Trojan Women- The Fall of Troy

by Byrne Fone

  “So certain among them will demand that the other woman—Briseis—you--should go to Achilles as his prize of honor, though in fact Achilles has asked for nothing for himself. He will not want to insult the good intentions of the army who love him and who he loves, and so when hears of it where he sulks in his distant tent, he will accept and we will send you to him—with a sufficient quantity of treasure from your lady’s ransom to sweeten the arrangement further.

  “You-- and all that gold—will serve as another trophy that proves once again what no one doubts, the deadly effectiveness of Achilles’ murderous prowess in war. The king will agree, for he will hope that the gift to Achilles will end the quarrel between them. That will, I fear, be a false hope. But things are delicate between the king him and his men, and he will do nothing to further discomfort the army upon whom he relies for victory over Troy which is, after all, why he—and all of us--are here.”

  It was as he said. The old master of intrigue planted his seeds. In a few days Odysseus’ plan took shape and then bore fruit. The king was approached by a delegation of officers demanding that Achilles should be appeased. Of course we knew what was said.

  “We can never win Troy without him,” old Nestor, king of Pylos insisted.

  Diomedes, bravest of the princes after Achilles, heatedly shouted: “A majority of the army believes you are wrong.”

  “So?” Said the king, turning away as if to dismiss them.

  “I will tell you why ‘so,’” Diomedes said, angrier still. “Because no king long keeps his throne if he has no army to support it.”

  It is said that the king went white with rage and would have struck Diomedes had not Nestor and the priest Calchas intervened, and that Odysseus finally took t the King aside and after a whispered colloquy, the king, composure regained, though with a chilly and peremptory manner, said: “My only interest is victory over Troy that we have come to destroy because they present a clear danger to our wives and homes, our gods, and our way of life. Nothing must stand in the way of that. I will be gracious as befits a king and send to Achilles this slave Briseis. I will also send gold for such trinkets are more important to him than to me. I need nor want neither. Then I will go to war, with or without Achilles, and raze the walls of Troy to the ground.”

  Chapter 18

  Briseis

  Destruction. Yes, that is why the Greeks are here, to destroy my land, my people and the great city that gives us all our name. That is why I am held a captive slave, a woman alone here in this camp of men. Here in the camp, the war often seems oddly far away. I sometimes hear it, for a trumpet sounds and men are mobilized, and with a clatter of arms, the rattle of chariots and the excited neighing of horses, a contingent of Greeks goes racing out the great main gates to fight with a contingent of Trojans who have been sighted by the lookouts galloping toward the Greek camp across the Trojan plain. But we who serve simply wait. We wait inside the camp protected by the walls. The Trojans wait outside to breach them.

  No matter what the poets say when they write about the titanic battles of superhuman heroes who never seem to rest, real armies can’t fight on and on without ever stopping. Horses need food and water. Chariots need to be repaired, swords re-sharpened, spears points re-honed. Men have to eat and rest and most of all the wounded and the dead must be tended. When a battle is done, guards come to the tents where we are housed and we are taken outside the walls to the battle field. Our task is to clean up after it all is over—to tend the wounded and to clean and dress the bodies of the dead so they can be burned on funeral pyres and sent to the eternal fields of heaven where heroes eternally roam.

  Yesterday, after yet another indecisive battle, the day’s carnage ended at sundown, for no one fights at night, and as is always the case, the truce of the dead is called between Greek and Trojan. At daylight it is our turn, the slaves and women. We are led under guard outside the gates to begin the most terrible duty of all. The dead lie strewn across the landscape, their blood making every patch of soil sacred ground. They must be found. This is a job for both slaves and soldiers, and so I a Trojan go from body to body, looking for fallen Greeks, tending to my enemy. To the victor belongs the spoils, they say. When defeated blood spills out upon the ground and the eyes can no longer see, no warrior who has lived to see his enemy die--whether he is Trojan or Achaean—will leave that treasure, armor made of bronze, swords chased with gold and set with precious gems from distant lands, upon the ground to rust and molder and decay. And so the dead lie stripped of their armor, naked on the ground where they fell. I go from body to body. If a man is wounded, we do what we can to ease the pain until soldiers come to carry him back to the camp. We close the eyes of the dead, if they still have eyes to close, and with the water we carry wash their battered faces so as to tell if we can whether they are Greek or Trojan. If Greek, Greek soldiers carry them toward their camp where the funeral pyres await. Sometimes we have to hail a Trojan soldier to come to take one of their own. On the field of death, an odd comradeship exists as Greeks and Trojans, who that morning fought against one another work together to find and honor the dead some of them may have helped to kill. Greek and Trojan soldiers and their slaves move across the field, collecting their dead, digging trenches into which the bodies of horses are dumped, lifting dead men into carts, and trundling them to lie on the huge pyres upon which the bodies will eventually burn. Before night the priests, and detachment of soldiers, both Greek and Trojan, under the flag of truce will burn the dead. This is a sacred protocol of war, mutually agreed upon, and the only decency that all observe. Finally at day’s end, the remains will be gathered and buried in a common grave. And so along with the smoke from cook-fires and sacrifices, smoke rises from the pyres on which dead men lie, broken bodies, men disfigured and unrecognizable, common soldiers and commanders, for death levels all on the battlefield.

  Amid their rites of death in which both Greeks and Trojans participate both armies prepare again for war in full view of one another, as if in this bravado each side says do what you will, you cannot win. . Greek horsemen ride hurriedly back and forth from our field to the camp; Greek soldiers mounting on the walls. In the far distance one can see Troy, its great gates standing wide, as if to say, we do not fear you upstart Achaeans. Messengers ride in and out, no doubt bringing intelligence to Hector; and no doubt taking orders back from him, directives sent to captains saying how the master strategist wants to set his huge war engine in motion once again and aim it at the Greeks.

  Even as I tend the dead soldiers go about the business of their day. I hear them shouting; hear the horses whinnying, hear men cursing or laughing, even hear the clank of cook-pots and utensils as they make their meal. Once in while a Trojan soldier on death detail looks up and waves with a jaunty arrogance as if to say, “Look your fill, you will not live to see another day.” If the Trojans breach the walls of the Greek camp I suppose they will they kill me too, indiscriminately, not caring whether I am their enemy or their own. Then we are done and under the guard of our captors, we return to our tents behind the walls. Behind the safety of the walls—if safe they will be for long—I wait to be sent to Achilles.

  Chapter 19

  Briseis

  And so the next day with two heralds as escort and a small cohort of men, I was mounted on a wagon filled with gold and sent to Achilles, slayer of men. We set off on the early morning hours, carrying Agamemnon’s pride as a gift to Achilles. We left by the seaward gate and descended to the shore. As the wagon jolted across the sand I looked at the sea stretching toward the horizon and towards the land from when the Greeks had come. I sent a prayer to Apollo: “Send them back to their ships, let them swarm up the boarding ladders to the deck and raise their sails and leave Troy forever.” But I knew that this prayer was not about to be answered. I wondered if the soldiers with me looked at the sea and longed for their home as well, as I longed for mine, if they thought too how futile this war had become. But their faces were impassive as we started alo
ng the shore toward the camp of Achilles and his Myrmidons. Their camp lay on the northernmost edge of the ridge, and a long stretch of rocky shoreline stretched from where the majority of the ships were beached at the southern end to those of Achilles that lay at the northern end. The morning was foggy, though the sun was beginning to break through as we walked. The ocean withdrew, washed back up unto the stony shore, and withdrew again taking a wash of pebbles with it which were then drawn back and flung upon the beach, the slow cadence of the advancing and retreating sea sounding a note of endlessly repeated sadness.

  After a morning’s march, as the sun was at its highest in the sky, we eventually reached the ships and tents of the Myrmidons. The black ships lay beached on the white sand of the shore. Unlike so many of the Greek ships, they were trim and clearly ready for sailing or for war. Achilles’ soldiers were housed in neat rows of small tents, outside of which their armor and weapons hung, polished and gleaming bright in the sun. Groups of soldiers sat of front of the tents, cooking fires smoking; others exercised, naked, on the sands. Then I saw Achilles. He was sitting on an outcropping of rock that jutted up on a rise above the sea. I was taken aback, for the warlike Achilles was not plotting strategy with an officer, or stringing his bow to send an arrow winging to bring down a passing bird so that he would be in practice when he needed to send one into the heart of an enemy. He was playing a lyre. I could hear him singing above the sound of the waves. He has a rich sweet voice and the song he sang is known to all soldiers: it is a sad one and tells of the deeds of heroes and the glory that comes to those who die in battle. Patroclus sat opposite to him. Achilles was singing to him. Both men were stripped to the waist, wearing only loincloths. The morning sun washed the two of them with a soft golden light and they looked like young gods painted on a temple wall.

  Patroclus caught sight of us and made a gesture to Achilles who turned to look where Patroclus pointed. His face darkened when he saw us, for of course he had no notion why were here. He stood up and I saw then that next to his lyre his bow leaned against the rock. Patroclus was also already; some of the soldiers nearby had risen. But it was obvious that we were no danger, a woman sitting in a cart, accompanied by four soldiers and a royal herald, whose persons are sacred and must not be harmed.

  "You must come upon some important matter,” he said with a quick flash of his handsome smile. “Come to my tent. I will give you wine and food.” With this he led us to his tent, in front of which a tangle of blankets was spread on the ground, as if the two men had slept outside under the sky. A cook fire burned. He scooped up the blankets and disappeared into the tent. Patroclus followed and the two of them reappeared carrying cushions, a couple of low stools and tables. I clambered down from the wagon and went to the place beside it, to wait, head down, hands folded as a woman should do while the men talk. But Achilles called to me. I saw recognition in his eyes.

  “It is the lady Briseis,” he said. “Welcome. Rest yourself.” He motioned to a stool. He was, as Odysseus said, a gentleman.

  “Patroclus, bring a larger wine bowl, and don’t stint on the wine. Bring enough food as well” Patroclus reappeared and set a chopping-block in front of the fire, laid the loin of a sheep on it and some goat meat and held the meat while Achilles chopped, sliced, and salted it and put the pieces on spits over the fire. Patroclus mixed the wine—strongly as Achilles said--and passed cups of it to me and to the herald, and also to the soldiers of my guard, who he had bade to sit as well. Before drinking we all poured a bit in the ground as a libation to the gods. Patroclus took the now sizzling meat off the fire, set it on platters, and handed bread around, while Achilles dealt out portions. Just like an old married couple, I thought.

  Chapter 20

  Briseis

  Achilles and Patroclus. They are legends, these strong and handsome men, and one can see not only that they adore one another but why. Achilles is the younger of the two, but though younger, he leads. He is splendid—golden hair bleached by the sun, skin bronzed, sensuous lips, yet his cool gray eyes look with curiously impassionate appraisal. He is immensely charming, and yet there is a touch of the cruelty in his glance. Achilles smiled at me. I smiled shyly back. Next to him sits Patroclus, by his side, very close by his side. His hand lingers on Achilles’ shoulder. The gesture says it all. Patroclus is handsome in a different way--manly, almost brusque and taller than Achilles, with dark straight hair and piercing jet back eyes. He has a dazzling smile and together they make a gorgeous pair.

  They are of course lovers, and the world knows it. That is part of their legend—their devotion. All admire it, and poets have even made songs about them, comparing them to Zeus and the beautiful boy Ganymede who the King of the Gods so loved that he took him to Olympus where they love eternally. Or to Orpheus, who when his Eurydice died, could not bear to look at another woman and turned instead to the love of men and sought solace in the arms of the beautiful youth Calais. When Achilles and Patroclus stand together on the parade ground in the front rank of their soldiers, wearing as they sometimes do matching golden armor, it is a vision: Achilles’ golden hair glowing like a halo in the sun and Patroclus, dark, saturnine, heroic face. . Behind them are their men, armor polished and the plumes of their helmets combed out, eyes staring out from the narrow slits on either side of the long nosepiece of the sinister helmets they wear, their tanned skin and shapely legs show beneath the short but armored chitons falling briefly just below the curve of the breastplates that are shaped like the well-muscled chests of athletes. In precise measured lines they stand, ready at any moment to go to war, ready to change in an instant from a static image of militancy on parade into a savage killing machine, plunging spears brutally into men’s breasts, thrusting swords deep into stomachs, or coolly winging an arrow between the eyes. This is the picture that men see and they see this too: the so obvious love of the one man for another and the so obvious heroism of the two. In them soldiers sense all that moves the deepest well springs of their souls—courage and bonding--the necessary love of brave men for brave men. For these soldiers Achilles and Patroclus are legend embodied in life. In them is the hero Hercules who loved Hylas, and also Apollo, Lord of the World, who loved Hycinthus, about whose passionate love for the god and tragic death, boys learn in school.

  I have to say that I was not immune to Achilles’ beauty, though I dared say nothing. But then, I suppose, who has not fallen a little in love with him. But I also knew it was pointless to try. I know the stories of men loving men, but I do not understand them. Perhaps no woman can, for that love shuts us out. We are not necessary in that passion. Some women react to this with rage to this rejection. Why else was it that the Maenads, those cruel sexually obsessed women, attacked Orpheus who had rejected them for a handsome youth and they tore him limb from limb and threw his mangled remains in the river. But to no avail, for Orpheus is born again over and over, and his songs remind us that it was he who taught men the art of loving men.

  I am no Maenad; I do not understand these men or their love, but I accept it. What else is there to do? As the days passed and I saw that I was welcome there, I became settled into the life of Achilles’ camp. It was not like the huge Greek camp, where huge numbers of men were housed in countless tents and where every cohort or squad was accountable to their own lord or minor king, and he to the lord or king to who the were vassal, and all to Agamemnon. The sheer size of the Greek army made for a certain unruliness about daily life. But not so here. Here all was discipline and order, the men exercised twice a day on the beach; Achilles or Patroclus conducted war games among squads at least once each day. All was moderation. No drunken nights around the campfire; no slave girl or pretty boy passed from man to man for brutal fun. Up with the sun. To bed as the moon rose. And so I was largely ignored and I found peace and freedom—freedom from fear. For no king drunk and late at night would burst in to ravish me. I had to tend no dead, wash no wounded, serve at no soldier’s tables, avoid no reaching hands or the knowing leer or th
e obscene suggestion. I served only Achilles and Patroclus, bringing them their simply meal which I had made—some gruel of vegetables, apiece of roasted lamb, some lentils in a stew. I tided their already tidy tent. I washed their clothes in clear clean spring water.

  One day, after I came upon a parchment scroll that Patroclus had been reading and, having little to do, settled myself by the door of the tent to read it, Achilles came upon me there. I jumped up, flustered.

  “I’m sorry my lord,” I said. I hastily replaced the scroll and started to go.

  No, Briseis, do not go. You have done nothing wrong.” Achilles said. “You can read? “

  “Yes, Lord, my husband taught me; he was man of the book.”

  “That is a good thing,” he said, “for a woman to know. And writing?”

  “Yes, lord, that too.”

  He smiled, and I caught a hint of glee and mockery in his look. “Perhaps I will have you pen a letter to the king, for he surely must want to know what I will do, if or when I will return to battle. Perhaps he will send Odysseus to find out. Oh yes, I know what you are supposed to do. Tell Odysseus all you see and hear.”

  I was astonished. How did he know?

  “It is no matter. I will fight when I am ready, not when that king commands. He will know soon enough what Achilles will do. It is already written in the stars and we have no need to send letters. But for tonight, perhaps you will read to us? No dry history like that Patroclus likes, but a tale of love and life, of gods and men.”