A Song of War: a novel of Troy

  A SONG OF WAR

  a novel of Troy

  A SONG OF WAR

  a novel of Troy

  by

  Christian Cameron

  Libbie Hawker

  Kate Quinn

  Vicky Alvear Shecter

  Stephanie Thornton

  SJA Turney

  Russell Whitfield

  with an introduction by

  Glyn Iliffe

  Table of Contents

  INTRODUCTION by Glyn Iliffe

  CHARACTER LIST

  THE FIRST SONG: The Apple by Kate Quinn

  THE SECOND SONG: The Prophecy by Stephanie Thornton

  THE THIRD SONG: The Sacrifice by Russell Whitfield

  THE FOURTH SONG: The Duel by Christian Cameron

  THE FIFTH SONG: The Bow by Libbie Hawker

  THE SIXTH SONG: The Horse by Vicky Alvear Shecter

  THE SEVENTH SONG: The Fall by SJA Turney

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  NOTES FROM THE AUTHORS

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  INTRODUCTION

  Glyn Iliffe

  The Trojan War is an early milestone on the winding path of Western culture. Hovering on the threshold between mythology and history—nobody can say for certain that it actually happened—it has inspired artists and writers of every kind for over three thousand years, and will do so for thousands more. There’s something about those ancient tales of action, intrigue, romance, and treachery that has gripped people from generation to generation, demanding to be told and retold in ever-changing formats for ever-changing audiences. Just as compelling are the characters that move through the stories: Achilles, the sulking superman; Odysseus, the wily wanderer; and Helen, the wayward beauty whose looks inspired a war—to name just a few.

  But what’s the draw? Why don’t these tales dim and lessen, like so many others have done? For me, it’s the accessibility of the Trojan War myths. Although the stories come from a culture markedly different from our own, they take events familiar to the human condition and magnify them tenfold. How many fights have broken out over an attractive woman? Who hasn’t suffered and railed against their god or gods? How many women have taken revenge on abusive husbands? How many prophets of doom have been ignored or mocked? And who hasn’t faced a few obstacles getting home? Not that missing your flight and having to sleep overnight in an airport lounge compares to Odysseus’ ten years at sea, but that’s the appeal of a good story—it puts somebody else through the grinder so you don’t have to go through it yourself. And the Trojan War was a big grinder.

  The myths also have a depth not found in many other traditions. Each familiar story is built on lesser-known events, without which the main action would lack meaning. The characters appear and reappear throughout the different stories that form the whole, weaving a tapestry that makes them feel real. And there is a powerful spirituality that dominates everything. The immortal gods and their schemes form an immovable background, which the mortals must either accept or rage against and perish. This spirituality—the contrast between seen and unseen forces, the natural and the supernatural—has more meaning for modern audiences than we might think. Take the popular mythologies of our own age. Would the Star Wars universe be half as appealing without the Force, or Harry Potter nearly as exciting without witchcraft and wizardry?

  Just as importantly, the mythology of the Trojan War is not the construct of a single mind. It’s like a snowball rolling down a long but gentle slope, growing steadily larger as different eras add their own layers to the original and enrich it with new perspectives. A Song of War is the latest addition to that snowball, bringing something new and unique to an old narrative and helping us to see it through fresh eyes. It’s the work of a group of very talented and quite different authors—following on previous collections—A Day of Fire, about the end of Pompeii, and A Year of Ravens, about Boudica’s rebellion—who have collaborated to produce a story in seven parts. Each part is a whole in itself and can be enjoyed separately; but it is more rewarding to read them in sequence, following the characters and plot threads as they unify to create a bigger picture.

  As the author of a series of novels about Odysseus, I have been fascinated by the approach of each writer in A Song of War toward places, events, and characters that I’ve been familiar with for several years, in the guises in which they appear in my own books. Unlike me, they’ve chosen to keep the gods out of sight and base their tale in the historical and political—though belief in the supernatural clearly shapes the attitudes and actions of the characters throughout. They have also recast the likes of Hector, Cassandra, Aeneas, and others in new molds, imparting fresh DNA to well-known characters that forces the reader to reevaluate their preconceptions and assumptions about them. This, of course, is essential and natural, or what would be the point of retelling the story? And without such additions and innovations the myth of Troy might not have endured.

  Authors of historical fiction also have to take liberties with historical reality, too. Some modern conventions have been adopted in A Song of War that weren’t used in the Bronze Age, such as measuring time in weeks. It is also worth stressing that mythology and historical fact are uneasy bedfellows. What we know about the Trojan War comes mostly from myth, and the most celebrated source of these myths is Homer, who is renowned for being a mishmash of different eras. Although authors should be historically accurate where possible, they should also be allowed some license. It’s fiction, after all, and if the writer is restricted to relating pure facts, then his or her story will quickly become stale. The authors of A Song of War have told their own story of Troy, and they have made it original and exciting. I hope you enjoy it as much as I have.

  CHARACTER LIST

  Trojans

  Priam, king of Troy

  Hecuba, Priam’s wife, queen of Troy

  Hector, their eldest son, prince and heir of Troy

  Andromache, Hector’s wife

  Kabriones, Hector’s charioteer

  Hellenus, second son of Priam, born to a Nubian concubine

  Cassandra, twin sister to Hellenus

  Paris, Priam’s favorite son

  Deiphobus, Troilus, Polites, Cebriones, Polydorus, Lycaon: other sons of Priam

  Aeneas of Dardania, a royal cousin, supposedly son of Aphrodite

  Anchises, Aeneas’ father

  Creusa, Aeneas’ wife

  Chryses, a priest of Apollo

  Chryseis, Chryses’ daughter

  Penthesilea, Amazon princess and ally to Troy

  Katu, son of a Trojan warrior

  Other Trojans: Coroebus of Phrygia, Dryops, Laoganus, Dardanus, Pelias, Iphitus, Tros, Acmon, Misenus, Iapyx

  Achaeans

  Menelaus, king of Sparta

  Helen, Menelaus’ wife, queen of Sparta, supposedly a daughter of Zeus

  Hermione, their daughter

  Agamemnon, Menelaus’ older brother, king of Mycenae

  lytemnestra, Agamemnon’s wife, Helen’s sister

  Iphigenia, Agamemnon’s daughter

  Orestes, Agamemnon’s son

  Talthybius, Achaean herald

  Odysseus, king of Ithaca

  Penelope, Odysseus’ wife, Helen’s cousin

  Philoctetes, prince of Meliboea

  Ajax, prince of Locris

  Diomedes, king of Argos

  Calchas, Achaean priest

  Nestor, king of Pylos

  Achilles, prince of Phth
ia, leader of the Myrmidons, supposedly son of a sea goddess

  Briseis of Lesvos, Achilles’ captive

  Automedon, Achilles’ charioteer

  Patrocles, prince of Aegina, Achilles’ companion and lover

  Skara, concubine of Patrocles

  Phoenix, captain of Achilles’ Myrmidons

  Neoptolemus, son of Achilles

  Other Achaeans: Leitos of Plataea, Idomeneus of Crete, Antiphos of Trachis, Stichius of Boeotia, Eurypilos

  THE FIRST SONG

  The Apple

  by Kate Quinn

  Ah, might the gods make you the prize in a mighty contest,

  and let the victor have you for his couch!

  Ovid, the Heroides

  HELLENUS

  Shall I sing to you of Troy?

  Shining Troy, windy Troy, many-towered Troy. The city of gold, gatekeeper of the east, haven of the god-born and the lucky. Aphrodite’s sweet breath kissed every breeze that wafted over our gates; Apollo and Poseidon raised our mighty walls; we were ruled by a white-haired king wise as Athena, and defended by the mightiest heroes ever to stride the earth.

  That is the story you want—but I am not the singer for that song. I am no hero, and I did not call Troy home, though it was the place of my birth. I hated its every brick and banner. Watching those fabled towers fade beyond the horizon of the sea, as sails bellied and oars splashed, I made a vow.

  I will return only to leave again. That I swore as the seabirds cried overhead. One last task in the service of my father, the king, and then I was done. I would return only for my sister, my dark and shadow-haunted twin, and then the two of us would be gone from Troy forever.

  That I swore. But instead there would be war, because the gods had other plans.

  The gods and a woman named Helen.

  My moods could be as dark as my skin at times—those moods were a curse all Priam’s sons shared, except perhaps Paris, who was made of bright copper and sunshine—but I loved the sea, and a voyage in the height of summer lifted even a somber soul like mine. With every oar-stroke that pulled our ships away from Troy, my heart lightened. The winds came soft and sweet from the west, blowing us toward Sparta, and I rode the deck easily, savoring the salt wind and the sunshine. I could see my brothers doing the same on their respective ships, Paris, ever more burnished by the sun, and Hector, prowling the deck like a great dark-maned lion. Three princes riding three ships with painted eyes and hulls full of treasure: the song at least had a proper beginning.

  “Sparta,” Paris mused when we disembarked at the port in Gythio. “Is that the city where the women cut off a breast and grow beards like men?” He grinned. “Sounds like an adventure.”

  “I doubt you’ll see any bearded women here,” Hector rumbled.

  “At least one single-breasted woman, then?” Paris pleaded. “Just one? You promised me excitement, and royal weddings are so damnably dull!”

  “I did not promise you excitement,” Hector reproved, but he was grinning, and so was I. Paris’ charm was like ambrosia, heady and irresistible, and his never-ending ripple of jokes was a natural antidote to any dark mood. Even mine and Hector’s.

  “Sparta is the city where kingship comes from queens,” a lighter voice laughed behind me. “Menelaus is king, but it comes through his wife. Someone will have to explain how that works, if only so I can tell Priam and see him harrumph.” Andromache stepped to her husband’s side, small and bird-boned and barely up to Hector’s vast shoulder. She was dusted all over in freckles like powdered gold, and her sand-colored hair flew everywhere in cheerful disarray. Cheerful disarray was my sister-in-law’s usual state, paired with the infectious grin of a happy urchin. Hector, I knew, found it charming. His mother did not. Perhaps that was the reason for Andromache’s greater than usual smile as she shook out her salt-streaked skirts without hearing a pained reproof of You do not look very queenly, dear. “I don’t care if the Spartan queen has a beard as long as she offers me a bath.”

  “They’ve heard of baths, haven’t they?” Paris grimaced comically. “Dear gods, what have we let ourselves in for?”

  Hector gave a laughing warning of “Behave!” and we were off: a rolling array of chariots assembled from the bellies of our ships, followed by a string of donkeys laden with Trojan treasure: gifts for King Menelaus, our host in Sparta, and for the lavish wedding he was hosting for a royal cousin.

  “What king is this girl marrying again?” Paris wondered when we halted to water the horses. “King of Ithaca? Who ever heard of Ithaca anyway? Any man with an island of three sand dunes and a few stingrays can call himself a king in these parts.”

  It was true—none of these little kings in the west could compare with Priam, our father, who considered them no better than pirates. He believed in reminding them of his greatness with lavish gifts at royal weddings, proving just how much gold he could afford to toss away to the pirate rulers of sand dunes and stingrays.

  “Aphrodite’s tits,” Paris exclaimed when at last we reined up before the palace of Menelaus. “Hector, you wouldn’t lodge your horses in that shed. Of course, you’d take one look at the palace at Olympus and decide it wasn’t good enough for your horses... ”

  “He has you there,” I told Hector.

  He smiled, then turned serious. “Give Paris a helping hand during our stay if he needs it,” my older brother murmured. “His first diplomatic visit—under all that joking, he’s very anxious to do our father proud.”

  “Aren’t we all?” I said lightly. To win and keep Priam’s approval—that was a burden I’d seen stoop the shoulders of all my brothers. All but me, for I’d knew I’d never earn it.

  Perhaps Hector guessed my thoughts, for he gave a silent squeeze of my shoulder. It was his way—to give comfort without words, to speak affection in a glance, to show fury in stillness. We think of heroes as loud crashing creatures, their reputations and the clatter of their weapons announcing their presence in every movement, but Hector approached everything from spear practice to common conversation with the same calm, reflective ease. His soul was warm, strong bronze to Paris’ flashy copper and my own humble tin. And over us all, our father with his core of granite.

  Only Paris acted unruffled before that stone gaze. He could make an irreverent face, the one he wore now, and even our father would laugh.

  Hector handed Andromache down, and we advanced on the palace gates. Sparta was lovely country—rich hills furred with pines, brush rustling thick with boar and deer to be hunted, streams clear and bubbling—but the king’s abode was a poor thing compared to Troy’s massive palace atop the citadel. A double porch opened into a small courtyard, pillars of painted plaster rather than stone rising around us as we awaited our host.

  Curious slaves and Spartan guards were already gathering, whispering behind their hands as they stared at the donkeys laden with gifts, at our heavy Hittite-styled chariots, at Andromache, who had tamed her hair if not her freckles and stood in full fringed skirts and gold bracelets. Hector bore the weight of eyes calmly, accustomed to being stared at: twenty-six and standing tall as any god, his shoulders massive under armor that alternated gold and bronze with silver and iron and studded with lapis lazuli. Paris, at nineteen, lounged in his blinding white tunic and up-curled shoes, running a hand through his oiled-back curls and returning the stares just as frankly, dropping his eyelid in a wink if any of the starers was pretty. And I braced myself for gaping of a different kind, for though I was the second of Priam’s sons and born just after Hector, I was the least of them. And the darkest.

  My mother was a Nubian, a princess given to Priam as a concubine to seal a truce with her father—she was dark as a night sky, so they said. I had no memory of her. She died birthing my twin sister and me, and we stood out darkly among Priam’s other offspring, much ogled and pointed at. My sister would have garnered stares even had her skin been pale; she had beauty and fire, and to look at her was to see a torch burning to its base. I had nothing special about
me; I was merely Hellenus, stockily built, modest in height, and modest in talents, too. I had no beguiling charm like Paris or hero’s strength like Hector, no wily brain like Priam or unearthly beauty like my twin. A lesser prince, an ordinary man—that was me. But my face was dark, and so I was accustomed to pointing fingers and barely concealed whispers everywhere I went in Troy. Does he bleed black? people would mutter, staring curiously. Do you think a sun-born spirit sired that one instead of Priam?

  I ignored the whispers, but my sister would whip around and say, “Nothing so gentle as a sun spirit. More like a daemon. Priam is the daemon!” just to see the reactions. I tried to hush her in such moods, for our father’s displeasure was savage, but sometimes she wouldn’t be calmed. She had clung to me weeping when I left her on this voyage, muttering, “Death begets death until only the flies and carrion remain.” I’d held her till she calmed, telling myself that when I returned, I would take her with me away from Troy. From Troy, where the commoners stared at us as though we were curiosities, and our family—apart from Hector and Andromache and a few others—hardly considered us part of the palace at all. We were not housed with them; we did not dine with them; our brothers and sisters mostly ignored us. Priam only addressed my sister to harangue her, and he never summoned me unless there was some duty or service he thought I should be grateful to perform—like making up a third envoy to this Spartan wedding. No, few in Troy would miss my sister and me if we were to leave.

  Only where would we go? To build any kind of home, I would need a king willing to shelter a pair of Trojan castoffs, and I knew of none who would risk offering a welcoming hand to mine for fear it would displease my father. Though I did notice, standing in the Spartan courtyard, that though my face attracted glances, I was not receiving the kind of open stares that were my lot in Troy.