Screaming now myself, I bolted from my hiding place and tore out the door after them. Off to one side I glimpsed the affronted Pallas Athena lying abandoned on the floor. I should have righted her, but instead I fled to Priam’s palace.
LXXI
The outer courtyard was now a bobbing mass of people, dark shapes bouncing up and down, eerily lit by the torches the Greeks carried, a grotesque version of a nighttime festivity. Instead of flutes and singing, there were screams and keening; instead of wine, there were sprays of bright blood; instead of acrobats, there was the writhing of people desperate to escape. Dogs rushed through the crowd, howling and biting, and horses, loosened from their pens, careened about, trampling the dead and crushing the living. I thought to hear resounding crashes as the gods joined in, Poseidon roaring, waves tearing at the base of Troy, Zeus sending his lethal lightning. But there was nothing but the sound of human anguish.
Priam’s palace! Enveloped in a sea of people, its guards valiantly protected the doors against the people beating against them, trying to force their way in, as if their king would save them. The Greeks pursued them, cutting them down with spear and sword. Up on the roof, guards pried loose the tiles and hurled them down on their assailants; they felled some, but most of the Greeks laughed at the ineffectual missiles.
Behind me I heard yells as Trojans turned on the Greeks near the temple. I saw—but just barely, as it was so dark and I was now across the courtyard—some Greeks trying to climb back inside the horse. Unable to pull themselves up the ropes quickly enough, they were slain by the Trojans and fell heavily to the base of the horse.
Now the soldiers were ramming themselves against the palace door; the guards had been overwhelmed. The door strained and even the wood bulged, but it held. Then a Greek soldier pushed in front of all the others and halted them. “Cease!” he screamed. His voice broke—indeed, it sounded as if it had barely taken on an adult timbre. “I will open this door!”
He turned and held out his arms, and the soldiers obeyed.
In the mayhem, I was astonished that anyone would even hear, let alone obey. He was tall, but slight, confirming my impression of extreme youth. He was wearing a helmet that obscured his face, but his neck was slender and his torso long, with almost gangling arms and legs. He held a gigantic shield, worked with intricate art. The carvings caught the meager light and revealed their fine workmanship. This was the shield of someone confident it would never be captured, for who else would carry such a valuable thing into battle?
Achilles. The shield of Achilles. Suddenly I knew to whom it now belonged. This was Neoptolemus, his son. The youngling. Now the last of the prophecies was fulfilled for the fall of Troy.
“Yield, old man!” he was screaming.
How old are you, lad? I asked him, silently. Fifteen at most? It can be no more than that.
He grabbed some flaming torches from the soldiers and lobbed them up onto the roof, hitting several defenders, who fled their places.
“Smash it again!” he directed his soldiers. They obligingly rushed against the door and this time it groaned and splintered.
“Let me, let me!” Neoptolemus jumped at the door and wrenched it off its hinges, although the real work had been done by others. “I conquer!” he yelled. “Stay here!” he commanded the men. “I go inside alone. Let the glory be mine!”
He must have had loyal guardsmen, for they held back the other Greeks while he strode inside. He seemed concerned only that another warrior would steal his glory; the terrified, heedless crowd, me along with them, streamed in unhindered.
The first thing that struck me was how quiet the inner courtyard was. The rows of potted trees and flowers were still set in orderly lines, still proclaiming that life was peaceful. The doors of the apartments belonging to Priam’s sons and daughters were closed, it is true, but they were still intact, their brass ornamentation polished, now reflecting the torches of those who came to destroy them.
I tore myself out of the crowd and ran ahead of them. I almost caught up to Neoptolemus, but I did not want him to see me and turn on me. So I slunk along behind him, hugging the shadows.
At the far end of the courtyard, at the altar of the three-eyed Zeus, I saw a gathering of people. I sank down behind one of the potted trees and looked through their branches to see who it was. Behind me I heard the rush of people pressing forward.
Hecuba. She was standing at the altar, embracing her daughters, huddled on either side of her. Polyxena was there, and Laodice, and Ilona. Hecuba’s black eyes darted around the courtyard searching for adversaries, bracing for them.
Neoptolemus leapt forward, landing almost at their feet. He pulled off his helmet and peered at them. “You must be Hecuba,” he said, thrusting his face up into hers. “And you—who might you be?” Quick as a lizard’s tongue, he flicked out his sword and poised it on Polyxena’s throat.
“Polyxena,” she cried.
“My father fancied you,” he said. “Perhaps he’ll have you yet.” His high-whining youngster’s voice was bloodcurdling in its ignorant remorselessness. “And you?” he said to the others. Trembling, they gave their names.
Just then Priam rushed up, fully armed. He had been fumbling in the shadows, strapping on his breastplate and his sword, and now he lunged at Neoptolemus, missing him.
“Old man!” Neoptolemus sounded delighted. “Attacking me! You must be King Priam! How foolish, to think you could oppose me!”
“You are a cruel and inept child,” said Priam. “A poor wavering reflection of your father. I met him, we talked as men together. He would spare the old and the weak. Look into your heart to see him. Be worthy of him.” He circled Neoptolemus.
Neoptolemus gave a nasty laugh as he turned, keeping Priam within his sights. “My father had one leading trait—to win, to cover himself in glory, to vanquish his enemies.”
Priam stopped, faced him. “It is no glory to vanquish enemies that are aged or helpless.”
“An enemy is an enemy. Many poisonous snakes are small and seemingly helpless.”
“Men are not snakes.”
“Are they not, then? Men are worse. A snake kills only when it is threatened, when someone steps across its path or disturbs its burrow—but men?”
Priam then drew himself up to his full height, and he became, for that instant, the Priam I had first seen. “Are you not doing just that? And may I not defend it as a poisonous snake might? Yet that does not mean I am dangerous and must be destroyed. Have mercy on my nest, my wife, my children.”
Neoptolemus just laughed. “Supplicate your gods, take your farewell.”
Just then one of Priam’s sons darted out from near where I was crouched hiding. “Die, you Greek!” he cried. His voice was even higher than Neoptolemus’s.
It was Polites, Priam’s next youngest son after Polydorus. Neoptolemus swung around and ran him through with a sword: two children, one killing the other. The child lay limp on the floor; Priam slipped in his blood as he rushed to attack Neoptolemus with his bare hands, a wavering war cry resounding from his old throat. Clutching, Priam tightened his grip on the young man’s neck, holding him fast as he toppled backward. For an instant they rolled and tussled together, Priam’s face contorted with the effort of squeezing so hard.
But then Neoptolemus rose like an inexorable force, drawing Priam with him. With one arm he held Priam fast, with the other he drew back his sword.
“Farewell, old man!” he said with mock affection as he swung his sword and sliced off Priam’s head. It flew off, rolling away, while the body slumped beside the Zeus altar, spouting blood. The head came to rest looking upward, eyes wide with horror, staring at the rivulets of its own blood trickling down the monument.
Hecuba rushed at Neoptolemus and tried to claw his eyes out, but she was even weaker than Priam and he flung her aside easily, so that she hit her head on the altar base and lay stretched out beside her husband. Polyxena fell to her knees and embraced her mother and father. Neoptole
mus bent down and pulled her up, jerking her head back by the hair.
“Which one are you, did you say?” he hissed. “Old Priam had so many sons and daughters, did he even name them? Well, what of it? To what avail his fifty sons, his twelve daughters? Not one will resound to the ages with the fame of Peleus’s one son, my father. Nor of me, my father’s only son!”
“Pitiful braggart!” Polyxena cried. “No one will remember your name. No one can even pronounce it. Even mine will ring longer and louder than yours.”
Grinning like an old skull, Neoptolemus pinned her arms. “Oh, I’ll see to that!” He signaled to one of his men to truss her up. “To the ships!” he ordered.
The body of Polites lay in a pool of blood. Priam’s was spreading, still seeping from his neck; it reached out to his son’s like fingers and the two touched and blended, becoming one.
I dared not move. There was nothing I could do to help Hecuba and her daughters until Neoptolemus left them. If he saw me, he might capture me and send me to the ships, too. The leaves of the bush I was hiding behind trembled. Had it not been dark and had Neoptolemus been more wary, he would have seen me. As it was, I crouched and prayed for him to be gone.
In that odd moment I felt a brushing against my shoulder, a smoothing of my hair. I am betrayed! They have discovered me! I thought, terrified. But the touch was gentle. I looked up and saw a shadowy form. I could not be sure of what I saw, and as I reached out my hand, it passed through air. But the touch had been real.
My child. The voice whispered in my ear, even while the courtyard was filled with yelling. Somehow I heard it above—or below—the ugly sounds around me.
Yes, I said in my mind. I am here. Your servant is here.
Not my servant but my child.
My father? Zeus?
A soft laugh. Only in a manner of speaking are you my child. I adopted you. Aeneas is the child of my body, but you are the child of my essence, my being.
“Aphrodite?” I whispered.
Yes. I am here to gainsay your safety. I have already directed Aeneas to leave Troy, now I guide you. Leave this place of killing, find your way to the ships. You two alone will survive the fall of Troy without hurt. I vouchsafe my own!
I will not go to the Greeks, I said again in my mind. I will not go to the ships!
Dear child, in a short time all of Troy will buckle, blaze, and fall. If you hope to live, you must flee its walls. If you choose to die, so be it. Mortals always have that choice. Sometimes they embrace it. I do not understand this, but they are free to do so.
Hecuba was muttering, rolling over, bringing herself to her elbows in the lake of blood. Laodice pulled her up, clasping her mother to her. She turned her mother’s head so she would not see what she had lain beside, and shielded her eyes.
The warriors came pouring in; Neoptolemus’s orders had held them back only a short time. They fell on everything in sight, swinging at the potted plants and the benches as if they were enemy soldiers. Hecuba, the altar, and her daughters vanished beneath the surge of people.
I crawled away, still shielded by the plants. I saw some of them blazing, some urns overturned, and knew that Andromache’s prized assemblage was gone. But her heart must have left them for greater matters long ago.
By the time I reached it, the outer courtyard was already piled with looted goods: upended three-legged tables, bronze cauldrons, wooden chests, ivory game boards, bedsteads. I half crawled, half scurried between the stacks of booty and fled the palace. Gasping, I stood at the gates and saw the conflagration before me.
The citadel was on fire. Hector’s palace flamed, as did mine and the temple of Athena. Even the horse had caught fire. The flames licked up its sturdy legs and crackled around its belly—the belly that had delivered death to Troy.
I rushed down the street leading down into the city. These houses were still intact, but the street was filled with screaming people.
“This way, this way!” one man called, trying to direct the crowd. “Proceed in an orderly fashion!” His eyes were dull, unseeing of what was truly happening.
A well-dressed woman came out of her house, adjusting her veil. “What is all this confusion?” she asked, puzzled. “Good people, return to your beds.” She turned and said, “You should not miss your sleep. It is not good to be awake when the sky is dark.” Smoothly, she turned and went back inside. “I have tried my best,” she said. Her eyes were fixed, uncomprehending. A shrill laugh followed her, floating on the air.
I was almost pushed down as I rushed through the street. I heard a scream as someone leapt from the top of the temple and landed in a pit of flame. Athena had not saved him or her. Why should I think Aphrodite could save me?
More people leapt off the walls and vanished into the darkness and flames. A Trojan strode down the street, shoving others with his shield, but he was dead already, completely unresponsive to what was happening around him. No sound or cry caught his attention. Step by step he advanced, like a statue.
I looked back to see a trio of people leaping directly into the flames from one of the towers, singing, holding hands. Were they one family, or fast friends? The singing stopped, replaced by screams as they hit the fire. It flared up briefly as it digested them. Then it collapsed in a ball.
“Down here, down here.” Two men were directing people toward the lower city. “Take the gate out, and make for Mount Ida.” They bowed to me. “Good evening, my lady,” they said, smiling.
“Flee!” I cried. “Abandon this!”
“Someone must direct,” one of them said. “It is important.”
“You will die!” I cried.
“We will all die,” he said. “It is only a question of how, and with what honor.”
“The Greeks will grant you no honor,” I said, hurrying past them.
“It is not for them to grant it,” he said. “We must grant it to ourselves.” He turned his head. “Down here, down here,” he continued directing those behind me. Thus the honor and civilization of Troy flickered bravely in its last moments before it was extinguished forever.
Farther down in the city, the houses still untorched, people were running in terror. Some were on their roofs, flinging tiles. Others were making a last stand, fighting madly against the Greek soldiers and whatever else stood in their way. Some used objects as weapons, rushing out of their houses swinging furniture, goblets, firewood to strike at their enemies. The Greeks easily parried them aside and slew them, swinging madly, lopping off limbs and heads, whatever they could reach. The maimed crawled away and were trampled, and the headless ones lay spurting in the street, making the stones slippery.
The flames rose higher on the citadel, and from this great distance, over the walls, I could see the fire reflected in the strait, the water turned sunset-red. But now the flames were starting in the middle part of the city as well, and people were staggering out of their houses, choking from dust mixed with smoke, only to be slain as soon as they emerged. The buildings, much smaller and flimsier than those of stone on the summit, began collapsing almost immediately, and wails from within told what was happening to those hiding inside. The flickering red flames bathed the brick walls of these modest houses in a bloody hue, as if they glowed from within.
I must leave the city, I must escape! But I was being pounded and pushed from all sides, carried along with a crowd that was dashing itself against walls and houses like one of Poseidon’s mighty waves. The noise was overwhelming. We think of fire as a quiet thing, but it created a great roaring sound like a sea dragon, and the groans of collapsing buildings drowned out even the cries of the wounded.
Down, down, into the lower rings of the inner city. I was borne along past a dwelling that looked as if nothing had befallen it. Its outer door was holding fast, and there were as yet no singe marks upon it. Suddenly it jerked open and an elegantly dressed woman emerged, holding her mantle daintily, keeping it from dragging in the street dirt. She looked this way and that, wrinkling up her nose. Then
she lurched out into the crowd and disappeared. She clearly was in a state of utter shock.
Did she have children inside? Had she left them? I had a glimpse of the dark deep interior, but could see nothing. I tore away from the imprisonment of the bodies around me, bearing me along like a helpless piece of floating wood, and tumbled into the house. I landed on my knees in the forecourt, and could see nothing. But I could smell the smoke. There was a fire in the back; the house was not unscathed after all.
“Is anyone here?” I called in my best Trojan dialect. “I am here to help!” If there were children inside, they might be sheltering under a table or cowering under their beds, thinking they could hide from the fire or the soldiers. “You must tell me. It is not safe to stay where you are!”
Now I was on my feet, stumbling blindly through the megaron, feeling the heat of the fire just outside the walls. All was yet dark within. “Are you here? Please, I come to help your mother!”
Just then I heard a faint scrambling. Then it stopped. It could be rats, or a pet dog. “Children!” I cried. “Please, call out to me! Help me to find you!”
Again there was a slight noise. But it could be anything, even the fire itself. Just then part of the roof collapsed, and a mass of bricks poured down in front of me, barely missing me. Dust rose in a choking cloud. The flames sucked loudly, happy to find an easier way to draw breath.
For a moment there was light—hideous light, coming from the fire. But I saw a body sprawled next to a table, its legs splayed out, the soles of its feet turned upward. It was a man. The woman’s husband? He still clutched a bowl of wine, but its surface was clouded with dust and trickles of blood ran into it, mixing with the drink. Had he been entertaining friends when the horror of an earlier collapse fell upon them? Now in the shadows I saw other bodies.