A gigantic string of donkeys, each admiring the tail of the one ahead, stretched for dozens of stadia.
Over a thousand carts going one after another, and lots of people trudging alongside them.
Nobody passed anyone here, because roads in the Hittite kingdom were two ruts packed with small gravel. Because of this, the distance between axles on all the carts was the same.
It exactly corresponded to the width of the "rails" along which this giant train rolled.
Trade still continued, but the petty kings whom the Hittites used to hold by the throat were gradually raising their heads.
There was less and less order on the roads, and everyone was testing its strength, trying to fish in the murky waters of change.
From the west the Achaeans kept climbing in. They not only raided but resettled with entire clans on the lands of Arzawa. Heavy fighting with invaders was now going on there.
But here in the north it was still calm.
The trade route from Troy to Hattusa still worked properly. The inns, wells, markets where you could buy a new donkey, and cities near which merchants traded and hired guards were still intact.
Timothy had heard all this from his very experienced uncle, who'd been here more than once.
Helon was well known here, so he found a contract quickly, unlike several other crews languishing in the port without work.
Helon was a responsible person and a considerable warrior. He honestly exchanged his blood for bread and silver, and he'd already gone with the respected merchant Hapasali before.
The man almost teared up when he saw his old acquaintance. The bandit faces of the other Danaan mercenaries inspired nothing but justified fears in him.
"How many guys do you need, sir?" Helon asked.
"Three hundred, no less," the merchant smiled sadly, and Timothy even raised his eyebrows in surprise.
That was a lot, way too much for a simple walk through the land of Hatti, where iron order had reigned for centuries.
"That bad?" Helon squinted.
"I hope not as bad as people say," the merchant smiled crookedly.
Helon thought a bit, then agreed.
There was nothing else anyway, and sitting in the city eating away what he'd saved was stupid. He'd have time to make one trip to Hattusa and back, and all this time he'd be fed. And his people would be fed.
And in spring, when the weather allowed, they'd cross the Hellespont and go north through the lands of the Thracians to the great river Danube.
Caravans gathered there that went west for tin and north for amber. If you made two or three such trips, you could return back to your native Athens and live in clover till the end of your days.
Maybe it would happen that Helon would make a rich gift to King Menestheus, and he'd give him a piece of good land, including him in the inner circle of warriors.
Timothy even chuckled. His uncle was a dreamer. He'd already gone from poor mercenary to leader of his own crew.
Could you really want more.
"Run to the port," Helon ordered his nephew. "We've got fifty warriors, we need five times that many more. Drag everyone here who can hold a spear. I saw lots of loafers hanging around there. Caravans are getting fewer and fewer."
Timothy nodded understandingly and headed to the port at a quick pace.
He'd seen those his uncle mentioned. They'd still buy him a jug of good wine for such news.
They noticed the first signs of trouble three weeks after leaving Troy.
Where last year there'd been a roadside tavern and small market, now only charred ruins blackened. And at the well site they found only a stinking pit stuffed to the brim with the bodies of owners and their servants.
Yet people had gotten grain for the road here, watered donkeys and rested.
Each donkey drank a bucket of water after a day's journey. How much did a thousand donkeys drink?
"Bad, very bad!" the respected merchant Hapasali, whose name, as if in mockery, meant "protected," shook his head sadly, looking at the ruins. "If it continues like this, trade is finished."
The lean, short merchant had a long nose decorated with a neat wart and the look of someone beaten down by life.
He wore a long dusty tunic and a felt cap, and a dagger of imposing size hung on his belt. His belt seemed worn, like the knife handle inlaid with ivory.
And judging by everything, the trade worker handled his weapon very skillfully.
The caravan spent the night where they'd once given merchants shelter, and moved on in the morning.
There was a stream ahead where they could water the donkeys. A donkey wasn't human. It wouldn't go forward if thirst tormented it, so they'd have to turn off the beaten path.