Trojan Women- The Fall of Troy

by Byrne Fone

  Trojan Women

  A Novel of the Fall of Troy

  Byrne Fone

  Copyright 2010 Byrne Fone

  All Rights Reserved

  REVISED EDITION 2017

  TROJAN WOMEN IS A REVISED EXCERPT FROM

  ILIOS: THE FALL OF TROY

  Books by Byrne Fone

  History and Literature

  Historic Hudson: An Architectural Portrait

  Homophobia: A History

  A Road to Stonewall: Homosexuality and

  Homophobia in British and American Literature

  Masculine Landscapes: Walt Whitman and the

  Homoerotic Text

  Anthologies

  Hidden Heritage: History and the Gay

  Imagination

  The Columbia Anthology of Gay Literature

  Editions

  An Apology for the Life of Colley Cibber

  Colley Cibber’s Love’s Last Shift

  Novels

  American Revolution: A Gay Novel

  Achilles: A Love Story

  Trojan Women

  War Stories

  DEDICATION

  AS ALWAYS…. FOR ALAIN

  When men make war, it is women who suffer. Trojan Women is a gripping re-imaging of one of the greatest stories in western literature, the epic clash of cultures we call the Trojan War. As Homer tells it in the Iliad, men fight, suffer, and die. There men tell the tale. But the Trojan women, whose lives are at the center of Homer's tale, and who are the prizes to be won, are silent. Trojan Women gives these women a voice.

  In the novel six legendary women a voice: Chryseis, captured and taken as a slave to the bed of Agamemnon, bravely and resourcefully confronts the horrors of war and the brutality of men. Captured with her and saved from death by her, Briseis stands with Chryseis when death threatens them. Slaves and playthings of the Greeks, the two women are at the moral and emotional center of the drama and tell a story that even Homer never knew.

  From within the besieged city of Troy, Queen Hecabe, and her daughters Andromache and Kassandra, look from the walls at the vast Greek army camped below, and bravely face the terrors that confront them: for Hecabe the loss of a crown and kingdom, for Andromache the loss of husband and child, for Kassandra the loss of sanity itself.

  Once desired and now despised, Helen, the prize over whom Greeks and Trojans fight, has lost everything and now can only wait to learn if she will live or die.

  Trojan Women renews for our times an epic story, yet one also intimate and passionate that remains, after two thousand years, perhaps the greatest story ever told.

  Trojan Women

  Book One: Chryseis: Daughter of Apollo

  Chryseis, daughter of Chryses, priest of the Archer–God Apollo was taken by Achilles as a slave for Agamemnon. Chryses came to the ships of the bronze clad Achaeans to set free his daughter. "Old man," said Agamemnon. “I will not free her. She shall grow old in my house at Argos far from her own home, busying herself with her loom and visiting my bed; so go, and do not provoke me or it shall be the worse for you."

  The old man then prayed to Apollo. "Hear me," he cried, “if I have ever decked your temple with garlands, or burned your thigh-bones in fat of bulls or goats, grant my prayer, and let your arrows avenge these my tears upon the Achaeans."

  And Apollo came down in fury from the heights of Olympus with his bow and quiver sling over his back. His decent was like the nightfall. He aimed his arrows at the men and struck again and again. Day and night the pyres consumed the dead. For nine days the god’s arrows rained down upon them.

  --Iliad Book I

  Chapter 1

  Chryseis

  When I was old enough to attend the sacrifice I only watched my father at the altar; later when I was of age, I attended him there. He stood before the image of the god, knife in hand, wrapped in the robes of his calling, He subdued the poor struggling creature that had been brought to the temple for the sacrifice, for rather than shed their own, people willingly offer the blood of lesser creatures to the gods. Some could only afford to give a rabbit or rooster, others more affluent brought a pig, a sheep, or a lamb. On great feast days people brought a cow or an ox to be done to death so that they might live. As I watched I wondered: are the animals that die as fearful of death as we who offer them so as to avoid it? Do they know what death means, like we do? As they lie panting wildly on the altar, their legs bound, their heads forced down on the cold stone, does their life flash before their eyes as it is said that it does before we face our death?

  As my father raised the knife to sever the jugular, it seemed to me that they did know, for at that moment they always struggled more wildly against their confinement. They bleated or squealed or moaned. Sometimes their cries sounded almost human. I could not watch the moment of the kill for fear that some small terrified creature, a lamb that just that morning had been gamboling in the thyme-scented fields, or a calf taken just that day from its mother’s side, might turn its soft brown eyes full of terror, toward me. I looked away; I pitied them.

  That was so long ago.

  Now I stand where he stood, a girl no longer, but a woman grown old in the service of the god. With my sharp knife I slit their throats and let the dark blood pour into the sacred golden vessel. I cut away the best slices of meat from the thighs, wrap the rich fat around the thighbones, and burn these for the god, pouring for him libations of wine and water. I sprinkle the warm blood on the altar and throw incense into the crackling altar flame, chanting prayers for protection, for health, and for fertility. The rest of the meat of sacrifice is due to me. I roast it on the sacred fire for my dinner.

  I live alone, celibate and chaste, for I am dedicated to the god. The villagers bring me food and reverence me. They call me Reverend Mother. I have, it seems, become a Sibyl. Like the ancient prophetess of Cumae visions come upon me, though they do not come unbidden as they used to do. Now to take me into that trance I find I must go into the small dark room behind the altar and breathe deeply of the fumes rising from the lighted brazier that I keep always burning there.

  Not many come here now, to the temple. Once in a while a pilgrim passes, leaves a rabbit or some grain for sacrifice, though even now, years after it all is over, few have much they can spare, even for the gods. There is no priest here now since my father died. I know that time out of mind it has always been said that it is the prerogative only of holy men to sacrifice before Apollo. It is not women’s work. But is it not more wrong to leave the gifts un-offered, to deprive the god of what was brought to him? I think so. And so I take the offerings and perform the rites, for I am the daughter of a priest and I have known sorrow. I know I do no wrong. The sacrifices are attended by the usual handful of devout women who come every day, wearing black shawls and carrying holy amulets. They know all the chants, all the responses, know all the ancient elements of the ritual as well as I. I say the proper prayers and sprinkle water and wine on the altar as I did when I was a girl at my father’s side. There is no one to serve at my side, and so, alone, I take the poor shivering beast and end it quickly, using the same knife my father used.

  My days are spent in silence. I still live in our old house and I keep it clean as best I can, and in it there is a little altar to my father’s spirit. I do my best to tend the temple, though it has fallen into ruin and it seems as if nature is moving quickly to reclaim it. Moss grows on the stones, ivy clambers profusely up the columns, tree roots split the pavement. I sweep the bird droppings from the temple porch, though my back pains me and it is hard to bend, and my knees are stiff and swollen. I bring little bowls of grain for the mice, who Apollo loves, who still play here as they did so long ago.

  Somet
imes a woman comes and asks for the Sibyl. With her I enter into the sanctuary, throw incense on the flames. I always ask her—it is always a woman for I cannot speak to men—I ask her to imagine in her mind what it is she needs or wants. “Do not speak it aloud,” I say. “The god will hear.” The smoke rises pungent and sweet and I breathe it deeply. As the dark smoke fills the room I feel my pain disappear. I pray to Apollo to give me the sight. He always does. I feel my body dissolve. I rise and see the supplicant kneeling on the floor, the brazier billowing smoke. The corners of the room recede; the statue of the god seems to smile, a little mouse runs across the floor. Below me I see my own body crumpled into a ball; I watch as I hug myself and sway and sway and I can hear my own crooning voice, though I never know what I say. After it is done I rarely recall what was revealed. But the women are always satisfied. I awake and find them kneeling before me, their eyes filled with tears and gratitude. And when we leave the room to go out into the light, they take my hand and kiss it, and sometimes I hold them and we weep together, and sometimes even laugh.

  Though I tire of blood day in and day out, yet blood feeds the gods and nourishes the souls in Hades. And if I conduct the ceremony without flaw the god will be pleased and we will all be protected for yet another day from whatever trials heaven has planned for us. Though what seemingly dread thing may produce the good I will never know. Indeed, I must believe that what I do is for the good. For is not my life the result of a miracle? Because of a miracle I serve at this altar, hierophant of divine mysteries. Daily I conduct the rituals appointed since time began and celebrate the great festivals in Apollo’s name here in Chrysa, at his temple we call the Smintheum, as my father, Chryses, priest of Apollo, did. How much longer will I be able to do so I do not know. I have lived long. I have lived indeed until the very end of the world. For who can doubt, after all the horrors, that the end soon must come.

  Chapter 2

  Chryseis

  Our family has always lived here in Chrysa. My father and his, and his father before him, had looked out from the high cliffs to the sea, watching the sun gleaming on the silver water, watching the misty mountains in the distance turn rich purple at dusk. In Chrysa there are no great buildings like we had heard that Troy possessed. Here, low stone houses with rough stone lintels, small windows, each house with an image of a god next to the door, worn smooth with touching for luck when men and women, sons and daughters, departed in the mornings to till the fields and returned at night to sleep.

  Our little house was small, tight, warm in winter and its thick stone walls made it cool in summer. Olive trees everywhere, grapes on the hillside, the scent of wild herbs and goats, the smell of thyme growing stronger when the earth is turned over for spring planting, the aroma of lamb cooking on spit on great feast days, an occasional merchant come from nearby Thebe, once a year the tax collector from Troy. These things were the features of our simple life. For festivals we few villagers sometimes went together to the cliffs and prayed to the rising sun. Alone and lonely, we tilled our land, and never left our homes.

  Each week we gathered for market in the central square, a clearing of dirt trampled by the feet of time. People came from other villages, some even smaller than ours, and set up stalls with little baskets of onions, crops of herbs, mint, thyme, and millet, or some chickens, eggs, a lamb or a goat. We sold and bartered and all managed to live on what the land provided. What coins we garnered we kept for the taxes due the king, but Troy, the city that ruled us, was a distant overlord, and asked little of us. At market gossip was exchanged, men looked at pretty girls, and sometimes arrangements were made between a father and a likely youth for the hand if not the heart of a daughter. But since no one had much in the way of wealth, there was often little to offer except desire. And this was usually quite enough. So a sidewise glance cast from an inviting eye often led to meetings and to marriage—and that is what happened to my father. He met my mother, Hypasia, whose inviting eye and golden beauty had captivated him, as he so often told me, when he saw her standing at her father’s stall one market day, selling ripe dark olives. They married, they had one son, but he did not live. My parents hoped for another child, but the physicians told them that the birth of my brother guaranteed that there could be no other.

  And yet there was another. I was born two years later.

  As I grew, my father would often say, “You are my miracle child, Chryseis,” and he would pick me up and holding me tight, do a little dance, twirling me around in his arms till I was dizzy with delight and I would laugh with joy. Soon I became too old for that, but he always said it when he gave me a hug. When he and my mother and I sat down to the evening meal they always thanked the god for me, their miracle child. But he never explained what he meant. I often asked him, but he just smiled. “Some day when you are older,” he would say.

  And older I grew. My father would stand and look at me. “You are beautiful, my child,” he always said. I did not know if that was true, but I did notice that that the boys in the village looked after me as I walked in the market and as I worked with my mother in our garden patch near by our house. At night my mother loved to brush my hair; it was long and golden. I loved it when she did that. Oh, the love that shone in her eyes; oh, the love that I gave back.

  But I also noticed that as I grew she seemed to shrink into herself; her beautiful face became more pale and drawn, for the truth was she had never quite recovered from my birth. There was never any obvious sign, never any sudden collapse, just a slow sinking as the years went by. Slowly, ever so slowly, she found it harder to help my father in the temple, and so I, bit by bit began to take her place. She found it harder to do the chores and errands that women need to do to make the home a happy place and that too became my lot, a lot I was happy to perform so that she could rest and sit in the sun.

  And then one summer day she could not rise in the morning. My father carried her to the temple and laid her on a soft pallet before the altar. Together we prayed. Together we wept and called out to the god. But he did not hear us. She died in his arms at the altar, as I bathed her brow with lavender-scented water mixed with my tears. She left us in the dark shadow of the ancient columns, the cuckoo sounding a melancholy counterpoint to our sobs as the full moon rose on the sweet perfumed summer night. When my mother died I was fifteen summers old.

  Chapter 3

  Chryseis

  I now became the woman in my father’s life—in me I think he saw my mother, in me he loved us both. He was faithful in his devotion to her in death as he had been while she lived, faithful too in his service to Apollo even though Apollo had taken his wife and taken my mother. We had each other and we had our faith. Everyday my farther went to the temple to make sacrifice and I, as my mother had done, went with him and stood next to him at the altar. I had never much thought about the fact that my father was priest in the temple. When young and not yet burdened with time’s passing, and not yet damaged by time’s arrows, children do not wonder about the time before they were born, for it is not imaginable. Nor can they imagine that their parents had a life without them and before them. My father had always been priest I supposed. But this was not so. It was part of the miracle.

  The temple stands a short distance from the center of the village. Over many years the sanctuary had fallen into decay, for in fact no priest served its god; no one came there to pray or offer sacrifice until my father took up his duties as priest. Weeds pushed up through cracks in the pavement, and there were only broken statues to grace the pediment. All was bare and ruined, surrounded by rough low walls. The temple itself is small and simple: six columns simply capped support the pediment and ten march down each side, some showing just a trace of color. The large central room in which people gather. not only for holy things but also for fellowship and safety, is paved with huge ancient stones, worn by the passing of untold numbers over untold years. In the sanctuary the altar is raised on a low stone platform at the end. The image of the god was washed with color so
long ago that now it is more a suggestion than an actuality. The long belted robe, which somehow the sculptor didn’t quite finish at the base, falls in straight folds; the arms are tight at his sides. His face is worn, impassive, and on his lips there is the hint of an odd, almost knowing smile. His blank eyes, once no doubt painted to look like life, stare out across the room, past the temple porch and toward the distant sea. Both the image and the temple are of an age beyond the memory of any man.

  When I was a young girl I wove garlands for Apollo’s statue and left grain for the mice that played about it, for as all men know, mice are sacred to this God, and carry his messages and sometimes his wrath. Indeed we see Apollo in many forms. He comes to us in terrible glory as the Archer. He can be discerned in the rays of the rising sun; he appears in our dreams as the voice of prophecy; he is heard in the voices of the bards as they sing their songs and tell the tales of our people; he protects the herds and fields. And even as a little mouse--Smintheus in the old tongue-- he is sacred. And he comes to us in visions. He has come in that way to me.

  I have had visions ever since I was a young girl, serving in the temple with my father, doing the lesser tasks that woman are allowed to do in the service of the God--cleaning the altar of the blood of sacrifice and washing it from my father’s robes, handing him the objects of the ritual. I never told my father about my gift because I knew even then that such a gift has a double edge. Whenever I remember the first time that I was possessed, I cannot help but think of poor mad Kassandra, feared because she claimed to know the future, ridiculed because none believed her claims. I know now what happens to the Great Sibyl, Apollo’s voice at Delphi, captive of her gift, confined in a noxious cave beneath the earth and destined forever to be possessed by the god and tell his will to men.