The fires of the execution pyre had long since burned out, but the smell of smoke lingered over the city for days. It clung to the stones of the harbour, the wooden stalls of the market, the wool of cloaks and the thatch of roofs. No amount of wind from the sea could scatter it. No amount of rain could wash it away. The people of Troy walked through the streets with the scent of death in their nostrils, and they did not complain. The priest was dead. The children were avenged. The smoke was the smell of justice.
