trade out in the open, protected from the heat of their furnaces by leather aprons, textile workshops with dyed cloth drying on racks outside. He could smell hot metal, baking bread and flowers, the rich scents of animal dung and perfumes, and a hundred smells he couldn’t name. The noise all around was of laughter and complaint, the braying of donkeys, the creak of the cart’s wheels and the leather traces, women’s shrill voices and the calls of pedlars.
Xander could see the walls up close now. They rose from the rocky ground at an angle so gradual it seemed possible to climb them, but then straightened up suddenly and soared towards the sky.
The huge gate they were slowly approaching lay in the shadow of the tallest tower, almost twice as high as the walls, and as Xander craned his neck to see the top he felt as if the weight of it was falling towards him and he quickly looked away. In front of the tower was a line of stone pedestals on which stood six fearsome statues of ferocious warriors wearing crested helms and holding spears. Xander noticed the thin cartman cease to shout at his donkeys, and bow his head in brief silence, as the cart passed by the statues.
‘This is the Scaean Gate, the first Great Gate of Troy,’ said Odysseus. ‘It is the main entrance to the city from the sea.’
‘It is very big,’ said Xander. ‘I can see why it is called a great gate.’
‘Troy has many gates, and towers now. The city is growing continually. But the four Great Gates guard the Upper City, where the rich and the mighty dwell.’
As the donkey cart reached the gate it was swallowed in sudden darkness. There was silence around them and the gateway felt cold out of the late day’s sunshine. Now the boy could hear only the steady clop-clop of hooves and his own breathing.
Then they burst out into the sunshine again and he shaded his eyes, dazzled by the light and the glitter of gold and bronze. The road continued to stretch away from them, but inside the city gates it became a roadway of stone, made of the same great golden blocks that formed the walls. It was so wide Xander doubted he could throw a stone across it. The road wound ever upwards between huge buildings, the smallest of which was bigger even than Kygones’ citadel at Blue Owl Bay. Xander felt the size of an ant beneath their walls, some of which were carved with mighty creatures of legend. The wide windows and the edges of roofs were decorated with shining metals and polished woods. High gates stood open and the boy saw glimpses of green courtyards and marble fountains.
He looked around him, open-mouthed. He glanced at Andromache, who had pulled up her veil and was wide-eyed too.
‘Is this what all cities are like?’ he asked at last.
‘No, lad,’ said Odysseus with amusement. ‘Only Troy.’
The street was thronged with men and women, walking, or riding chariots or horses. Their clothing was rich and colourful and the glitter of jewellery shone at every neck and arm.
‘They are all dressed like kings and queens,’ the boy whispered to Andromache.
She didn’t answer him but asked Odysseus, ‘Do all these buildings belong to the king?’
‘Everything in Troy belongs to Priam,’ he told her. ‘This poxy cart belongs to him, the road it travels on, that pile of apples over there, they are all Priam’s. These buildings are the palaces of Troy’s nobles.’
‘Which one is the home of Hektor?’ Andromache asked, looking around her.
Odysseus pointed up the roadway. ‘Up there. It is beyond the crest of the hill and overlooks the plain to the north. But we are going to Priam’s palace. After that Hektor’s home will seem but a peasant’s hovel.’
The cart trundled on and soon the palace came in sight. To Xander’s eyes its walls were as high as those of the city itself, and he could see the golden roof gleam as the westering sun caught its edge. In front of the palace, once they had passed through the bronze-reinforced double gates, was a red-pillared portico, where the cart stopped and they descended. The portico was flanked by lines of tall soldiers garbed in bronze breastplates and high helms with cheek guards inlaid with silver, and white plumes which waved in the wind. Each had one hand on his sword hilt, the other grasping a spear, and each stared sternly over the boy’s head, as still and silent as the statues at the Scaean Gate.
‘Those are Priam’s Eagles, boy,’ said Odysseus, pointing at the soldiers.
‘Finest fighting men you’ll ever see. Look, Xander,’ he went on. ‘Is that not a sight to lift the spirits?’ Xander turned to look back the way they had come, across the shining roofs of the palaces, the golden walls, and down over the lower town to the sea. The sky had turned rose pink and copper in the light of the dying sun, and the sea below it was a lake of molten gold. In the far distance Xander saw a glowing island of coral and gold on the horizon.
‘What isle is that?’ he asked, thinking it must be a magical place.
‘Not one but two islands,’ said Odysseus. ‘The first you can see is Imbros, but the great peak beyond is Samothraki.’
Xander stood entranced. The sky darkened, blood-red streaks and clouds of gold and black forming before his eyes. ‘And there?’ he asked, pointing towards the north, and the dark hills overlooking a crimson sea.
‘That is the Hellespont, lad, and the land beyond is Thraki.’
Andromache laid her hand on the boy’s shoulder, gently turning him towards the south. Far away, across a shimmering river and a wide plain, Xander saw a mighty mountain. ‘That is the holy mount of Ida,’ whispered Andromache, ‘where Zeus has his watch-tower. And beyond it is little Thebe, where I was born.’
It was now so hot that Xander could hardly catch his breath. He looked up at Andromache, but her face seemed to shimmer before his eyes. Then the ground shifted beneath his feet, and he fell. Embarrassed, he tried to rise, but his arms had no strength and he slumped down again, his face resting on the cold stone. Gentle hands turned him onto his back.
‘He has a fever,’ he heard Andromache say. ‘We must get him inside.’
Then blissful darkness took away the heat, and he tumbled down and down into it.
XVI
The Gates of Horn and Ivory
i
The mist was crowing thicker, and Xander could see no buildings or trees, merely floating tendrils of white that wafted before his eyes, obscuring his vision. He couldn’t recall why he was walking through the mist, but he could hear voices close by. He tried to move towards the sound, but could not make out the direction.
‘He is fading,’ he heard a man say.
Then the voice of Odysseus cut in. ‘Xander! Can you hear me?’
‘Yes!’ shouted the boy. ‘Yes! Where are you?’
And then there was silence.
Xander was frightened now, and, in his panic, he began to run, his arms held out before him, in case he crashed into a wall or a tree.
‘Do you have rings for his eyes?’ he heard someone ask. Xander looked round, but the mist was thick and he could see no-one.
‘Do not speak of death just yet,’ he heard Odysseus say. ‘The boy has heart. He is still fighting.’
Xander struggled to his feet. ‘Odysseus!’ he called out. ‘Where are you? I am frightened.’
Then he heard voices, and the mist cleared. It was night and he was standing on a wide beach, the Xanthos drawn up on the sand. He could see Helikaon and the crew, standing around a large fire. The men were chanting, ‘Hear our words, O Hades, Lord of the Deepest Dark.’ Xander had heard this chant before. It was a funeral oration. He moved towards the men, desperately needing to be no longer alone.
He saw Oniacus at the outer edge of the circle, and could hear Helikaon speaking about the greatness of
