Troy

by Kathryn Weber-Hottleman

  In the tent’s isolation, I let my fury gather slowly, dull hot clouds drawing together from the four corners of my being. They roll over each other, mingling and coalescing into a towering pillar, fire of the gods. My eyelids droop, envisioning the beauty of power. Mine!

  My periphery glimpses a pale finger, a single golden braid, and my fury freezes. Surely she is not here, in my waking, in my glory. But as I look, she is crouched by the tent flaps, face and gown bloodied, gently weeping. Her cheeks are crusted with salt and blood, the homage of lost days. It is not you I have beaten! It is not you I have destroyed! I never meant

  My rage reheats in an instant, quickened by guilt and ever-lurking fear. With a bellow I rush at the spectre, Iphigenia, to dispel its fragile form to Hades, eternally.

  The wings of fury carry me out of the tent and into the square, where at my feet kneel the slave woman and a man tending her wounds. Anger is upon me, burning in my heart, and I unleash it against this godforsaken pair. He steps in front of her, as if he can protect her against my rage. Does he not know that one cannot shield from words?

  But gallantry should never go unrewarded. With a cruel smile I anoint this feeble shield with blows, anger condensed into strength. He meets them bravely, even I cannot deny that, but compassion is no match for rage, and he is driven to his knees, to his face in the dust.

  When he lies, unprotesting, prostrate, I spit on him, the final insult. My saliva gleams in the dust on his back, dirt congealing in floury pockets beneath its hot skin. Never again will they defy Agamemnon.

  Inside my tent, alone in the stark obscurity, my hands shake with the emotion expelled. I press them against my eyes, willing them to be restored by the wheeling sparks behind my lids, remnants of the rage spent. For a moment, at last, I am still.

  A sylphine hand rests on my arm, dragging me from peace. Through my fingers, I see the paleness of flesh against my tanned skin.

  I whirl around in the dusk of the tent, determined to see her once more.

  I am alone.

  Patroclus

  My cousin does not stir as I reenter the tent, though I am not so silent. My joints are old with shock and falls, and the blood on my tongue lends a curious taste to the air of the tent. I will tell him, if he notices the dust and discoloration, that I was mistakenly set upon by a man far into his wine. It is a poor excuse, but Achilles knows nothing but the grief of unjust separation. It had been far better that she had died, for then he might at least have unleashed his despair on the battlefield. I cannot bear to see him languish in this twilit world. He is become a wraith of the shadows, half man, half spectre, one with the grim and undulating shapes that appear at dusk and false dawn.

  I settle jars of ointment in their places, muscles trembling with the effort of seeking out old impressions in the sand. His shoulder blades twitch, contract with the effort of waking. Slowly, as one who bears the weight of ages in his chest, he turns over, eyes wide and sleepless.

  The last jar plunges to the sand, marring the ridge that cupped its base. I stare in all my cold guilt, unable to speak, unwilling to speak, for Achilles and I have not spoken since he renounced the Argives. He is trapped in a mute world of blistering rages and grief, a world of textured silences which he cannot leave. To leave is to admit loss, and that is to be vulnerable. The great Achilles is invulnerable.

  His voice is harsh from days of disuse and sand. Where have you been?

  My lie catches in my throat, tightening tendons. I have been to dispose of the refuse, I think, and on the way a drunkard mistook me for another and attacked. I saw no one—no Argive, rather—on my way. These bottles? They are for my own use, I had thought to wrap this scrape with lint so that I might be ready for battle…

  His eyes are dark and brooding and require an honesty that I cannot give, so I meet his stare and say nothing, tacitly guilty. His voice grates raw over the next question, for he knows my thoughts: Did you see her?

  I cannot lie, and I cannot tell the truth, so I kneel, afraid, in the sand.

  He bounds up from his bed, face contorted. I hear the cry of his heart as he raises his against me: How dare you see her when I cannot? How dare the gods allow you to see her and not me? Betrayer!

  I will receive his blow, I deserve it, it is right that his bitter grief should fall upon me. But he turns his hand at the last moment with a cry. Leave me!

  I go.

  Menelaus

  The afternoon shadows grow long. I enjoy this time of the day, when the light is thick and golden, a filtering lens for melancholy. If the night is given for brooding and the dawn for cleansing, then the depths of the afternoon are given for memory, sweetened through heat and somnolence.

  When he brings her to my tent, I think at first that they are a mirage of my own reminiscence. He is a younger Menelaus, though beardless, but his step reveals a hopeful nature. And she—I cannot look upon her without a vision of Helen superimposed. She is Helen in all her glory, just wedded, brought for the first time to the home of her husband. But her footsteps falter, and he, though his body betrays him, stoops too slowly to catch her as she falls.

  My years have not drained my body of agility, and it is my arm that halts her descent. Between us, we carry her into the tent.

  Once she is in the more honest light of the tent, I see at once that she is bruised. It must be my brother’s work; no other man would dare to strike a woman, even if she had displeased him. Her wounds are bandaged, the work of other hands. The young man is bandaged as well, though he makes no complaint. He only asks if I will keep her for the night, save her from the fury of Agamemnon until dawn.

  And then he is gone. I should not keep that which belongs to my brother, but ten years of war have softened the line between should and should not, and I find myself a much wiser man than he who, in the first rage of loss, made war on Troy.

  With her eyes downcast in the afternoon heat, she makes me ache to see the familiar curve of her lip behind her curtain of hair. She has the same golden hair, though in truth, she is dissimilar in appearance. Her height, her nobility of bearing are not Helen at all.

  But it is her eyes that arrest me. They are not naturally fearful, for I can see the assurance and character in them. War has cast a sheen over them, the shade of the unknown, and she is more careful than she has ever been before. Helen’s eyes were more innocent, more trusting.

  I wonder if ten years of war have changed them.

  Agamemnon

  Evening gathers early in the corners of the tent. As the sun decays from afternoon into evening, fires spring up and illuminate the dusk. Across the wide square, the fire of Achilles seems perched on the horizon, marking the end of the world.

  Alone at the mouth of my tent, my rage seethes in a tumultuous pillar, turning inward on itself as the black thunderheads tumble and concentrate. She is hidden somewhere in this camp. Even the gods cannot protect Achilles and his men if I find her among the Myrmidons!

  I stare into the fire, nursing my anger to keep at bay the rising blackness. Shapes appear and vanish in the white heat, blurring into one another as edges soften and waver. My fury is a wound guarded jealously, stroked and wheedled until it burns as whitely, as erratically as the heart of the flames.

  Peripheral figures drift beyond the golden glow. One, muscular and tall, assumes godlike proportions as he crosses, and I rise, sword in hand, because he is Achilles. He cowers outside of the glow, dwindling as I rise into a slave carrying bundles across the camp. I stare at him in disbelief before scowling and returning to my seat. As I sit, the slave scuttles off to warn the others not to approach the tent of Agamemnon. I do not apologize; I do not apologize to slaves.

  My hands tremble as they rest on my knees. Would I really have killed Achilles? Would I really have jeopardized our army for the sake of a slave woman?

  Through the heart of my fire I glimpse a woman’s form. She stands at the door of a tent, hair long and unbound, laughing. I strain through the brightness to see her face. I
t is her, and she is standing at the tent of Achilles!

  With a shout, I scatter the coals with my sword. The sudden darkness reveals the other fires dotted around the camp, small and unwavering. Across the square, Achilles’ fire burns untouched, a calm and derisive sentinel of the night.

  I take to my bed, but the flickering embers illuminate my tent with a ghostly light. In the darkness the tent flap lifts. I strain to hear footsteps, but the sand muffles them with its fickle dryness. A slender form stoops, and a soft voice rushes over me: Father.

  I forsake my bed, eyes searching warily into the shadows, but there is nothing. I return to my torment. Neither sleep nor waking offers any solace, for she is here, lurking just beyond my reach, Iphigenia. Hypnos plucks at my sleeve, but I resist, for in his underworld I cannot escape. Shadows blaze up beside my bed as I turn from them nervously. Each one wears a crown of braids, a white dress. They sway above me, knives in hand.

  When I wake, the moon is full and cold through the tent ceiling and my ears echo with the reproaches of Iphigenia.

  Briseis

  When the delicate logs on the fire crack, he is kind to me. Unlike his brother, he does not use my dependency to his advantage but instead is courteous and respectful. Moving his own bed towards the far wall of the tent, he hangs a tapestry from the ridgepole, dividing the tent into two private sections. With a bow, he insists that I sleep on his bed, while he will make do with the rugs and sand. I protest; he is too kind. But a lady, he says, must be afforded what comfort is available. I grow grave at his description, for not many would call me a lady now. With thanks, I accept the bed.

  As I approach the tapestry, I am awed by the skill with which it is woven. It must be very precious to him to have brought it, sacrificing many smaller conveniences, all the way to Troy. When I ask, his eyes become sad and he appears much older than I thought him. It was woven by his wife, he says, part of her dowry. I have heard of his wife, of course, the famous Helen, the reason we are all here. I try to imagine her as a young bride and find it impossible. The only Helen I have ever known is selfish, faithless, and beautiful as Aphrodite. But he must love her, to bring her tapestry with him to Troy.

  I bid him goodnight, and, raising the tapestry, duck into the other room. In its quiet darkness I can hear Menelaus arranging rugs and blankets into his makeshift bed and removing his outer garments. The light of the moon is cool, clean beneath the edge of the tent. I lie on his bed, turning my face towards that greater light, and say my evening prayer to the gods.

  It is not long before my eyes grow heavy, for I am at rest here. In time, after the other half of the tent is still, I sleep.

  Achilles

  My cousin Patroclus moves quietly in the tent, thinking that I am asleep. I listen as he arranges his pallet at the tent entrance and his breathing grows deep and steady, the peaceful sleep of the innocent.

  I rise, step over him, and slip from the tent. The moon is past its zenith, sure sign that it is quite late. I wonder what has kept my fair cousin so late. Perhaps the small worries of a young heart?

  My own embargo against the Argives does not hold with me in the small hours of the morning. The moon is silver and calm as I trudge up a tall dune behind our Myrmidon camp. Sitting at its peak, I survey the entire army and feel that the moon and I are companions of a sort, lonely but peaceful in our communion.

  I am in the hour of weariness without rest. Anxiously I brood over the camps. What are we fighting for, after all? A tart with golden hair. Think of the men who will not return tomorrow to that camp below. Good and noble men, all—damned. The fires gutter in the darkness, one by one. How many of them are slated to die? And for what? Another man’s wife.

  The second hour is the one of despair. The talons of helplessness clutch me, piercing flesh in pursuit of blood. Somewhere down there, she lies in a tent, bruised and shamed. And I sit on this dune, as far removed as the gods. I will never be able to save her at the risk of my men. And Agamemnon in his pride will never let her go. The moon sinks lower in the sky.

  The third hour signals itself, black and bitter. Even the moon is afraid of this hour and hides her face behind clouds. In my powerlessness, I can do nothing. I cannot save her; I cannot save any of us. It were better that I were dead. I pull my knife free from its sheath and test the blade. It would take so little to free myself of this burden. I draw the edge lightly over my wrist and see the thread of blood well up as if of its own accord, so slight is the pain. A drop spills over onto the sand, black in the occluded light. Gods who love my life, protect my soul.

  The clouds tangle in the wind and disperse fine wisps around the moon’s solemn face as the fourth hour breaks over the sea. A great tranquility overtakes my hate-wracked soul, and I tenderly wipe my knife blade clean in the sand and sheath it. There is no need of that tonight.

  I look out over the land beneath me. The walls of Troy rise dark and daunting in the night. Our battles are not so very different, Menelaus’ and mine. But they are both—yes, I feel assured by the gods, they are both achievable. We shall prevail, though it is not given to me to know how.

  With a final nod, the moon dips her head below the sea and the sky is filled with the grey light that announces Aurora. The trailing mists are her skirts, preceding her passage, and her footsteps echo in the heavy offshore breakers. I rise and make my way down the dune towards my tent.

  Patroclus does not stir as I step over him and resume my post on the bed. From beneath the tent wall I watch the first rays of dawn crack the sky and, wishing for sleep, find only grief.

  Hermes

  I am the god of language. Into my wings, my fleet feet, my mercurial tongue, Zeus has written the lexemes of gods and men. I am words, and the bearer of words.

  Idly I pass through the realm of men as I return to the gods. There is little to interest me as I wing my way across the earth, only the affairs of man, as they carry on, generation after temporal generation. Lazily I cut a wide arc over the sea. I will observe the Great War for a moment, bring Hera news.

  The camp slumbers, not a soul about, and I am momentarily piqued. My errand is wasted. I glide down into the camp square, vexed that the habits of man are not those of the gods. The dreams of the sleepers tangle in the early air, dark and secret. I sift them through my fingers, fine threads. One in particular is innocent, recalling happier times in a young life. I release the other strands and the glow of life pours into this one: it is Patroclus, cousin to Achilles.

  Immediately I know my journey can be salvaged. I can at least draw amusement from this youth, warp his dreams to some unknown purpose. But what shall it be? Women into this childish dream, or better still, glory?

  Passing like a shadow into his dreams, I find that they are of a woman, Achilles, and himself, though he sits apart and, in the midst of their happiness, seems downcast. Here is my entrance, then. Closer examination of his innermost thoughts reveals it to be guilt, an imagined wronging of his beloved Achilles. My entrance, indeed.

  I am the god of wiles, of persuasion, of all that is best and worst in language. Cloaked in these gifts, I step into his dream. Patroclus!

  He stirs in his sleep. Yes? Who calls?

  I am Hermes, and I bear a message from Zeus. Your fondest wishes are fulfilled, for to you falls the lot of restoring Achilles to the Great War. Fear not—you go not alone. The armor crafted by Hephaestus is yours today, yours to wear in lieu of Achilles. Masquerade as him, prove his strength in battle, remind the Argives of why they longed for Achilles. So your debt shall be repaid.

  Even unconscious, he rebels. I am not worthy of Achilles’ armor.

  Are you unworthy of Zeus’ command as well? Dare you spurn the will of the gods?

  Are you not Hermes, god of deception?

  I blaze in anger. Even my little trickery proves vexing this morning. How dare you doubt the gods?

  He is silent, he knows he has overstepped his bounds. I have cowed this youth, this innocent, and that is all the satisfaction t
o be gained from this wasted morning. In disgust, I free myself of his petty dreams and return to the greater elements of wind and sky where I am more at peace. It is not for gods to stoop to the affairs of men.

  Patroclus

  By the dusky dawn I see the outline of my cousin. His back is turned to me, shutting me out of his dreams. As my eyes adjust to the fragile light, the image sharpens. His body barely moves with his breathing, as though he is caught in some place between death and slumber. What demons is he fighting as he sleeps?

  I quickly leave Achilles’ dark torpor for the greyer light of the beach. From tents all around me, attendants emerge to begin the day’s duties. I catch up the earthen water jar and move with them towards the well. I allow no one but myself to wait on Achilles.

  Though I draw water along with the others, I have another intent. Passing Nikephoros, keeper of arms, I inquire about the state of Achilles’ armor. Perfect condition, he replies, never has Hephaestus crafted better. It is well that the best warrior should have the best armor. He has requested it—oh no, not to wear, Achilles will not rescind his vow. But that he may view again the gift of the gods. I will come for it this afternoon. No, no, you need not come. My cousin will see no one except me.

  Nikephoros shrugs, amenable to the vagaries of great warriors. He will arrange to have the armor cleaned before I come for it. I nod, and as we part ways my heart is pounding in my breast. I do not speak untruths lightly and would not now if the gods had not come to me in a dream

  Through the mists of sleep comes a youth with wings on his feet and caduceus. As he approaches, he hails me and unrolls a scroll. It is Hermes, messenger of Zeus and god in his own right. He reads: Hail, Patroclus, glory of the Argives! Your prayers have not gone unheard. To you is given the task of returning Achilles to the war. But you will not go unaided into this weighty task. Hephaestus has crafted beautiful armor for Achilles. Wear it into battle as him. Restore faith in him, rekindle his name with awe. In this way you shall redeem yourself.