A hundred fifty stadia, or a day's leisurely donkey walk, and the land of the Troad turned into the land of Dardania.
True, nobody from outside distinguished them, considering them one land, but we were jealous of each other. Trojans lived separately, Dardanians separately.
My home city after magnificent Troy filled me only with mild sadness.
A little fortress two hundred by two hundred paces, where houses pressed against each other like honeycomb cells. Around it—yellow patches of fields where a meager harvest was ripening, unimaginable wealth that determined whether we'd live or not.
We had a house inside the ring of walls, but we rarely stayed there—mostly we lived in the village, where our barley grew and our horses grazed.
A small stream flowing nearby was a god in the literal sense. We brought sacrifices to it.
If the river dried up or changed course—we were done for.
"Scamia! Take the grain!" father shouted, and a beautiful woman around thirty ran out into the street—she managed our house and considerable household.
She was a slave and father's concubine.
Somewhere around here my half-brother Elimus was running around. Though he wasn't my equal—Anchises hadn't recognized him yet.
A stone rectangle with an inner courtyard, covered with reeds—that was the country estate of the king's own brother.
What did you expect? This wasn't Babylon or Per-Ramesses.
This was a backwater hole on the edge of the country of Wilusa, which paid tribute to the kings of kings of the Hittites.
Around the city were scattered many small villages that could field two hundred militia, of which two dozen were charioteers.
Father and I, as noble warriors, could also go into battle on chariots. Father had bronze armor assembled from small plates. He also had a figure-eight shield, which was very convenient in tight formation but completely unnecessary on a chariot.
No wonder round shields made of bronze or several layers of ox hide had been in fashion for about a hundred years.
"Dinner, young master," Scamia invited me, and I nodded silently.
I really was becoming thoughtful beyond my years—people were already giving me puzzled looks.
Aeneas had been restless, impulsive and cheerful, but he was gradually giving way to a completely different person, much more mature.
What did we have for dinner? No way! Flatbreads, cheese, greens and weak wine.
What variety.
Now we'd eat and crash. The god Tiwaz was sinking below the horizon, which meant life would freeze until dawn.
The first ray of sun that touched my cheek made me open my eyes.
Damn! My bed was specially positioned so the light coming into the house from a tiny window right under the ceiling could wake me.
It was very early, but I'd slept great.
How awesome was that!
I jumped up and looked around, examining the familiar-to-the-last-detail room with fresh eyes.
A space about ten square meters, a wooden bed in the corner covered with a thin mattress stuffed with flax tow, a chest containing my meager possessions, and weapons hanging on the wall.
A bow with the string removed, a spear, a round bronze shield, and a bronze helmet that was basically a cap with a spike sticking out of the crown, decorated with a bunch of feathers.
Turned out I wasn't poor at all.
And since I'd reached the proper age (sixteen springs! goodbye, childhood!), in case of attack I was obligated to go out with the other men and stand in formation or drive out a chariot.
I had one, by the way. And I could drive it to everyone's envy, if the driver got killed.
I was an aristocrat—they'd been preparing me for war as long as I could remember.
War, that cursed thing, was everywhere. The world was burning on all sides.
You couldn't tell anymore where an honest merchant was and where a sea raider was, these occupations had become so tightly intertwined.
Even merchants didn't turn up their noses at what was lying around or at someone rinsing laundry in the wrong place at the wrong time. They'd rob you, steal you, and not even ask your name, because the great king's power was visibly weakening.
By the way, why? I'd never been interested in these matters, and that was a mistake.
Even Priam said we couldn't count on help from Hattusa. Everyone understood everything except me.
What about my armor?
With armor I had absolute zero. Zilch. A hole from a donut and sleeves from a vest.
Father had bronze armor made of small plates sewn onto a leather backing, but I had nothing like that. And two such armors in one family was unthinkable luxury from the realm of science fiction.
Giving it as a coming-of-age gift wasn't customary even in local oligarch families. We got it from grandfather, who'd bought it in Hattusa itself, and it would become mine after father's death.
Such cynical philosophy.
What about linothoraxes here? I wondered, but found nothing suitable in my predecessor's rather empty memory.
If they knew about them somewhere, it definitely wasn't here. You could wrap a leather vest to the side, making double protection for the chest—that was all available to an ordinary warrior.
Such protection might barely hold back a sharpened wooden stake, but not a bronze spear.
By the way, what about iron here? Familiar word, but a promising void gaped in the donor's consciousness. He'd never even seen it, just a simple village kid.
Iron was smelted somewhere far to the east, it was very expensive, and weapons made from it were much worse than bronze. Crappy metal, soft and deteriorated quickly. Making a sword from it was out of the question.
"For some reason I really want to live," I said to myself. "And preferably without unnecessary injuries. Which means I need to get into cutting and sewing. We definitely have linen fabric, any kid here can cook glue from fish bladders, and fasteners are a matter of technique. The crappy local bows, which are just simple bent sticks, pose absolutely no threat to seven or eight layers of fabric in a linen cuirass. Not everyone has such luxury as me, assembled somewhere in the east from several pieces of wood and horn overlays. Let's get to work!"