Alexis of Troy (Book I)

ιη′ - Dekaochto

Eighteen

Even though Troy was an ancient, long gone city, it resembled any modern city, with some key differences. There wasn't any smog, nor were there any cars, but carts and chariots rolled along the dirt roads. People strolled by vendors and buildings. Within the confines, it was claustrophobic with people. Vendors called out their wares to passersby, and children darted between people's legs as they played. Women carried wicker baskets on their heads as they shopped or huddled together near a fountain. Men strutted around, some in military uniform, others looking more scholarly in their robes. The majority were weather-beaten farmers or labourers of some sort. Despite wanting to crawl out of my skin being pressed against all these people, there was an organized movement to the throngs of people.

The city itself consisted of tall, walled buildings and high towers. It was difficult to distinguish homes from other buildings, for everything was made of white stone and there weren't exactly signs hanging in front of the buildings. It was different from the sandy-coloured wall surrounding the city. With the pristine white buildings, the sun freely illuminated the city in a sharp light.

With so many people crammed together, and with the stone buildings that pressed in around us, the heat was oppressive. And with the condensed heat, an permeating odour clung to the heavy air. Body odour, livestock, and food. Despite that inescapable aroma, the streets were quite clean, but there weren't any sewage lines in this era. No means to dispose of bodily things. As we walked along the road, I discreetly glanced around my feet for anything disgusting.

It was dizzying, overwhelming and fascinating—culture shock to the extreme.

Paris had fallen silent halfway down the road. All the anger and frustration had simmered, and he couldn't ignore the awe of stepping into the city for the first time. His chocolate-coloured eyes were saucers as his head turned every which way, drinking in every little detail. This was his city, after all, the place he was meant to rule one day.

Zoisme huddled as close as she could, eyes darting about. Her shoulders hunched, she'd lost that demeanour she'd held when arguing with Chiron. I wanted to ask her what it was about, but she too was quiet. It had been surprisingly easy to enter the city with her in tow. We draped a tunic over her wrists to hide the chains, declared her our slave and voila, we were past the entrance. Paris was still on edge but as soon as we'd made it through, he visibly relaxed. It was easier to blend in among the throngs of people. No one gave us a second look, nor seemed to notice the chains hanging off Zoisme's wrists. Still, he all but ignored Zoisme, who took his cue and stuck close to me.

The urgency of our adventure lapsed into something more casual. I was walking among the people of Troy. Their wares were on display, catching my eye as we wandered along. At some point, we made it to the city's agora. The centre of life in the ancient world. It teemed with merchants, performers and debates. Someone somewhere played a lute, its melodic tune filling the air jovially. A statue of Apollo had been erected in the middle of the agora, a well at his feet.

"Wow," I gasped. "This is... wow."

"It's incredible, isn't it?" Paris marvelled.

There was a spark of something in his gaze. Recognition, perhaps?

"Incredible. Beautiful. No words are really adequate," I replied. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Neither have I," he agreed.

About half way through sightseeing, my stomach gave an offending protest of hunger. It was loud enough for Paris to hear, who raised his eyebrows in amusement at my plight. My cheeks turned fifty shades of red in embarrassment.