Troy

by Kathryn Weber-Hottleman

  My sword is at my hip, ready should she say the word, but as we mount the stone steps I know she will not. It is within my power to slay these guards, temple mercenaries, but that would only prompt the bloodshed she wishes to avoid. And so I take her hand, her arm, escort her across the endless stone.

  She does not rely on me for steadiness or strength; her step does not falter, as Agamemnon’s on the sand, and not a tear betrays her final dignity. Not even a glance escapes her control, for her eyes are cast gravely on the stone before her, and though I hunger for a look, for a shared moment in this public arena, I admire her courage.

  Calchas’ eyes glitter down on us from his perch beside the altar, and he litters our path with maleficent smiles. I want to shield her from him in these last steps, to hold her close against me so that she cannot see the bronze knife he holds aloft, cannot hear the beat of the ceremonial drums. As the knife plunges into her breast, let me hold her and whisper false promises so that she does not know the pain of anticipation, and as she dies, sees not scarlet blood but my face.

  Her hand is cold in mine as we reach the top step, and I clutch it because I know he will take her away from me. This hand, a few fingers grasped by fragile flesh, is my last link with her. When it is severed, I will lose her utterly.

  The seer wears his sacred vestments, and the stench of old blood is powerful in the new morning. His hands grope for her to place her on the altar and bind her hands, but even she cannot bear the horror of the blood and she shrinks against me. I cannot stop myself from putting my arm around her and drawing her close to me. He shall not touch her, the cursed speaker of the gods!

  The scent of her hair overwhelms me, the linens laid away in sweet spices for her wedding day. But she raises her eyes to me, and I cannot thwart the purpose in them despite my strongest desires. Gently, I lift her and lay her body on the vast altar. She, magnificent in presence, is slight in my arms and on the cold bronze. She offers up her hands to me, and I take the soft leather strap from Calchas. Her hands are white, wracked by the slightest of tremors, because she knows too well her coming doom. I kiss her palms and secure the leather around them. She must not move when he strikes, or she will magnify the pain.

  Her eyes seek mine in the clear blue sky, and I bend over her. Her lips are trembling, but she sheds no tears and I can see the depths of the heavens reflected in her face. She is already there; gods, bring her to you swiftly.

  I raise my hand to her cheek for an instant, that touch burning into my fingertips: This is our moment, the memory that I must carry until I die and regain her.

  I take my place at her shoulder, hands limp at my sides. I cannot leave her alone, not now. Calchas advances, and I try vainly to catch her eye as he raises the knife, but her eyes are trained on the sky, and as the bronze drops I catch a glimpse of a deeper blue.

  Calchas

  The grace of the gods is upon me, and the power of Hades dwells within my soul. As she approaches the altar, clad in her virginal adornment, the smell of blood quickens in my nostrils, and the souls of the dead gather around the altar, keening for the coming death.

  The great Achilles leads her by the hand up the stone slabs that mount to the altar. I long to send demons to dog his steps, to corrupt his soul with despair and cause his steps to falter, but the gods will not allow me to harm their blessed one, their godling. The steps roil with oozing spirits, falling over themselves to catch a whiff of living flesh and unable to do so by the powerful bounds of life.

  The pair is unconscious of the spirits that flicker around them, but I sway under the weight of the gods’ communication. Blood is to be shed—blood—the fall of the house of Atreus—ascending step by step on the arm of Achilles.

  Agamemnon waits below, the cowardly general, his hopes pinned on this princess. She has far greater courage than he, this girl who, with a word, might have damned the Argives to destruction. He crouches, peering up at the bronze altar, eyes so closed against the light I wonder if he can see his daughter at all.

  For she is here, and as her foot touches the platform, I am filled with the will of the gods. They bombard me, a thousand voices shrieking through my veins—Blood—we must have blood—

  I approach the sacrifice, making to lay her on the altar and bind her hands against her certain fear, but her eyes are wide and she recoils from my touch. I smile, under the hand of the gods, for it is right that the common should shy from the sacred. I reach for her, prepared to defile my holiness with her blood for the sake of the gods.

  But Achilles stays my hand, placing the sacrifice on the altar himself with his unclean hands. He extends an open palm for the strap to bind her hands. How dare a common man presume—but the gods remind me with painful rebuke that he is born of them, and I should not assume beyond my station.

  I pass him the tie, and he secures it gently around her hands. The gods press impatiently around my consciousness, forcing me onward, haste! I draw the ceremonial knife from my robes, feeling its heft in my hands. The breath of so many animals has been exposed to the air with this blade, and my hands tingle with the promise of fresh blood.

  Achilles is still bent over her shoulder, but the gods will not allow me to wait anymore, and I raise the knife in my hands as I approach the girl—the blade falls—the gods careen through me as they slake their thirst on the well of blood—

  Iphigenia

  Achilles’ hands are gentle as he lifts me onto the altar. I can hear his heart beat in the stillness, an unsteady thump that trips over its own rhythms. I wish I could stay here, held against the reality of warm skin, but he places me on the bronze slab. I have often seen the altar from a distance and appreciated the blood of the beasts, but lying on its surface I see that the altar is not smooth and holy but pitted with the thrashing of sacrifices.

  My fingers seek the divots in the bronze until Achilles takes my hands. It is not right for the sacrifice to dwell on those who have come before it, but never on this altar has there been a sacrifice who knew.

  I am afraid, and there is no shame in admitting that to myself, for the need for dignity has fled in the watches of the night. But I will spare Achilles my grief, because I must carry this burden for only a brief while longer, while he must live with these moments forever. And if I die and he, beloved of the gods, goes to war, there is no telling how long that forever will last.

  I remind myself that this is the will of the gods, but the will of the gods does not matter very much now. Life has tunneled to this single apex, and I understand the gravity of purpose.

  He kisses my hands, a gift I will take with me to my grave—but I will not have a grave, I will be ashes scattered to the gods by wind and rain and hasty hands. He closes my fingers around his last tribute and ties my hands, winding the leather around twice, thrice. I must not struggle. If I struggle, if Calchas misses—

  Achilles’ hand touches my cheek, and I can hardly bear to look at him. His face is dark with restrained grief, bent low over mine. I think he will offer some last word, some sort of comfort to which I can cling in these last moments, but he is silent. Terror claws at me, begging me to speak, to say anything that dignity in life denied, but even in this death we are checked by some greater reservation. His finger traces slowly across my cheek, and I fear for the end of its touch, for it whispers time is fleeting and I know not what will happen after it is withdrawn.

  He leaves the narrow range of my vision and I am staggered by the limitations of eyes. If only I could have held him before my sight as the knife plunged! But I am met with limitless miles of pale blue sky, and I feel as though I am drowning in it.

  His hand is heavy on my shoulder, warming me through the thin fabric of my wedding gown. In my final terror I seek his gaze, hoping that if I find it one more time I will not see

  A gleam of bronze catches my eye, and I am curious because I have not seen this before pain blooms across my body, white flash color sparks fire raging along myriad nerves fear explodes oh gods the pain is the fear s
ave me gods Achilles gasps I have never heard him gasp his hand is red with blood heart pounds ragged around a gaping hole gasps air pours into untouched blood sky rushing up against eyes fingers clutch convulsively at nothing pocked bronze beneath writhing body breathe, breathe and burst past a wall of agony into the glory of sky beauty of fire

  I amtired, Achilles, sotired. Give me your cloak, put your arm around me, let me sleep. I never loved any one be fore y

  Calchas

  The gods howl through me, their voices overwhelming my mortal consciousness: House of Atrides—HOLY BLOOD SHED—how dare a mortal claim the blood of a royal house—CALCHAS, SON OF THESTOR, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE—

  I cringe against the accusations of the gods. I interpreted the symbols, you gave to me the understanding of the entrails of the deer! I live to serve the gods, I would never—

  YOU WOULD NEVER PRESUME TO USE THE GODS FOR YOUR OWN GAIN AGAINST THE ATRIDES

  My lords, I am your messenger, I proclaim the words you give me and no more

  I am struck to my knees with their blast, the roar of the gods. The wind from their cry tumbles me down from the altar, quenches the flames of the holy torches. My guards scatter before the awesome and terrible presence of the gods as I cringe against the sand. Only Achilles remains, crouched at the altar to avoid the worst of the blast.

  As the gods rage around me, Achilles strives against the wind to reach the last flickering torch, placed by the altar for the lighting of the pyre. As he touches it to the tinder and the altar bursts into flame, a shriek bursts from the throats of a thousand gods and there is silence.

  I lift my head from the sand and see Achilles standing with the flames that feast on her body. I have redeemed your sin, old man, he cries, and the blaze rings his body like a halo. I bow before him, humbled in reverence before the son of Thetis.

  My lord—I never meant—

  He storms down the steps of the altar and raises me by the throat of my robe. Do not dictate the will of the gods to me. Then, as a wave of heat rolls off the altar, he is gone.

  I crouch in the empty sand, naked without the presence of the gods echoing through me. Tentatively I approach them. My lords?

  You have disappointed, Calchas.

  I lift my hands in supplication. Please, my lords, I beg you, forgive me.

  There is no reply.

  Agamemnon

  I wander through the camp, along deserted paths where tents stand empty to the wind. Not a soul tarries amongst the coarse fabric walls; the wind has driven them all to their ships, for ships are the life blood of a sailor and the strong muscles of the warrior, carrying them to battle.

  For there is wind: the blade fell, the blood splashed, and the thirst of the gods was sated. They have not forsaken us—they know the horror of the payment for this sacred wind!

  My men rejoice in the wind off the sea, but how few of them know the life silenced to obtain it. I wonder if any of them will remember the maid with grave eyes who walked among them for a few short hours. Does the mate know he coils the rope as she taught him, does the tactician recall the origin of that brilliant maneuver? Will Achilles remember

  Achilles will remember. I have seen his face in the moment of death, and he will remember her as I remember her—only more clearly for the brevity of his time. She is slipping away from me, years of life uncoiling from my memory like waves on the shore.

  I round a corner, and it seems to me that I can see her in the distance. I run to her across sand and stone, arms flung wide to embrace her again. But when I come to her image, shimmering in the heat and wind, she is covered in blood, her braided hair matted and hanging, bridal clothes rent on her frame. She touches her breast with a stained hand, quietly surprised by the yawning hole she finds. As I approach, she offers her hand, fingertips shining with fresh blood and gore. In her other hand she holds a dripping bronze blade, fingers clamped around the elaborate grip. As I draw near, fascinated by the trappings of death, she hefts it aloft, and her eyes gleam with recognition. Father…

  Then she is screaming at me, into me, the blaze of her apparition searing through my blood and marrow, suffusing the cavities of my being with her shriek of death. I shield my face against her onslaught, but she rips into my consciousness from beyond the gates of Hell.

  The wind blows, and the camp is quiet. I look for some sign of her, but I find no living creature, and I am afraid. I can feel her, lurking around the edges of my being, held at bay by my will and my fear for the moment but waiting for the moment when I am weak and she can break through. I will never be alone again, and I am afraid.

  Clytemnestra

  The instant the drums stop beating, I raise my head from the ravaged bed and look in vain hope at the tent entrance for her return. The flaps sway in a gentle breeze that licks off the sea, stirring the heavy air in first relief.

  The wind eddies through the tent, touches my face, and I think that it is sent of the gods as a comfort for me, that the terror of the night finds no place in the morning. But something is strange, and as a tendril of air curls around me I know that in Aulis the wind does not blow unless

  I rush out of the tent and the full gust of the wind strikes me, snarling my steps and garments with its lissome fingers. The sea crashes around me in pellucid waves, white crests breaking over my buffeted head. The gift of the gods sluices water across my body, currents that drag me away from Aulis.

  There is smoke on the wind, and I trace its origin to a blaze that flames high above the camp. A single man stands beside the fire, silhouetted in its lustrous heart. I wonder that he does not burn himself with the tinder, he stands so close. But a glimmer of bronze winks through the heat and I know that that is no wood that burns on the pyre, and he is no servant tending the fire.

  The wind beats against me, carrying acrid smoke and the terrible blessing of the gods. As it washes over my face, I think that I can see her golden hair and her smile. She is a babe at my knee, serious and small, tiny brow creased in concentration as she plays with beads—she is a child, helping her brother and sister with their letters and begging her father for another trip to the shipyards—she is a girl, shy in her beauty and quick with the ledgers that are her delight—

  She is a woman with golden hair braided about her head, dressed in bridal clothes, illuminated in the first light of morning

  Fine silvery ashes rise on the wind, dusting the camp in their purification. The man at the altar howls and plunges his hand into the burning coals, as if afraid to lose the precious ash. But what can be so hallowed about ash?

  A flake settles on my cheek, and I pick it off, wondering at its delicacy. It must have been fine timber indeed to create such dainty, fragrant ash. I cast it into the wind as the water sweeps over me, raging, choking flames in its soothing hands, seducing me to depths of eternal rest…

  Achilles

  Her body flickers in the charring flames, petals of ash whisked off her skin by the holy wind that blows without ceasing. The blaze leaps high, higher than so little fuel should produce. I narrow my eyes against the harsh light and see that the holiness has burned the sprays of blood from her cheeks, and she is pure.

  Her profile wavers and blurs in the heat, eroded by gnawing flames that are never satisfied. A gust of wind catches her cheek, her hands, blowing the fragile remains beyond my reach. I cry to the heavens in rage: can they not leave me this last remnant?

  But she dwindles quickly, borne on the wind to sanctify some land unknown, untouched. I am losing her—I am losing her again, and this time there will be nothing left.

  I plunge my hands into the fire, ignoring the agony that bursts over my skin. How little is the pain of recollection compared to the pain of loss! She crumbles in my hands, pale in the tumultuous glare, warm.

  The gods do not love us; of this I am sure, I, Achilles son of Thetis. Their cruel wind pries what scraps of her I have left from unwilling fingers—she is flying from me, winging over the sea—

  The fire dies slowly, ben
eath the shroud of evening, and twilight veils the shameful altar. The wind of the gods has swept the bronze clean of its burden, stolen the last vestige of her. Woe to the Trojans, who have brought this destruction upon me! Woe to faithless Helen, to Paris, should I ever encounter them in this life!

  An ember of rage rekindles in me, gentle burn, a memory harbored in my heart of a golden maiden. My palm is coated with grit, coarse in the pale rays of the moon, a last bond so swiftly failing.

  The wind, a dwindling breeze, curls its hand around my cheek, and I tremble with the thought of her. Then, because there is no one to see, not even her, I give myself over to grief.

  Helen

  Based on Homer’s Iliad

  My name is Helen. I am Helen of Argos by birth, though few would remember me as Argive now. To all, it seems, Argive and Trojan alike, I am Helen of Troy, and it is she they curse and for whom they battle. But I cannot bring myself to adopt their name; it does not ring true, somehow, to claim a city hostile to me as my own. Neither can I flaunt Argos, for I am her betrayer. I shall be simply Helen, with all the shame and glory that accompanies that name. And who is Helen, Helen of the golden hair, craved as a sacrifice to Aphrodite? Am I no more than a face or name over whom a war was fought? I dare not beg for pity; it ought not be wasted on such as I when the world knows much greater suffering. But if I am remembered, may the generations learn from my foolish ways and be spared the bitterness of irreversible consequences.

  Helen

  The sun is rising, rosy-fingered Dawn waking the tenth year of this wretched war. How can they sleep another second? Does no one realize what a hell this is, that their precious Troy has fallen from the Heavens to the very depths of the pit? But perhaps their consciences are lighter than mine; theirs is not the pockmarked face of War. My innocent maids, what do they know of lives mauled by love and thoughtless decision?