The Trojan with his fleet feet staggers beneath my attack, and for a moment I am sorry. Why should war destroy the warrior? This is not a fight chosen by either of us; it is the spawn of a cowardly prince, a wronged king, and a woman. This man and I ought to have esteemed one another as equals, as friends.
The soldiers throng around us, ringing us in a wall of armor. I scan the faces as Hector stumbles—why press the attack? Helen might yet capitulate, and then this life should have been wasted. But as I look on their faces, anger wells up in my chest, for in the crowd Patroclus watches, silent. His face is keen, intent, as if he will offer his usual words of encouragement: Well struck, cousin! Truly you are a great warrior!
His words echo in my ears, bitterness that lasts past the night and into the desolation of morning. The Trojan has not yet regained his footing when I charge him, alive with pain. I am Patroclus, I am Achilles, and he cannot stand before us.
I can see the reflection of Troy in his eyes as we come together. The walls loom up, white and tall, mottled by his dark iris. His eyes are wide, locked onto my blade as it cleaves the air slowly, so slowly, toward his head. Then the Trojan is running.
With a cry, I follow.
Hector
The armor jars against my skin as I run, kneading flesh against bone. Never before have I run in armor, never turned and fled, and its chafe is unfamiliar, unkind.
The walls of my city are vast and white, and I long to drown myself in them, plunge myself down into the ancient stronghold and cease. As I run they waver before me, now near, now far. The beach stretches in granulated white before me, and I despair of reaching Troy.
He comes at me like a storm on the back of the wind, like a fire rushing through the heat of drought. I, who have sworn off thoughts of Troy for battle, who has bidden a last farewell to wife and son, mother and father, can think of nothing else as the blade dips and pivots in its graceful dance. But I am a poor partner, for I stumble and bleed, red on the ashen sand.
Behind a distant wall, clouds scud across blue sky and I can just see the radiance of my home. I imagine my father and mother within, waiting anxiously for news of this battle, Helen at a window speaking in her soft voice. How often she must hesitate, carefully choosing the words that will bring the least sorrow, waiting until she is sure to say he is no more—
High above my city, standing on the wall that overshadows this beach, I imagine Andromache, watching because she does not know, she does not know, for who can tell the outcome of this battle but the gods? I wonder what woman waits by a tent for Achilles, watching in silent fear for the golden armor.
Suddenly it is not a matter of courage or honor. What does it matter if I go home to my wife in disgrace because I have fled and refuse to war any longer? Better to live without glory than to die, for if I die it matters not what glory is accrued in the death.
The balance of life rests in my hands for an instant, fragile vapor that could easily be destroyed by my mortal fingers. Achilles seems to slow his attack, whirling sword still hours from my neck, and voices stretch beyond recognition in my ears. Where I stand is perfectly calm, the eye of my private storm. Far above me, a white figure flutters on the battlements.
As Achilles’ sword severs the air before me, I turn and run, because death is eternal separation and life is only its cheap illusion.
Achilles
He flings himself after the walls of Troy as though Elysium itself waited there. I follow, spurred by the bloodlust of the chase, the scent of atonement in my sweat. My vision is crimson, rimmed round with a red that permits only the leather of his sandals, the gleam of armor and sand to penetrate.
The walls shimmer in the heat, gold breastplate blurring with white stone, Apollo high overhead. The Trojan runs, deathless, the shade of Patroclus stinging his heels in the arm of Achilles. The battle parts before us, a wide avenue bowing before the royalty of our battle. The men stand still on either side of us, mouths agape in salute to their princes winging their way toward Troy.
At the very gates of Troy he turns his steps, bending into the desert that rings the city. Troy—Elysium—the great black gates barred against their prince, their savior, who enters the desert followed only by his destroyer. Three times the gates throw back their heads before us, thrice before the Trojan stands, last courage gathered in his flight. I am weary, but the spark of the gods and of Patroclus burns in my spirit and I am renewed as Hector’s blood courses down with sweat. He is mortal—I press home his mortality, the blessings of the gods upon me, upon my sword.
The whisper of metal on metal as our blades meet in desperation is the soft voice of my cousin in the morning, Patroclus’ hushed consecration. The Trojan’s blood weeps on the bright breastplate, dimming its luster from gold to a darker hue. No longer is it the armor pillaged from a slain man; it is right that Hector should wear his bronze armor to his death.
The Trojan is pressed up against his gates, the black gates so anxious to send their prince to war. His breath is labored, bearing up under the heavy armor, and the sand is stained crimson. He raises his eyes to me, a final prayer, but I am not a god and it falls on deaf ears.
The sky in his eyes is very blue, cooling the rage in my blood. He does not parry any longer; his sword hangs limp and his shield is slack on his arm. I lower my weapon and step closer, drawn by the bond of war. A final moment of peace, of making peace between us, fighters of another man’s war.
I am so near him that I can see sweat bead on his lip, the crease of his mouth as he whispers a word—a name?
He meets my gaze suddenly, calmly, the face of my Trojan half, eyes full of sky, as I gently slide my golden blade through his throat.
Hector
The wood of my gates is rough against my back, the firmness of my ancestors grown from the depths of the earth and hewn into our solidarity. There is a sharp splinter between my shoulder blades, a fault that I will bring to our carpenters’ attention tomorrow. My city is beautiful in its battledress.
Achilles is the sun, a golden beacon on my horizon. Apollo in all his splendor is incarnate in this man, chariot streaming in rays behind him. The sea glitters with his approach. I am speechless for the beauty of the sea, the sky, the sand ground beneath the foot of Achilles. As he approaches with his blade, the glory of the earth is thrown into sharp relief, and I ache for the beauty of it.
All around us, the beach is silent, every man still in his query: What will become of us? The breeze is the caress of my childhood, the crying gull the brush of a lost soul with life. Whose soul, I wonder?
He is close to me, the easy distance a friend or a brother might take. This comrade of war, separated by a mere chance of water and birth—Achilles, my friend, forgive me! Until he stumbled, I believed I fought you.
He seems to understand, and the sky grows brighter as he steps forward, the unassuming step of a man who has made peace. Achilles.
His blade is there, golden craft of Hephaestus slipping through me, releasing me to dust, to sky. My heart seizes in its final leap to freedom, the briefest flight of the gull—
Far above me, someone screams.
Cassandra
Based on Virgil’s Aeneid
Cassandra
The curse of Apollo is upon me. Ten years ago, when I was but a priestess in his temple, the great god appeared to me in human form, intent on taking me to wife. When I refused his salacious desire, he laid on me this burden: Prophesy. The curse: No one will believe my prophecies.
Apollo
She worships in my temple, this priestess who spurned me, but I am not there. Today I forsake the altar of Troy, for naught can turn destruction from them. Has she not prophesied it herself? But I, who have tormented her sacred post with my presence, at last abandon her to a crueler fate.
Cassandra
I have felt the presence of Apollo moving in his temple, but today I feel it no more. Today is the day foretold for our destruction. What more can I do than pray to a god who does not exist here?
I will not leave my post, though the god has left us.
Apollo
Beautiful Cassandra, my faithful priestess, kneels reverently at the base of my shrine. I hear her sweet voice as I steal away; noble virgin, an hour will come when you will regret the favor rejected and received. Had you wedded the god, you might have preserved your honor and saved your city through believed prophecies.
Cassandra
Apollo, Phoebus Apollo, I kneel before your shrine and beg for my people. Their cries tell me my brother has fallen and with him the hope of Troy. Son of Zeus, intercede for us and lighten the blow. You cannot avert it, for we are fated to destruction, but spare just one, Apollo, please
Apollo
Her prayers and tears die away as I join battle with the Trojans. I have heard her plea, and I will aid Troy, but no one, not even Zeus himself, can turn their fate. As the gates crumble and Trojans flee, I see my sister Athena cast her shield around Aeneas. Cassandra, you are answered.
Cassandra
The walls of the temple give way to fire and beating, but I remain on my knees in prayer. If I am to die, let it be at the feet of the gods.
Harsh Argive accents and footsteps fill the colonnade. Flames lick around Apollo’s shrine. Phoebus Apollo, god of light, give me courage—
Agamemnon
What have we here, men? Look at the devotion of the girl, probably thinks Apollo will save her yet! That’s not going to happen. Bring her to me!
Well, would you look at that, Trojan girls are as pretty as Argive. Bring her along, she’ll be my trophy for winning the war on Troy!
Cassandra
Men seize me roughly, and I know my fate. I am a prize for this brute, this slavering Argive beast. Struggle is pointless except to absolve one’s conscience: I did not submit willingly.
With a flash of divinity, I prophesy. Agamemnon, son of Atreus, death awaits you! He laughs and spits in my face, unbelieving.
Apollo
Farewell, sweet Cassandra. Your city crumbles around you, and you, as a captive of Agamemnon, are no longer fit to be my priestess. But I will not take my gift from you—you shall retain your prophetic tongue, though disbelieved. Think, Cassandra, you could have been the bride of Apollo and saved your people. Regret.
Epirus
Based on Euripedes’ Andromache and Virgil’s Aeneid
Andromache
One’s self is worth nothing—and if one is worthless, to what end does one stay alive? The world is grey; no shred of value is left behind, so color fades into maddening shadow. I sleep only to dream.
And in these dreams, beyond the veil, I see hands reaching out to save me, because I can no longer save myself. But if dreams find in me that which is worth salvage—I suppose I have not stepped beyond the grasp of humanity, and life clings on.
I punish myself for this. The clutch of dark coils finds other reasons to hate who I am. A great and terrible blackness yearns for me and resents life’s foils. I can see it, straining against the boundaries of thought, aching against the walls until its form ribs the membrane of my mine and I see the contours of the beast. And yet it caresses, luring me in with the promise that in death I am not alone. The embrace of death, the ancients say, the kiss. How comforting to find that death, insensate, mutely offers the breath of intimacy, without the slightest touch.
Pyrrhus
I abominate myself. What sort of wretch plunders a wife from a dead man? And then, what coward has the bravado to consider a living being plunder? Yet we keep them, slaves of chain or manipulation, greedy to bind that which does not belong to us in vain effort to hide our shame. I exert power over her—to this land, I embody power, and the fruition is evidenced as a child. Oh, but what have I done? To drink the wine of power is to drink blood, and to laugh at our nakedness as though we had conceived the joke.
Hermione
Legality creates no happiness. What use is the sacrament of marriage, consummated in the divine favor of the gods, if one has not love?
When I was a child, Aphrodite blessed me with her own beauty, molten in unformed flesh. Like fire, though, it begat a demon—who is certain of love when greed and lust are commoner? Beauty is merely a token, and the body reflects its misfortune. Sold, like cattle, as only a body can be sold, to a man who beat out another’s bid, I come, devoid of promise, to Pyrrhus by way of Orestes.
Helenus
Slavery chafes the soul, not the wrists. Bethink yourself that, at any moment, your life may leave—and the soul, not your own, may fall to the prison of death. And yet, the soul, upright, presses on. There is a horizon that appears in my dreams, made of gold. Elysium! yet on earth, where strength does not bow, impotent, to tie the sandals of the king.
But, I beg, reflect on his sadness: the man of loneliness and self-hatred. To whom can he show his vileness? He begs me to dress his heart as his open wounds, and then beats me for his own vulnerability. What a trick of power, so beguiling, that loads a man with shame and compels him to wear a mask.
Night laps over me, then Nyx. He is kinder than Aurora, who, believing all to share her radiant joy, strips the cover from our sin and tosses it up for all to see—her own glittering toy, exposed by her smile.
Andromache
I am relieved of my evening duties as my burden grows heavier. I ought to be used to my own blackness by now; but still, the shade of Astyanax’s mother reproaches me from her wedded bliss with my ill-begotten child. I know it to be another boy; the perverse gods have seen fit that each issue of force is a handsome trophy to its father. But my firstborn weeps in Hell, because his wretched mother dares not damn this innocent life to end her guilty one.
Pyrrhus
I wonder if people like me, who commit heinous crimes, forfeit their ability to love. Perhaps one might think it a greater loss to be without the love of another, particularly if that other is beloved; I think the greatest gulf is that of seeing someone desperate for loving, and being incapable of giving that for which they yearn.
Hermione! When I was young, I was taught that kings must rule by might, and power came through force. My marriage, ill-advised, was the coup d’état of kingship—snatching you from a mere prince to buttress my unsteady throne. And here we live, strangers to all but each other’s bodies, and lately there but merest acquaintances. It sickens me to see your eyes and body, hungry for the intimacy of hearts, when I cannot touch my own store of feeling. Your youth, your very beauty reproach me. For what can an old man give to the ardent fire of youth, against the memory of an impassioned prince? Better to be consoled by a woman who dares not look me in the eye, even from her throne on my couch.
Hermione
If I knew nothing of love, I would care nothing for beauty—but, as it is, I cannot claim that innocence. Love is sweet, and its taste never quite leaves the mouth, though one eat common bread for years.
It was foolish to give my heart to one before the sacred vows. A father’s pledge may give a daughter’s body, and a grandfather’s revoke it—but she alone gives her heart, as though it was less precious than her blood! Orestes has claimed me; now my heart is spent aching after a dim reflection of that joy.
Alone, with my husband in the law, could I not evoke some semblance of love? But then, what use is it to be willing, if beauty and being belong in spirit to another?
Helenus
He might have been content, might he not, with a bride as lovely as Psyche? But no—the conqueror must possess himself of my beloved queen. Pity me, because he cannot bear to be without a symbol of his power; even tonight, as he lies with her, he condemns me to wait on him as though I had no eyes, ears, or heart. I am his personal slave, an office to be envied; I am his mirror, before which he postures to reassure himself of his worth. Kingship is a sham, a hunk of metal which we, the wretched, imbue with power and place on a slaughterer’s head. I have seen her eyes, and they testify to the emptiness of the throne, despite the heir she may carry.
Andromache
It is quiet here,
once he sleeps. Even the babe within me sleeps and does not dream. It is an easy step from this grief-stained bed to the window—from there to the battlements—from the battlements to the sea below—
But my life is foresworn to my child. In the hush of night, I am glad he rests, and that Hecate veils her white face with mist. I am, for a breath, alone.
He comes to me in these moments, suspended in time, my own bronze warrior. The bronze is red, though, not tawny—and what has become of his face? Once so tender, and now—
The mist reaches his eyes, and I can nearly feel his caressing touch, before Hecate spites me and I see no more.
Hermione
My heart is black. But I have always heard that beauty comes from the overflow of the heart, so how can that be? And yet I hate her for her airs, for drawing attention to herself and her child. Pah! that child is naught more than a mark of ownership, a brand placed there by her master.
But my heart shivers and tells me this is not so. He would not take such pains with a mere trophy. He is worse about her than about his prize bitches, who he won’t suffer me to beat when burdened. It is her bastard which seals my own womb—and with it, my last hope of love. She is no more than a whore in a wife’s place, and I shall live to punish her.
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