Trojan Women- The Fall of Troy

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by Byrne Fone

I am hot, tired, and breathless; my head throbs. I look at the sand clock next to my bed. Barely any time at all has passed since the king left. But so much time has between the moment when I bid my father farewell in Chrysa and when I was brought to this closed and stifling tent, a prize of war for Agamemnon. When we parted, my father and I on the temple steps in Chrysa, he held me long, close in his arms, and we both wept. Since then I have been held by only one other man, but not so gently, and not with love, and the only tears have been mine. I think only of my father now. I do not know if he is alive. I try to look into time, to see what might have been, or what is to come. But that knowledge is closed to me. I sink into sleep. I do not dream.

  There is something happening. I awake to hear trumpets sounding, running, soldiers shouting. Briseis says the trumpets call the army to assembly. “They say a ship has come.” I tell her, “Go, find out what is happening.”

  Are we being attacked by Trojans? If the Trojans attack and overrun this camp, would they save me? Or would I end up a prisoner of my own people? I splash my face with some tepid water. The heat is unbearable, and the smell—sweet sickly, like death. I hear confused shouting. It must be coming from the parade ground. But Briseis does not return. Through the fabric of the tent I can see the outline of the guard. I do not understand what I hear. The sound rises like a wave, as if a thousand men are talking in unison. Then it subsides, then silence, I catch the vague drift of someone shouting as if addressing them, then the voices begin again. Then the sound changes: it has become a low, hollow, flat, and ominous boom. At first it is random and erratic, an inchoate un-rhythmic rumble coming from no one place in particular. It becomes louder; it increases in intensity and in depth. Then I know what it is. It is the sound of soldiers drumming on their shields with the staves of the spears, bringing the wooden spear hard against the leather covered shield in unison in a steady, alarming thunder as if a giant oars-master was beating a huge drum to keep a thousand oarsmen in steady stroke. It is the sound of an army showing its displeasure, a slow rhythmic thunder like the sound of a thousand boots marching toward revolt. Suddenly the tent flap opens, four soldiers march in. Have they come to kill me?

  One, the squad leader, however salutes me, for prisoner though I may be, they know that I am the daughter of Apollo’s priest, and so they fear me. But what if Apollo’s priest is dead? What have they to fear? I have no more time to think. The squad leader says:

  “Come with us, lady. The king would have you come.”

  We march quickly out and toward the parade ground and come into it from the side, behind the command tent, behind the rostrum. On it I can see that many men are gathered. The soldiers help me climb the four steps. I come up out of the shadow and the sunlight momentarily blinds me. In front of me a group of officers are standing, and in front of them the king. Beyond that the army is drawn up, not lounging as they were when they heard the bard tell his tales, but in ranks, in order, in armor. Though the officers standing in front of me block my view of the front ranks, I can see the bulk of the army stretched out across the field.

  No one notices that I have come, everyone seeming to be intent on something or someone I cannot see from where I stand. Then I realize that the king is speaking, shouting rather, in a stentorian voice that carries across the ranks of men, who seem now almost unnaturally silent compared to the clamor I had heard earlier as for some reason they beat a tattoo upon their shields.

  “Old man.” The king is saying, “ask all you want, demand all you want, lay whatever treasure you will before me. I will not do what you ask.”

  Then I hear a low moan arise from the men, a confused hubbub of disappointment, almost of anger. The king raises his hands, the men fall silent. Then he turns, and seeing me, brusquely gestures for me to be brought forward. Between two soldiers I am escorted to a place just in back of the king. Now I can see better. Below the king, standing in the dust, an old man stands, leaning on a staff, his head bowed, his cowl covering his face. Around him kneel servants, before him on the ground is spread a staggering treasure-- boxes and baskets and trunks, bales of cloth—cloth of gold, purple-stained silk from Tyre, fine white linens from Egypt--- and glittering objects—figurines, armlets of snakes with garnet eyes, bracelets of figured gold with electrum inlaid upon them, necklaces of amber and lapis lazuli, daggers richly worked with ebony and ivory pommels, chalices and beakers of silver and of gold chased with figures from ancient legends. Then the old man raises his head, the hood falls away. My heart stops. It is my father. But not like I have ever seen him. He seems to be glitter, as if surrounded by a halo of light and he holds what I recognize, the staff of Apollo, rarely seen by men, kept in the secret treasury of the temple, an object so old and so sacred and so full of power that men must avert their eyes from it. And there my father stands there before the king. The staff in his hand. I can see him, but I realize that he cannot see me.

  Then he begins to speak. At the sound of his voice my eyes fill with tears. I want to rush to the edge of the rostrum, to let him know that I am here.

  “Lord of Mycaenae, King of the Achaeans, Overlord of the Thousand Isles, Son of Atreus, hear me!!” His voice is strong and echoes across the camp, which is preternaturally silent now.

  “I am Chrsyes, Priest of Apollo the Archer-God. I am he through whom Apollo speaks and I call upon you in his name to hear me. You, Agamemnon, you have come to this Trojan shore to avenge a wrong. You, Menelaus, come to regain a beloved wife. Both of you come for vengeance. I too come to you to redress a wrong. Know you this. With the power of the god I serve I could have come in fury and with the Archer at my back and no man could stand against me should I call down his wrath upon those who wronged me. The god at my call would swoop down upon you and bring you low in the dust, for such is his power.

  But I do not come to threaten you with the power of the Archer. Instead I come as a father and a supplicant and beg you to return my daughter who you wrongly took. And for this I bring ransom richer than any man has seen. And hear me more. As Priest of Apollo I make this prophecy. You come here to take Holy Troy and level its walls and sack it palaces of its ancient treasures. And I say first you must return my daughter to me. Let her go. Restore a daughter to a father, reverence Apollo, son of Zeus, and if you do, Troy will be yours. This I vow by the scared staff of the god that I hold here now before you.”

  His words are passed quickly from rank to rank of the troops, and as the gist of his message becomes clear to all, the soldiers break out into a cheer, wildly beating their spears against their shields, not now in the ominous rhythm of revolt but in a wild cacophony of approbation. The pandemonium increases. Agamemnon signals to the heralds. The trumpet brings the men to silent attention

  “Priest,” Agamemnon said, “Priest, I hear your words.” His eyes are dark with fury. I can see his hands working by his side, as if were he able he would actually strike my father, an act that would be worse than blasphemy had he done so. “I hear your words, but now you hear mine. Chryseis is my prize. When I took her I did not do so merely to use her and give her back.”

  Some of the men in the front ranks who could easiest hear this, gasp in horror. He then turns and roughly seizes my arm and pulls me forward so that my father can now surely see me. I see his face go white.

  “No, I will not set your daughter free. She will grow old in Argos, far from her home that she will never see again. I will put her to the loom where she will weave fine cloth and I will take her to my bed and she will give me pleasure there. That is why I took her, this girl of the golden hair, and that is why I will keep her. Now, old man, provoke me no more. If you want to save your skin, get you gone!”

  I can feel the palpable shock that runs through the entire company. But no man dares remonstrate. The steely cold rage in the king’s voice and the dark and level menace of his look quells everyone who sees it. My father stands for one moment more. All the earth seems to hold its breath and at that moment I am able to catch my father’s eye, and
he mine. I feel warmth and strength and love in his gaze and all around me everything vanishes-- army, king, camp, gone—and I and my father are alone, in a halo of light. Though his lips do not move yet I hear his voice. “Do not be afraid. Apollo protects you. And he will save you.”

  Then in rush reality returns and I see that my father has now turned his back full upon the king and now faces the army drawn up before him. I am transfixed; my guards also seem unable to move to obey the king’s order to take me away. My father raises the glittering staff of Apollo high and with it makes a gesture that encompasses the entire parade ground. A gasp of horror, of naked fear, runs through the multitude. Then lowering the staff and leaning on it he enters the sedan chair that must have brought him. The curtains are drawn. His bearers lift it high upon their shoulders and to the sound of the tinkling cistrum and in a cloud of incense he is carried away, off toward his ship. As he passes in front of the ranks many of the men make the sign to ward off the evil eye.

  From where I stand I can see Achilles, standing in the front rank at the head of his men. Even he, so cool and calm, is shaken. He turns and looks at the handsome soldier next to him. This must be his lover Patroclus. Patroclus looks back at him, his face ashen. Achilles reaches out and places his hand on Patroclus’ shoulder. Then looking at Agamemnon, still standing on the dais, hands on his hips, Achilles shakes his head, as if to say, this man is mad.

  Agamemnon watches my father pass, and I can see that there is evil in his eye as well. The procession moves out of the camp toward where his ship must be and soon all we can hear is the distant jingling of the bells as the litter carries my father away. Agamemnon looks out across the assembled troops, his face impassive, but I can see that he is closing his right hand so tightly that his nails must bite deep into the flesh of his palm. His hand clenches and unclenches, as if in that strong grip he holds my father’s throat and is squeezing the life out of it.

  Agamemnon goes to the edge of the dais. No one dares move or speak. All we can hear is the humming of the cicadas, the occasional barking of a dog, or the braying of pack mule. The air is heavy with apprehension and fear, and with that smell, sweet, sickish, a little nauseating, that in the stifling heat seems to intensify and to fill the nostrils with its sickening odor, a stench, I thought, like death. The king raises his hand. The commanders break the tension by shouting an order to stand at attention. The soldiers, as if of one accord, hesitate for just a moment before obeying, but then, though with what sounded like a low obstinate growl that passed from rank to rank, they come to attention, grounding the hafts of their spears in the dusty ground.

  “At ease boys, at ease,” Agamemnon shouts in his best parade-ground bellow. “Now lads,” he went on, “we all know who we are and why we’re here. We’re all Achaeans, lads. And just who is that old fool? Have you ever heard of him? I’ll tell you who he is, boys. He’s a Trojan. Who have we come to fight? Trojans. I pay him no mind and neither should you. All that hocus-pocus doesn’t go far in my book. He says he wants his daughter back. Well, you know what I said to that. Now let me ask you this. How many of you would give up a good looking girl who’s already warmed your bed just because someone said you should? I can bet that you wouldn’t just hand her over. And neither will I. She’s a Trojan too and what’s more she’s a prize of war. This is war, lads, and I took her fair and square. You all know that, so why should I give her up? He turns to me and to my guards. “Take that baggage back to my tent. I will come to you later, lady.” His laughter is cruel and terrible.

  Chapter 9

  Chryseis

  That night I was alone. Despite his threat, the king did not come. I slept and in the deepest part of darkness before the dawn I had that dream. Perhaps even a vision. I saw myself moving through a thick blue mist. I could see nothing else around me. There was an unpleasant odor of decay. Then the mist began to clear and I saw—not with the dim sight of dreams but with the clarity of foreknowing. A doorway to another world opened.

  I am floating, rising into the air. I am back at the altar with my father. The sweet reek of blood and the scent of roasted meat, the smoke of the fires and the pungent incense combine into a rich perfume. I breath it deeply and feel light-headed, weightless, as if I am being lifted out of my body. The air glimmers around me and becomes translucent, the solid walls of the temple shift and become fluid. I look through the smoke; the happy babble of voices fades. I look down on the scene below, the bloody remains of the bull in a pool of blood on the floor, the fires roaring, people reclining on the temple floor, drinking, eating, laughing, united in happy good fellowship. But I,I am transported, as if I had been seized by some wondrous power and carried into the sky. I swoop up, above the temple, fly across the plain, past the edge of the beetling cliff, over the silver glinting sea and to the shores of Troy itself. In the distance the city rises on its high escarpment, the setting sun dimly lighting its dark walls with a fading glow. Below me, the tents of the Achaean army dot the plain, they too washed by the sun, but its dying gleam touches them with a blood red wash and by the water their thousand ships, beached, prows out, on the sandy shore

  What I see is terrible. From the darkening clouds, their edges touched with flame, I see the god descend, terrible in his wrath. He comes like the night, for the darkness swiftly falls and the moon breaks out from behind the clouds and glitters on his silver bow. Somehow solid and transparent all at once, he kneels, whips an arrow from his shoulder and fits it to his bow and lets it fly. One after another, so fast his movements blur, and like stabbing shafts of summer lightening the arrows fly. The sound of his bow is horrible to hear, a steady whistling hum, the swift passage of arrows like the hiss of a thousand snakes as they find their way home to flesh. Nothing escapes. Mules writhe on the ground; dogs, who had howled at his coming, are slain in mid-alarm, and then soldiers, aroused by the shrieks of animal pain, pour out of their tents unto the parade ground where they too fall like mown wheat. Arrows flash into chests, cleave between their eyes, plunge horribly into throats, and men collapse on the ground coughing up black blood. There is Agamemnon sitting in his tent, slumped in his chair, his eyes blank, face white with horror, despair rides upon his shoulders. Outside dead men lie. I see funeral pyres, hundreds and hundreds of them, bodies burn and flesh sizzles, sputters, explodes, and the stench of death and pestilence arises everywhere.

  Then I am back again in my seat in the temple. What have I seen? Has this horror already come to pass? Or is this a prophecy of something yet to come? As I awaken out of the reverie that has transported me I think: I want vengeance on this King, but if the dream is true it has fallen also on countless men who have done me no harm. But no, I sternly put aside that thought and remember the sacking of Thebe and all the dead. Blood begets blood. Vengeance knows no mercy.

  It is no longer daylight. Much time has passed. The moon silvers the room and bathes the altar on which the sacred fire still dimly burns. A wisp of smoke rises before the image of the god. As the last of the smoke begins to clear I turn to the altar and say a prayer of thanks. Is it the swirling smoke, a trick of moonlight, or do the god’s sightless eyes open, turn their gaze full upon me, and close again? Then as I drifted back into sleep, borne upon a placid ocean, gently rocked by the ebbing and flowing tide, as if I were on a ship, out of the mist came a figure; it was my father. I ran to him and he took me in his arms. All my fear melted away and the rank smell with it and the air seemed to be perfumed with lavender. He whispered in my ear: “Soon, my daughter, soon.” I awoke in tears, but full of joy as well. I was sure that my father would now save me at last, though I did not know how.

  The next morning I found out. I heard shouting and the sound of running feet from outside the tent. I could not understand what was said but the incoherent voices resonated with panic and with fear. I sent Briseis to find out news, and she soon came rushing back, her face white with terror: “Men are dying everywhere, lady, some terrible thing has happened. They say Apollo has come to punish
us all.” Then I knew. My heart was full. At last, I thought, my father has done his work. Agamemnon could do no more to me. All I need do now was wait. My freedom was at hand.

  That afternoon the healer Machaon came to my tent and said that I must not leave it because a terrible plague had come upon the Achaeans. He promised to take what precautions he could to make me safe, which amounted to the constant burning of aromatic herbs to ward off the possibility of sickness, which left me longing for a breath of clear sea air. I knew he need do nothing to protect me. I was in no danger from Apollo. As the days passed I heard snippets of news—men were dying, men were spared. While it filled me with sorrow that so many innocent men had died, I have to say that I waited eagerly for news that the king had been stricken. That news did not come. He too kept to his tent. Fortunately he did not call for me. Days went by and more died. Two of my servants disappeared; perhaps they were dead. No one came to me, save for the faithful Briseis who brings me food. From her I hear that a council has been called; the king and Achilles have quarreled and that the army is close to mutiny, but so many are dying that there is little will to act. I know that I do not have much time to wait.

  Book Two: Briseis: Slave of Agamemnon

  Briseis was taken captive for ransom by Achilles when he sacked Lyrnessus and Thebe.

  —Iliad Book 2

  Chapter 10

  Briseis

  Spoils of war they called us—whether gold or women, all are property of the king, our lord and master. It was only a few days after I had been brought as a captive to the Greek camp that I first saw my Lord and Master.

  The king lounged in a low chair, a goblet by his side, watching as we were brought before him. There were seven of us: two boys in their teens and four women--beautiful young women with long golden hair, two peasant women, and me. A brace of soldiers herded us into the tent. I stood with head bowed, my hands tied behind me. I dared not look up. But I knew that I was in the presence of Agamemnon, the man whose name had for so long now struck terror into our hearts as we heard, first about the invasion when the Greeks swarmed ashore from their thousand ships, then about the brutality of the attacks on our villages and towns, how they despoiled the countryside, pillaging, raping, burning, leaving nothing in their wake but ruin, and setting up their camp where their huge army waited outside of Troy’s walls, like patient spiders lying in wait for the prey to make one false move. A scribe sat at the king’s right. On his left stood some other soldiers, clearly officers.

 

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