The next two weeks flew by like one moment.
I didn't work in the fields—we had ten slave families for that, whom we considered more like tenants than talking tools.
But I spent almost all day with the horses, making sure no bastard stole them. And wolves acted up here sometimes. Lions had been wiped out in our parts long ago, but even so a shepherd's life was no picnic.
Bow and spear always at hand. Three of us. Me, old slave Muga from captured Thracians, and half-brother Elimus, who was three years younger.
I worked on my armor during the day when normal people lay down for a nap. Though I no longer passed for normal here. I knew they were starting to give me looks and talk behind my back.
I'd barely begged father for the fabric—my idea seemed like foolishness to him.
In our city there were practically no traditions of clothing production. Actually, most of the time I wore just a loincloth.
When it got a bit cold—I'd put on a tunic, when it got even colder—a cloak. That's what we called a rectangular piece of thick fabric that fastened on the shoulder with a bronze fibula.
They didn't wear pants here, just wrapped their legs with strips of cloth, and instead of one short tunic, richer people could wear two, long ones almost to the ground.
Though even in winter it wasn't prohibitively cold here. I'd never seen ice or snow, though the wind from the sea blew right through you.
Lost in thought, I didn't even notice how impenetrable inky darkness fell on the earth, and I was habitually pulled into sleep.
How I missed having a TV! It was so boring here! Deadly dull!
What's that noise? I jerked awake.
It's night!
"The king's gathering warriors!" someone yelled in the courtyard.
Yeah, turned out I'd gotten a bit ahead of myself about the boredom.
"What's happened at this hour?" This was displeased father coming out of his room, with Scamia peeking out fearfully from behind his shoulder.
Look at that, she was already sleeping at his place. Crafty woman. Before, she'd grunt a bit behind the wall and go to her own place. But now she was warming herself under father's side till morning.
Was she aiming for legal wife status?
"A fisherman from the Thracian side sailed over, our host-friend," the messenger rattled off hurriedly, a skinny-as-a-twig kid about fourteen. "Six Danaan ships spent the night there. Either Ionians or Achaeans, he couldn't tell from the bushes what tribe. Now they're hiding in the harbor behind the sharp cape, and they'll come for us at dawn."
I knew this kid. His name was Neleus. He ran so fast some horses would be jealous.
But now his service was over, our turn had come.
We sent messengers to the nearest villages, and they to the distant ones. The local warriors, getting the news, would grab their weapons and quick-march to Dardanus, under the king's command.
Our neighbors had bailed us out, and not for the first time. That's how we lived: sometimes the Thracians helped us out, sometimes we helped them.
No other way, because there weren't even a hundred fighters in and around the city.
"Sit and eat, Neleus," father gestured—he'd already sent servants with the bad news. "Scamia will feed you."
The kid didn't stand on ceremony, just nodded gratefully and sat at the table.
He was still too young to fight, but father and I went to get ready.
My new armor was just ready—I'd just finished sewing the ties.
Turned out to be a remarkably ugly tunic with a split skirt and shoulder pieces, glued from eight layers of linen fabric.
Heavy as a brick, and it went on over the top, right over regular clothes, otherwise you could tear your skin bloody.
"Bring out the horses!" father told the servants. "We're leaving now."
Turned out I didn't know before what real joy was.
A light two-wheeled cart racing at dawn behind two horses on a smooth road—that was true happiness.
The horses felt even the slightest movement of my fingers squeezing the reins.
By the way, about the harness—it was complete garbage that choked the poor animal. And there was no bit either, but bronze cheekpieces on the sides instead.
Should change that...
Whatever—screw it, I'd deal with it later.
Right now I was enjoying the ride and urging the horses on, not paying attention to my driver's pursed lips as he stood behind me. He didn't approve of such boyishness.
And there was Dardanus.
Its gates were open, and the warrior standing at them raised his hand in greeting. He was our distant relative. Though everyone here was our relative to some degree, so no surprise.
Everything here was almost like Troy, just way smaller.
Two hundred families lived in the city itself. The houses of craftsmen and warriors pressed their stone sides against each other—warmer that way, and more room.
The biggest house of all, built from large boulders, with two columns and an altar at the entrance—that was the royal palace. It was covered with flat tiles, unlike the houses of the poor.
A blacksmith and a dozen weavers worked here too, but this was nothing compared to the palaces of Mycenae or Pylos, where thousands of people labored.
Here in Dardanus lived fishermen and potters, winemakers and carpenters, traders and even one goldsmith, who moonlighted as a barber and bonesetter. One such specialist was quite enough for our metropolis.
By the way, almost every townsman had his own plot outside the wall—you couldn't survive on craft alone here.
Slaves toiled in the fields, their heads shaved in ugly patches and decorated with the owner's brand. They did it like this everywhere, from Babylon itself to the Straits.
A slave had to stand out in any crowd, and a beautiful hairstyle could only belong to a free man.
King Acoetes, my uncle, was waiting at the entrance.
He looked a lot like his younger brother. The same solid, taciturn and stern guy, just with more gray in his hair and beard.
He'd fought plenty, and his body was decorated with scars, like everyone's who'd crossed the threshold of twenty. By that age you'd definitely been through about five serious fights.
"Greetings, brother!" Uncle hugged father and graciously ruffled my shoulder. "And greetings to you, Aeneas! What's that you've got there?"
"Made armor from fabric, uncle," I answered, involuntarily clenching my teeth.
What if he started laughing.
No, he didn't. Just examined it carefully, picked at it with a bitten nail and grunted skeptically.
He himself had a bulky bell armor assembled from bronze rings. He'd taken it from an Achaean he'd killed with his own hand.
Good stuff, they didn't make them now—way too expensive. You couldn't get through it, and it had almost no vulnerable spots.
Only the face and a narrow strip between the upper edge of the greaves and the skirt were accessible for a strike, and you still had to hit there.
You'd need to bury such a warrior under rocks so he'd die of hunger under that pile.
In our whole kingdom maybe ten warriors at most fought in armor. True, the rest had scale armor covering torso and thighs, and helmets made of boar tusks and bronze.
Those with tusk helmets got more respect. We only made them for those who'd taken those boars with their own spear. And that, by the way, meant you needed to get over thirty heads.
Anyone who'd stood with a spear against a maddened boar knew what that was like. I'd already stood like that, apparently.
So-so sensation. The intoxicating thrill of combat came later, when the boar was butchered and roasted over fire.
"My detachment's already assembled," Acoetes said, "and I gave the guys chariots and horses. Warriors from distant villages aren't here yet. If they don't make it, we'll have to lock ourselves in the city."
"Let's leave the chariots outside, uncle," I said. "We'll circle nearby, otherwise they'll devastate the fields. We'll sting them and come back."
The two life-weathered men exchanged confused glances, then uncle said.
"The kid's talking sense, Anchises. He's smart, yours. They'll surround us in the city and harvest our barley themselves."
"That's what they came for," father spat angrily.
"I see sails!" the sentry on the gate tower yelled. "They're coming this way!"