Trojan Women- The Fall of Troy

by Byrne Fone

  “Well Achilles,” the king said, “what have you brought me?”

  Achilles signed to the scribe who began to read from a list: “twelve bronze cauldrons, three bags of gold, fourteen of copper coins, fourteen golden cups, a cache of spears, seven amber necklaces, three coffers of assorted jewels, eight amphorae, three of wine, four of oil, one of vinegar, a cartload of grain, twelve cows, three newborn lambs and four ewes, 2 horses, and six captives, who you see before you sire.”

  “Not a bad haul,” the King said. “I accept it. Since you brought this, you and your men, take the spears and half a bag of gold. Give the copper to your men. Take one—no I will be generous-- take two of the cups for yourself and if you want one of the boys, he is yours.”

  Turning to the scribe he said: “Put that all down as the Lord Achilles’ share. Now let’s break open some of that wine and kill one of the lambs for my dinner. Its time to inspect the livestock.”

  Then he rose and came to where we were standing in a row, heads bowed, hands tied. He stood at the head of the line and gave us all at look, then began to walk slowly along the row. He came to the boys, who were first in line. The first of them, the older of the two, with dark glossy hair and dark-set eyes, with high cheek-bones and olive skin, was also the far handsomer. The king lifted his head, felt the muscles in his arm and them moved to the next one, shorter, younger, barely 12 summers I judged, but even prettier. They must have been brothers.

  “So Achilles, which boy do you want?” the king asked. I heard a note of mockery in his voice.

  “Neither my lord. I do not need boys.” Achilles—very coldly—replied.

  “Neither? Neither?” the king said, “well what use are they to me? I do not want boys, and they will take too long to train as soldiers. They will be too much trouble. We need no more Trojan rats. Scribe, mark it down, kill them in the morning. Now what next?”

  “My lord, let us reconsider,” another man standing just behind the king’s chair spoke up.

  “Yes, Odysseus,” the King said, “do you want them? I did not know you liked pretty boys.”

  “I am faithful to my wife Penelope, Lord King,” Odysseus said, “but it is a shame to kill two perfectly healthy and perfectly useful boys who can be perfectly useful slaves. If my lord Achilles has no, uh –use-- for them I can find a place for them in my service.” He looked at Achilles, who merely nodded agreement.

  “Well good that settled then,” the king said. Moving on until he came to the next two captives, one a girl, the other an older woman, dressed in the tatters, though in what must have been have been expensive clothes. The king casually forced his fingers into old woman’s mouth to look at her teeth, as if he were appraising cattle at market. He grimaced. “Old crone,” I heard him say. Then turning to the girl he ran his hands slowly across her body, lingering on her breasts, running his hand beneath her tattered and skimpy dress and then, between her legs. She whimpered and cringed as he touched her. I could see the older woman’s face go white with fear and with rage. I realized she was the girl’s mother.

  “Ah a sweet tender child,” the king said, as he continued to caress her. “She will soon be sweeter. Scribe make a note: take her to the woman’s tent, put her to work, but do not fail to remind me that she is there. Oh yes, find out if the old woman can be ransomed. If not, kill her.”

  It was my turn. The king looked me up and down, just as with the girl, touched me, ran his hands over body, cupping my breasts in his hands, probing my stomach.”

  “A bit flabby there, he said, “what is your name?”

  I stammered, “ Hyppodomia, but they call me Briseis, daughter of Briseus.”

  “And your father Briseus, is he rich?

  “He is dead my lord.”

  “But then a husband, surely you have a husband?”

  “He is dead too,” I said, through my tears. I have never been so terrified.

  Oh dear,” the King said, “dead father, dead husband, not a virgin, no money I suppose either. And not too pretty, a bit old for my bed. What can you do, can you cook?”

  “No Lord, but I can read and I can write.”

  With an incredulous look, he said: “A woman? Read and write? You must be mad--;or a liar. No women can read or write, they do not have the brain for it. I am sure you can carry water and wash clothes.”

  I never have washed clothes, for I am well born; my father was of the minor nobility and because of family connections I spent time at court in Troy at the palace, in waiting on various members of the royal family. I was handmaid first to Kassandra who is not as mad as they say, then to Andromache, who you can feel is born to tragedy, and finally to old Hecabe herself, the queen—old but formidable, but always kind to me. When I was old enough to marry, Hecabe said I must go back to my father who had found a good man for me, not noble but learned and rich enough to keep me. I did not love him, for he was twenty years older than I, but I respected him and he me. He performed his duty as a husband and we had two children, but both are dead. We did not try again but lived not so much like husband and wife, but as brother and sister. He loved old things, paintings, books, legends, the stories of our ancient race, and knew them all and in his library amidst his papers and his tomes, he taught me to read and even to write—something no woman ever did. We led a life of quiet ease, he in his study with his books, I overseeing the four servants who made our life pleasant for us, and whose labors allowed me leisure to arrange my own thoughts in words, which from time to time my husband read and received with kindness and approbation. When the Achaeans invaded Lyrnessus, our town, and burned it, along with all the men of the town they killed him. A squad of four men broke into our house, and cut my husband down, running him through as he tried to protect me. Finding his art and books not made of gold they burned them. In a fury at finding little gold in our house at all, one of them, and then another and then a third, raped me. I suppose they would have killed me had not Achilles who was in command of the raid came upon us where I was being subdued in the courtyard of our burning house, within sight of my husband’s body, and stopped the attack just as the fourth of the men was about to take me. In fury Achilles leaped between us and with rage in his eyes ran his spear through my attacker. “Do not touch her,” he commanded, “she is the king’s—bring her safely for ransom.” But who would ransom me? And so I ended up a slave in the Greek camp, meant for Agamemnon as all women are meant for Agamemnon, all of us his slaves and toys of his desire.

  Last in the line was a woman whose head all this time had been hidden with a hood. Through all the terrible interrogation she had stood silent, unmoving. The king went to her and pulled back the hood. I could hear a gasp in the room and the king said, “well this is a different filly altogether.”

  She was—is—beautiful. Ivory, flawless skin, deep grey blue eyes, hair like flax or spun gold. Raising her head she looked directly at the King. I could not see her eyes, but I could see his, and for a moment he seemed taken aback, almost frightened by her unflinching stare.

  He reached out his hand as if to touch her as he had the rest of the women. But with a sudden movement she stepped back and raised her hand in a commanding gesture

  “Touch me at your peril” she said.

  I could see the rage mount in the king’s face. But he stepped back. I was sure he would have her killed on the spot. But instead he wiped his face with his sleeve and stood looking at her for moment.

  “Who is she?” he asked to the room. “Who is she?” he shouted. No one replied.

  Then she answered: “I am Chryseis, daughter of Chryses priest of Apollo Smintheus. I am given to the God and I am sacred and no man can touch me.”

  The king smiled a slow cold smile.

  “A different filly indeed and spirited one, perhaps you are right, lady. You need no mere man, you need a king to break you.”

  At that point Achilles stepped forward.

  “I protest. I claim her as mine. I won her in battle and she is mine by righ
t.”

  “Oh yes, Achilles, you would not take pretty boys who bring no ransom and would only be good for fun, but now that you hear that she night bring gold you leap forward to claim her. No she is mine. I will keep her. I am king. Take this other woman if you want a prize. Though what you will do with her I don’t know. She is damaged goods. You should have taken the boys when you had the chance. That is my decision.”

  Achilles went white and turning to the man next to him said, “Come Patroclus. We debase ourselves staying here.” He then walked to Chrysies and bowing, said, “Lady, you will need companionship for what is to come; take this woman Briseis; she will serve you well.”

  He turned to the king. “And that my lord, is my decision.” Achilles and Patroclus, with no bow to the king, left the tent.

  The king stood just in front of me so I could see rage mingled with—with fear, in his eyes. This was Achilles who they call slayer of men, the most fearsome of all the Greeks Perhaps not even a king would dare to do other than what this man had commanded.

  Oh no matter,” the king said, “she is no prize. Do take her lady”-- he emphasized the title mockingly—Chryseis.” And so I was sent to the tent of Chryseis to be her slave—a slave to a slave, as fate had ironically decided.

  Of course, the king did not care, for he did not want me, for he had Chryseis. He said I am damaged goods. I suppose I am. I am no virgin, nor am I as young as Chryseis. She is a maiden; I am a matron. My husband is dead and so no one will ransom me. When the king proposed to give me to Achilles I think he thought it was insulting to Achilles to be given a woman whose only skills are that I can read and write and know more than most men. Men think women are weak in body and some philosophers like to argue that women have no souls. They insist we are of lesser spiritual stuff, good only for sex but not love. We are weak in mind, they claim, and so they think us ignorant. And in truth most women are. They do just what men expect of them, keep the house, sweep the floors, gossip, know nothing of politics or art, dutifully bear children. But some of us are different. I am one of those.

  Chapter 11

  Briseis

  Chryseis was one of the different ones too. Her courage in confronting the king was breathtaking, her dignity inspiring. Indeed she must be, as she said, the daughter of a god. But that did not prevent the king from committing sacrilege against her.

  Since I was Achilles’ gift to her I was her slave. But in her eyes I was no slave, no more than she imagined herself to be a slave to Agamemnon, though no doubt his scribe wrote down in his book: “Item, two slave girls, property of the king.” But though I am indeed her handmaid, we have become companions, loving friends, almost sisters. We tell each other about our lives: she about her father; I about mine, about my husband, his death, my books, the things I loved—and even about the things that I can not bear to remember—the hot sour breath of the first soldier who raped me, the pain in my wrists as he held me down, the jeering shouts of the other soldiers, urging him to “give it to the Trojan bitch,” the second soldier who followed, the stinging pain when he struck me across my mouth as he began his work, the taste of my own blood, the dizziness, the fear, the dark hopelessness when he finished and the third, eyes glittering with lust approached and the look of sudden shock, surprise, and pain, and the fountain of blood as a spear point inexplicably appeared protruding through his chest. His blood spattered me; his body fell across mine as I heard the rough command, “ Do not touch her.”

  Yes, I told her all of this, that I wanted no one ever to know. She listened and held me as I told her. I wept and relived the terror and the pain, the humiliation and the anger, for since it happened I could not forget their brutal touch. I felt that I could never again be clean. But when she touched me, softly, caressing my hair, drying my tears with her handkerchief, crooning a wordless lullaby—was it a song, prayer, a spell, I do not know-- all the terror and the rage flowed away and in her eyes—grey, deep and wise-- I saw eternity and, yes, I divinity. She healed me as she held me.

  As the days went by together we sat and waited and talked—for sitting and waiting and talking was all we did all we could do while waiting for the king to demand his pleasure.

  She is confined to the tent, occasionally allowed out for short walks near the tent. Because she is a Trojan they fear that she will see something she ought not to see, some secret strategic preparation against the Trojans-- their enemies and her people: soldiers practicing with special arms, priests divining mysterious auguries unfavorable to Troy, who knows what. Because I am thought of only as a slave they let me go out to bring firewood, or a skin of wine, or a sack of wool that all of us women must card and comb and weave to make cloth for the soldiers.

  So the days pass. We rise and prepare for the day. It is always the same: a soldier brings us a day’ worth of rations, and hands them to me outside the tent, for they fear Chryseis. They suspect what I now know, she is a seer; she has the sight and the power to see what is to come. Small wonder they fear her, for I have attended her when the visions come upon her. At first I did not know what was happening. Late one night, before bed, I had helped her ready herself for sleep, brushed her hair and made a warm posset of honey and wine which we shared so we could both slip quietly into sleep, relieved that another night had passed and the king had not come, for since the time we were captured and brought before him, we have not seen him. Perhaps he too fears her.

  We drank our comforting wine, she was talking of her father and how she loved him and how she served him at the altar of the god from her earliest years. Then, just in mid- sentence she stopped speaking, her eyes glazed over, looked beyond me, seeing what I do not know, and she trembled a bit, half rose from her seat and then fell back, her head rolling to her shoulder and then slumping down on her breast, her breathing became harsh and then she was still, the wine goblet fallen from her hand. I sat for moment in shock: was she having a seizure, was she dying? I did not know. In terror I though of calling the guard, but first I dipped a cloth into the bowl of cool water and just as I was about to bathe her head it was done, she sighed deeply, opened her eyes, and smiled up at me.

  “Help me to bed,” she said, “ I will tell you all tomorrow.”

  She fell into a deep sleep. I sat up beside her bed, not knowing what had happened, fearing that it might happen again. But it did not and so I slept too and was awakened by the guard calling at the tent entrance with our daily bread.

  “I see things,” she told me eventually. “It has always been this way with me. Ever since I was a girl. How long was it.” She asked.

  “Only a moment,” I said, “you were speaking and then you were gone and then, then you were… you were back.”

  “Yes, I suppose that it is how it is. My father has said the possession is short, but when it comes I travel ages and ages and across the world and see beyond time. I know that when it happens the god comes to me.”

  I knew now why they feared her. I too felt the awe, but not fear; she is too good. I knelt before her. “Lady, I said, tell me what you see.”

  She laid her hand on my head. “I cannot, will not tell you, what I see, for these are sacred things. But I can tell you this: there will be terror. But we, both of us, will survive. I promise you.”

  Chapter 12

  Briseis

  She is a comfort to me, and I serve her well to repay her in some small way. The day came when I could comfort her, when after she had been roughly hustled off by soldiers to what fate I knew not she came back, white and trembling, in fear, and also I could see in anger. Now it was my turn to hold her as she told me that her father had come for her, but had been humiliated by the king. I rocked her in my arms, dried her tears and helped her to her bed. She slept and later, as dusk came awakened and sat up. I was surprised to see that as she rose from the bed where she had earlier lay sobbing, that instead of misery I saw triumph on her face. “I know now what he has done.” she said. I did not know. I dared not ask what had been done, or even who had d
one it. But I soon found out.

  Because I can go about the slave quarter of the camp I can talk to the other women and what I hear is despair. In the last few days death is everywhere upon us—men, animals. But for some reason none of the Trojan captives die. I live; Chryseis lives, all of us, the Trojan women, live. This has been remarked upon by Calchas the Achaean Priest. He says it is a sign and calls upon the king to release Chryseis and send her back to her father. This will end the plague, for that is what is striking them down. Others agree: it is said that Nestor, Odysseus, and even Achilles side with the priest and against the king. They should. The plague will not end unless they do. Chryseis says that. But the king refuses. These days, because men are everywhere dying, our guard is lax. They do not watch us as carefully as they did because once a guard is assigned us, they suddenly die. This too has gotten a round and so we are left alone. Some of the fear that attends upon her seems to have attached itself to me, so that is why I can go petty much where I will.

  Everyone I talk to among the captive Trojan slaves —the washer woman who heads the slaves who are kept busy on orders of the healer Machaon constantly washing and washing soldier’s cloths in hopes of washing death away, the women who serve at the officer’s tables, the Trojan boys who are grooms for Achaean horses, and valets to their Achaean masters, all say the same: panic is abroad in the camp. The Greeks have given up using their Trojan slaves for sex, neither women nor boys are called in the middle of the night to come to a tent to pleasure some drunken officer, to be raped half a dozen times by half a dozen men, to lie shamed and tearful as a man old enough to be his father takes a boy’s manhood from behind.