Chapter 1

Foreboding

Spring, 1184 BCE, Troy - Present Day

 

Should have snuck up some wine, I think morosely. I don’t know if it would have helped but I can’t see how it would have made anything worse. 

​

I sigh long and low, making sure not to disturb the still form in the bed beside me. The noise from the streets keep me awake and I lie quietly, listening to the sounds of drunken revelry. 

 

The groans and shrieks outside the window are loud and unearthly. They sound more like creatures unleashed from the pits of Tartarus. Their demoniacal moaning and senseless vocalizing penetrate the night and I know this will go on for hours. 

I stare at the terracotta tiles on the ceiling and wonder if trying to count them will help but immediately discard that idea, the din outside is too loud, sleep will never find me.

 

Should have brought the wine, I chastise myself. 

 

It would have been so easy to have swiped one of the small amphoras and hidden it behind the voluminous folds of my chiton. The longer I lie here, the surer I am that it would have helped. I just want to escape this day and I don’t much care for tomorrow either.

As I lie in the darkness, I picture the scenes playing out in the streets, homes, and gardens across the city, but I never look out of the window. What would be the point? I know what I will find, faceless bodies engaged in all manner of acts. The most innocent of these will be the children, laughing and dancing and playing in the streets. Their mothers chasing after them until they pass out.

​

It is the adults that are the crux of the noise. They are drinking, copiously so, loudly congratulating and regaling each other with stories of their prowess and valor in battle. Others are thanking the gods for blessing us so, and praying for this good fortune to continue. Many are singing and shouting their exultations to the heavens. Most everyone is laughing, holding on to each other for support when their mirth overcomes them, and laughing again when they fall from merriment or inebriation. Others are engaged in more intimate activities, enjoying a carnal fete.

​

All of Troy is out there, laughing, dancing, drinking, and fucking – it is all on display – across the whole city. It is a day of celebration after all. 

 

A microcosm of the citywide party is occurring downstairs. Father has opened our home to friends and neighbors. As if he needs an excuse for a party, I roll my eyes. Even now, the house slaves will be scurrying around, seeing to all the guests’ needs, whatever they may be. I suppose the slaves are not having a good time, it’s an even busier day for them than normal. But they are well practiced, father throws many parties.

 

He sent me upstairs to join Elena in the gynaeceum, the women’s quarters, before this more enthusiastic part of the celebrations began. As if he could hide me from it, the thought is laughable. Not that I have any desire to be downstairs with the others. I do not want to be there for their loud and raucous laughter, the wandering hands or to see the twisting and thrashing bodies in the courtyard and gardens. Or gods forbid, they misconstrue and try to have me join in. Aside from father having a conniption, I want nothing to do with the entire lurid affair. I already caught sight of too much going on behind one of the statues. The wine would have been most welcome in washing away some of tonight’s unsightly images.

 

“Maya will you stay with me?” a soft voice calls.

 

Startled out of my thoughts, I look down at my sister and sooth my hand over her soft yellow hair, so different from my own light brown. Even still, you can tell we are sisters immediately, especially when we are next to each other. We have the same heart shaped face, straight nose and our eyes are the same color, amber with hints of green.

 

“Sleep Elena, I will be here,” I whisper and curl myself around her.

 

She is almost seventeen and has completed her transition from girlhood to womanhood, but I would like to see her enjoy ignorant innocence a while longer. Tonight, she seems much younger than her years and in need of assurance that nothing untoward will happen. I am not sure how much she understands of what is being propagated downstairs or on the streets.

 

Too much, I think – but I want to alleviate any fears she may have.

 

“We are safe here; the revelers will soon grow quiet and you know father will make sure no one comes upstairs. Besides, I passed Anais; he was standing sentry at the entrance to the stairwell. You know he will let no one pass.”

 

She nods, Anais has been protecting us since we were little girls. I'm sure she would have passed him on her way to the women’s quarters too. She must have just wanted the reassurance that he was still there. Kissing me on the cheek, she tells me to try and sleep and then closes her eyes. I hold her and soon her breathing starts to become more even, my presence an anchor and my words helping quell any worries the noise from the festivities, both downstairs and the city brings about.

 

I won't be able to sleep, so I lie still, not wanting to disturb her and continue to listen to shouts of jubilation and triumph. The cause for the celebration is nothing short of our liberation; the citizens of Troy are celebrating the Achaeans leaving our shores. It has lasted the entire day, since finding a colossal wooden horse, made from fir trees, on the beach. 

​

They say it was left as a tribute. I do not understand why an enemy, so intent on our demise for so long, would simply vanish overnight and leave a gift? I am no grey-eyed Athena, but I find it suspicious to say the least. In any case, I am alone in my misgivings, or at least, one of the few to openly voice any, the citywide party attests to that. Father hardly cares and who am I to upset the gods, denying them such a worthy gift, if what the priests say are true.

 

The carousing will go long into the night and early morning, I am sure. I cannot imagine them stopping anytime soon. Unless the copious amounts of drink render them inert sooner rather than later.

​

Let it be so! I think fervently.

 

I think of our prize again and shiver, gooseflesh prominently stand on my arms. We Trojans do prize our horses; it is another reason the people have accepted the wooden effigy. That giant monstrosity is actually very well crafted, the Achaeans clearly took their time with its engineering. Again, I find it extremely suspicious.

 

Why? Why did they leave this for us?

 

The priests say it is to appease the gods but I’m not so sure, although I cannot actually think of a different reason for its creation. I wish we’d left it on the beach, but it’s been pulled right into the heart of the city for all to see. Troy’s war prize.

The king thinks we should all be able to see this symbol of our victory. It certainly seems to have lifted the pall that has blanketed our capital all these years. I can scarcely believe the war is over, that the blood, and death that has saturated and permeated every facet of life thus far is at an end. 

 

Does that wooden horse really mark the end of this long and protracted war?

 

That feeling of unease I have been keeping at bay resurfaces, I do not trust this day. For some reason, that beautiful timber horse sends a shiver of foreboding through me. The change is too swift, too hasty, suspicious.

​

Is it really over? 

 

I want to believe so, no matter my own loss, I want to believe the war is over. Everyone else does. They celebrate as if the sun has come out in all its blazing splendor, mighty Apollo pulling the fiery orb across the land and chasing a seemingly endless night away.

Father and mother have shown more signs of life in these last few hours than in the last few years of the war. I do not blame them, life has been hard, there have been losses, yet their absence hurt.

 

I do not blame the people for their caterwauling either, they clearly need this release, everyone does. This night acts as a kind of catharsis, a means to purge all their pent-up emotions and frustrations. At least I hope they find catharsis; I think for many it will be a venereal disease or at the very least an aching head. But what do I know?

 

I do not feel like celebrating, if anything I feel morose and so I lay with Elena in the darkness for hours, sleep never finding me, Morpheus sending me no dreams. I am awake even when the final guests either go home or pass out and quiet settles over the house. Noise still filters in from the city, though it is no longer as loud.

 

I yearn for sleep. Up until now, no one has been able to sleep well, war and siege making insomniacs of us all. Tonight, I suppose the wine has helped.

 

Should have snuck some wine upstairs, I quietly lament. It's not like anyone but Elena would have known. I would not even mind an aching head in the morning. I would like nothing more than to vanquish my thoughts, even if just for a little while, instead I lie here and ruminate.

 

I sigh, now that the war is over, I have new problems to attend to. This is the true cause of my sullen mood. I will not be able to keep father from marry me or Elena off any longer. He’s had his sights on a couple of prominent men he wants us matched to, and now he has succeeded, at least he has for me. He was probably seeing to the final details of my marriage as I lay in bed this night. They were probably discussing my dowry, I think gloomy. 

 

It will not be long before Elena's match is settled. I have not told Elena, not yet – another few nights of ignorance for her, it is the only gift I have to give.

 

It seems inconceivable that I am not even privy to the transaction being conducted on my behalf, it is my person and my body that will be going to another. Honor and duty and all that nonsense about improving the family’s name and standing are extolled – yet it is we that will have to suffer the indignities to fulfil those obligations.

 

The deal is stuck. There is nothing I can do but fulfil my role in this charade that will become my life. 

​

I vacillate between sadness and anger at the thought. Sometimes I think the brood mares are more cherished than daughters, they are certainly given more attention.

 

They are also given to a stud, not a donkey, I think mulishly.

 

I shudder, I hate the thought of marriage and that old man climbing atop me and pumping away. Nera, a friend, long married now, as I should be, has told me what to expect and it sounds revolting. Just the thought of father’s choice touching me has me feeling nauseated. I do not care that I will move to a better home and all the trappings that come with it. I do not want to be married to that man, but I will never be given any choice in selecting my husband. I have had other admirers; I wish father had chosen a younger one, or any other one.

 

The notion of romantic love has been drilled out of us; we are to marry to elevate status and prestige. Yet, the thought of being given to that dour old man with his soft body only leaves me feeling cold and disgusted.

 

I want to feel passion and liquid heat and … well I do not know what else there is.

 

Despite everything, a small, foolish part of me holds fast to the stories of love between Eros and Psyche, to the love shared between Orpheus and Eurydice and the passion between Aphrodite and Adonis. Even with their tragic trials and endings, I envy them and their experiences, because I will never know it.

 

Perhaps that is why Paris and Helen acted as they did. Eros found them, and even knowing war would come, they could stop their love no more than the changing of the seasons could be stopped.

 

You are not a child Maya, and they were foolish to act as they did, it has brought nothing but misery and loss to all.

 

Yet, deep down, I yearn for what those lovers had, to be swept up in desires embrace. 

 

Eros please hear me; I want to know love.

 

I want to know what transpires between a man and a woman that choose each other freely – not a lustful old man and a recalcitrant bride. I shudder again, I cannot stomach the thought of lying with the man my father has chosen, the donkey, as I have dubbed him.

 

I sigh, the only reason father has let me remain at home so long is because I keep everything running. I do not even know where mother goes half the time. I don't think he does either, or that he cares.

 

There was also my brother Chryses, who promised father that he would take a whore to wife, ruining our family name, if a suit I did not want was pushed on me. 

 

I smile widely. My big brother was always my hero but never more so than on that day. The look of impotent rage on father’s face and mother swooning from the vulgarity of the whole affair will always stay with me. I stifle a giggle so as not to wake Elena. It is easier to think of Chryses now – though I still miss him as one would a limb. He was my best friend.

 

Mother still tried to set us up from time to time, but father did not push any more suits on me, or Elena. He knew Chryses did not make idle threats. Now, with my brother gone, I know our time has run out. 

 

I am a woman, an old one by many accounts; nineteen and unmarried, unheard of, especially since I am not a widow. I am an oddity

and curiosity for many. Elena is too; approaching seventeen, she is in her prime and should wed as soon as a good match can be

made, which is imminent. I just need to go first since I am the eldest.

​

That won't be long now since my match is made, I think bitterly. I abhor the thought, much less needing to actualize it.

​

Father has not told me, but I know about it, the house slaves hear everything, and I run this house. I bristle again as the image of my soon to be husband comes to mind. It is ridiculous that I am considered so old when the man I will be going to is far, far older.

 

Stupidly, I had hoped my age would be enough to make me unattractive to many, but it has only garnered more interest and some of this attention has been more forceful than others. 

 

I do not want to think of these ugly memories and so I look again at Elena. I look at her and smile; with everything falling apart, we have been each other’s constant. I wish I could shield her from what is to come but it is beyond the realm of my powers, not that I truly have any. I can't even shield myself from it.

 

Please let them be kind, I know I will never have passion, so please grant kindness, I pray to Eros.

 

Once again, I think of the wine. I would welcome its sweet embrace and my ensuing fall into dark oblivion for the night.