by Byrne Fone
--Iliad Book 2.
Odysseus’ men crouched in hiding...in that horse the Trojans dragged…to the city height.”
--Odyssey Book 8
Chapter 37
Hecabe
They have burned my son’s murderer. Just as my Hector’s spirit ascended to the skies in flames, so Achilles’ body was consumed as well. The sky was black with the smoke from the pyre. But how was this day any different from all the others? Every day some young man is laid out and set alight, his ashes gathered and placed in a tomb far from home, even as his killer is also interred on foreign shores. Surely there is a mother somewhere who would say--if she knew that the man who killed her boy lies in ashes--“They have burned my son’s murderer.” Surely though her face is streaked with tears she would, as I do, thank the gods with grim and bitter pleasure that they have given her vengeance for her loss. Is Achilles’ mother weeping now? They say she is goddess. But even the gods are not beyond tears.
Schoolboys are taught that there is nothing more noble than to die for your country, and nothing more glorious than to give up your life before it is barely done. Glorious? I was there. I saw what glory meant. Priam rushed like a madman to the parapet as it became clear what Achilles intended to do to our son as he tied his naked body to his chariot. From far below his voice carried up to us on the tower. “This is for Patroclus.” And then he lashed his horses into frenzy. Priam cried out, even tried to leap from the tower, but he was restrained and collapsed, weeping, hiding his face in his hands. Did I weep and tear my garments. Did I want to rush and pull the dagger from Priam’s belt and plunge it into my heart? Yes. I did. But I did not. A chill like the iciest wind from Ida seized me, yet I composed myself like a marble figure on a plinth. I looked at my husband, an aged king and desolate father. He must now be my chief care and I must be the rock upon which his crumbling world can rest.
Days have gone by now. Priam, mastering his grief, went alone into the camp of the Achaeans to bring back the body of his son. If those Achaeans believed they knew what it meant to be a king, they were wrong, Until that day no man among them had ever seen what a true king should be. That day Priam showed them what it means to be royal, heir of a hundred kings. Even Achilles, slayer of men, slayer of my son, was humbled by that simple aged man and bowed low to him as he rode from that camp with his son in his arms, and into glory.
There is one consolation. Though my son Hector is dead, my son Paris has slain his slayer. In an irony that no one ignores, to Paris—who Fate made the author of all our woe—Fate gave the gift of being the agent of Achilles’ death. Raging near the Scaean Gate and, some feared, about to storm it, Achilles met Paris face to face in battle. Did my son see the chance to redeem his tarnished name and so summon his courage at long last and fit an arrow to his bow and let it fly? This is what I must believe, though some say that it was not Paris who guided that fatal dart but Apollo, who seeing that once again Paris was about to turn and run, aimed his invincible arrow at Achilles’ heel and because he hated him destroyed him.
I would have done a dance of vengeance and thanksgiving in the temple before the altar of the god to give thanks for Achilles’ death. But the game of Fate was not played out. Even as Achilles was carried from the battlefield an Achaean arrow struck my son, and then another and then a third. Wounded, blinded, dying, we carried Paris to heal at the temple on Ida’s slope. But he will not heal. I know that he will die.
Chapter 38
Andromache
I float up out of the drugged darkness for I do not sleep unless my maid mixes a strong potion to make me forget. But no matter how strong the drink it does not keep my dreams at bay. I still see my Hector lying on his bier, flames licking around him. It has been many days now since we gathered his ashes and placed them in a golden urn and reverently interred them in the tomb of Trojan kings, but that is what still haunts my dreams and that is the memory that rises with me every morning.
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, trying to focus my eyes on the intricate patterns painted there. As the drug wears off I try to make sense of the designs that shift and waver as I realize that I must confront yet another day without my lord, my husband, my Hector. I start, a little more awake, for the usual fear grips me and as I do every morning I look to the cradle where my baby sleeps, fearing that he will not be there. But he is, my only joy. What a beautiful child he is. He nestles in the blankets, voyaging I hope on some lovely sea of dreams.
Then I realize that there is something different. I cannot quite focus on what it is. Then I know. It is silence. There are sounds that I cannot hear, sounds that I have been used to hearing—the sounds of an occupying army and a city under siege. I run to the window and throw back the heavy curtains that shut out the night. The sun streams in. It is still very early. The city streets are empty. In the far distance the ocean is empty too, its surface a vast, calm, shining mirror of sliver and blue. Empty! That is it! The sandy beach beyond the ridge is empty too! There are no ships! On the ridge where the Achaeans have so long waited to destroy us, I can see the walls of their camp. There are no tiny figures manning the walls. I see no smoke from cook-fires rising against the sky as I have been able to do every day for years when I cared to look toward that threatening scene.
What has happened? Below me I see a soldier of the watch racing toward the command post where Aeneas, who now commands our forces, must still be asleep. I can hear him shouting. I cannot make out the words but the tone is unmistakable. Excitement and joy.
They have gone! Agamemnon and his army have gone! I sit now holding Astynax in my arms; it is almost dusk. Hecabe has been with me and together we have bathed him and gotten him ready for bed. We sent all the servants away and did it ourselves, just like any family should do. I put him into his cradle and pull the fleece blanket up to his little chin. A future king deserves nothing less. He will make a handsome king and a great one, for he is his father’s son.
Earlier, just as soon as I had called the maids to see to Astynax, I ran in excitement from my rooms, along the central corridor of the palace to the chambers of Priam. I arrived just as Aeneas came running up the staircase. “Awaken the king,” he shouted to the chamberlain on duty. Aeneas bowed to me; the chamberlain disappeared and in a moment both Hecabe and the king appeared, sleepy eyed and in their night robes still. The officious chamberlain tried to bring some dignity to the scene by attempting to adjust a more suitable robe around the king’s shoulders. Aeneas went down on one knee but even before the king gave him leave to rise he had leapt up: “They have gone, your Majesty, the Achaeans have gone. The camp is empty; the ships have sailed.”
The city is awash with joy. People throng the streets as the news passes from one person to another. There is near hysteria, ecstasy, joy! In the palace, even the weight of all our sorrow seems lightened by the news. It is miracle!
Later that day in a procession of litters carrying me, the queen, and some of the higher ranking royal women, and preceded by the king in his chariot and by Aeneas and the commanders, we passed from the citadel and through the lower town, the people, lining the way, cheered us wildly. Once across the plain we came to the shore and stood on the sand with the sea rolling in at our feet. Just above us the ridgeline sloped down to the beach. From where we stood we could see the vast empty parade ground upon which our enemies had gathered and taken solemn vows to raise our walls to dust. On every side smoking heaps of rubbish showed where tents had been burned and the remnants of the camp had been destroyed. It was desolate and empty, nothing living could be seen, not even a wandering dog left behind. From one watchtower a tattered banner flew. That was all. Stretching away to the north and south the silver crescent of sandy beach lay empty under the sun, as if it had never seen the black hulls of Agamemnon’s thousand ships.
Empty, I said? Not quite. At the far end of the beach rose an object of wonder. We all stared at it in amazement. It was huge, rising up at least five times the height of a man, maybe more. Why wa
s it there? What did it mean? Is it a gift to Troy? Is it an offering to the gods? Outlined against the sky by the late afternoon sun that shone at its back, the gigantic wooden horse stood, solemn, majestic, and mysterious. Its black eyes, painted to look like life, stared impassively down at us, revealing no answers, telling no secrets.
Chapter 39
Helen
After all these years, after the untold numbers of the dead, they have gone, admitting failure, and leaving behind what they came for. I am left behind. The thousand ships launched to bring me home have sailed away in the middle of the night. What is more, the thin thread that tied me to Troy is severed, for Paris is dead. Without him what reason do they have to care if I live or die? Or worse what reason do they have now to keep me alive? Will there be some fatal “accident” or a subtle poison that no one can detect. No one would protest, or care. It would be easy for them to put an end to me. Does some silent assassin wait for me to doze off so that he can steal out from where he hides and smother me with a heavy pillow or strangle me with a silken cord, and when I am lifeless, sew my body into a linen shroud and hide it where one will ever find it? Would I struggle? I might not. My only hope is Priam, who was always gentle. But now, with all the threats to his kingdom gone, will he hearken to those royal Trojan women who have no love for me and let politics rather than decency guide his hand?
The “politics” have begun already. I am forbidden to attend the celebration. They have locked me in my room. “For your own safety, my lady,” the oily chamberlain explained as he turned the key. But I can see it all from the windows in the palace where all the royal sons and wives are housed. From here indeed I have vantage that commands all of Troy. From the western windows I can look across the square toward the city gates and to the sea. From the center windows and the balcony that fronts them I face the king’s palace. Between the two royal houses the temple stands facing the huge city square. This morning, the day after the ships sailed, what seemed like the entire city poured down to the beach and in long columns of sweating men, began to drag the horse back to the gates. The horse? Of course I know about that. Who does not? The city has been all a clamor to bring it within the walls, the better to see it, for it is a symbol of our—of their—victory. All that is save for Kassandra who somehow managed to escape from her tower and ran to her father, screaming, “Burn it, burn it! Woe will come to us. Woe.” But no one pays her heed and they got her and locked her up again.
It is so big they have had to make a breach in the walls to bring it in, since it does not fit through any gate. I watch as they pull it up the main causeway that leads to the citadel. “Heave, heave, heave,” they shout, and bit-by-bit the horse moves forward. It is huge—strong legs, mighty withers, expansive chest, all made from wooden planking carefully and cleverly shaped. Its haughty head rises almost to the height of my balcony as they bring it at last into the square before the palace and the temple. I can look right at it from my balcony. And it looks back at me. Into its black eyes, cunningly, disks of some polished substance have been placed so that when the light catches them the eyes seem to move as if they were alive, as if they saw.
People have been coming in a stream ever since the creature was finally put into place. They gawk and marvel at it. Those who can read explain to those who can’t that the placard nailed in the middle of its chest says that it is gift to Troy and an offering to Athena to ensure that its givers have a safe journey home. When people hear that their faces break into huge grins and they clap one another on the back. Priam has ordered that food and drink be given out, and the food stalls have sprouted up all over the square. People sit at the foot of the horse and have impromptu picnics. Some of them have begun to dance around the horse. More and more people join. A band of musicians adds the beat of drums and the tootling of horns to the shouted song of triumph that the dancers—their numbers increasing every moment--have begun to sing as they whirl around the gigantic horse, who continues to look at me, paying them no heed.
Across the square on the palace balcony a detachment of royal guard appears and with them ten heralds. Raising their trumpets they sound the royal salute. The sound rises over and above the celebrating crowd and the raucous shouts begin to trail off, the dancing stops. The people turn to face the palace. The trumpets sound again and with a crash the great bronze central doors are flung open. Heralds carrying banners emblazoned with the royal arms of Troy appear and preceded by priests and wreathed in clouds of incense Priam and Hecabe, robed and crowned, are born out on high portable thrones carried on the shoulders of liveried footmen. The mass of people in the square, as if they were one, fall to their knees.
Priam is accompanied by Aeneas, who steps forward. “People of Troy,” he shouts. “Hear the will of Priam, our only lord. He commands me to say that Troy is free. The enemy has fled. They have left a token of their defeat, a gift for Troy, this great horse. Tomorrow His Majesty will dedicate it to Athena. Henceforth, the king has decreed, the image of this horse will proudly grace our victorious banners. It is not for nothing that we Trojans are called tamers of horses.” The people cheered these words, breaking into a pandemonium of joy. Aeneas raised his arms for silence. “But now, people of Troy, your king commands you—rejoice! Rejoice! Troy has triumphed.”
With that Priam and Hecabe are carried back into the palace. Aeneas stands for a moment surveying the square. He looks across and sees me. Our eyes lock. From below someone sees the direction of his glance and turns to look up, at me. Others look as well. There is an indrawn breath and then a stirring in the crowd as word passes among them that I stand above them looking down. In an instant the crowd breaks into jeers and shouts, someone throws a stone. It strikes the wall just behind my head. Sick with fear and horror and despair, I run back into my room and slam the shutters closed. From within I can hear the rain of stones and the taunting shouts, and too, the shouted command of some Trojan captain as he brings his men on a run into the square to control the crowd so as to defend the woman he hates as much as they. I go shaking to my bed, mix wine and poppy juice. Pour more into the wine and drink it down. The stones have stopped striking against the shutters now and the people have resumed their celebration. I drift off to the sound of music and singing, the sounds of a people who believe that a terror has been lifted from their hearts at last.
Late at night I am suddenly awakened. Did I hear something? A heavy silence has fallen on the city. The revelry is done. I go to the shutters and open them a crack and peer out. I can see nothing through the small aperture. I open them wider and go out to the balcony. My brain is still thick with the drug and my vision dimmed by it. The hulking mass of the horse stands in the center of the square, the silver light of the full moon frosting the side of the beast facing my balcony. The other side, in darkness, casts a black shadow across the square, and the angle of the moon is such that the shadow of the horse’s head, hugely magnified, is projected against the palace walls. Something moves in the darkness. I try to focus my eyes. What is that? Slipping into the shadow cast by the Trojan horse I see a figure. Behind it there are others. Some are climbing hand over hand down the horse’s strong front legs; others are running toward the palace. As each figure drops to the ground it too disappears into the darkness, but not before I see a brief, silver flash of light. I catch my breath. I am fully awake now. Has the shining moon, glinting off the weapons of armed men, signaled my salvation or my doom?
Then I hear again what must have wakened me. Floating like the cry of hunting hawk upon the night there comes a long drawn-out wailing scream, echoing from the black mass of Kassandra’s prison tower that sits on the highest point above the citadel Then all is silence.
Chapter 40
Kassandra
It was as if my body was mine no longer. I could not control it and I knew that god had seized me and that once again the future was about to be revealed. I raced around and around the chamber, throwing myself against the walls, beating at the door. I bit my tongue, trying
not to scream. I tasted my own blood in my mouth and felt invisible hands tearing at my flesh as if to rip out my entrails. I could not breathe; my head pounded, resounding with the steady beat of a thousand war drums. I fought it but the screams came and with them the falling and the falling and the falling.
I fell through space and time and as if a magician had repeatedly thrown his magic powders on a flame as they do when they conjure incandescence out of night, everything around me was lit again and again for brief unbearable moments with unnatural light. In the lightening flashes I see horrors. Black ships with water like white teeth foaming at their prow fly upon the beach that they had just lately quit. Men pour over the sides. A beacon flashes from one of Troy’s towers. They march, flowing across the plain like a silent and deadly tide creeping toward the sleeping town. They are at the walls. The gates open. Men pour through. Still the city sleeps.
I want to cry out, “Awake! Awake!” I try to shout. But I cannot move. I cannot speak. I can do nothing but watch. From a dozen points along the walls flames begin to rise. Then, in instant, Troy’s walls are a ring of fire and with a shout and a clash of arms that shake the heavens, the Achaeans are upon us. Our soldiers now pour out of the barracks, but like ants swarming from a broken nest who are stamped upon and killed by the feet of their destroyer, our soldiers stand for time, fall back, are overcome and finally overwhelmed by the on-rushing forces swarming through the gates and through the broad streets of Troy.
Towers sprout bright bouquets of fire, the flames shooting up like beacons lighting the carnage: ranks of grim soldiers march shield to shield across the square, like reapers their swords are scythes cutting living grain, spreading a carpet of black blood upon the pavement. Nothing stands against them. They do not stop but move inexorably, their boots crush the bodies they have slain and as they pass they skewer any who seem to cling life. A screaming woman runs from a burning house. A soldier purses her. With a stroke her head is lopped off and with a shout of triumph he scoops up the bloodied golden goblet she was cradling in her arms. In the lurid light of the burning city soldiers run from house to house forcing barricaded doors and windows, tossing burning torches through them and rushing in even as the flames begin to crackle. Then they are out, herding frightened people. A flash of a sword, a thrust of spear, they fall —an old woman, a mother clinging to her child, someone’s aged grandfather—or an arrow hisses as an archer picks them off as they stumble out through the rising smoke. From house to house they go, from palace to palace, and the heaps of treasure grow and grow as warriors return with sacks bulging with gold and gems, with arms laden with treasures that have come to Troy from all the world, amassed for a thousand years.
