Barr The Way Home

1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-1-925652-36-9
Verlag: Odyssey Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, Band 1, 244 Seiten

Reihe: Ashes of Olympus

The war of the gods has left Aeneas's country in flames. Though he is little more than a youth, Aeneas must gather the survivors and lead them to a new homeland across the roaring waves. Confronted by twisted prophecies, Aeneas faces the wrath of the immortals to find his own path.
First in a trilogy based on Virgil's epic poetry, Ashes of Olympus: The Way Home is a tale of love and vengeance in an age of bronze swords and ox-hide shields.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Barr, Julian

Leseproben

Chapter 12
At Father’s urging, Aeneas led the column down the slopes. It was slow and awkward because the Trojans needed to carry the wounded on makeshift litters—just canvas tied between spear shafts, but they would do. When at last they reached the foothills, Aeneas stared. The twisting trails all looked the same, and he worried he might lead them into the marshes. He called a brief halt amidst the cedar trees, summoned Gyas and the others. ‘Which way?’ Gyas rolled his eyes. ‘Left, Aeneas. To the left.’ ‘If I may, Prince?’ Mnestheos cleared his throat. ‘The people have seen you’re in command now. Perhaps it’d be best to let me head up the column for the time being.’ ‘Good,’ said Aeneas. He hoped that his relief didn’t show. ‘I think I’d like to move down the column a bit, talk to the people.’ ‘Good lad,’ said Mnestheos. ‘Let ‘em see you care for them. Meanwhile, do us all a favour and take off that cloak. It makes you a target for every bandit we run across. Don’t forget the Greeks are still close.’ ‘Right.’ Aeneas shrugged off the cape, and somebody took it. ‘Gyas? You can scout ahead. I don’t want any nasty surprises.’ Gyas nodded. ‘I’ll go as far as the coast, then double back and wait for you on the border. You can’t miss it. When our council made an alliance with Tros, they planted a great fir tree there.’ ‘Yes, I read about it once,’ said Sergestos. ‘It’s hundreds of years old, great and green. The roots spread into both lands. So long as Troy and Antantros are joined, it will flourish.’ Gyas nodded. ‘Don’t dawdle getting to Antandros. Consider leaving the wounded behind. They’ll just slow you down.’ Aeneas’s mouth hardened. ‘You’re mad.’ ‘No. I’m a mercenary.’ With that, Gyas swaggered off. Sergestos stared at Gyas’s back. ‘Think I’ll go and help tend the wounded.’ ‘You’re a healer, now?’ Sergestos shrugged. ‘I know a bit of herb lore and things.’ ‘I’ll come with you then.’ They walked together in thoughtful silence, moving down the file and sharing nods of encouragement with the survivors. Aeneas worked hard not to slouch. He hoped he looked confident and dauntless, though he could not keep his eyelids from drooping. It was best to focus on the refugees’ faces. Once in a while, images of the night before would threaten to engulf him. If he closed his eyes even for a moment, he would see Kreusa’s death play out once more. Aeneas shuddered and tightened up his smile, determined to keep his promise to Kreusa not to give in. He had to keep moving, could not stop until his people had reached safety. The Trojans were giving a nearby pine a wide berth. Aeneas became aware of a droning sound, growing louder as he and Sergestos approached the tree. Sergestos stopped short, looking up into the branches, spying a beehive. ‘Aha.’ He pulled a leather purse from inside his tunic and clambered up the trunk. His face shone with perspiration and his long hair went wild in the breeze. A moment later, he landed with a thump on the withered grass. Sergestos closed the drawstrings on his purse. A purple bee-sting was already blooming on his nose, but it did not mask the triumph on his face. Aeneas raised his eyebrows. ‘Honey? A strange time for sweets.’ Sergestos laughed. ‘Nah. Honey salves stop wounds turning foul.’ He licked a stray bit of yellow from his thumb. ‘Doesn’t taste bad, either.’ ‘Where did you learn that?’ ‘My old pappy, he wanted honey in everything.’ ‘No, not that. The other thing.’ Sergestos grinned. ‘When I was an initiate at the library—you know, before I had to join the army—we got our hands on an Egyptian scroll. What’s-her-name sent it. Helen. They’re a strange lot, those Egyptians, but they could sure teach us a thing or two about … Well, lots of things. But especially medicine. Hope I managed to translate the glyphs right, though. It’s a tricky language.’ Aeneas’s mouth hung open. ‘What?’ ‘Nothing. Sometimes I forget how clever you are, that’s all.’ ‘Yeah. Well.’ Sergestos’s shoulders hunched. ‘Wasn’t much help to you last night, was I?’ ‘Huh?’ Sergestos fiddled with the strap on his baldric. ‘You saw me. I just went to pieces when those drunks attacked us in the street.’ ‘The big one got the better of you, that’s all.’ Sergestos fidgeted. ‘I’m not a warrior. We both know it. I hate killing. Does that make me a coward, Aeneas?’ Aeneas considered, brushed the hair out of his eyes. ‘Nobody likes killing.’ ‘I dunno. Last night in the alleyway … Almost looked like you enjoyed it.’ Aeneas blinked and straightened his shoulders. ‘I’ll tell you a secret, Sergestos. You know what happened in my first battle?’ Sergestos shook his head. ‘I threw up. I couldn’t handle it: the heat, the stink, javelins flying. And the chariot was jostling about so much, I just leaned over the side and lost my breakfast.’ Sergestos laughed. ‘You?’ ‘Yep. I’m pretty sure Prince Hektor saw, but he didn’t say anything. He just got on with the battle, and so did I. I think he understood; he was always looking out for me. Him and his wife. I guess what I’m trying to say is that a real coward wouldn’t have even tried last night. Being brave isn’t about not being scared. It’s about being scared and doing what you’ve got to do.’ ‘Maybe.’ Sergestos’s face was drained of emotion. ‘Look, spilling blood is part of war. There’s no escaping it—we don’t get to choose which orders we follow. Doesn’t mean we enjoy it.’ Aeneas swallowed. He didn’t think he was doing very well at comforting his friend. ‘When this is over, Sergestos, I’ll make you our chief librarian and you’ll never have to worry about killing again. But for now we’ve got things to do, and we need to get on with it.’ Sergestos nodded, the corners of his mouth tugged downward. ‘Yes, sire. I understand. I’ll do my best.’ ‘I can’t ask more than that. Just stop calling me “sire”, by the Fates.’ At last they reached the wounded. The litter-bearers lagged behind the main group. Sergestos passed the wallet of honey with a word to the healer, and she all but snatched it out his hands. ‘You!’ snapped the healer, catching sight of Aeneas. He recognised her as the same lady he’d seen attending to the injured earlier. Blinking like an idiot, he remembered they had attended a few of the same parties, though he couldn’t find a name for her. She was in her early thirties, a little too old for them to move in the same circles. ‘Don’t stand there gawking, help us.’ She grabbed Aeneas by the tunic and pulled him over to one of the wounded, a white-haired man. The litter had been set on the dirt. ‘We shouldn’t stop here,’ said Aeneas. ‘Don’t want to get left behind.’ ‘No helping it,’ she snapped. ‘The priest got caught inside when the temple of Athena went up in smoke. Burns to half his torso. We need to change his bandages, and I can’t do that while we’re moving.’ ‘Right. What do you want me to do?’ ‘Hold him down. This is going to hurt quite a lot, and I don’t want him rolling off into the dust. You seem like a strong fellow, shouldn’t be a problem for you.’ The old man writhed and screamed as the bandages were removed. It was hard to keep a grasp on his shoulders, and Aeneas worried that he was causing the priest more distress. Underneath the bandages, the man’s flesh was a mess of angry red. The burns smelled rancid. Aeneas swallowed the urge to gag. It was only by some accident of birth that his own flesh didn’t look like that now. The healer worked her art. She spread a little of Sergestos’s honey across the burns, and the man recoiled. She muttered prayers of healing to Apollo in a sing-song voice, the hymn more soothing than the salve. When the wound was coated in honey, she reapplied the bandage, her hands moving so fast Aeneas couldn’t track them. The priest lay back with a gentle moan, exhausted. Then his eyes fluttered open and fixed upon Aeneas. The old man whispered something in the healer’s ear. She jerked around and stared at Aeneas, as though examining him for the first time. ‘My prince. I meant no disrespect, I—I didn’t recognise … I was so distracted last night …’ ‘It’s all right. You were just doing your duty. And that’s tough enough without me getting in your way. What’s your name?’ ‘Eumela.’ Her hazel eyes were round. He wiped his hands upon his tunic, leaving streaks of red. ‘All right, Eumela. What else can I do?’ The sun crept toward the zenith of the sky. The Trojans had walked some miles, and sweat ran down Aeneas’s back. He spotted Gyas running against the crowd, picking his way between the survivors. Gyas panted to a halt. ‘Got here as fast as I could.’ ‘Thought you were waiting at the border.’ ‘You need to see this.’ Aeneas dropped what he was doing and hastened forward. It took a short while to catch up to the rest of the group. Ahead, the Trojans had congregated in a ring around the great fir tree of which Gyas and Sergestos had spoken, whispering in dismay. He pushed past the gawkers...