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It was cold, even with the fire banked up we were only just keeping the cold at bay, just beyond the ring around the fire, it would be waiting for us. The fire was burning in the centre, producing as much smoke as heat, so it felt. The billowing clouds of smoke were left to find their own way out; which they were failing to do very effectively.

We could hear the wind outside. No-one spoke, but we were all thinking along the same lines, I could tell. We’d been here a couple of weeks, the gold helped give us a welcome, that and the fact that the women all looked attractive; that always helped, even though none of them was on offer. Four of them were becoming obviously pregnant, though I knew that would not stop people if they had the chance.

Helen sat on a log, hunched over. She hated this, used, as she was, to so much better. She hardly helped at all; not for the first time I wondered why I tolerated the spoilt bitch. I wondered, but my inner soul always answered the same: with looks like hers, she can do what the hell she likes.

Cassandra, at least, tried to make herself useful; she had learnt, just about, how to gut a fish. Her gutted fish were always rather messy, but at least she was trying. And she accepted the gentle ribbing about her fish gutting technique. The others just got on with life and waited for what would come next. Nothing had prepared them for all this; but then I was hardly born to it either. They were used to servants and I was used to central heating. Perhaps we all figured it was better than the alternatives.

A mountain of a man pushed past the skins that served as a door in this hovel we had made habitable. As he did so, a few flakes of snow drifted in and expired in what passed, in comparison, for the heat of the hut. He’d been drinking, heavily. He grunted some guttural noises. I didn’t need to understand what he was saying, I knew; it had happened before. He wanted Helen. Everyone wanted her, even a few women had made that clear.

I shook my head but he didn’t seem to understand why I should be with seven women; he wanted a share, and Helen was his choice. She looked more bored or angry than scared. I actually think that, even without me being there, she would have looked the same. It wasn’t that she thought I could deal with him, just that this world of men held few surprises for her. She was the most beautiful woman in the world, and that brought the inevitable lust of men to the fore. I wasn’t immune from that. Was I tempted to let him have her? It would be easier for me, but no, I had promised to protect her and Cassandra. No; they were sacrosanct. The others might have been on offer, earlier, but now they were my friends, my lovers. No, I would do the macho thing once more.

He grunted again and pulled out a 3 foot sword. I stood and the women moved to the sides. I could barely stand upright, under the low, smoky ceiling, so the man, broad though he was, could not have been as tall as I thought. He laughed as I drew back my own sword – lighter and longer than his, but he also thought it fragile. I waited and took up my usual stance; the one I’d been taught in classes – if you can, make them move, then you can read their body; and eventually he attacked. Seconds later, the leglessly drunk man was legless in a literal sense too. He wasn’t dead, he was bellowing like a bull being bled, I dragged him outside, where, not to my surprise, his friends were waiting. They had been hoping he would dispatch me, then the other women would be up for grabs. They looked ... disappointed rather than aggressive.

I spoke slowly, their guttural tongue still not coming naturally except for a few words., “He ... will ... die. I ... cannot ... save ... him.” One of them looked at his wounds and confirmed to the others that their big warrior friend was doomed. He looked at me and nodded, and my sword put his wait for the afterlife at an end. “Ssorry” I aspirated in English, and then in their own language.

He was the first, but others would follow, if not for the women then for the gold. I sighed, it was time to move on again.

MONTHS EARLIER, and years in the future.

I’m Robert, I’m a physicist at the Cavendish-Johnson International Institute. Prime Minister Johnson had established his research centre when he was in power, and it had, after some judicious prompting from some of Boris’s fan club, been named after him. When he lost power to the SEWNP (Scottish, English and Welsh Nationalists Party), it had been merged with the Cavendish Laboratories, but they’d let it keep his name after Unite, of all people, went on strike to protect his Brexit inheritance (this scientific institution and a new hospital in Gateshead). We, the lucky researchers, were supposedly allowed to spend 50% of our time on designated research, and 50% on our own interests. Mine was exploring time. After some micro-experiments, I concluded that atoms that have existed for millions of years have stored within them some experience of their history. Returning an atom to five minutes ago doesn’t stretch the boundaries of time, it simply rewinds the tape.

One or two experiments seemed to work, but the director felt I was wasting resources so I was asked to concentrate on nuclear waste de-naturisation. It was the sort of request that carried a not-so-hidden subtext about research fellowships not being renewed. I didn’t want a normal 9 to 5 job, so I caved straight away. I was to travel to Windscale to do more work the following week. That weekend I decided to advance my experiments in case I didn’t get another chance. I built a larger Atom Historiciser (as I called it), intending to try a mouse; it seemed to work (I wondered where the mouse had come from yesterday), I drank a whisky or eight to celebrate, which was most unprofessional, fell asleep and only vaguely awoke when the AH fell on top of me.

When I finally awoke to brilliant sunshine; and heat! It was hot; there was a blue sky, a bright sun and a lot of heat. The scenery seemed different to Cambridgeshire. It was very hot! A couple of women walked past, looked me over and giggled. They were laughing at my clothes, I could tell, and they were dressed – well half undressed actually ... After a decade as a science student, I was used to well-dressed, attractive women laughing at me; it was an international language. I wasn’t interested in clothes, yesterday’s jeans (literally, and in a fashion sense), yesterday’s tee shirt (the Che Guavara dated it a little), and a pair of old trainers was fine for delving into the mysteries of the inner universe of physics. History graduates often disagreed. Why history? Because physicists aren’t all one trick ponies interested in physics and nothing else. History was fascinating. I attended lectures when I could. The girls were all well dressed and spoke with plums in their mouths (I told them that once and asked if they’d ever had a plumber in their mouth instead – they didn’t think I was funny). That was why I recognised the dress that these two girls were in as ancient Greek.

“You going to fancy dress?” I shouted, they looked like I had grunted like a gorilla, and ran off. So I made my way down the hill. “Toto” I said, “This isn’t Oklahoma.” probably seriously misquoting Dorothy. This was odd, I must have been found and dumped somewhere as a joke. The ground was dusty, and hillier too, than Cambridge. “Okay guys, haha, come on out.” I shouted. We must be miles from home, I thought. There was no response except for a couple of goats jumping down from a bank and running off, followed by a boy of nine or so playing panpipes, also in a tunic. Even in the feyer parts of Cambridge, boys did not wear togas unless it was a toga party, and they weren’t suitable for nine-year-olds, at least the toga he was wearing wasn’t. I did, I admit, begin to wonder; but I put the idea aside as it suggested I was far to big headed to think I’d ... no, of course not.

I walked down the hill into a valley, fruit trees grew in fields, people working in the fields worked with no machinery. Perhaps it was an organic farm? Round the corner and still nothing that resembled Cambridgeshire. Some people looked at me and swiftly looked away, like they didn’t want to stand out. As I turned a bend in the track (track! Where was the tarmac?), two riders were coming towards me. They were dressed lightly, with no stirrups. Was this a vast fancy dress or could it possibly be Greece? I had only managed to send the mouse back a day; surely I hadn’t managed to go back thousands of years? No, maybe I was tripping. That must be it, I thouhgt. My drink had been spiked. Even as I thought that, I knew I’d poured my own drink from my own bottle in my own lab, on my own. One of them was on a magnificent white horse with decorative trappings. Clearly someone important.

Whatever it was, these two riders were looking at me in a meaningful way. The lesser (based on his horse and dress) of them spoke, and I understood nothing. I didn’t think they were being friendly. He drew a sword, a bronze sword! “Oh Shit!” I said, they stopped, and spoke. I shrugged and thought fast I didn’t know any ancient Greek, if that’s what it was. I tried some modern Greek. They looked confused. Then I tried Latin, German, French and English. None of what I said made any sense, but it confused them long enough for me to think about what to do. Finally, I bowed. Apparently it was too late. The armed one was getting down.

Then I finally had a good idea, I reached in and pulled out my phone. Obviously no signal, but the auto-translator app might help. One of them spoke gibberish. Auto-translator said “You must bow.” I thought I’d just done that, but I did it again.

I heard the swish and ducked sideways, caught the flat of the sword between my two hands and then swept his legs off to one side. The well-dressed horseman looked shocked, then burst into laughter and ordered the other to back off. I tried reverse translation “I apologise if I caused offence.” The phone chirruped out my speech in his tongue. The screen informed me it was Luwian, or a version of it. The man on the horse looked fascinated at a small black box speaking to him, but he seemed to grasp what was happening very quickly. I gathered that I had been ordered to bow to the king, when I had not done so, or had done so apparently very reluctantly, I was found worthy of death. The second order to bow was not to bow to his greatness, but to expose my neck. Now the king was more interested in how I had disarmed his guard.

He introduced himself, and you could have knocked me down with a feather, for this was King Priam of Troy. He frequently travelled over his lands with one guard, apparently. Troy was the unassailable, powerful city state of the area, and Priam was actually quite loved by the populace. He was, for the time, kind. He had even introduced laws to protect slaves, you could only whip them for just cause, which was quite a revolution in the treatment of people who existed between animals and real people (Troyians). I later gathered that there was a matrix of respect based upon class and gender. So women were less than men, and merchants were less than nobles, and freemen were less than merchants and slaves were less than everybody. I wanted to ask if a merchant woman was higher than a freeman peasant, but I thought it might get too complicated. The lowest of the low were female slaves. Ironically they also regularly commanded higher prices than men; well, the young, pretty ones did.

He was king, so he didn’t dismount, I walked beside him, having a slow conversation with him. Kaliber followed, I sensed that he was ready to cut me down if I made a wrong move; having someone ready to kill you, walking just behind you doesn’t make for an easy chat.

Having decided that I was a stranger, a traveller, who posed no threat, King Priam was friendly and welcoming; opting to treat me as a noble. After all, who else but a noble of some import would have been given a talking box by the gods? Because that was the only explanation that made sense to him, so I was happy to go along with it. Thank goodness the Huawei 932 was solar charged, it would turn out to be worth a fortune to me as the days, weeks, and months went by.

Prince Hector came riding up and he and his father had a rapid conversation in which I clearly featured, judging by the looks in my direction. I waited patiently, I was used to that. In research, much is achieved by patiently listening to some out-of-touch research director talk to another old-fogey until they both deign to talk to yourself and offer help (money, resources, introductions). When he heard that I had disarmed the king’s guard, he wanted to try it for himself and leapt from his horse. I do mean leapt; he landed in front of me and reached for my neck. I slipped sideways, took his arm and threw him. He was delighted, as only a true warrior would be. Soldiers don’t like losing, warriors know there is always something new to learn.

Hector was good fun to be with, friendly, a good horseman, and interested in my fighting abilities. He also had a libido like a sex starved rabbit, but that’s less important.

I’d done karate since I was a boy, taken up judo, and kind of graduated to aikido. I’d even tried kick boxing, but didn’t enjoy it so much. I was brown belt in karate and judo but had worked at aikido for interest rather than belts. It meant I was good at unarmed combat, which fascinated a warrior like Hector, he insisted I show him some moves, which I was happy to do. Hector was shorter than his father and his brother, shorter, but more robust. He could easily lift his own weight, and delighted at having an attractive girl sit on either outstretched arm, and then standing up -– it was kind of a party trick. He was built to be a wrestler, which is why he was so interested in my judo throws.

I met Prince Paris – the heir to the throne, later. He was the cause of all the trouble, really.

Paris and Helen were well matched; Paris was the most arrogant stuck-up shit I’ve ever met, anywhere, in anytime (and I’ve met quite a few now). He really did think the sun shone out of his arse – him being a demi-god and all, or so he said. Apparently the royal line of Troy were all demi-gods. He didn’t like me because he saw that I sniggered at the idea. None of Priam’s other children seemed to be so stupid. Hector was cheerful and happy to be a great warrior, Cassandra was morose much of the time, but then, as I said to her one day, that was understandable if the gods have given you second sight but condemned you never to be believed. I mentioned I was sorry that her prophesies were fated not to be trusted.

“How did you know that? I’ve never told anyone.” she replied.

“I, umm, I heard it,” which was true “from the gods when they gave me this talking box.” Which was not; but I hadn’t realised it wasn’t general knowledge. She had been predicting that Paris would bring Troy to its knees for some time, nobody listened. I did. I had read my history in the future, now I had to tread carefully, I didn’t know what was right and what was wrong, what was known and what was not. Cassandra seemed to like having me around because I listened to her. I wasn’t part of her curse, being from the future. I wondered, later, if I was part of the reason for the fall of Troy, a punishment from the gods because their curse was being undermined by this interloper from the future. Too complicated for me. What she was sure of was “There is a Greek storm coming” and her mother would say “Now, dear, you know the storms always come from the East, not the West. I remembered something vaguely about Apollo, and asked her; she blushed and changed the subject.

An acolyte, idly keeping an eye on the boring events happening below slowly woke up to the fact that something was wrong. What was it? Oh, yes, someone believed Kassandra. “Amolitis! Amolitis! Come here, no, I mean, go and get Apollo. Yes, now!” Apollo was unimpressed to be dragged from the orgy he had carefully arranged with two shepherdesses in Anatolia, he had promised that all their sheep would bear twins if only they would bare themselves for his pleasure. He liked a lot of pleasure. “What the fuck do you want?” “Majesty, that man believes Kassandra.” “One man believes that silly bitch and you drag me from being a godly sandwich to tell me? I’ve expunged people for less. No! Shut the fuck up.” He went back to his women. The acolyte, who was more intelligent that his godly superior, continued to watch.

Paris had been on a trade mission to the growing Greek city states. It made sense for Troy to try dealing with these newly civilised cities springing up in Greece. What didn’t make sense was Paris making eyes at Menelaus’s wife. She was undoubtedly very beautiful, and she was as haughty and proud as Paris. She thought she was better than her wine-swilling, arse-farting, beast of a husband. I understand (from the servants) that he wasn’t good in bed, either. To give Paris his due, he was good in bed – so his reputation said; he wasn’t averse to spreading his largesse around. I was told that the three noblewomen who had born his children all did not regret his love-them-and-leave-them approach because, whilst he was loving them, he was good at it. Maybe that’s where his arrogance stemmed from.

Helen was the same; proud and unapproachable. I suggested she was an ice-maiden to Hector once, in a drinking session. “Oh no, I sleep near Paris, and let me tell you, when Helen gets going, no ice would stand a chance” was his back-slapping reply. He made some very lewd gestures with his fingers too, and pulled a slave over to offer to show me what he meant. I said I’d understood very clearly, thank you. However, what she was, Helen that is, was stunning. Her legs were long and slim with perfectly sculptured calves. I imagine her thighs were the same. The view from behind was of a dress sliding left and right over shapely and firm buttocks. The view from the front was similar to most of the women here; the temperature was warm, so multiple layers were not required; the clothing of upper class people was finer and smoother than the coarse weaves of lower workers; the result was that the slightest breeze would blow the lower clothing against a woman unprotected by underwear. Her shape could be very clearly delineated. On one occasion I saw Helen as a gentle breeze pinned her dress against her at the front. She had a clear pair of small mounds starting just above her groin, I had to look (and turn) away to prevent my incipient erection being visible; and that might have been been deemed rude. She had a flat stomach and unsupported, but firm and prominent breasts. Again, that breeze clearly showed her small nipple mounds (even thinking of that view gives me a semi-), she was un-aroused so they weren’t erect. Her back was as perfect; how can a back be so erotic? – erect with the gentle indent at the base leading up to her horizontal shoulders with not the hint of a slouch. Her neck was swan-like, but not too long that her head looked like it dangled on a stalk. But, yes, her face was ‘that face’, the one that launched a thousand ships – that would come later, I knew. It was perfectly, nearly symmetrical. A symmetrical face offers some dissatisfaction, I don’t know why. Her mouth, curved and red; her cheeks, gently peach coloured – I rarely saw them more than pink; her eyes, with just the slight angle of her almost oriental eyes upwards; she had high cheek bones, and her moderate brow surrounded by a waterfall of luscious dark hair which hid her ears. Her ears were small and not too prominent, which meant that, hidden by their hair, one hoped against hope to see them if the hair moved. It was a face that could ask for anything and be obeyed. She rarely had to order, someone would always deliver her requests for the joy of that face’s approval. She kept approval looks on ration, so a hint of a smile made people happy for a day. She was of the Danaan. Later this came to be a less well used descriptor for Greeks, Achaeans being the one Homer used. But she was proud of the name, she felt it was more noble. The fact that Troy was a magnificent city, and had been for generations when her homeland had still been home to hunter-gatherers, was ignored by her. She had invented a mythology of the superiority of her people – the Danaan – and, in true xenophobic mindset, nothing would shake that.

I could see why Paris was smitten, but, even so, the love or lust he felt did not justify his actions in bringing such a fate on his city and family. He was of the class that thinks he deserves all he desires.

Paris was good looking, annoyingly so; handsome, intelligent and slimy as they come. He was taller than average, with a wiry frame. His face held the upper class look of insouciance that seems to have progressed right down the centuries. The look that says “these petty day-to-day matters are not my concern. I am above that”. He had blue eyes, like his mother, whom I met only briefly, once. Priam’s main wife had the same look of being born to be superior, that would be where he got it from I suppose. She made it plain that some foreigner was not worthy of her interest. Paris was not a warrior, and not an administrator; more of a royal parasite. Well matched with Helen, like I said. Perhaps he was a good lover; Helen seemed to be happy with him, in so far as her superior ‘down-her-nose’ look showed anything. There was a hint of a smile when he was around.

The acolyte stood to attention. Athena was wandering past. “So, anything happening? I see Paris is still in love with that moronic cow, Helen.” Athena had taken a distinct dislike to the most beautiful woman in the world. She would never admit to such a pathetic, human emotion as jealousy. She just couldn’t stand the woman, the fact that Helen was as attractive as Athena was entirely coincidental. She had wanted to give the woman a load of spots, but Apollo had vetoed that (he fancied her too, Athena could see that, which made her even more annoyed). She had given her piles instead, which explained why Helen walked so elegantly – she was trying to avoid rubbing her piles – and why she refused to offer her ‘alternative’ to Paris for a long time, which just made him lust after her more. Paris was happy to fuck any hole he could, in anybody; anybody attractive, that is; he didn’t fuck ugly people, he said once. The acolyte told Athena about the man believing Kassandra. Athena wasn’t that interested, it wasn’t her curse, it was Apollo’s. If he’d missed someone out, that was his incompetence.

Still... “Find out who he is. Check the dispensations.” Then she wandered away to find a young shepherdess of her own.

It couldn’t last, I knew that, because I knew the story. Cassandra knew that because she foretold disaster. The others seemed to assume that Menelaus would just accept that his wife had run off with another man. He was known to happily mount anything on two legs (and a few on four, so it was said), but men have always had different views concerning their possessions. Helen was his and he wanted his favourite brood mare back. He wrote, at least he did write. A courier had arrived demanding the return of his property. Paris high-handedly tore the letter in two and sent that back as a reply, he didn’t even ask his father! That was tantamount to poking a bear with a stick when you have no bars between you, or perhaps he thought the sea was the bars. Menelaus was not much better than a crime lord, a gang leader; he had to maintain his authority; he had pride and he wasn’t going to let it rest.

All the time, I was trying to work out how to return. I hadn’t got that far in my experiments. The mouse I sent back one day simply continued to live one day in the past, it didn’t seem to upset it. It had scuttled round the lab finding the food I put out. Eventually I suppose it went into one of the standard poison traps and didn’t come out. I had no idea how you could return, or rewind, or undo, a trip to the past. I half hoped that it would just ‘wear off’, but I didn’t really think it would.

THE TWO GIRLS

This story is not central to the main line of the story, but it does illuminate the way Troyians thought about things.

I returned to my chamber the first evening, still confused and fascinated in similar amounts; to find a young girl there. I smiled at her, she smiled back and promptly dropped her dress. By her face, I made her about thirteen, the view of her body confirmed this. I opened my translation app. “What? I mean I don’t understand?”

“I have been sent to keep you company at night.”

“Oh! I ... well, I mean ... no. I...”

“You would prefer a boy?”

“No! No, it isn’t that. But you seem very young. I...”

“But all nobles have a comforter at night, unless they are married. You don’t find me attractive?”

“Yes, no. I mean...” My tenting tunic suggested I did, indeed find her attractive. I steeled myself. “But, no, come back in a couple of years. You are too young. Thank you for the offer though.”

“It was not my offer, King Priam ordered me.” Of course, she was a slave, she would do as ordered. I heard later that thirteen was by no means the youngest age a girl might find herself used for recreational sex. “I am sorry to have disappointed you.” was her parting comment as she left.

I hoped she was not in trouble, but the day had been long, very confusing and I was tired. I fell into bed. I always slept naked anyway, so I was content to sleep that way here. Some time later, I woke to feel a naked bottom against my body, someone was spooning in front of me. A hand was moving my left arm onto a breast. Naturally my penis started to respond, it slid gently, but insistently up the crack of a girl’s bottom until it was erect and wedged between her. I confess, I didn’t do the obvious thing and move away. “Urrgh?”

She replied something which I did not understand. I reached behind me for my phone, making a mental note to ensure it was always fully charged during the day. “I have come to replace my sister, you said you wanted a fifteen year old. I hope, in this way, that she will not get into trouble.”

“She should not get into trouble. Who can I talk to? It is not her fault.”

“So, am I acceptable? Will you honour me by breaking me?”

“You are very acceptable, only; perhaps we could talk? I have no current desire to break you – you mean you are a virgin?”

“Of course, for an honoured guest, a virgin is always supplied.” She replied. I felt my cock get a little stiffer again. “Are you sure you do not wish to release that?” She said.

“Not yet, I need to understand this country more. I am a traveller and a student. My magic box has not names for everything. It gets confused. For example, what do you call this?” I touched her ear, she named it. We did that again and I put the app into update mode so it took her reply in. When I played it back, she laughed at hearing her voice played back. “And this?” I touched her nose. This was already in the app, but it was using a different, though related, version of Luwian and this was now updating to something more appropriate. “And this? And this?” I stopped asking the question, she understood now. We moved across her face and then to her neck, arm, hand, finger, thumb, and then I touched her breast. She giggled “That is my “ she named it and we moved to her nipple, then her body. I could feel her trembling slightly, she knew where we would arrive at soon. “And this?” my finger stroked her slit. “Not this,” I touched her vagina, “this.” she named her slit. Carefully I touched her outer lips, then her vagina. She could barely stop herself from giggling. I gently stroked her clitoris and she jumped and laughed again. “that is my...” she named it “how do you know about that?” Apparently men weren’t that aware about female anatomy where it came to women enjoying sex. No change there, I thought. She named it. We continued the exploration, sometimes she would stop and say “Do you want the ‘proper’ term or what people call it?”

“Both”

“Well, it is [I convert to English] the anus, but people call it the arsehole, men call it the shitter, I believe” she giggled, knowing she’d said a rude word “and women sometimes call it ‘the alternative’”

“Eh?”

“You know, the alternative to ... you know.”

“Umm, I’m not sure I do.” she looked wide eyed and knowing. “Ohhhh. Ohhh, so women know about anal sex?”

“Of course; sometimes they will deliberately present themselves a particular way if their husband is drunk or a bit thick, to give their vagina a rest from the pummelling. Men rarely realise which hole they are in because, well, men are men.” She looked round behind her at me, wondering if she’d gone to far.

I smiled “I like anal, or at least, I’m pretty sure I will. Where I come from it isn’t usually volunteered.”

“Men here often consider it beneath them, unless they are with a boy. But you’ve never had it and want to? If you like...” she pushed her lovely teenage arse harder against me.

“Stop that! I’ve been here long enough to know I’m meant to tell you what to do!” I said, and playfully slapped her bottom. Then I pulled myself up. She was still only fifteen. Whatever the rules here, I wasn’t going to fuck a young slave simply because I could. We carried on with the lesson on less erotic areas.

I don’t have, whatever the term is for automatic recall of speech – tape recorder memory perhaps? So I knew I’d have to spend the next day learning these new words, along with the words in the app already. I wanted at least to be able to start speaking without the magic box, even if I sounded like a two year old.