The inspiration for this novel comes from across the ancient world, in both time and place. Some of it was literary, some was archaeological. Some chapters are entirely my own invention, and some borrow from source material which you might already know. The texts which I returned to throughout this book were Euripides' Trojan Women (also his Hecabe) for the Trojan Women chapters; and Homer's Odyssey, for the Penelope chapters. In addition, I turned to Virgil's Aeneid for Creusa's chapter (though it gave me a lot more on the burning city and the sibilant Sinon than it did on Creusa. Which isn't to say that Virgil doesn't write amazing women: I couldn't fit Dido into this novel, which was a real blow. But when something doesn't fit, it doesn't fit); Ovid's remarkable Heroides gave me the first insight into Laodamia, and also persuaded me that I could write Penelope's story as letters to her absent husband; Clytemnestra's chapter owes everything to Aeschylus' Oresteia, of course. There's not much about Briseis in Homer's Iliad, but the plague incurred by Agamemnon's refusal to return Chryseis is taken from there (the plague symptoms themselves are borrowed from a later author, Thucydides, who contracted plague at the start of the Peloponnesian War in the fifth century BCE, but recovered to tell the tale); Euripides' Iphigenia in Aulis and Iphigenia Among the Taurians informed her chapter; Andromache takes her later story from Euripides' play of the same name.

There are plenty more women in this book whose stories barely exist in the surviving literature of the ancient world: Theano and Oenone, for example. Female characters are usually in the shadows or on the margins of stories even when they do appear (Euripides and Ovid are exceptional in this regard, in producing work where women are the focus and often the sole focus). Sometimes we have collectively decided a particular woman is intended even when she is not named. The Iliad famously begins with a line which is usually translated as 'Sing, Muse, of the wrath of Achilles'. It seems reasonable to assume he's addressing Calliope, muse of epic poetry (he would probably have hoped to find her less capricious than I have rendered her. Although if Euripides had written her, she might have been more capricious still). But Homer doesn't name her. He doesn't even use the word 'muse'. He says 'thea', 'goddess'.

Penthesilea has suffered badly at the hands of history, unless you wish to hunt through fragments of the obscure Quintus Smyrnaeus or PseudoApollodorus (which I did, but wouldn't necessarily recommend). She was a mighty warrior and had a major role in a lost epic poem, from perhaps the eighth century BCE, called Aethiopis. Only a few lines of this poem survive. Like many Amazons, Penthesilea was a huge inspiration to visual artists in the ancient world: Amazons feature on more surviving pots than any other mythical figure except Heracles. Also, extraordinarily, there are vases which show Greek warriors bearing fallen Amazons from the battlefield. On one beautiful pot, Penthesilea is carried from the scene of their duel by Achilles. Ancient warriors did not usually treat their dead foes with anything like this respect or affection. Sadly, when Robert Graves was writing in the twentieth century, he turned this incredible female hero into a corpse on which Achilles masturbated. This must be an example of that progress we're always reading about.

You can see a more ornate version (more monkeys, for a start) of Thetis' earrings in the British Museum. They were found on the island where she was married to Peleus in my version. If you're visiting the museum anyway, you could also track down Protesilaus, balanced on the prow of his boat, just as Laodamia imagines him in her chapter. He really does have beautiful feet. You'll have to go to Greece to see the stone lions of Mycenae, and while you're there, you could always take a boat trip and go hunting for Troy on the Turkish coast, to see if you agree with the controversial nineteenth-century archaeologist, Heinrich Schliemann, who placed it at Hisarlik in modern-day Turkey. The coastal features and plants which give Troy its detail in this book are those of Hisarlik. Apologies to those who feel strongly that Troy was somewhere else. Ithaca, home of Odysseus, has proved harder to name in the modern world (and Odysseus' route home is the source of much-wrangled discussion). I can live with the uncertainty: I hope you can too. Truthfully, I sometimes prefer not knowing things for the imaginative space it offers. I can only apologize to all my scientist friends for this despicable choice.

Euripides' version of Aphrodite and Artemis in Hippolytus was the starting point for the petulance of the gods in this novel. They have the emotional maturity of toddlers, mingled with immortality and horrifying power. As I moved back to the pre-Olympian gods (Themis, Gaia etc.) the petulance gets somewhat reduced and a certain loftiness is present instead. I had the most fun writing the scene where the goddesses vie with one another for the golden apple. If this book has a motif, it is that apple. Or possibly the owl which Athene refuses to hand over. I would never give up my owl to win a beauty contest, in case you were in any doubt.

Homer's Iliad is (rightly) regarded as one of the great foundational texts on war and warriors, men and masculinity. But it is fascinating how we have received that text and interpreted the story it tells us. I gave an early draft of A Thousand Ships to a brainy friend for his comments and feedback. He was funny and helpful and kind and only occasionally cross with me for not being more like H. Rider Haggard. But he questioned the book's basic premise: that the women who survive (or don't survive) a war are equally heroic as their menfolk. The men go and fight, the women don't, was his essential argument. Except that women do fight (not least Penthesilea and her Amazons), even if the poems heralding their great deeds have been lost. And men don't always: Achilles doesn't fight until book eighteen of the twenty-four-book Iliad. He spends the first seventeen books arguing, sulking, asking his mother for help, sulking some more, letting his friend fight in his stead, offering advice and refusing apologies. But not fighting. In other words, he spends almost three-quarters of the poem in a quasi-domestic setting, away from the battlefield. Yet we never question that he is a hero. Even when he isn't fighting, his status as a warrior is never in doubt. I hope that at the end of this book, my attempt to write an epic, readers might feel that heroism is something that can reside in all of us, particularly if circumstances push it to the fore. It doesn't belong to men, any more than the tragic consequences of war belong to women. Survivors, victims, perpetrators: these roles are not always separate. People can be wounded and wounding at the same time, or at different times in the same life. Perhaps Hecabe is the most brutal example of that.

Cassandra is the only role from all these women which I have ever performed (in a reading of Aeschylus' Agamemnon at school). Although her story was sometimes hard to tell, I have missed her the most since I finished writing.

Acknowledgements

This book was a man-eater and there were times I thought it would swallow me whole. So thanks go out to everyone who kept me afloat. Peter Straus is both my brilliant agent and the most thoughtful and sophisticated reader you could hope to find. I know how lucky I am. My editor at Pan Mac, Maria Rejt, is a marvel. She and Josie Humber kept me honest and rarely allowed, 'because it's in a fragment of Quintus Smyrnaeus,' as an answer. Impossible not to agree with them. Sam Sharman shepherded the book through its latter stages with a calm which I think I probably used to have before I torched it in the ruins of Troy. Tons of other wonderful people at Pan Mac contributed to this: not least Kate Green, who tricks me into doing talks and shows by asking me how my running is going. Don't be fooled by her innocent face.

Book-writing could easily be at war with my broadcasting work. It isn't, because my colleagues at the BBC are amazing. Mary Ward-Lowery, James Cook: thank you for making Natalie Haynes Stands Up for the Classics with me during this book. I couldn't have done the radio series without you, and the book would be less if I weren't performing. I guess I might sleep better, but that can wait. Huge thanks also to James Runcie and Gwyneth Williams for letting us keep making the shows.

Early readers are one of the most precious things writers can have. Thank you to Sarah Churchwell, as always, for being an impossibly acute reader, and for making time when she has none. And thanks to Robert DouglasFairhurst who is the person on my mind when people ask who my ideal reader is. What am I saying? He's always on my mind. Digby Lidstone read the first half and told me to take out 90 per cent of the commas, so you can thank him for that. Elena Richards went through the final draft with a finetooth comb, and Matilda McMorrow did the same at proof stage. If either of them decides on a publishing career, please take this as the short-form of a glowing reference and apply to me for the longer version.

Huge numbers of people kept me on track while I was writing. You all have my thanks and love, especially: Helen Bagnall, for being a miracle of positive energy in my life; I'm so lucky to know her. Damian Barr for always knowing the right time to call and the right thing to say. David Benedict for taking me out when I needed it. Philippa Perry and her friend Julianne for their continued perceptiveness and kindness. Kara Manley for being here since the beginning. Michelle Flower for moral support in animal and human form. Julian Barnes for offering the best advice (in the most patient voice) when I was climbing the walls. Marcus Bell for sending me Hamilton videos every day for a month to keep my spirits up. Adam Rutherford for offering unrivalled advice on the flora and fauna of the Troad Peninsula in the Bronze Age. Christian Hill for (always and still) being the voice of reason in my shifting world.

Most of all I want to thank Dan Mersh for everything, always. And, of course, my family: my mum, my dad, Chris, Gem and Kez. You can all have my owl.