Walls of Wilusa: A Novel of Survival During the Trojan War

By Dick Yaeger

This is not a retelling of the Iliad, Homer’s marvelous classic of the Trojan War. It is the backdrop, but a sprinkled backdrop as it depicts just a few major events. For three millennia, children, families, moviegoers, and scholars have thrilled over the epic battles of kings, heroes, gods, and goddesses. This story is about the other people—farmers, metal workers, bakers, and pornai, who lived in and around Troy, and who fought to survive the onslaught of the Greek armada as it invaded their homeland and waged war against their city.

Thalia and Alexio are unwilling warriors who battle overwhelming odds for ten years with only wit and cunning as their weapons. Could a secret their father left possibly alter the course of the war? Can they devise a plan to rescue their abducted mother? They’re torn apart when Alexio is seized by Trojan guards for the murder of one of their own. Can he escape the headsman’s axe? Must Thalia turn to prostitution for food? Who will they ask to for help—thieving orphans, a dwarf army commander, a tattooed mercenary, or a seductive Amazon?

The major characters are fictional, but others are from the Iliad and similar historical accounts. The glossary distinguishes between the two. The appendix links events in the story with those of the Iliad.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dick Yaeger
• Release date: Jun 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370561117

Dick Yaeger

Dick Yaeger lives in Sunnyvale, California, is a retired physicist, former Marine, and active rower, much of which percolates into his novels. If not writing, he might be found at his forge creating iron artwork. He’s a self-taught student of Latin, a 49er and Sharks fan, earlier bagpipe devotee, and the proud admirer of five exciting grandsons.

Book preview

This is not a retelling of the Iliad, Homer’s marvelous classic of the Trojan War. It is the backdrop, but only a sprinkled backdrop as it depicts just a few major events. For three millennia, children, families, moviegoers, and scholars have thrilled over the epic battles of kings, heroes, gods, and goddesses. This story is about the other people—farmers, metal workers, bakers, and pornai, who lived in and around Troy, and who struggled to survive as the Greek armada invaded their homeland and waged war against their city. The major characters are fictional, but others are from the Iliad and similar historical accounts. The glossary distinguishes between the two. In addition, the appendix links events in our story with those of the Iliad. I am a devoted fan of the Iliad, yet I have taken one major literary liberty. The war lasted ten years, but the Iliad only encompasses fifty-one days in the ninth year. I have scattered the events of those fifty-one days across the ten years.

Prologue

1184 B.C.

Even the stones were on fire. A falling piece of nearby roof shook the granite tiles where they stood, its noise momentarily obscuring the screams. Ornate urns lay shattered among strewn debris, some spilling a thick layer of olive oil that collected in tiled depressions. Discarded elegant Minoan tapestries looted from elite homes soaked up the oil, and burned like giant lamps, releasing thick, swirling black smoke. Clashing swords mingled with snarls, grunts, groans, and shrieks of dying men, young and old. Many not fighting for their lives threw women and girls to the ground and tore at their clothes.

One young woman stood behind a marble statue of Athena, pushing tangled hair from her face, and searching for something within the smoke-veiled chaos. In the intense heat, her soiled tunic, sticky with sweat, clung to her body. Blood from cuts and scrapes spotted her bare arms and legs. For only the second time in her life, she was afraid. She knelt next to her four-year-old son and put a protective arm around him. The boy stood erect, and appeared unafraid in the surrounding bedlam.

An aging warrior with a bronze sword stood behind them, his face and leather cuirass also splashed with blood. He placed a light hand on the woman’s shoulder.

We must hurry. They will not wait.

I cannot leave without my brother, she said, scanning the frenzied scene.

He will not survive.

No. I will not believe that. He is strong and determined.

Then he will find his way, the warrior argued, but if you linger, it will mean death for you and your son.

I cannot, she repeated.

His task is impossible.

She pulled her son closer and didn’t reply.

Then I will remain, the warrior said without deliberating.

No. You must go. Deprived of your guidance, the others will certainly perish at sea.

He ignored her logic and tried again. You will be raped and both of you will spend your remaining days in slavery.

Then you must take him, she instructed the warrior without a second thought. You must protect him. Not waiting for a response, she turned to the boy and put a firm hand on each of his shoulders. You are the man of our family. You know this.

Yes, Mother.

You must go with Palinurus now.

The boy frowned, but didn’t falter.

He will protect and teach you to be even braver and stronger than you are now.

Yes, Mother.

Tears streaked her sooty face as she hugged and kissed her son. She removed the only piece of jewelry she owned, a small gold medallion, and tied it around his neck, then stood and faced the warrior. There were no more words. She knew the veteran warrior understood that further argument was futile.

He sheathed his sword, took the boy’s hand, and exited down a flight of stairs behind them.

The boy glanced over his shoulder as he was led away. The woman watched until they vanished, then turned and ran toward the burning turmoil in search of her brother.

Book I

Kadmos

One

Eleven years earlier: 1195 B.C.

They called their village Kadmos. No one knew the origin of its name, but because it meant the east most believed it directed friends to its location on the eastern edge of the Aegean Sea, just eight leagues away. From Kadmos, the sea was not visible across the Scamander River and rolling plain. But inland and to the north, residents could make out a great citadel, towering above high city walls and sparkling in the sunlight. It was Troy, the royal seat of the kingdom of Wilusa and home of King Priam.

Kadmos had existed forever in Wilusa’s dry, hot climate. A small cluster of houses shared the blessed location around a cool fresh-water spring near the Scamander. There were other villages nearby, but Kadmos was special. The sons and fathers and grandfathers of each family had inherited ample land to support their families with the staples for life: grapes, olives, and wheat. Rigid boundaries were unnecessary. The extent of a man’s farm was what he and his sons could manage. If a Kadmos family was besieged with misfortune—injury, disease, or death—and unable to work their land, neighbors assumed the responsibility of support until the burden was relieved. Indeed, some households embraced remnants of those whose family support had vanished.

Thalia and Alexio lived in Kadmos. They were twins. Both had shoulder-length, curly black hair, and unlike others in Kadmos, blue eyes inherited from their mother. Their simple woolen tunics and bronze skins with muscular, slender bodies suggested a life of labor in the sun and a humble diet. Since their birth twelve years ago, friends struggled to tell them apart, but now Alexio was growing faster, and Thalia was showing signs of becoming a woman. She was older than her brother by moments and often reminded him of the fact. For years, their parents had debated altering the truth of their birthing order to indulge the male-dominated society, but they concluded that being the older twin might provide Thalia some useful future advantage. It proved a wise decision as Thalia harvested the distinction to become the pair’s leader, often shielding her less-responsible brother from punishment for some ill-executed boyish deed.

Alexio sat cross-legged on the ground in the shade of an olive tree watching Thalia and their mother, Tryphosa, as they coaxed yarn from a recent washed, dyed, and dried fleece. Easily taken for Thalia’s older sister, Tryphosa had wed their father when only a few years older than Thalia was now—not for love, but for the opportunity to build a family with a respected, gentle man. The love came later and grew strong.

Is Hector immortal, Mother? Alexio asked.

Tryphosa grinned. I believe not. Both his parents are mortal.

But in the stories he fights like a god. He destroys cities and none can harm him.

It is true that he is a fearless, great warrior, but sometimes the stories grow as they are repeated.

Alexio traced a stick-figure image of a horse in the dirt with his finger. He shared the dream of all young boys: to be a champion warrior for Troy and follow in the footsteps of his personal hero, Hector, the eldest son of King Priam, and the greatest fighter in all the world—even among the gods. Three years ago Hector had paused at their house for a drink of cool water, and inspected the fine bronze weapons from his father’s forge. Ever since, Alexio had pictured his future as a replica of Hector: driving a chariot with twin ebony stallions, brandishing an iron-tipped spear, and dressed in the finest silver-studded bronze armor and crested helmet with a flowing plume of red horsehair. His parents had told him that such a destiny for a man of their poor status was impossible. Nevertheless, they shared his dream and encouraged him to exercise and train as best he could without formal instruction. He had not seen Hector since that time.

I will go visit him, Alexio said. He rubbed out the stick-figure horse with the palm of his hand and started something new.

Who? his mother asked, her brow creased.

I will visit Hector and ask to hear the stories. When he tells them in his own words, I will be able to correct those who distort them.

He will not see you, Tryphosa said matter-of-factly.

How is that? He admires fine weapons, so I will tell him of Father’s success with metal made from the red dirt. That will surely please him.

He is a prince of Troy. He lives in the Citadel high above his father’s subjects. The guards would not grant you an audience.

Alexio pondered her obscure explanation but didn’t ask for further details. He studied the rhythm of his mother’s fingers as she spun the dangling spindle and teased the perfect thickness of pale amber yarn from the bundle of wool. She paused and shifted her weight on the stool to pull the hem of her long white chiton off the dusty earth, then started a new strand. These were everyday movements, but Alexio marveled at the elegance and grace his mother imparted to them. Of all the mothers in Kadmos, his was the most beautiful, the most gracious, and the gentlest. He suspected she was a muse sent by ever-wise Athena to watch over him and his sister. If that was the case, he wondered, would that make him immortal? He surmised that immortality would be a magnificent feature for a future Trojan warrior.

Tryphosa glanced at her son’s unblinking stare. Alexio, did you stack the wood for your father’s charcoal? she asked without turning from her work.

Uhhh…yes, Mother, her question snapping him out of the daydream.

And did you dig a new pit and fill the old one?

Yes, Mother. He sniffed his hands for residual evidence of the task.

I think you should ask your father if other chores are required.

Of course, he said. He rubbed out the last dusty figure, stood, and hurried to his father’s forge behind the house.

They all lived in a fine house: two rooms with walls made from stone that had been cleared from their land and patched with the same clay Tryphosa made pottery. It kept them protected year-round, even in the cooler, wet winter. Pottery shards covered the flat wooden roof except for a small opening to allow fresh air in and smoke out during an occasional indoor fire. Outside, a ladder led to the roof where fish and fruit were dried. Inside, the only furniture was a table and four chairs lovingly crafted from driftwood by the twin’s grandfather.

There were no decorations or religious icons, but souvenirs and simple pieces of art occupied the many niches in the stone walls: a string of shark’s teeth, a circlet of olive branches, and a tiny wooden carving of a stooped man their father called Hephaestus.

The hard dirt floor was bare except for Thalia and Alexio’s straw mattresses and a goatskin in a far corner. If the goatskin and wooden pallet underneath were removed, five stone steps led down to a cramped food cellar. Here they kept wine, olive oil, wheat, and dried fish in clay jars away from the outdoor heat and worrisome pests. Its existence was a family secret. On more than one occasion during lean times, the guarded rations had kept the family healthy or aided starving neighbors.

Alexio returned from his father’s forge with a smile. I will take Hector a fine gift. The guards must admit me if I bring the prince a gift.

Thalia had been quiet during her brother’s whimsical conversation about Hector. Now she rolled her eyes.

"And where will you get a gift suitable for a prince?" she chided.

At the Trojan harbor. I will find something from a far land that he has never seen.

Tryphosa frowned at his suggestion, but said nothing.

Thalia, however, stopped spinning and looked at her brother with a knowing grin. And what would you barter for this mystical gift?

I know not, but a visit to the harbor is necessary to find the correct gift.

Your father is busy at his forge, Tryphosa said. He is unavailable to escort you.

We can go alone, Alexio said, watching for his mother’s reaction.

Thalia smiled at her brother’s inclusion of her in the proposed adventure.

No, Tryphosa objected. The harbor is dangerous. It swarms with thieves, slavers, and mercenaries looking for someone to prey upon.

I know, Mother. That is its appeal.

Thalia shook her head at Alexio’s naïve boldness, but nevertheless supported his negotiation.

We are old enough, Mother. Within a year, we will be thirteen. Alexio will be old enough to be a Trojan warrior, and I can be married.

Tryphosa stopped her spinning, looking surprised at Thalia’s words. No. Many children have gone to the harbor without an adult and never returned.

We will be adults in a year, Alexio added.

The twins’ father wandered into the shadows and leaned against the wall. Tryphosa looked at him as if asking for advice. He smiled, nodded, and shrugged.

Tryphosa sighed. Very well, but do not linger, and keep a sharp eye for danger. She broke the current strand of yarn, removed the stone whorl and spindle, and handed the small bundle to her son. If you must go, then the trip should be useful. Your father has snared a hare for your favorite stew. Use this yarn to bargain a small comb of honey or a pomegranate for our dinner.

Of course. He beamed and hugged his mother.

Thank you, Mother, Thalia said, nodding and tightening her sandals.

Alexio knew it was thoughts of sweet honey and pomegranate, not the rough men, strange languages, and danger that excited his sister. He tucked the yarn into the sash around his waist.

With no further discussion, they each grabbed a small skin of water, slung it across their chests, and rushed off with spirited anticipation. The harbor was to the north. Unless they lingered too long for the obligatory swim in a wide, deep pool of the Scamander, they would walk, skip, and run the distance before noon.

Tryphosa watched them scurry away.

Bright-eyed Athena, please protect them, she whispered to herself.

Two

The dank smell of the harbor surrounded Thalia and Alexio. The outgoing tide left tangled seaweed that baked in the noonday sun. Clouds of screeching gulls hovered over fishing boats waiting for an easy meal of fish entrails to be thrown overboard. Scavenging crabs picked at pieces washed on to the beach before the blistering sun shriveled them to nothing. Pelicans patiently waited on posts, searching the water for the ideal morsel, while shouting deckhands punctuated the background drone of chattering market-goers.

Troy was situated perfectly to profit from seagoing trade at the Hellespont that connected the Aegean Sea to the Propontis, and thereafter to the Euxine Sea. Sleek boats from every nation passed through the narrow channel to barter goods on the wild shores of the Euxine: wheat and ore from the northern Scythian steppes, lumber from the southern Paphlagonian mountains, and slaves from anywhere. The harbor offered a respite from long voyages with deep anchorage for larger boats and leagues of protected white sand beaches for smaller crafts.

Where should we go first? Alexio asked, shifting his weight from foot to foot, wringing his hands.

We should get the dinner treats as mother instructed, Thalia replied. If we return without honey or a pomegranate, this will be our last adventure alone.

What gift would Hector admire? he said, ignoring his sister.

Your gift must be modest. You have nothing of value to barter with.

Perhaps a boar’s tusk, or a lion’s skin from some remote barbarian empire.

I think a gift Hector might give his wife would be lovely, Thalia suggested, caught up in Alexio’s musings. A painted vase, or a jeweled toga, or anything of gold.

Andromache has a room full of those things, Alexio declared.

You do not know that.

She is a princess. All princesses have those things.

Thalia shook her head and didn’t reply.

Unable to arrive at a plan, they wandered, listening to unknown languages, pointing at peculiar costumes, and scanning the variety of offered goods.

The market was located among date palms and tamarisk brush on a rock-strewn surface near where the boats unloaded their wares. It was a small replica of the one inside Troy’s walls, but worked by villagers, and only occupied if boats were in port. When a new boat turned the point at Cape Sigeum, news spread quickly to nearby villages and the market blossomed. Some would park their ox-drawn cart at the bow of a boat, and negotiate directly with its captain. Others tended a scrabbled collection of open-sided stands, mud huts, tents, and booths. They displayed anything a seafaring trader might desire: food, wine, pottery, olive oil, clothing, jewelry, or a porne. Coins and pieces of copper, silver, and sometimes electrum and gold, were recognized currencies, but bartering was more common. Goods were exchanged only after much arm waving, energetic exclamations, and exaggerated facial expressions.

In the center of the market, a large wooden platform sat on shoulder-high rock columns. Stone benches that curved around half the platform beneath shady olive-trees gave the appearance of a theatre. Here, expensive items—slaves and horses—were exhibited for trading and buying.

Over here, Alexio said, taking Thalia’s hand and pulling her toward a table that sparkled with green articles on a white fleece. The vender scrutinized the twins, sighed, and shook his head, but said nothing.

Of what are these made? Alexio asked, fingering a delicately carved horse.

Jade. Made by the artists of Liangzhu.

Are they barbarians?

Indeed not.

This would be a fine gift for Mother, Thalia said, pointing to a polished jade whorl.

But not for Hector.

You are a friend of Hector? the vender asked. His eyebrows peaked.

He stops at our house for water and admires my father’s weapons.

Ahhh, then he might be pleased with this. He reached inside his toga and retrieved a knife with a jade blade and bone handle.

Ohhh. That is perfect, Alexio sighed. What is the price you ask? He reached for it, but the vender pulled it back.

A bargain at only three gold coins.

Alexio’s jaw dropped. He stood transfixed, staring at the knife. I … I ….

Without a word, Thalia took Alexio’s hand and led him away. The vender grinned.

You should listen to your older sister, she said.

Alexio remained stunned, shaking his head, as they ambled back into the shuffling crowd and drifted nearer the shore.

Look! A slaver, Thalia said, pointing.

A twenty-oar boat was towed the last short distance to shore with four thick ropes by different-colored men dressed in ragged loincloths and codpieces. They drove stakes in the sand and attached the ropes while two overseers shouted instructions. Both held stout staffs ready to discipline a slacker, but the beaching proceeded with experienced precision.

Alexio contemplated the seldom-seen activity. I wish I had a slave.

It is not right, Thalia said. Slaves lead lives worse than death.

All of them?

Yes.

Alexio didn’t respond. They watched the rowers ushered back aboard the boat and given water and bread. Another group from beneath the deck was dragged topside, all with their hands bound behind them. Led by leashes attached to heavy wooden collars, two women, one child, two older men, and a dwarf stumbled down the gangplank.

My pits, Alexio muttered.

What?

My slave. I would use him to dig my toilet pits.

It is still not right, Thalia reiterated. One man should not hold sway over another’s life.

Alexio turned and looked at his sister, believing her comment was flawed. But it has always been. Slaves built the walls of Troy. Who would have built them otherwise?

Men who were free to work in exchange for a livelihood.

The slave’s master provided a livelihood.

But the slave had no choice, Thalia countered.

"Is a man’s wife his slave? He has mastery over her."

Only if the marriage is ill-omened, unlike our parents who share equally.

You are right, Alexio chuckled. Mother often tells Father what he must do.

With expectations of a gift for Hector dashed, they followed the slaver captain leading his captives to the market platform where a small crowd gathered. Most were local villagers interested only in the spectacle, but several Elites from Troy, upon hearing of the new slave boat, had made the trip to browse the arrivals. These privileged citizens, often accompanied by a guard, were clean-shaven with combed, short hair. They wore unsoiled, embroidered, white togas and solid oxhide sandals. Alexio could identify Elites without the elegant attire, because their fingernails were clean.

The slaver captain was a brutish, fierce-looking man with long hair and a beard gathered and tied at the end with a tiny bow. He wore a leather corselet and codpiece with leather straps crossing his hairy, barreled chest. Another wide belt held a whip, knife, and short curved bronze sword with no sheath.

He stripped his captives naked. He poked and pinched each to demonstrate their sturdiness, and opened their mouths to show their sound teeth. He forced them to bend over while he spread their cheeks to show the absence of sores and disease. He said that one of the women was a virgin—the crowd laughed—and that the girl was free when sold with her mother, a bargain because he could not care for the girl alone.

The two men don’t look well, Thalia whispered.

They are likely rowers who have outlived their usefulness, Alexio said. If the captain cannot sell them, their lives will be short.

But the dwarf looks strong. Why would he be for sale?

I do not know. Perhaps he is too short to handle an oar properly.

The dwarf truly looked strong as the slaver captain pointed to his muscular arms and powerful, bowed legs. With long unkempt brown hair, he was the only one on the platform with fine sandals precisely laced across his calves to the knees—strange for a poor slave. When the captain suggested that his tiny penis would not pose a threat to the household women, the dwarf glared and kicked him in the shin. The captain yelped at the blow and lashed out, hitting him on the side of his head. The dwarf tripped, fell, and rolled over, almost off the platform. Despite his heavy wooden collar and tied hands, he bounced to his feet and smirked in defiance.

Alexio smiled and nodded. Now I know why the captain wants to sell him. Given the opportunity, the dwarf would surely kill him in his sleep. He will suffer for his foolish act.

The guard yanked the dwarf’s leash and was about to hit him again when an Elite standing at the edge of the platform yelled, Wait! I will buy him.

The captain studied the Elite and the armed guard by his side. He knelt at the edge of the platform, and after hushed negotiations with the Elite, currency exchanged hands. The guard mounted the platform and led the dwarf away, following his master back to Troy.

After the entertainment, the voyeurs continued their shopping or drifted back to tend their kiosks. Only one more of the slave captain’s wares was sold: the virgin woman, purchased not by an Elite but by the captain of another boat. Finished, the slaver jerked the leashes of the remaining two men and the woman with her child. While the twins watched him drag his possessions nearby, Alexio stared at the gaunt expressions on the captive’s faces, and reflected on his sister’s arguments against slavery.

We should get our treats and return home, Thalia said.

Twenty paces away, the slaver captain stopped, turned, and stared at Thalia

Three

The twins strolled the dirt paths of the market in the late afternoon, looking for sweets. Alexio had given the skein of amber yarn to Thalia. She twirled it in a casual manner as they walked among the stalls. They knew that if it attracted attention from someone wanting yarn, they might trade for a more valuable item. The new item, with its alleged higher worth, would then improve opportunities for amassing more treasure—honey and pomegranates in this case. They treated bartering as a game, using theatrical tactics gleaned from watching others in the crowded Trojan market. Their parents recognized their fanciful talent, often suggesting they negotiate for some of the household staples. The trading-up approach took time however, and the market would close soon.

They ambled past a graying old man and younger woman sitting on the ground behind a rug that displayed a small selection of foodstuffs.

They have what we want, Thalia whispered from the side of her mouth.

I saw, Alexio replied. I think the woman was also admiring your prize. He turned and approached the man, scanning his items. Do you have dates? We are in the market for dates.

No, but our honey is the sweetest in all Wilusa, the old man answered. His dirty hand held up a small comb of dripping honey.

Thalia smiled. It does look delightful. May I have a taste?

The young woman frowned, but the vendor broke off a tiny piece and handed it to Thalia. See how it melts in your mouth and makes you feel happy and alive?

"It is good, she nodded, looking at Alexio. May we buy some, brother?"

No, Alexio answered rudely. Mother instructed us to buy only dates. He grasped Thalia’s arm roughly, and without further comment, led her away down the path and around a corner. They didn’t speak. Alexio took a position behind a palm tree where he could see the vendor. Thalia grinned at him and scurried back to the kiosk.

She knelt in front of the old man. I must hurry. I have no coin, but will offer this beautiful bundle of golden yarn for a hand of honey and four pomegranates.

I have no need of yarn.

But it will make a fine scarf for your lovely wife. Would that not satisfy her and make her agreeable?

The woman smiled at Thalia’s remark and put a gentle hand on the older man’s thigh.

Very well, but I can only offer one-quarter hand and one pomegranate. His eyebrows lifted as he turned toward his wife, gauging her reaction.

My brother will be angry if I trade poorly since dates are our only goal.

One-half hand and one fruit, then, if you must. The merchant looked at his wife a second time.

Thalia pondered the offer for a moment. I will do a dance for you.

The old man cocked his head at the confusing offer. He glanced at his wife yet again. Show me.

Thalia stood, displayed a warm smile, raised her arms, and swayed her body to some imaginary rhythm. The man beamed, his wife scowled, and Alexio grimaced from behind the tree twenty paces away.

One-half hand and two fruit, he proposed.

She knelt in front of him again. Did she dare attempt to parlay her success for more? One hand and three fruit for a kiss.

He didn’t look at his wife this time, but nodded, his eyes a little wider. Thalia leaned forward and gently kissed the old man on both cheeks.

He cut a small hand-size comb of honey, wrapped it in a fig leaf, selected three pomegranates—one darkened and dry—and offered them to Thalia. She didn’t complain, and gave the skein of yarn to the woman with a knowing grin and wink.

Behind the palm tree, Alexio watched, stomped his foot and ran his fingers through his hair.

At a distance, the captain of the slave ship also watched Thalia’s performance. He grinned.

What were you doing? Alexio scowled when she returned.

Look what I have, Thalia said, excited about her results. We will eat sweets for a week, and Mother will be so proud.

But how did you get them? he demanded.

What do you mean? I bartered them as usual, she said, frowning.

"No. You did not do it in the usual manner. You lured and seduced that old man like a worthless porne."

But . . . but . . . I have seen other women do similar things to gain their way.

He stood closer and looked into her eyes, unblinking. "You are not other women. You are my sister and you have brought shame on yourself and our family."

Her eyes brimmed with tears. He was right. And his anger was rooted in his love for her. His face showed it. I am sorry, brother. I was not thinking. It will not happen again.

Alexio took a deep breath and sighed. He pulled her close. That is good, he whispered in her ear.

Her tears spotted his tunic. She hugged him tightly, trying to balance the honey and fruit that caused the anguish.

This will remain among us, Alexio said. I will not tell Mother or Father.

Thank you. She sighed, kissing him on the lips.

Have you found a younger man to tease, little lady? the slave-trader captain blurted out as he walked up behind them.

Startled, the twins turned to confront the man who appeared twice as large up close as he had earlier on the slave platform. They didn’t reply, their mouths open.

Ah, you are a pair, the captain said, smirking. What a price you would bring in Samos. There are men on that island who would pay me a year’s wages for you two.

The captain stepped closer, and without warning, put his hand on Thalia’s chest. These are not yet—

Stop, Alexio yelled, knocking the slave trader’s hand away. He stepped between the two and pushed him, but the hulking captain only rocked back on his heels. Let her be! Alexio demanded, looking up at the man with clenched teeth behind thin lips.

The captain didn’t hesitate. He hit Alexio in the ear with a blow that tumbled him away, colliding with a stooped old lady laboring under a bundle of sticks.

Leave me alone, boy. I will pay a fair price for her services.

Thalia backed away from the captain. Her head toggled between him and Alexio.

Alexio helped the old lady regain her footing. He took her largest stick, and leaped at the captain’s back. The stick came down hard on the captain’s head. He stumbled and turned toward Alexio, frowning, rubbing the spot on his head.

The old lady collected her sticks and scuttled away. Other nearby vendors and shoppers did the same, seeming unwilling to become involved with a fight they knew would not end well for the children. One man, an Elite, and a boy remained to watch.

Do you want another hit, boy? the captain shouted, advancing toward Alexio.

Thalia dropped her dinner treats, picked up a handful of pebbles, and hurled them at the man’s back. The captain stopped, turned, and glared at the now-irritating young girl long enough for Alexio to rush up and strike him again, this time on his unprotected knee.

The blow ended the slaver’s casual demeanor. He spun and yelled, You— just as Thalia pelted his back with another batch of rocks. Alexio took her clue and threw a handful of sand in his face. The slaver rubbed his eyes and lunged at Alexio, but the nimble twelve-year old avoided his bulk.

Thalia heaved a larger rock that bounced off his back as Alexio sidestepped another charge. It was becoming clear to Thalia that their two-sided fusillade had confused and immobilized the slaver. It was time to leave.

Run, she yelled.

No, Alexio responded, the corners of his mouth turned down. He must pay for his offense. He picked up a heavier stone and flung it with all his strength. The captain ducked. Alexio scooped up another and taunted the scowling captain with a dance, hopping from one foot to the other, jumping from side to side.

Thalia could always reason with her brother’s stubbornness when there was time, but there was no opportunity for talk now. She filled both hands with rocks and mimicked Alexio, prancing around the giant slaver in a circle, hurling a torrent of rocks, hatred for the dreadful man rising inside her.

The captain stopped. His knees bent, his arms stretched wide with open hands. Only his eyes moved to follow each twin and anticipate the next attack.

Thalia saw the slaver’s attitude change and his focus narrow. There was a dangerous air about him that didn’t exist a moment before. He was no longer a trader of slaves, but an experienced killer. Did Alexio see the same?

Leave him, Alexio, she screamed.

He ignored her. Dust from his frenzied movements swirled around his ankles as he gathered and threw more rocks.

Run, she yelled again, waving her arms to get his attention. He had to listen.

He tripped and fell.

In an instant, the slaver stood over him, grinning. He reached for the dagger in his belt.

Thalia jumped on his back, grabbed his hair with one hand, pulled his head back, and pushed her fingers into his eye sockets with the other hand. Alexio bounded to his feet and smashed the slaver’s nose with a rock. The captain flew into a rage, bellowing and flailing his massive arms as if warding off a swarm of insects. The breadth of his swing caught the twins off guard and knocked