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drunk halted before her, staring at the golden gown she wore, the
torchlight glittering on the gems woven into its strands. “I thought… I thought
you were a goddess from Olympos,” he said.
    “I am Andromache. You should go home.”
    “Andromache,” he repeated.
    “Be off with you,” one of the soldiers ordered.
    The drunk tried to stand tall but then staggered. He glared at the soldier.
“I was at Kadesh,” he said, raising his right hand.
    In the flickering light Andromache saw that it was maimed, the first three
fingers cut away.
    “Trojan Horse,” he went on. “No parades for me, boy. Now I piss in a pot for
the dye makers, and I sleep on the street. But I could still piss on you, you
arrogant turd!”
    Andromache swiftly stepped between the man and the angry soldier. Unpinning a
golden brooch encrusted with gems from the shoulder of her gown, she pressed it
into the man’s ruined hand. “Accept this gift, soldier, from Hektor’s wife,” she
said, “in tribute to your courage.”
    He stared down at the glowing gold, and she saw there were tears in his eyes.
“I am Pardones,” he said. “Remember me to your husband.”
    Then he turned away and stumbled into the darkness.
     
    The sun was blazing low on the horizon as the Xanthos sailed into the
great Bay of Troy. Not a breath of wind blew across the waters, and only the
sound of the oars dipping and rising broke the sunset silence.
    In the distance the city gleamed as if cast from burning gold. The last of
the sunlight shone upon its gilded rooftops and bannered towers, casting
glittering reflected shards of light from the spear points and helms of the
sentries on the battlements.
    Gershom the Egypteian smiled as he gazed again upon the city. It was indeed
impressive, but as he looked at the awestruck expressions of the crewmen nearest
to him, he wondered how they would react if they ever saw the wonders of Thebes,
the city of a hundred gates, or the towering white pyramids, or the Great Lion.
Troy was breathtaking, but it mirrored the people who had built it. The city had
not been constructed with thoughts of beauty or aligned with the stars to please
the gods who dwelled there. It was first and foremost a fortress, solid and
strong, with high walls and gates of oak and bronze. The majesty of Troy was
almost accidental, Gershom thought, a blending of impressive masonry and
brilliant sunsets.
    There were few other ships in the bay. Four fishing boats had spread their
nets, and three new war galleys were being put through maneuvers close to the
southern shore. Gershom watched them for a while. The rowers were inexperienced,
oars clashing at times, as the galleys were halted, spun, or urged to ramming
speed. So many ships had been sunk these last few seasons, and hundreds of
experienced sailors drowned or killed in sea battles. Now novices would take to
the sea and die in the hundreds.
    The Xanthos sailed on, reaching the King’s Beach just as the sun
dipped below the horizon. Oniacus called out orders to the rowers. Immediately
the two banks of oars on the port side lifted clear of the water while those on
the starboard side dipped and pulled. The stern of the Xanthos swung
smoothly toward the beach. “And… NOW!” Oniacus yelled. All the oars struck the
water simultaneously. The hull of the Xanthos ground into the sand, then
came to rest. Oars were shipped swiftly.
    Then the deck hatches were opened. Gershom walked over and helped the crew
unload the cargo. More than a thousand cuirasses were passed up and dropped over
the side to the sand. The armor worn by the Trojan Horse was well crafted, disks
of bronze overlaid like fish scales on breastplates of leather, and, unlike the
bodies of the proud men who had worn them, far too valuable to be left behind on
the battlefields of Thraki.
    The armor was loaded onto carts, then carried up through the lower town and
into the city. Finally the deck hatches were closed.