Every so often the heads of Trojans and sailors alike would twist to glance up towards the citadel – the lion’s head, Troy’s fortified heart. People trickled from the lower town – the lion’s body – taking water and bread down to the crews of the moored ships and collecting a toll of silver for their berth. Watching over all of this like a hunkering lion stood the city of Troy. Hundreds of boats lay moored near the sandy shores, awaiting the rare moments when the winds would change, opening the way to the north. The sheltered and shallow waters glinted, at peace, the surface like polished turquoise. One by one, each vessel turned from the squall and into a bay nearby. Most were sure they could outsmart the gale and reach the bounty of coastal amber markets beyond the strait. The linen sails of northbound trade ships thrashed with a noise like faraway thunder as they battled against the furious headwind. It raked the green waters of the Hellespont Strait, conjuring a haze of iridescent spray that dazzled in the noonday light.

The famous Wind of Wilusa squalled ever-southwards like a god’s breath.

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