She’s pitiable.

  “In the afternoon,” Cassandra continues, “while the trial went on between my brothers, she admitted she didn’t want Deiphobus as her next husband. She’ll have to have him, though. Helenus lost out, but he may yet do something.” She tilts her head. “Is any rabbit left?”

  She must have seen me bring it down when shooting it was still in the future.

  I even saved a morsel of fat from the thigh for Eurus. His face softens when he sees it.

  Over my meat and the extra bounty that he provides, I explain my plan.

  “What if I were in the horse? I’m tall enough to be mistaken for a Greek warrior.”

  Eurus nods along with my words. Cassandra’s eyes never leave my face. Her expression gives nothing away. When I finish, Eurus and I wait. Only Cassandra’s judgment matters. A fly lands on my nose. I brush it off.

  Crows flap to us from the west, the direction of Troy. A crow perches on the head of each of us.

  “Clouds lit from below,

  trouble made by mortals.

  Clouds stabbed by lightning,

  Zeus having his say,

  speaking nonsense in heat and noise.”

  Cassandra laughs. “Crows speak nonsense. Your plan sounds good. I can’t tell if it will work.” She stands and paces. “You have such concoctions? For sleep and wakefulness? Both?”

  I nod.

  She adds, “Mm. I don’t like you going into the Greeks’ camp.”

  The plan is tricky even though it’s simple. I’ll sneak into the Greek camp before the warriors stuff themselves into the horse. When they’re about to, I’ll line up to go inside with them.

  Cassandra says that getting into the wooden horse will be one of the most dangerous moments. “Helenus will be in the camp. You’ll be finished if he recognizes you.”

  “Why does he care anymore? He isn’t likely to have Satchel, no matter what happens.”

  “I think he wants Troy to fall because Deiphobus will lose her then. And he’s going to stay with the Greeks after the war.”

  Oh.

  “You have some of their armor, right?” I ask.

  Cassandra says they do. Spoils.

  “It will disguise me.”

  “Yes.” But she looks worried.

  When a plan has Greeks and Trojans in it, anything can go wrong.

  Cassandra says that after everyone is inside the horse, oxen will be hitched to its platform. Overnight, five men will lead the oxen and make sure the horse doesn’t topple. The army will row themselves in skiffs to their ships and then row the ships to hide behind the nearest island.

  In the morning, the horse will be discovered when Troy’s western gate is opened.

  “Can you yell when you see the horse? Otherwise, I may not hear you through the wood.”

  “Of course.”

  Her cry will be my signal to unstop the ewers that hold the concoctions. I’ll breathe in and keep breathing in the one filled with a potion to keep me alert: rosemary, basil, lemon, mint, and snake venom.

  I’ll let Pen’s sleeping elixir spread in the air.

  Eurus says he can help with this part. He can trap a little wind in the ewer with the sleeping potion. “When you open the crock, the wind will waft the scent all over and keep it from fading.”

  The men will be dull in seconds and asleep in a minute. I thank him.

  Their snores will tell me I can bellow the Amazon war cry. The Greeks may shift in their sleep, but alertness won’t be possible. I’ll keep roaring to let the Trojans know who I am and that the horse is no gift for their goddess. I won’t stop until they attack it and find the Greeks.

  Cassandra thanks me, speaking through tears. “Lately—because it’s so close—I can’t resist looking ahead. I see them slaughtering us. I see my father—” She breaks off. “But it’s a good plan. Eurus, if it fails, will you blow Rin to her band?”

  If I’m alive, but she doesn’t say that.

  He promises but I won’t let him, and I’m sure he’ll agree. I won’t leave her to her fate. When her murderer attacks, I’ll be there if I can be.

  Cybele, thank you for making me loyal. Even if loyalty will kill me.

  16

  According to Cassandra, the horse won’t be built for three months. First, Helenus has to betray Troy and prophesy twice for the Greeks. When they do what he says and still aren’t victorious, the warrior Odysseus will think of the horse. Until then, fighting will continue, but it will halt while the horse is built and when their plot is carried out. The Greeks will ask for the truce, they’ll say, in order to hunt and fish. The Trojans will welcome the break to do the same.

  I yawn. “If Cybele were the Greeks’ goddess, she’d make events move more quickly.”

  Cassandra laughs. She tells me to savor the time left.

  But I can’t. I miss my band. Our yearly gathering on Cybele’s island is coming, and I’m unlikely to be there.

  The Trojans think I’ve left with the band. I don’t want them to see me, so I stay in our camp while Cassandra sleeps in the palace.

  She and Eurus come to me daily.

  Once, he blows us to nearby Mount Ida, where I admire chasms, forests, and a rainbow of wildflowers. He lands us on the bank of a lake where Cassandra swims and I flail my arms and manage to keep my head above water until Eurus’s wind stirs up waves. I go under and come up sputtering.

  Cassandra paddles in place while Eurus stands on shore. They both laugh at me, but I never see him swimming, either. Cassandra demonstrates several ways of moving through the water—on her back, side, belly. She says side and back are easiest. I don’t try. I want to learn every skill an Amazon needs, but we don’t need this one.

  We spend lazy days in the sacred grove. Eurus and Cassandra teach me a game called knucklebones and spend half an afternoon laughing at my clumsiness until I spend the other half gloating over Cassandra’s slowness and mocking Eurus for having to use his wind to beat me.

  They tell me about the Trojan gods and goddesses and their antics. If I didn’t know Eurus and hadn’t seen Hera, I would scoff at all of it.

  A week before construction begins on the horse, Cassandra peers for hour after hour into the future, seeing and re-seeing the days to come at the Greek camp. She says that warriors will volunteer and line up to climb into the horse not long before it leaves. “No one will want to be shut up for a moment longer than they need to be.”

  The Greeks will tuck themselves into the belly. The horse’s legs will be solid wood as will be the head and neck. The horse will be painted with a scene of a festival procession.

  Cassandra says, “The side seams of the hatch will be hidden by the folds and hem of a worshipper’s cloak. The worshipper will be a stooped old man, so the outline of his curved back will disguise the upper seam. The painter will be clever.”

  During the night, a day before I’m to leave, Eurus steals an assortment of Greek armor and weapons from Priam’s storage rooms. He wafts it all, along with Cassandra and himself, to my camp. She has things for me too, including a Greek tunic. I can’t wear my leggings, which mark me as an Amazon.

  Eurus spreads the gear on the ground, including a large water jug.

  I take off my felt hat because I know what must be done, a thing an Amazon would never do, but a village woman often does. Cassandra says her preparation is very good, made of mashed leeches that have been pickled for two months.

  This does not comfort me.

  But I can’t pass myself off as Greek with red hair. My pale skin is bad enough.

  First, she uses my scissors and cuts my hair to just below my ears. Then she brushes the leech mush into my hair. My scalp itches. The mess has to stay on for about an hour. I dig my fingers into my palms to keep from scratching.

  Meanwhile, Cassandra stoops over the armor and points at this and that. She looks up at me. Her face is mischievous. “I’m outfitting you as a Myrmidon. Some of them are freckled too. No one pays attention to a Myrmidon.”

  “Why not?”

  She straightens. “It’s a long story, but Zeus turned ants into people for Achilles’ grandfather. The ants’ grandchildren were Achilles’ soldiers until he died. Now Agamemnon commands them. They’re very dull—like ants probably are—and their armor is brown. They rarely talk, but when they do, it’s always about what they ate for their last meal or what they’ll have for their next one.”

  I think I’d like the Myrmidons. I’m not chatty myself.

  At last, I rinse my hair in the stream that runs beside the camp. Cassandra and Eurus pronounce me a brunette.

  He looks away while I don the Greek tunic, which reveals the ibex tattoo above my left knee. We’re not happy about this. Greek and Trojan legs aren’t decorated.

  “It’s too hot for a cloak,” Cassandra says.

  “Maybe no one will look at my legs.” This can’t ruin everything!

  Eurus suggests covering the spot with mud. He vanishes and returns after a minute or two with mud in his fists, paler mud than I’ve ever seen.

  This succeeds until, after a few minutes, the mud dries to sand and falls away.

  “I can keep my shield over it.” Even I don’t like this idea. I’ll be holding my shield in an unnatural way, which will also be noticed.

  We stand silently. Both of them stare at my legs. I feel embarrassed.

  Finally, an idea arrives, a painful one. Without asking their opinion, I sit on my folded blanket on the ground and scrape my knife over the tattoo and beyond its borders, back and forth until beads of blood pop out.

  “Rin! Stop!” Cassandra cries.

  I continue. “My tattoo will not spoil the plan.” When I think I’ve done enough, I fetch a handful of salt from the supplies Lannip left for me. Ignoring the smarting, I blend the salt with Eurus’s sand and rub the mixture into the wound.

  The lines of the tattoo are dimmed by my red and angry skin.

  Eurus, who may never have felt pain, erupts in laughter. “It’s perfect.”

  Cassandra’s eyes are wet. “Thank you!”

  He adds hopefully, “Maybe it will ooze with pus.”

  Cassandra and I laugh. He looks puzzled.

  By now, it’s twilight. We dine on leftovers from my last hunt and Eurus’s endless bounty. I sleep as if I have no cares. If I die, I will have done my best.

  The morning is cloudy. I put on the tunic and over it a tarnished bronze cuirass, which presses into my chest. The greaves over my shins and calves rub when I take a few steps. Amazons don’t wear them. And the sandals flap. The cork sole is bigger than my foot, though Cassandra picked the smallest pair. Scratchy laces wind around my big toes and tie around my ankles.

  The helmet, though, pleases me, especially its copper crest, which reminds me of the feathered crest of the hoopoe bird on our plains. The nose and cheek guards disguise me, I’m sure. I hear Pen’s voice in my mind: Rin, is that you?

  Cassandra says, “You won’t be the only youth. Others won’t have a beard yet, either.”

  I point out that I’ll never have one. She laughs and hands me a wooden shield, round rather than crescent-shaped like ours. I sling on the strap that holds my gorytos.

  “No!” Cassandra holds out a Greek bow and quiver of arrows. “The gorytos will stand out more than the tattoo.”

  “I can’t fight without my gorytos.”

  Cassandra puts down the weapons.

  “If you need to fight,” Eurus points out, “we’re lost.”

  This is true, even though I want to argue.

  “The gorytos will draw attention. Someone will try to take it from you.” Cassandra smiles. “Your bow is desired by Greeks and Trojans.” She chuckles. “One or two might prefer having it to marrying Satchel.”

  I take the quiver and the enormous Greek bow.

  Cassandra has brought a mirror of polished obsidian. Stepping back, she holds it so I can see my whole self.

  A Greek warrior faces me. My eyes are in shadow. The cheek guards cover the corners of my lips, making my expression spiteful. I smile, which calls a rabbit to mind. Don’t smile!

  “You make a credible fighter.” Cassandra puts the mirror away.

  I nock an arrow and draw back the string. The bow is so stiff it’s almost useless. I aim it away from Cassandra and Eurus.

  After I shoot, I don’t have to go far to collect my arrow. “I’d starve if I had to hunt with this.” I try again, and the arrow flies fast and far.

  Eurus laughs at my confusion, giving himself away.

  “Don’t do that!” I don’t want his help with my shooting.

  We have hours before I need to leave in mid-afternoon. I remove the uncomfortable armor and practice with the bow, making little progress.

  Finally, the time comes. I don the armor again.

  Cassandra tells me to take the water jug that Eurus brought. “He’ll leave you at a stream that’s near the camp. The water in the jug will give you a reason for having left and for returning.” She adds, “Avoid Helenus. Watch for him every moment. If you see him, move away.”

  “I will.”

  She hugs me, releases me, and hugs me again. “Before you came, I didn’t know what friendship was.”

  I say, “I didn’t guess a village woman could be a friend or be brave or save my life.”

  We hug one more time.

  Eurus coughs.

  I hang the ridiculous bow across my left shoulder and push the strap of the misshapen shield over my left forearm. My own arrows are in a quiver on my belt behind my foreign sword. The vials of sleeping potion and wakefulness potion hang in a pouch between the two. I push my helmet into my right armpit. With difficulty, I hold both my spear and the water jug in my right hand.

  Cassandra tells me that I am the image of a young Greek warrior. A moment later, she adds, “No. Your posture is too good. Slouch!”

  I ask Eurus to blow me slowly to the Greek camp (though faster than I can trot), so I’ll see the route that the wooden horse will take. I want to know the ups and downs along the way. He picks me up.

  A hundred things can go wrong. I may never see my friend again.

  Or my band.

  17

  I savor the fresh wind as Eurus blows us along. Cassandra has warned me that inside the horse, the air will stink of sweat, farts, and bad breath.

  The land below is flat but furrowed, with grass here, dirt there. The wooden horse will have a bumpy ride and will have to ford a stream halfway to Troy. From our height, I see the ocean ahead, striped with foam. The horizon is broken by the masts of the Greek fleet and, behind them, by an island with two hills. After the horse leaves for Troy, the Greeks will board their ships and hide behind the island.

  Before we descend, I see the horse. I’ve been eager for this, but it’s a horror to a lover of horses. Garish in its paint, and so stiff! It seems to lack knees or ankles. Just enough of a horse to show what it’s supposed to be.

  Eurus stops far enough from the river that we won’t be seen and sends his wind ahead to make sure no one is there. The riverbank is deserted, so he takes me.

  I hear the camp in the distance, voices calling and a rumble of beasts moving.

  “You have the gratitude of a lesser god for helping her. You know . . .” Eurus trails off.

  “You love her.”

  “It’s hopeless.”

  I was right! “The crows might say something surprising about hope.”

  “And about luck. Good luck.” He whisks himself away.

  My stomach is uneasy. I put down my shield and fill the jug. I can’t hold the jug and the spear without spilling water, so I half empty the jug. It’s just for show anyway.

  Then I think, as none of us had before, how odd I’m going to look. A Greek, living at the camp, wouldn’t take his spear, his helmet, and his shield with him to fetch water.

  I leave the jug.

  The simplest explanation is that I had gone to relieve myself. I might take my spear because of snakes, which are drawn to latrines—although my knife would do. I can’t think why I’d have my helmet and shield.

  And I have no idea if I’m coming from the direction of the latrine.

  I walk briskly. Swallowing a nervous giggle, I wonder, in case someone speaks to me, what a Myrmidon would have eaten at his latest meal.

  The first Greek I see is currying his horse. His weapons and armor lie on a blanket a few feet from him. I can kill him easily.

  He looks up when he hears me and smiles. “Hello, lad.”

  I’ve stopped noticing the Trojan and Greek accent, but now I’m aware of it again. He’o, ’ad.

  I’ll give myself away if I speak! Instead, I nod.

  I see him take in that I’m a Myrmidon. He returns to his work.

  I keep myself from grinning. Thank you, Cassandra.

  The camp bustles. My eyes rake the scene, searching for Helenus, but I don’t see him.

  Men eat porridge from wooden bowls. Others sit in circles, playing dice. Cries and groans ring out. Some lead horses and oxen to the beach and urge the beasts onto skiffs. Many pack their belongings into sacks.

  A crowd of warriors in battle dress, as I am, cluster near the wooden horse. The hatch hangs half-open. A team of a dozen oxen has been harnessed to pull the horse.

  Helenus isn’t among the waiting men. A few are Myrmidons. I stand with them and put on my helmet. Now I look like everyone else.

  To the side of us, not in our line, is a man I recognize because Cassandra has described him: Agamemnon, the Greek king who will be her captor and the cause of her death. My heart picks up its pace.

  He towers over the Greeks and pulls his shoulders back. Some might call his face handsome. Not I. His nostrils are big enough to admit a fly. His deep-set eyes seem to be holes. He’s smiling, giving him a greedy look.

  Striding back and forth, he says in a voice that booms from his big chest, “Men, you will be courageous beyond others for entering the horse. If you die in its belly, there won’t be final deeds of yours to sing about. But if you are reborn from it alive and Greece is victorious, you’ll get double spoils and double the captives to choose among.”