake. For Eliade’s. Two of the earliest casualties of this war, and two good friends. Odysseus would have sailed home long ago if not for their loss, and the need to avenge it. He was still enough of an old-style Greek to feel that urge for retribution, though Nestor would rebuke him for it if he were here.

One more cast. Troy might look like an abode of gods but this was not Olympus. It was a city built by men, and anything made by mortal hands could be broken. One had only to find how.

He and Thersites might have done that. It wasn’t possible to know before the event. They had made a plan Odysseus thought would work – no, one he thought could work. It needed a warmer day and a cooler night than this, to raise a fog that would cloak the towers of Troy, and then… then they would see.

Perhaps that was what had driven him from sleep. Not ghosts of men already dead, but the shades of men soon to die, sent to Hades by Odysseus’ plan. Killed for nothing, because if the scheme failed then Troy would never fall. Built by mortals or not, the wall of the city was impossible to crack through or burrow under. You had to go over, and they would always see you coming unless they were tricked. Deceit might offer a chance, but once the defenders were aware of it the ruse would never work again.

A single chance. Victory or death, the way the Greeks of the old type had always seen battle. The way they always saw life. Nestor had talked of a new kind of Greek, one who thought before he acted, but Odysseus had fallen short of that ideal. The wall of Troy was too large for him to think his way through.

He shook himself and stepped down from the palisade. One of the sentries nodded to him and Odysseus nodded back, thinking that Agamemnon would never have acknowledged a mere soldier. Neither would Achilles, come to that. The hero of Thessaly had been a fool, for all his brilliance with spear and sword, and the High King wasn’t much more than pride in painted armour. But men followed when they were given reason to. The promise of kleos was tempting, glory that would live on past death, but few would ever achieve it. Simpler to let them know you cared. Ask after one man’s wife, by name, and every soldier who heard believed you would grieve if he fell.

Odysseus grimaced. He was turning into a cynic.

He walked down the dunes, towards the strand where the ships were beached. In the still water they lay like dead men waiting for burial. Between them and the wall men slept in clusters, some under canvas roofs or in tents, most in the open with their heads pillowed on cloaks. Fires had burned down but still smouldered, ready to be fanned into life again when the sun rose. Foraging parties could go to the woods east of Troy without fear of attack now. Since Hector had fallen the Trojans stayed inside their walls.

Before that, the Greeks had burned timber from ships no one would need anymore.

Sometimes a fire was still burning, and always it was surrounded by men who talked in low voices. They were slumped forms, dragged down by weariness and despair but still unable to sleep. Odysseus didn’t blame them. Despair was natural, confronted by those imposing walls rising out of the fog. Were it not for the plan he might abandon hope himself.

If the plan failed, and he somehow survived, he would take his men and sail home. There would be no hope then, no other means to take the city. Agamemnon would be furious but he was a diminished figure now, weakened by his losses and the mistakes he’d made. He couldn’t impose his will on defiant lesser lords anymore. Well, they were all less than before. It would be a generation before Greek kings regained the power they’d held before this reckless war.

He reached the strand, hesitated for a moment, then turned right. His own ships were to the left, but he didn’t think he’d sleep even if he went back to his bed. The other way led to Menestheus’ tents, which is where Thersites would be. The storyteller would almost certainly be awake. He spent most of the night talking to people, drawing experiences from men too weary and haunted to resist his persuasions. Ghosts tormented most men here. Some men felt that talking of them, speaking their names aloud in the dark, took away their power. Odysseus wasn’t one of them, but he felt the need to talk now, and the bard was always ready to listen to another man’s words.

Sometimes Thersites slept through the morning to make up for lost rest, but other times he hardly seemed to sleep at all. There were compensations to being crippled. Whatever dreams plagued Thersites, they were old and familiar now. That was probably not enough to comfort the misshapen man, but the stories he heard seemed to.

A little way along the beach Odysseus came to an area where no men huddled around fires. There were no fires in fact, not even banked so they gave out only a faint glow and a tendril of smoke. A white mass ahead of him was the tent of Agamemnon, extending from the prow of his ship where it was drawn up on the strand. Perhaps the men had been told to stay quiet so the High King could sleep. Agamemnon was selfish enough to demand that. Atreus would be appalled to see what his sons had become as men.

A figure slunk in front of the pale canvas, knife in hand. Odysseus stopped.

A moment later someone else darted across, moving from the beach to the tent. If Odysseus had been another ten yards away he would never have seen it in the dark, but he understood now. Agamemnon had not ordered these fires quenched. This was an attack.

If he dies the war will end.

It was an unworthy thought, but it froze Odysseus where he stood. With Agamemnon dead Ithaca would have her king back, so Penelope could go back to safety instead of fighting with a bow in her hand. And there would be no need to assault the impossible walls of Troy, rising out of the fog. Men would live who otherwise would die.

Nestor, his mind whispered. And poor Eliade, murdered in Halicarnassus by a coward. Their shades would never lie quiet.

Odysseus drew his sword.

Awake! he bellowed, as loudly as he could. Trojans in the camp! To arms! To arms!

Someone ahead of him cursed. A bowstring sang and Odysseus heard the shaft whistle past, but it didn’t come very close and he thought the archer couldn’t see him in the dark. He’d aimed at the sound and you needed the luck of gods to hit anything like that.

Never mind. He ran forward in a crouch. Weapons and gear had been left by a cold fire and Odysseus scooped up a shield as he passed. It was a flimsy thing, hide over a wooden frame, but it would stand up to a blow or two. He angled up the beach and then back to the water, trying to come at the attackers from an unexpected direction.

He almost ran into the first, unable to see him in the dark. Voices were rising all around now but the torches were a long way back, leaving this part of the beach in shadow. What spared Odysseus was that the man was looking the wrong way. He started to turn, his head moving and shield arm coming up, and Odysseus thrust through his neck and he fell.

He wasn’t Trojan. That was obvious. His hair was long, held by bronze clips. Sandals on his feet, not Trojan boots. He was Greek. Odysseus stared at him.

Not an attack. This was treachery.

The High King! Odysseus shouted. Rally to Agamemnon!

He plunged forward. He might well die here now, either killed by the traitors or by those rushing to save Agamemnon from them. In the dark and panic it would be hard to tell who was who, and men were stabbed by accident that way. Never mind. He’d made his choice when he drew his blade.

He rushed into the pavilion and almost lost his head to a wickedly swung sword before he was well through the door. Instinct cut in and he rolled over one shoulder, coming to his feet with two men coming at him, one from each side. Their faces were hidden by black scarves. Odysseus snatched a knife from his belt, threw it, and rushed past the left-hand man while he dodged cursing out of the way.

Men behind him now, and doubtless more ahead. He cursed and then flung a prayer out to any god or goddess who might be listening and inclined to help. One might be. You never knew.

He went up the ramp to the ship’s deck with his shield raised high, in case something was dropped on his head. Nothing was. At the top he emerged into the hall with stone pillars, an affectation he’d always found ridiculous but which now put him in danger too. Anyone might be hiding there. Another archer perhaps. He ought to go slowly but knew there was no time.

From the right came shouts and the clash of bronze, deeper inside the pavilion. Swearing constantly, Odysseus dashed towards the sound.

He burst through a canvas door to find Agamemnon battling two men, both of them big men. Picked for their size, perhaps, because the High King was built like a bull, and just now as naked as one too. He had a sword in each hand and a snarl on his lips, and he was swearing even more than Odysseus.

"Crows eat your heart! Kopros eaters! Suagroi! Trokoitos!" His swords flashed. "By the dogs! You kiaites!"

He was holding the assailants at bay, though they were armoured and bore shields. The man was a boor and an arrogant fool, but he’d always known how to fight. He shot a glance full of fear at Odysseus, who understood that Agamemnon thought he was part of the plot. No time to deal with that now. Odysseus started towards him and had to stop as a third man sprang at him from behind a tent wall, sword already swinging.

He held up the hide shield and it splintered as the sword crashed into it. By then Odysseus had already begun to pivot, swinging around his own heel to cut back behind the other man’s blow. His sword bit into flesh above the shoulder and the man cried out, his weapon falling from useless fingers. Odysseus hit him in the face with the broken shield and he went down, barely conscious.

One of Agamemnon’s swords caught a shield rim at the wrong angle and splintered, pieces of bronze raining onto the deck. The man on that side took advantage at once, stepped in to aim a swinging blow that would have half decapitated Agamemnon if it struck. It didn’t. Coming from behind Odysseus cut off the man’s hand just above the wrist with one blow. The assassin was still staring at the stump when Odysseus slashed the tendons across the back of his knee and he collapsed. His head banged on the wooden floor and he lay still.

The other man hesitated. It was fatal; Agamemnon threw the broken sword at his face and followed it up with a straight-ahead thrust with the whole one. It took the man through the belly. The High King twisted the blade, still snarling, and the killer shrieked. When the weapon was pulled out he fell beside his friend, thick blood pooling around them.

Are there others? Agamemnon demanded. He was shaking with rage. Outside?

There were, Odysseus answered. The would-be murderers were down but he kept his sword ready. Agamemnon looked in the mood to kill more men, whether they were guilty or not. They may have been dealt with by now.

Breath huffed through Agamemnon’s mouth. He was exactly how his detractors named him, more bull than lion, red-faced and snorting. He stared at Odysseus and then the great head swung, towards the shouts from further along the hull. I should thank you. Thought you were with them for a moment.

I’m cleverer than that, he said.

Not more loyal?

That, too, he replied. Don’t test me please, High King. I just saved your life.

Soldiers poured through the doorway, a motley bunch with few shields and no armour between them, and not enough clothes. Men roused from their beds with only time to grab a sword. Odysseus was starting to feel overdressed. Some of the new arrivals saw him and raised their weapons.

Let him be, Agamemnon said. I would have died tonight except for the king of Ithaca. Let all men know it.

The soldiers paused. Odysseus could read the thoughts behind their expressions. They’d found him in the midst of an assassination attempt, which was suspicious no matter what the High King said. But this was the slayer of Pandarus, one of the trinity of great Trojan warriors, a deed almost as great as Achilles’ killing of Hector. One by one swords were lowered. Someone else pushed through the doorway.

We have two alive, Menestheus of Attica said. His voice was thick with fury. The sons of dogs! Are you hurt, my lord?

Not even scratched. Agamemnon stuck his sword point-down into the deck. Thanks to the timely arrival of Odysseus. I assume it was he who shouted the alarm?

Odysseus nodded. It was.

You just happened by?

I just happened by, Odysseus said steadily. I was restless. Stood at the wall for a while and then thought I’d find Thersites, see if he was awake. Since he wasn’t in my camp I thought he’d be in Menestheus’, so I headed that way. The route took me past your ship.

It was true, and more importantly it was believable. Odysseus often wandered at night, he was known for it, almost as much as Thersites. The sentries had seen him on the wall too, and he’d nodded to one of them, so that part of his claim could be proven. It mattered. Trust would be a rare thing now, in the aftermath of this attempt to kill the High King. Be in the wrong place without reason and you might find your shade walking to Hades.

A sound made him turn. The man whose hand he’d severed had managed to pull a knife and stab himself in the throat. It was no mean feat with the less-used hand, and he’d done it right; blood was pouring from the wound. He would not survive to face questions. He was even smiling as life poured from him.

Bind the other one! Agamemnon spat. There was no sense tying the one with the stomach wound, since he was already doomed. The man Odysseus had hit with his shield was stirring though, and he’d be able to speak, with the right inducement. Agamemnon would make sure he got it.

Take him outside, the High King ordered. I will dress and then join you. Do nothing without me.

This was going to be unpleasant. There was no getting away from it though. Having been in the midst of events Odysseus couldn’t now retreat to the margins, not when the atmosphere was a febrile as this. It might be construed as a guilty conscience. The king of little Ithaca had never been able to afford that, and now less than ever.

Thersites would want to know what had happened, every word spoken, every blow struck. He always did. Odysseus found it irritating, but he knew the value of tales and songs, and he tolerated it as best he could. This time he’d have more to say than he could wish. He turned and went back through the pavilion, to take his place for the drama to come.

*

Someone tried to kill the High King, Nikos said.

Isander had already heard that. The whisper was still running through the crowd of men, one way and then the other, repeated by men who had passed it on twice already. People were shocked, disbelieving. Isander was not.

Kings were sometimes murdered. No ruler sat easy on his throne, everyone knew that. Children in Greece were raised with stories of overthrown kings. Cercyon killed by Theseus in Arcadia, Epeius of Elis killed by Pelops, and most vitally Atreus himself, Agamemnon’s father, had been murdered by Thyestes. It shouldn’t be a surprise that someone had tried it here.

Especially here, he thought as he shouldered his way through. Agamemnon had promised glory and the fall of Troy,