Empires of Bronze: The Crimson Throne (Empires of Bronze #4)

Chapter 1 - The Great Pillar of the West

The famous Wind of Wilusa squalled ever-southwards like a god's breath. It raked the green waters of the Hellespont Strait, conjuring a haze of iridescent spray that dazzled in the noonday light. The linen sails of northbound trade ships thrashed with a noise like faraway thunder as they battled against the furious headwind. Most were sure they could outsmart the gale and reach the bounty of coastal amber markets beyond the strait. All were wrong. One by one, each vessel turned from the squall and into a bay nearby. The sheltered and shallow waters glinted, at peace, the surface like polished turquoise. Hundreds of boats lay moored near the sandy shores, awaiting the rare moments when the winds would change, opening the way to the north.

Watching over all of this like a hunkering lion stood the city of Troy. People trickled from the lower town – the lion's body – taking water and bread down to the crews of the moored ships and collecting a toll of silver for their berth. Every so often the heads of Trojans and sailors alike would twist to glance up towards the citadel – the lion's head, Troy's fortified heart. Up on the Scaean Tower – the grandest and highest turret of the citadel defences – stood Troy's king, draped in purple, staring out from the parapet. The glances were nervous and frequent, for all knew what was taking place up there might change their world.

The warm wind furrowed King Priam's hair, swept-back, shot grey at the temples and held in place by the royal circlet. A lyre song rose in soft notes behind him, the music a welcome interlude to the discussions. He smoothed his palms across the sun-warmed limestone parapet and gazed across his city once more. His eyes drifted to the bay... then he realised he was staring at that damned ship.

It was like a thorn, lodged between two Trojan warships. A boat from another land, the hull painted black, and the sail emblazoned with the head of a golden bull, the symbol of Sparta. They had been here for seven days. Seven of the longest days of Priam's life.

He turned from the parapet. On the tower's flat rooftop, a purple awning shaded a long oak feasting table festooned with the best fare: venison flecked with chopped herbs, pots of honey and yellow cream, urns of date-sweetened beer and silver kraters of wine, trays piled with baked loaves and heaps of berries. The food might as well have been ashes and the drink vinegar, he mused, given the company.

At one edge of the table boar, his bearded chin munching speedily, his shaved upper lip beaded with sweat. His pouchy eyes were brimming with tears of humour as he told jokes through a mouth full of half-masticated food: '... if it weren't for the horse and that randy sailor, the fleet of Ithaca might still be afloat today!' He rocked with hilarity, his long braids of red hair swinging.

Priam gritted his teeth and tried to let the boorish tales float past him. He had only met the Spartan King once before. Then, he had been such a quiet man – shy, even – mumbling just a few words, respectful and concise. Then, Priam thought, eyeing the cluster of empty wine jugs and watching as Menelaus poured himself a fresh cup from a full one, he was sober. Take the wine away, however, and the Spartan had a thread of nobility about him.

So too did his wife, Helen, the young Queen of Sparta – pale-skinned and amber-haired, her duckling earrings glinting gold in the sunlight. She skilfully watered Menelaus' wine when he wasn't looking, and wore a look of apology whenever she caught Priam's eye.

It was the 'advisor' of the Spartan royal couple who truly raised Priam's hackles. and a kilt of leather strips, not a stitch to cover his scarred chest. His presence here was intolerable – in his time within the city, he had brazenly stared at the bare breasts of the Trojan wives on the streets, then greedily studied the tiles of gold on the temple roofs.

The first words of Menelaus' latest tale scattered Priam's thoughts.

'There was a shepherd who tended the flocks near my palace in Sparta. Now he was blessed,' The Spartan King held up his hands as if measuring something, his eyes widening. 'And when I say blessed, I mean...' his voice faded, his lips slackening and face creasing in confusion. A sound of sobbing rose from somewhere behind him. He looked around and across the citadel of Troy. 'What... what's that?'