Troy

by Kathryn Weber-Hottleman

  As I protest, Hermes smiles cheekily. What, are you too good to honor the will of Zeus? Are you too mighty for the armor of Achilles? Zeus has been gracious enough to set you a task. Dare you ignore it?

  But you are the god of persuasion and cunning. Forgive me, but do you speak truly?

  How dare you doubt the gods?

  His words ring in my ears as I wake. Achilles is still in the silent dawn. I cannot let him lie there in the dust, losing his fame and his beloved because of me. I will resurrect Achilles from the ashes, I will don his armor and accrue glory in his name.

  No longer will Achilles be wronged because of me.

  Briseis

  The man who enters the tent is not Menelaus. His movements are furtive, and as he enters he draws the fabric swiftly closed. He pauses for a moment to let his eyes focus. Perhaps he has learned of the captive woman in this tent and is here to take advantage of me. I find that I no longer care. Hope of Achilles dwindles by the day, and I realize I was a fool to ever believe in it.

  When he turns to me, I am utterly unprepared to see Patroclus. He greets me softly, his gentle face tight with gravity. He has come with a request, he says. The gods have laid a charge on me. I am to go into battle as Achilles. This demonstration of graciousness toward the Argives, along with slain Trojans, may restore Achilles to favor with Agamemnon, releasing you both from unhappy fates.

  He hesitates. What I have come to ask is not usually asked of a woman, but I can trust no one else. Will you gird Achilles’ armor on me? I am his attendant, I have none of my own, and I dare not ask Nikephoros for fear of discovery. I cannot fulfill the will of the gods alone. Will you help me?

  Perhaps I have met my fate because I doubt the gods. Perhaps they find me wicked and damnable because I question their motives, their decisions. And perhaps this is the punishment they see fit to visit upon me because I question. They will flock to Achilles, the Trojan heroes, hem him in and around with blood. How can I dress him in Achilles’ armor and send him into death?

  His eyes are earnest, pleading. Better to refuse and undo his hopes of atonement, or to abet the gods’ murder?

  I will, I say.

  Menelaus

  As we ride into battle, I am reminded of my hatred of war and my weariness. What a fool I was to rashly declare war on Paris! But we were ten years younger, and blood was hot and thin in veins. War is made for the young, not the old and sick at heart.

  My aged thoughts mingle with the thud of horses’ hooves and the spinning chariot wheels. We are fortunate, those of us mounted thus, safer in the battle to come. I have grown to love the thought of safety, of peace.

  My eye is caught by a glimmer of gold, and I half-turn before I realize that Helen is not here. The gleam flashes, radiant and shining, against my uninterested gaze. Slowly it draws even with me, though far down the field, gold brilliant in the summer sun

  She thinks I am not watching as she stands on the terrace. Hidden in the arbor, I watch as she looses her long hair and basks in the heat of the day. She draws crimson anemones into her hands through the balustrades and sings as she places them in her hair, her dress. I think I have never loved her as much as I do now, in her unconscious beauty, secretly.

  A shout catches my attention. Achilles! Achilles has risen for battle! I strain to see the direction of the furor and find myself staring at the gold armored figure down the beach. He pulls into the front of the charge, and the warriors stream out behind him like an immense and awful banner. He is heading into the thick of the battle.

  Blood spurts from beneath his spear, splashing the gold armor, blooming on his shield, as he meets the Trojan army. As we too join battle, and man after man falls beneath his onslaught, the shouts of war grow dim around me and in the lull I think I hear singing.

  Patroclus

  The battle rages around me. Scores of Trojans flock to Achilles’ sword, and giving tongue to his cry I slay them all. With his blade I restore my cousin and atone for my sin.

  Suddenly the sand lies clear, and I am in a ring of calm. For a moment I relax my guard. Surrounding me, Argives grapple with Trojans, and death cries pierce the air in many tongues. I try to block out sounds that haunt me at night. For Achilles.

  Through the wall of bodies breaks a bronze figure. He is tall and broad and carries himself with quiet nobility. I straighten my back, attempting to assume Achilles’ confidence and bravado as he speaks to me. Achilles, you and I were destined from the bloody birth of this war. Now we are met, for I am Hector of Troy.

  His sword whirls towards me, and I meet it squarely with Achilles’ great weapon. The tumult stills around us as the eye of the storm unleashes its fury. Trojan and Argive alike watch as we battle, and I feel the weight of their gazes.

  He comes at me like a summer storm which, though it gives little warning in the heavy afternoon, astounds with its brutal violence in mid-evening. Every clash of the swords is my death knell, and my body quavers and weakens beneath his blows. It is Achilles destined for this battle, Hector, not I!

  He senses his triumph and is renewed, a flash flood fed by turgid streams. A torrent of blows assails me, swollen with victory. The thought bursts onto my consciousness: Perhaps the gods were wrong, after all.

  I am undone by that thought. With a cry I disengage and run, I know not what direction, and Hector follows like the wind behind the thunderheads.

  Achilles

  Peace falls over the camps when the armies leave, abrupt after a morning of industry. In the languorous heat, my bed is warm and seductive, enticing me to leaden, indulgent rest. As I lay my body down, uncaring, I feel the soft breath of Hypnos. Nor does he taunt me in the hazy heat as in the depths of night; I experience a miracle: sleep. After these weeks of wakefulness, he takes me by the hand and leads me into cool, feverless repose.

  I am asleep when the messenger enters the square. Achilles! Achilles!

  I emerge from my tent, bleary, an ugly rage mounting. What do you want with Achilles?

  The messenger, little more than a child, stumbles across the square and throws himself at my feet, sobbing. I raise his tearstained chin, softening. What message do you bring, child?

  His shoulders shudder as he strives to regain control before beginning his message with trembling lips. Milord Patroclus—

  He was kind to everyone in the camp, from the children with their mangy dogs to the bitter-tempered kings to the untouchable captive women. No trial was too trifling, no joy too small that he would not stoop to listen, on bended knee, and mend or rejoice alongside. The ragged camp-children, disrespectful of everyone else, called him Milord Patroclus, for he rightly seemed to them all that was good, and noble, and worthy of title.

  Milord Patroclus—

  He gulps, he cannot catch his breath. Steady, little one, what tidings do you bring of Milord Patroclus?

  His tears make him fearless, and, hurling himself into my arms, he sobs. Milord Patroclus is dead!

  I cling to the little waif as the sky grows black.

  Menelaus

  The man who enters the square with the rising sun behind him is a god among gods in his golden armor. His stature is that of Zeus, and as Aurora’s fingers touch his skin the armor bursts into tawny flame. He stands for a long moment, emblazoned against the sea.

  The camp stirs beneath his presence, not just the servants but the soldiers as well, as though they sense a greater soul than theirs summoning. Beside me, there appears at the mouth of my tent a slender hand drawing back the fabric, a long curl hiding a face. The softest of gasps escapes her throat; it is he.

  When the sun has escaped the tendrils of night, he begins his deliberate march. Over the sand, through the desolation of the square, he is the star on the brow of the morning. The tapestry undulates with a soft movement as the slender hand is retracted. But he does not break stride.

  As he approaches, drawn by some knowledge, some faultless instinct, his face resolves against my sleep-soft eyesight. His eyes are hard and br
ight, the eyes of a man who has kept the watches of the night and known their sacred grief. The lines of his brow and jaw, always firm, are stark and chiseled against the pale lingering knowledge. One’s soul, torn from the body—himself, scattered in black drops across wastes of sand.

  We are bound up in him: Agamemnon, Helen, the woman, the soul of Patroclus—me. For there is no grief like that borne for him one never thought to lose.

  She is ready—she is waiting when he comes and takes her white hand. From behind the tapestry and the rough tent flap he leads her out into the sunlight. She understands: This is no matter of love for her, nor is it bred of defiance. As they cross the square toward his tent, her footsteps are a symbol of a life given so foolishly, so vainly.

  In the middle of the square, he pauses, his gaze resting on the third flank of our camp. From one tent issues a great array of armored soldiers and one linen-clad man. The man’s frame is taut, with rage, I imagine, but he gives no command and the soldiers are still. There will be no threat carried out against the Myrmidons; they will not be cut off from the Argives, for nothing can stand against the dolor that trembles in Achilles. You hold no power over me, for to what further Hell can you condemn me?

  It comes to me late as I watch them enter his tent that Achilles walks clad in armor. A chill palls my skin with guilt: Oh gods, protect him! Do not add another death to my conscience.

  All this for Helen, for a woman I do not know anymore, whose love I have not shared for ten years. I was—oh gods, I was wrong.

  Today Achilles returns to war.

  Agamemnon

  The sun glitters on golden armor and hair as I fling the tent flaps aside. In the first light, my attendant shook me from sleep: My lord, Achilles has taken the girl! Disheveled, disoriented, I have risen from my bed and, with my retinue, burst from my tent.

  The sun on their faces is blinding, golden Achilles and the woman he leads by the hand. Their radiance erupts across my sleep-dimmed vision, and for a moment I think he is leading her to me. My hand tingles with the heft of the knife, the long cool bronze of the blade. In her bridal array her steps are slow, her eyes shining with solemnity and expectation. The sun casts a crown of light, a veil of brightness over her braided hair. He leads her, the bridegroom, face dark with new purpose, hands unusually gentle. His armor honors her, a noble declaration of the respect felt for this woman. As he releases her to her last solitary ascent to the altar, she does not notice that he remains below, face etched with mourning. When she reaches the pinnacle, a jewel suspended in a moment of expectation, she turns to her bridegroom, but he is not there. With wondering eye, she casts about for him. I watch her brow cloud in bewilderment as she finds him, at the base of the altar, before I raise the knife. Her eyes are wide and uncomprehending at her betrayal, and she slumps against the altar as the blood rolls down, down…

  The sun shrouds their faces as it lifts free of the sea and I am dazzled by the glow. Then Apollo’s chariot edges forward, and the woman’s hair is unbound, and Achilles’ face is stern with grief that is not hers. His eyes bore into mine, and in them I see the bitterness of months, the judgment cast against me, the slow smolder of rage.

  My hand is empty and limp at my side, and I do not move as they pass through the square. I will not harm the Myrmidons on his account, I will not raise my hand against Achilles and the woman. I will not raise my hand against her again—

  Iphigenia, forgive me.

  Achilles

  The sun echoes across the armor of my men. They burn across the sand behind me, silent in their ranks, waiting. Agapetos, second in command, stands in his chariot at my side. His eyes are bright, his muscles loose and eager, stropped by days of inaction to taut perfection. His fevered control flickers from man to man in the shiver of a joint, the clench of a jaw. They are ready; they are ready.

  On the far side of the sand, a spark of bronze scores the earth. My eyes narrow against him: Hector, by whose hand Patroclus lies slain. As his thin cry resonates across the desolation, my own answers, spurring my men into action. They loose their own shouts, roaring over sand and stone as our armies rush towards each other.

  As I meet the first Trojan, the grief in my breast wells over in rage, hot and black. His red blood coursing over my blade whets my fury, goading its insatiable pit. Every man slain is for Patroclus.

  My armor is slick with blood, fresh, viscous, crusted in Hephaestus’ intricate workings. I slay with abandon, untouchable. The gods, erratic in their kindness, have at least allowed me to assuage anguish in blood. But every drop shed eats further into the abyss of my being. I am dissolved in rage, carried away by this disease as my blade hollowly penetrates bone and marrow.

  At last, from beyond the haze of battle emerges a shining bronze figure. It is Hector; at last we are met. The sand clears around us, and we are ringed with idle warriors temporarily at peace in light of a greater battle.

  He moves softly about the tent, steps muffled by sand and the tranquility of early morn. The water he has drawn pours from his pitcher into the cool earthen chalice. He is practiced in the dusk and spills not a drop. As he finishes his duties, assumed not of obligation but of love, he draws near my pallet. I hardly breathe for fear of startling him as he bends over me and smiles. Sleep well, cousin Achilles. May the gods be kind to you today.

  With a cry, I raise my sword and bring it crashing down on Hector, tasting grief and seeing only Patroclus.

  Hector and Achilles

  Based on Homer’s Iliad

  Achilles

  The armor he wears is red in the morning sun, and as he draws nearer I can feel its heft on my shoulders. He bears my arms, a subtle arrogance, cleansed of every remnant of battle and restored to its glory. But I can see the familiar web of scars traced against its surface, and the gold shines with a patina that no cloth could ever give. As the blood of the slain splashes onto his breast, visions of the last man who bore my breastplate spill into my weary eyes. He is here; he is gone.

  My cousin, stripped of my arms, sealed in an urn and guarded by the woman lately guarded by him. I raise my battle cry as we rush forward, careless of our impending doom.

  We collide with a clap like thunder, and my grief is stroked by the savage clash of arms. Rage burns over my eyes, courses through my veins, thinner than my viscous sorrow. I deal Hector a mighty blow, the burnished armor ringing beneath my onslaught. A new scar blooms across its surface, marking Hector’s heart. He staggers under the blow; we must spend these precious opening moments learning, understanding, manipulating a foreign style, to save our lives.

  His footwork is brilliant in the sand, I commend the Trojan prince for that. His lunge scores only my shield, the first edge to etch the new design that will one day overtake Hephaestus’ reliefs. We trade another blow, and I know: I am powerful, and he is cunning.

  Apollo’s chariot ascends on its long curve, and as our battle revolves he is silhouetted against the sea, the white sand. My heart catches in my breast; it is as though Patroclus stands before me. I am powerless to attack him who my heart loves. But the man who has my cousin’s build raises his arm and strikes, and I know that it is not Patroclus but the man who sent him to rest in the cold clay urn. I slash at Hector, and a thread of blood streams across his breastplate, a bronze film over gold.

  I am Achilles, brother of Patroclus, and I will not let his death go unavenged.

  Hector

  In the moment of battle, I can sense my wife’s gaze from the battlements and for a moment I feel exposed. War rages across the expanse of beach, but we are caught in a ring of deadly calm. Trojan has made temporary peace with Argive to watch our combat, and words patter in pidgin tongue as we are praised, criticized, chosen.

  Achilles’ face is bitter behind his helm, and my captured armor sings beneath his blade. The heat of the score throbs against my chest, pointing toward my heart. But this is my land, and there is much more at stake than a single woman and pride. I press my onslaught at the thought of my w
ife’s dark hair, though my hand trembles with the gravity of this battle. My strike lands on his shield, and I blot out images of Troy and its beloved occupants. This is all that can matter now.

  The sun rises behind me as we circle in the sand. We pause, and my back is to the sea, this same sea that I have seen every morning of my life. Its crash and roar mimic our war, mocking our little strength. I watch Achilles’ face change in the sun, from rage to grief to black hatred, and I wonder what he has seen. His golden armor is heavy on my shoulders as he charges, and I am not quick enough on the parry. Fire sears across my arm, the first libation to whet the god-forged blade. My blood washes over the breastplate, returning my beloved bronze sheen as I raise my wounded arm. These arms are a trophy that must be worn, but the bronze calls to me from within the walls of Troy.

  As we join in vicious battle, I wonder if I shall ever wear them again.

  Achilles

  The Trojan is quick on his feet, and with the sea behind him I feel the desperation of the walls of Troy looming before his eyes. I fight for vengeance, for the spoils of war, but he battles for his city, and it seems to me that the entire defense of Troy suddenly rests on his shoulders.

  The blur of our blades is beautiful in the clear morning air. If we had been born on one side of this war, we should have been untouchable. This Trojan would have been my brother, trained by my side from childhood, and I should never have wept for his sake because we would not be slain in battle. But as my sword slices again across his flesh and fresh blood falls down, it is no use to admire his skill and regret death.