Ms. Ann Marie Byrnes

 

 

Welcome to English class with Ms. Ann Marie Byrnes!     

 

     I teach Honors English I, English IV, English IV Honors, and Advanced Placement English Literature & Composition.  My class rules, cheating policy, grading policies, and so forth are available under the homework section of this sharepoint site. 

     You can email me if you have any questions or comments. 

 

     During the spring of 2009, my freshmen honors students wrote the following stories.  Enjoy them!

 

Let’s Play a Game by Hannah Foglia 

 

*Ring…Ring…Ring* Hailey stared at the phone, motionless, refusing to answer it. The phone was ringing again. *Ring…Ring…Ring* “Stop it, stop it, stop it,” Hailey thought to her self as she pulled up the covers on her hospital bed, rocking her self back and forth. Her paralyzing fear mixed with feelings of despair had finally led Hailey to her breaking point.

“Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

This wasn’t fair. Why had this happened to her? Out of all the people in the world it had to be her. Why? It all started with that first call on Friday. She had simply brushed it off as a practical joke. How could she have been so stupid? Why hadn’t she told anyone? Well, it was too late for that now. It was too late to do anything. The fear and sorrow she felt had driven her to pure insanity. Her life would be forever changed from this point on so what was the point of living? They had locked her up in this stupid place and were supposed to make her better. They weren’t doing a very good job. Hailey felt worse than she had ever felt in her entire life. Every time a phone rang she was hit hard with the memories of what had happened Friday night. Flashbacks danced across her brain as drowned out the ringing of the telephone hoping that the caller would decide to leave her alone.

It was Friday night and Hailey was condemned to spend it at home babysitting. “I’m sorry, Nick, but I told you I can’t go tonight,” she mumbled into the receiver.

“Yeah, yeah, I know it sucks, but there’s nothing I can do,” she said waiting for a response.

“Look, I know you’re upset, but I can’t just leave them here. My mom would freak if she ever found out I left three kids alone at the house. You have to understand.” She waited as her impatient boyfriend tried to make a case for himself.

“I got to go, Nick,” she apologized into the receiver, “I’m sorry.”

Hailey hung up the phone wishing that her mom had decided to take her week long vacation to the Bahamas another week. She didn’t really blame her though. Hailey’s father had had been a troubled man suffering from a mental disease and couldn’t handle the pressures of being a dad. They committed him to a psychiatric hospital after an attempted suicide and they hadn’t heard from him since. Hailey could remember him as the kind of father that wanted to give his children the best, but didn’t know exactly how to do it. As a single mother of four kids, Hailey’s mom needed a break.

 “Hailey…Hailey…HAILEY!”

Trying unsuccessfully to ignore the sound of her impatient siblings calling her name, she hopped off the couch and followed the sound of the distress call.

“Shane? Shane, where are you?” Hailey continued to follow the sound of her brother’s voice.

She finally found him sitting in the kitchen, eyes wide holding the telephone to her.

“It’s for you,” her brother informed her with shaky voice.

Hailey took the receiver from his hands as he scurried out of the kitchen as fast as his legs could carry him. She stared at him for a few seconds before answering the phone.

“Hello,” she called into the receiver.

There was a slow, steady breathing coming from the phone.

“Hello,” she tried again.

 “Hello, Hailey, let’s play a game.” Hailey was stunned. There was something wrong with the tone of the mysterious caller’s voice.

“Oh Hailey,” the voice said, sounding upset, “Do you not want to play with me?”

Hailey hung up the phone immediately. No wonder Shane had looked so scared. Something wasn’t right about the mystery caller. The tone of his voice was sinister almost…mocking. No, this was a practical joke. It was probably someone at school playing a trick on her. There was nothing to worry about. Hailey returned to the couch, turned on the television, and, before she knew it, feel into a deep sleep.

A few hours later, Hailey awoke to a loud sobbing coming from the kitchen. She frantically checked the clock that read 9 o’clock. She ran to the kitchen to find her little sister, Angel, curled up on the kitchen table staring at the phone.

“What’s wrong?” she yelled frantically checking her sister from signs of distress.

Angel stopped her sobs and pointed wordlessly to the phone. Hailey returned the phone to its home and carried Angel upstairs to put her and the rest of the kids to bed. When all five of the kids had been put to sleep, Hailey returned to her couch trying to put any thoughts of Angel and the phone out of her head and drifted off to sleep.

*Ring…Ring…Ring* Hailey awoke to the continuous ringing of the telephone. Tired and a bit delirious, she picked up the phone without realizing what she was doing.

“You know, Hailey, you hurt my feelings before.”

Hailey suddenly felt wide awake, and her palms started to sweat.

“Don’t you like games, Hailey?”

Hailey continued to keep silent.

“Come on, Hailey, you know you want to play.”

The voice started to laugh, low at first but evolved into hysteria. “Stop calling me,” she screamed into the phone before slamming it on its home with all her might and running into the living room more scared then ever.

The night was restless. Hailey couldn’t fall asleep for more than a few minutes. All she could think about was the “prank caller,” but now she wasn’t so sure that what it was. She checked the clock which read 11:00 p.m. She had decided to move into the kitchen just in case the mysterious caller would call again. Then she could give him a piece of her mind. Not long after she had been going over her speech the phone rang again and she snatched it up quickly.

“Look, I don’t know who you are, but you need to stop calling my house.”

She didn’t wait for a response.

“I don’t know what you’re deal is, but this stupid prank has gone on long enough so leave me the hell alone!”

Just as she hung up the phone just seconds later it rang again. What was with this guy, couldn’t he take a hint. She let the call go to voicemail and started to leave the room.

“Tsk, tsk Hailey, I though you were better than this.”

The voices seemed to sound disappointed.

“You made a very big mistake by refusing to play my game,” he continued. “I’ll just have to force you and I think we should start out with an easy game”

The caller paused for a few seconds.

“I hope the children are alright, Hailey, we wouldn’t want anything to happen to them now would we…”

The answering machine beeped signaling the end of the message. Hailey stood in the middle of the room paralyzed with fear. Her brain told her to check on her siblings but her body refused to budge. A loud noise came from upstairs and Hailey flew up the stairs with inhuman speed. She checked and rechecked her siblings’ rooms making sure they were still sleeping in their beds. First she went to the boy’s room. Shane was lying in his bed breathing softly, undisturbed. She quietly backed out of the bedroom and moved on to the girls’ room. On the far side of the room Angel was sleeping soundly but something was off. She turned to the other side, walked towards the crib, and removed the blanket to find that the baby, Riley, was missing!

 Hailey automatically went into panic mode. As she started to hyperventilate and the sobs began, Hailey ran through the entire house throwing furniture over, looking for any sign of the missing baby. As Hailey grabbed the phone to dial 911, she heard a low sound coming from the closet. She grabbed a broom handle and carefully opened the door ready to attack an intruder. Before she got ready to swing, she found Riley hanging from a hook on the door by her blanket. She was unharmed but visibly frightened. Hailey took her in her arms and rocked her back and forth soothing and comforting her. As she turned around to put Riley back in her crib, she saw something fall to the ground. She picked it up to find a small piece of folded up paper. She decided to return Riley to her crib before opening the piece of paper. The note was short and simple and said: I hope you enjoyed our little game of hide and seek. I told you that you made a mistake. You didn’t think my threats were serious, did you? Well, maybe you should take them seriously. I’d hate to have to hurt your precious siblings. Watch your back. It wasn’t signed.

Hailey was letting her fear get the best of her. She decided that she had enough. Hailey picked up the phone with shaky hands and dialed 911. The operator answered the phone in one ring and Hailey quickly recounted her story including the phone calls, the note, and the strange discovery of her sister. The operator promised Hailey that help was on the way, but if she were to receive another call from the stranger, he could be traced. Hailey agreed to answer the phone and waited till the phone rang again just as she expected. She picked up the phone.

“Did you like my game of hide and seek, Hailey?” Hailey stayed quiet keeping her breathing low and even. “Hmm, you know, it isn’t much fun playing by yourself. I do hope you change your mind.”

The call cut off. A few seconds later the phone rang again. It was the 911 operator.

“We’ve traced the call; the results are coming in know.”

Hailey waited nervously for the operator. There was a loud gasp come from the other end of the line.

“Get out now, get out of the house!” The operator tried to hold back the fear in her voice.

“What, what’s wrong?” Hailey cried at the top of her lungs. “The call, it’s coming from your area. It’s less than 100 yards away. He’s going to your house!”

The next few moments were a blur all she could remember was the screams coming from upstairs. Angel’s high pitched shriek rang through the house and her brother could be headed trying to defend himself and his sister. The baby cried and cried and cried. Hailey knew exactly what was going on and she was too late. The sirens could be heard from a mile away. Then the shrieking just stopped. Hailey knew what had happened and suddenly everything started to go fuzzy. The last few images she saw were police storming through the house and the paramedics carrying stretchers covered with palls out. The harsh reality of what had just happened to her siblings was finally sinking in.

“No!” Hailey shrieked and sobbed fiercely.

Everything was moving so fast, and her brain was out of control. She would never be able to erase the memory of the frozen look of fear on Angel’s face or the bruises on Shane’s arms. As the memories danced through her brain, suddenly everything went black.

Hailey awoke to find herself dressed in a white gown and lying in a bed with a curtain. She had been taken to the hospital for psychiatric evaluation. After everything she had gone through, she sure needed it. No one had filled her in on the details of what exactly happened the night before, and for right now she didn’t want to know. Unfortunately, they had forgotten to add one important detail. As the nurse came in to get her settled for bed, Hailey decided that tonight she would have the best sleep of her life. She turned the lights out and fell asleep as soon as she hit the pillow.

*Ring…Ring…Ring* Hailey’s eyes shot opened at the sound. She turned to look at the phone on the table next to her.

“It can’t be, no, it can’t be!” Hailey shrieked hysterically.

A loud sound coming from behind the curtain of her bed made her scream in fear. Standing next to her bed was a man wearing a satisfied look on his face. He smiled when he saw her. “I’ve finally found you.” Hailey eyes widened at the sound of his voice. It was the same voice of the mystery caller. Hailey reached for the nurse button but before she could press it, the man unveiled a large dagger he had been holding.

“Not so fast, Hailey,” he said menacingly, “We haven’t finished our game.”

Hailey froze eyes darting between the man and knife at her throat.

“There’s always a winner in a game, you know. We haven’t decided a winner have we?” Hailey stayed absolutely still.

“Aww, come on Hailey, I don’t like when you ignore me.” Hailey remained silent.

“Don’t be scared, Hailey. It’s been a fun little game of cat and mouse. One big game of tag with a little hide and seek thrown in. Don’t you see it?”

Hailey stared at the man in shock. “You think this is a game? You think that death is a game? You think what you did to Shane, Angel, and Riley was a game! What kind of monster are you?”

The man laughed with the knife still pressed against her neck. “Don’t you remember, Hailey? We used to play games all the time. You were so good at them. I always though I would never beat you.”

Hailey looked puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

He laughed again. I didn’t think you’d remember. None of you would remember but ever since you locked me up, I don’t really care. He pushed the knife slightly harder against her skin.

“All those years of playing games together, I finally have the upper hand. I finally got my opportunity to win.”

The man looked towards the mirror across the room. With their heads side by side, Hailey noticed that the man shared many of the same features. They had the same reddish brown hair, the same pale skin, and even the same piercing green eyes.” Hailey’s eyes widened as knife was being pushed deeper and deeper into her neck.

“Daddy?” she asked

“Game over,” he replied.

 

 

The Package by Daniel Dores

         ~ A short story inspired by Richard Connell’s “The Most  Dangerous Game;’ a story of hunting, being lost in your own city, with a trap laid to gain a most prestigious – yet mysterious – prize

 

            Cold.  Bitter Cold.  These are the only two thoughts running through my mind as I wait here on this desolate street corner.  Snow had begun falling a little before sunset.  I checked my pocket watch now – it was already quarter of ten on this freezing New England night.  I pulled my cloak tighter around me, although it seemed that the ripped garment did me little good.  Waiting here, transfixed by the huge, wet snowflakes drifting down onto the cobblestone.  I stood beneath the dim glow of a cloud-covered moon, and my mind began to wander away from the icy cold that gripped my body, and, became more focused on the small parcel that I held tightly to my body…

 

            What is so important about this package?  It doesn’t seem that imposing; a size around that of a red brick and, come to think of it, so was its weight.  Is that all that I had retrieved?  Just a red brick delicately wrapped in thin, tattered parchment, and tied off with some old twine?  That’s all I came for?  That’s all I’m waiting out here on these icy streets for?  Just so my uncle could have a brick that “can’t be found anywhere else?”

            No, this package has to have some meaning.  It made no sound as I shook it with the greatest of care – except for the faint rustling of the crackly brown parchment.  How tempted I am to open it!

            Suddenly, sound came from somewhere down the cobblestone street.  The sound of shouting had snapped me back into reality, reminding me of the importance of my mission.  I quietly receded into the shadows of the storefront behind me – it was only a tailor’s shop, nothing too special.  I then noticed the two figures silhouetted against the dark night by the warm light pouring from an open tavern door.  A sudden slam of the door took a toll on my nerves, making me jump, but sent the two figures into laughter.  By the faint illumination of the lantern they carried, I could distinguish the pair as two men.  From their jaunty step and reckless nature, I pegged them immediately as soldiers.  The color of their jackets affirmed my greatest fear: they were redcoats, British soldiers, the very men I had grown to despise.  I crouched back further into the darkness.

            The men continued to advance, and from the beams reflecting off the brass buttons on their uniforms, it became obvious to me that these men were high-ranking officers – just the type of men my uncle warned me of.  He told me that they were the only men who would know about the bundle I was clinging to – other than the men my uncle had asked me to retrieve the parcel from, which was some society my uncle spoke very little of.  I prayed to God that they wouldn’t see me; it was the only thing I could do after I had backed myself right up to the doorstep of the tailor’s.

            I checked my bronze watch once again: five after ten.  My uncle should have been here by now!  I closed the watch and went to put it into my pocket but froze – not from the cold, but from fear.

            It had been a foolish mistake, one that I didn’t even realize I was making.  The soldiers heard the unmistakable “clack” of a pocket watch resounding all the way across the block through the still night air.  Their footsteps had been muffled by the fresh, soft snow, and I failed to notice the soft light of the lantern get progressively brighter as they had traveled closer to my position from down the street.  They had been almost directly across from me when they stopped suddenly at the sound of my watch.

            After a quick conference, they crossed the snow-laden street, their eyes roving all over the street corner.  They were onto me, and all I want to do is get out of here.  The only thing they saw were the fringes of my cloak round the street corner.  All I had to hear was their quick shouts, and I knew that the hunt was on.

            I dashed down a dark road, the only light coming from the candles in a few windows – the flames being the same size as my hope that I could beat them with my sheer speed.  I had the head start, but I knew that I couldn’t keep this pace up forever.  I weaved myself through the city – left, right, left, left, down an ally – but the duo remained in hot pursuit.

            As I attempted to call out for help, my voice was choked by the icy coldness of the late winter night, as well as the thick, bubbly nature of fear.  I pressed on through the snow-laden streets, the essence of panic driving me on.  At this time, I decided to shed my cloak; all it was doing was hampering my efforts, anyway.  It surprised me, though, how much colder it was without the old garment.  That hardly mattered now, though, as it seemed that everything was moving faster than I.

            The soldiers began to recover the ground that they had lost early in the footrace.  The wind had picked up now and the snow was falling at a much quicker pace.  I rounded a corner, and in doing so, lost my right shoe; the buckle had been broken for quite some time.  I persisted in clinging to the package and ran for cover in the stable of a wheelwright, hiding behind a quaint wooden stage coach stained deep brown, from what I could tell in such little light.  I knew this move would buy me some time, as I attempted to take stock of my situation.

            It was evident to me now that the soldiers knew I was carrying a package, and they probably also had the same knowledge of its importance as my uncle.  My uncle warned me how significant my task had been.  He mentioned something about planning a war – a revolutionary war – and that the man who gave me this parcel would recognize my uncle’s name, which he did.  The man was a patriotic blacksmith, and seemed adamant about his dislike for the king.  All I had to do was state my purpose, tell him I had come in place of my uncle, and exchange a few secret greetings that my uncle had taught me before my departure.  A new sense of vigor began to course through me as I remembered these things, and how imperative it was for me to succeed, not just for my uncle, but for my people and their rights.

            Realization then dawned on me: this was the only wheelwright’s shop in Boston, and it was on the same block as the tailor’s shop I had been in front of before – the very place where I was to meet my uncle.  My flight must have taken me full circle through part of the city!  I shuddered not from the cold, but from anticipation.  I strained my eyes through the splintered timbers of the stable I was in.  Never have I been so relieved in all my young life.  The dark form of a stage coach could be seen across the way.

            I listened as the crunching of the now stiff snow underneath the cautious steps of the two soldiers grew fainter as they continued down the street in the opposite direction.  After waiting a minute, maybe two – I dared not look at my pocket watch at this moment – I flew out of that shop like a hand carved arrow from an Indian bow, but my pursuers must have heard the off-beat padding of my half-limp, half-shoeless run, because they soon emerged back on the block with shouts and curses.  I made it to my uncle’s carriage with only two-thirds of a block separating the soldiers from the cart.  I jumped onto the stage coach with the last bit of strength I could muster, and urged my uncle to get us as far away from Boston as possible, pointing and gasping at the soldiers and their lantern, growing brighter and brighter on its way toward us.

            My uncle laughed, took the package from my hand, and stepped down from the cart.  He greeted the redcoats with the package outstretched before him, and the scowls on the soldiers’ faces turned to smiles of relief.

            Of all the emotions raging and pounding within my body, astonishment was the only one that made it to me face.  I gazed out the window of the carriage, a blank stare consuming my eyes, my jaw agape.  The package changed hands, and my eyes followed the soldiers down the street, my body too weary to do the same.

            The snow ceased falling; the last few flakes caught in the gentle breeze, swirling through the night air – as if lonely and lost – searching in vain for one another, their efforts fruitless as they laid to rest amidst the cobblestones of the street.  The pale light of the crescent moon reflecting lightly off their backs, the soldiers strolled away, conversing airily about the package that they passed back and forth between one another – the same small parcel I had clutched close to my shivering body only half an hour before.  Watching them vanish into the deep purplish darkness of the Boston night, I heard the creaking of the carriage door as it swung open.  My uncle stepped inside in the midst of a rush of cool air, sighing huffily.  All that escaped from my panic-stricken throat was a single syllable:

            “Why?”

 

     During the fall of 2008, my honors freshmen wrote historical fiction short stories about some aspect of Shakespeare's world four hundred years ago.  Some of my favorites are below for your reading pleasure.

 

 

 

 

Fighting For the Surface:  The Life and Death of Ophelia                                             by Kerry Farrell           Honors English 1             December 3, 2007   

 

Ophelia sat upon a rock by the river. She stared as the waves continuously falling atop one another, as if fighting for claim of the surface. Ophelia heard approaching footsteps on the crisp grass, but she did not turn to see who it was. The footsteps paused before Ophelia felt a hand on her shoulder. This was when she turned around. There standing before her was one of the reasons she had originally sought refuge by the river. Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, looked down upon her with a sad smile tickling his lips, with his eyes, though blurring in sadness, held her in passion. Ophelia’s breath caught in her throat.

            With a gesture by his hand, he silently asked if he may sit beside her. Ophelia nodded curtly, hoping he wouldn’t notice she had just started to breathe again.

“What has gotten to you, my dear lady, to have you alone by a churning river?” Hamlet asked not taking his eyes away from the river.

Ophelia chanced a glance at Hamlet, while she answered. “Only to ponder in peace.”

“Well if peace is what you are after I shall let you to yourself.” Hamlet said while, standing from the rock.

            Ophelia panicked and caught his wrist, forgetting herself.

“I don’t mind.” She said stumbling over her words in a rush. When she looked down to see that her hand still encompassed his wrist, she quickly placed her hand back in her lap. With a wicked grin that reached his eyes, Hamlet sat back down. Shifting his gaze between Ophelia and the river, he started to talk.

“What is it that the river holds over you?”

“Nothing, Prince Hamlet, only its beauty.”

“I may say the same to you.” At this Ophelia’s cheeks reddened, and was saved by Reynaldo, her father’s servant.

“My lady, your father does summon for you.” At once Ophelia stood, and looked over to Hamlet.

“Farewell, good sir.” Hamlet did not reply only looked at her with a gleam in his eye. After an awkward moment or two, Ophelia followed Reynaldo, to her father.

            Ophelia entered the room in which sat her father Polonius and Laertes, her brother. Bowing her head, she said “Father, brother.”

“Ahh, my good daughter Ophelia,” Polonius started, “I have called you hear to tell you of Laertes departure. He is once more going to France. He has received permission from King Claudius, as well mine. So we shall have a good dinner, for us three.”

“Sounds lovely, father.” Ophelia responded.

Polonius smiled, and bid her to her room. Ophelia left, and climbed to her room. Once there she sat in front of her dressing mirror. Staring at herself, her cheeks, again, reddened at Hamlet’s comment. Ophelia remembered all the times she had caught Hamlet staring at her, and quickly put it together. Prince Hamlet of Denmark fancied her. And Ophelia couldn’t help but smile.

            Ophelia, Laertes, and Polonius sat to dinner, while Polonius talked to Laertes about his trip to France. Laertes kept throwing looks at Ophelia, as she seemed unusually, contemplative. They finished their meal, and Polonius retired to his study, while Laertes caught Ophelia’s elbow, and pulled her down a separate corridor. “What’s occupying your mind?” Laertes asked. Ever since they were children, he was always able to tell when Ophelia was bothered.

“Nothing, dear brother, only your absence.” Ophelia lied. She knew she couldn’t tell Laertes the truth. Laertes removed his grip from Ophelia’s elbow, and looked down at her with a smirk.

“Your words say so, but your eyes tell me otherwise. I shall find the truth.” Laertes said with determination in his voice. At this Laertes left, while Ophelia walked quickly to her room. Ophelia knew she couldn’t tell Laertes about Hamlet. Laertes had always been very protective of her, and knew that he would find some reason to disapprove. But feeling rebellious, Ophelia wanted to see what exactly Hamlet’s intentions were.

            The next day Ophelia was walking to her father’s house to bid farewell to Laertes. When she reached about one hundred yards from her house, she was shocked to find Hamlet sitting there. His brow furrowed in concentration. He looked jittery, but trying very hard to keep still. Ophelia felt a smile creeping up her face, and cleared her throat to announce her presence. Hamlet looked up immediately and gave a wicked grin. He stands and walks over to her, assuming a proud gait when he sees her smile. With a deep breath, he grabbed her hand in his.

“Lovely Ophelia, you’ve caught mine eye on more than one occasion. And in this time of deceit, your pureness does shine brightly. And you have taken my heart. I wish you to be with me, and we shall one day rule as rightful king and queen of Denmark.”

            Ophelia was surprised to say the least. But such attention directed at her did appeal to her. Her smile could not have been any larger at that moment, and Hamlet seemed to take it that she felt the same way. Hamlet drew Ophelia closer to him, only to be interrupted by Laertes. He was just outside the house calling Ophelia’s name. Feeling self-conscious, Ophelia pulled away from Hamlet, after sending him a shy smile. She then walked up to where Laertes stood.    

            When Ophelia approached Laertes she saw that he stood very seriously. As they walked further into the house, Laertes warned Ophelia about Hamlet. He said Hamlet’s duty is first to his country, leaving Ophelia in second. Ophelia thought this over. It was true that Hamlet was prince, and Laertes had always wanted what was best for her.

“I shall the effect of this good lesson keep, As watchmen to my heart,” Ophelia promised Laertes. Laertes nodded, and then went to talk to Polonius. Ophelia was left to ponder everything going on, when Polonius approached and asked what she talked to Laertes about. She did not want to reveal too much, so she casually mentioned Hamlet. Polonius, however, wanted to know more, and again warned her against romance. Ophelia now was sure that to follow her father and brother’s advice was best. So she again promises to turn down Hamlet.

Over the next days, Ophelia completely ignores Hamlet. Whenever she happen to see him, she walks the other way, all the while knowing that he is frowning at her back. Even though it hurts her also she knows she must do this for her own good. However it had not physically affected her as it was about to. She was simply sitting when he approached. Hamlet came to her with anger and hurt in his eyes. His jaw was clenched shut and he grabbed her arms and held her tight. He did not say anything, only looked at her. This madness that compelled him to do this instilled such fear in Ophelia that she went running to Polonius. There she revealed everything about Hamlet and his momentary lapse of sanity.

Ophelia was ashamed to think that she might have done this to Hamlet; she only wanted to help. She agreed to follow her father and King Claudius’s plan to figure out what has gone wrong in Hamlet. But it certainly did not help her condition. To hear the hurt in his voice when he found her sitting there in front of the tapestry that hid the men. The hurt and hate mixed in his voice when he yelled at her, and she was ashamed to have done this, but she knew she must. Her father and Laertes care for her too much to lead her down the wrong path, Ophelia thought.

And the play was too much to bear. He said such inappropriate things to her with such a mocking tone. Ophelia knew however that she must keep a cool head, and take whatever slights he might throw at her. Ophelia felt horrible, she felt nothing could be worse than the remarks Hamlet made.

But Ophelia soon found herself to be wrong. Polonius was dead. Her own father was gone. And now everything confused her. What was she to do? He told her what to do. Her father always gave her advice on how to deal with things in her life. And she had refused Hamlet for her father. But now, she wasn’t so sure. Polonius was dead, how could she know if what he wanted was truly right. He lead to his own demise, how is it to say that she would do the same.

Ophelia searched her brain for what to do next. She would ramble on and on about nothing at all. She went to King Claudius and Queen Gertrude. But she didn’t know what to say. What, she asked herself, are you supposed to say when you are lost and your father is gone. She sang songs, morbid songs. She couldn’t even remember where she had learned them. She only needed someone to tell her where to go next. And then she saw Laertes. She knew that he could help her. But he said what her father said, so how could he be right? Ophelia argued with herself, confused and not knowing what to do.

She had draped herself in flowers, and went back down to the river. In this time of change, it was still the same. Each wave was still fighting for the top position, like people. Always wanting more power, and the upper hand. Ophelia remembers Hamlet and herself sitting here, what seemed such a long time ago. He had made her smile, and now, she couldn’t remember the last time she had smiled or laughed out of pure joy, not the madness that jumbled her brain.

Ophelia bent down to touch the churning water. It rippled under her fingers as she submerged her hand. She went to put her other hand in the water but lost her footing in the muddy banking. She clumsily fell into the water. Her dress soaked up the water and soon became heavy. Under the water, Ophelia could see the sun reflecting through the water. She could feel the currents pushing against her. Her mind was uncommonly calm and blank, as opposed to the usual confusion that had taken hold of her. Ophelia’s lungs gave out and soon were filled with cold water. She was being dragged to the bottom of the river, slowly losing consciousness. Ophelia’s eyes closed as the currents pushed her down in their fight for claim of the surface.                       

 

    During spring of 2007, my honors freshmen wrote historical fiction short stories based on their study of Homer's epic poems, the ILIAD and the ODYSSEY.  Our favorites are below for your reading enjoyment.

 

Left Behind:  The Story of Hermione, Helen’s Daughter

By Francine Odri

 

I gazed out the largest window in our palace in Sparta that faced the unknown lands to the north. There was hatred and hurt in my eyes as they slowly filled with tears. There walked my mother, Golden Helen, the most beautiful woman in the world hand-in-hand with Paris, the youngest Prince of Troy. All of our beautiful possessions that my mother cared so much for followed closely behind. She could have anything she wanted, so why not this young and handsome prince that arrived on our doorstep? Mother walked, or glided it seemed, freely away from her home, her family, and me, her only daughter. She stepped up into the chariot and did not look back. She did not hear me call out to her or see me run, tears streaming down my face, out of the room.

 

I had been young then; it was almost ten years ago and I have grown to understand how cruel the gods can be. My mother’s foolishness had caused a fatal war in Ilion. I was left here in Lacedaemon for three days alone until I was sent to Mycenae and placed under the care of my mother’s sister, Clytemnestra. She never showed me any kindness or love. This may have been attributed to the face that she was always considered “second best” when compared to my mother. The only person I had in the world to look up to as a mother figure was my cousin, Electra. She was a few years older than me. We would often spend days together along with my other cousin, Orestes, who was the same age as me. They had had an elder sister, Iphigenia, but I never got to meet her because she was sacrificed by her father, Agamemnon, to get the winds to blow in Aulis so the ships could depart for Ilion. Another death caused by the mistake of my mother.

 

The war had been going on for nearly ten years. I had gone ten years without a mother or a father, forced to listen to travelers for news of the war, or news of who had died. Not very long ago, both sides had suffered at the death of the Great Greek warrior Achilles and the Trojan solider, Hector. Maybe, the two nations would declare a truce and the war would end! I knew wishes like that were hopeless; Greeks fought to the death. We would either win or lose. No truce would be made.

 

Certain this war would go on forever, I was astonished on the day when Electra told me otherwise. I was sitting in my room, weaving a tapestry of one of the battles I had been told about, when Electra rushed in. She threw her arms around me and screamed, “The war is over! We have won! Your father is bringing your mother home again, and as we speak, Ilion is burning to the ground!” she stepped back, awaiting my reaction.

 

“I cannot believe it,” I whispered. I would finally have my family reunited. I wondered if Helen had missed me. Of course she had or she wouldn’t have come home. I slowly smiled and Electra positively beamed at me.

 

“I’m glad you are happy,” she said. “Because I have more good news.” More good news, I thought. What could possibly be better than this?

“You are going to marry Orestes! Isn’t it wonderful! Your father just sent word of it. Just think-- someday you will be Queen of all this!” She spun around. “We can live together here forever!”

“Oh, this is good news,” I said, but really I was not sure. I had wanted to go back to Lacedaemon and live with my parents together again. But I knew Orestes. He would make a good husband ad we would be happy. It could have been worse.

  A few days later I sat in my room and primped my freshly done hair. My parents were returning today to stay for a short visit, and I wanted to look my best. Suddenly, Electra burst into the room with a fierce look in her eyes that I had never seen before.

“Did you know that my mother was having an affair with a man named Aegisthus for all these years?” She gritted her teeth and stared hard at me.

“No, I didn’t,” I said, surprised. “How did you find out?”

“I overheard her talking to her ladies-in-waiting as I was getting ready,” she said. We heard a noise come from outside the door, and she lowered her voice to a whisper. “I also heard her say how much she wished that my father was out of the picture so that she could remain with her lover.” She said the word lover like she would say horse dung. “We will have to keep an eye on her.”

A few minutes later I stood in the grand hallway with Electra, Orestes, and Clytemnestra. My parents and Agamemnon were announced. I glanced at my reflection in the shiny stone pillar and held my breath. The door suddenly burst open and all I saw was gold as my mother ran in and threw her arms around me.

“Oh Hermione,” she said in her breathy voice as she kissed my head. “I have missed you so much.” Half of me wanted to ask her “Then why did you leave?” but the other half wanted to accept the new love she was showing me. I chose the latter.

“You are so beautiful,” she said as she stroked my hair. “But then I knew you would be.” She beamed at me.

“Well,” said my father, Menelaus. “The whole family is back together once more and there is much happiness. And there will soon be more! Aren’t you children happy to be married?” He clapped Orestes on the back. Orestes caught my eye and smiled. He really was quite handsome. Yes, I thought. We are going to be happy. And I returned his grin.

The door opened once more and Agamemnon walked in pulling the beautiful prophet Cassandra behind him. She did not look happy. In fact, her eyes darted around the room nervously as if someone was hiding behind one of the statues, waiting for her.  She was the sister of Paris, and was considered a lunatic with all her fantastic prophecies. I glanced over at Clytemnestra and she looked furious. Electra and Orestes exchanged worried looks. Mother looked over at the new couple and muttered, “Awkward.”

                                                                                                                           

I was awakened late that night by a scream. Not a woman’s shriek but a man’s deep yell. A high-pitched scream followed shortly after. Electra burst into my room and threw herself on my bed, sobbing.

“She. . .killed. . .him,” she said in between gasps. “My mother killed my father and Cassandra.”

 

Clytemnestra was not punished for the crime of killing her husband and his lover. People seemed to think that she had a right to. Electra and Orestes were furious.

“Something must be done,” I heard Electra murmur to Orestes one night.

“I know, but what can we do?” Orestes whispered fervently. Then, their voices went so low as they huddled together that I couldn’t hear them anymore.

A few days later, after some convincing from Electra, Orestes killed his mother Clytemnestra and her lover. He was immediately exiled for matricide and our marriage was canceled.

“I will not have you marry a murderer!” yelled my father when I pleaded to him of Orestes’ good reason for the murder. I didn’t want him exiled; I wanted to marry him!

The very next day, I was married to Neoptolemus, son of Achilles. He was handsome and treated me well, so I was happy with the arrangement. There was only one problem and her name was Andromache. She was widow to Hector and I hated her. She had a child through Neoptolemus and I would not share his affections with anyone. I wanted to be someone’s one and only love. The thought of this made me miss Orestes.

One night my prayers were answered and Orestes came to the house of Neoptolemus to take me away to marry him. It was just what I wanted! To be rescued from a house I hated to leave with the man I knew was my one true love. As I packed up my belongings and turned to leave with him, I was reminded of my mother’s mistake of leaving my father. “No, this is completely different. I am not leaving a child and I am going, I am sure, with the man who I am supposed to be married to.” I ignored the feeling of trouble as I kissed Orestes and left the house without looking back.

It was such a thrill, running away from my husband that I did not even mind walking most of the time. We faced no trouble on our journey until we came to the temple at Delphi. There waiting for us stood Neoptolemus with his sword drawn.

“I am prepared to fight you, Orestes, to the death to get my wife back.” Orestes drew his sword and I stepped back and behind the large statue of Apollo. I couldn’t bear to watch this! All I could do was listen to the clang of swords as they fought just a few steps from where I sat, sobbing. There was a scream and then, silence. Did I dare look? Who would I be carried off with, Neoptolemus or Orestes? My fate rested with the man who remained standing over a body covered in blood. The man turned and I saw that it was Orestes. I cried with joy as I threw my arms around him. He carried me away from the horrible scene.

A short while later, Orestes seized the open thrones in Argos and Arcadia and made us the rulers of all Mycenae, after our marriage became final. I made the right choice in marrying him and I am happier than ever. We have just given birth to a beautiful baby boy named Tisamenus. Every time I look at him I promise myself that he will never be left behind and never have to struggle as I did or live unloved. No, I will never leave him behind.

 

 

FORESEEN

The Personal Account of Cassandra, Princess and Prophetess of Troy

by Katie Hummel

Prologue

My brother has returned to Troy, and my heart is pounding with wariness. Somehow, I fear he will cause the deaths of everyone sitting in this great hall, who all lift their glasses in toasts to honor him, the long-lost prince. My parents, the King Priam and Queen Hecuba, smile approvingly of their guests’ worship of the boy, Paris. He sits next to Priam in the guest seat of honor, his handsomely chiseled face wearing a confused, yet contented grin. He has no idea how to act the part of prince, a role he was given barely one month ago. I scowl as my gaze moves across the room.

At the head of the table next to Priam and Hecuba’s is Hector, my eldest brother and Troy’s reigning prince. His expression matches my own, and I know he disapproves of Paris. He is jealous to have Hecuba and Priam’s attention taken away from him so quickly. Hector has always been their favorite, and everyone in Troy knows it, for he was praised often. That was before Paris came along, and Hecuba and Priam were so overcome with guilt for abandoning him as a baby that he now receives whatever his heart desires.

I do not trust the boy. I can tell he is as daft as a mule, though his looks deceive. I see in his doe-brown eyes and curly, dark locks that he is rash and inexperienced. He will be the ruin of Troy; his actions will attract the fury of one thousand ships, coming to our shores seeking blood. What will young Paris do to cause our doom, I wonder?

“He brings misfortune unto this household. Destruction is imminent, and blackness thickens on the horizon. Do not be fooled by his charming face. Do not trust him. Do not trust him!” my voice, hoarse with remaining silent for so long, begins in a whisper and gradually becomes louder until I am almost shouting. I find I am standing up at my table, which is in the back corner, the furthest away from Paris and my parents. Priam stares daggers at me. His greatest fear is that I will cause a scene at an important social event such as this one; only custom forces him to allow me to attend. I feel a tug on my elbow.

“Cassandra, that’s enough talk. Sit and finish your supper. I do believe we have pomegranates coming out for dessert. Wouldn’t you love to have some?” my maid, Antheia, says, dutifully trying to soothe the savage beast I am known to become. Priam assigned her to me, and she reports on my strange behavior daily. No doubt this evening’s outbursts will come up later.

Grudgingly, I sit down and feign interest in the food on my plate. The guests have ignored my movement, and I once again go unnoticed. Before completely retreating inside myself, I glance once more around the room. I feel his eyes on me and meet his gaze. Paris is looking directly at me, and I feel the strange surge of unease again. He breaks his gaze, but not without leaving me more puzzled than ever.

Five Months Later…

            How can a day so clear and calm bring such devastation upon me? The Aegean sparkles and shimmers with the help of Apollo, god of the sun, who has cursed me with this knowledge. He gave me the gift of prophecy, to predict and have everything I say always come true. But what good is a gift if every time I foresee a death or an injury, my family and fellow Trojans regard me as insane?

This day has brought me grief because at last I have seen why I was wary of Paris. Troy will burn on his account. Men will die because of him; women and children captured and taken as slaves. My own life will be endangered because of his actions, and all of this I know will come to be true. Paris is preparing to leave for Sparta, where I know he will set off a great chain of events, all leaving us destitute in the end. The worst part is that I can do nothing to save my city. I can only sit here in the confines of my bedroom and weep for what little of Troy I can see from my window.

Eventually, my weeping and moaning become too much for Antheia to bear. She hauls me down the stairs and thrusts me into my parents’ court, leaving me alone with them to suffer their admonitions. Priam stands and looks down at me with disgust as he takes in my unkempt state: my brown hair matted and twisted, my face gray with tears. I scramble to my feet and flash my eyes to his face.

“Cassandra, what is the meaning of this? Antheia tells me you have been sobbing for hours, unable to move from your room or answer her calls. What has you so devastated you must behave in this manner?” Priam frowns. Knowing my efforts are futile, I take a deep breath and proceed with my prophecy,

“King Priam, ruler of Troy, you have brought our city’s destroyer into your home. You have fed and clothed him when all the while he was waiting for an opportunity to strike. That time has come. In three days, Paris will set sail for Sparta. There he will find the temptation of Aphrodite and claim it for himself. Upon his return home, thousands of men will pursue him, all thirsty for revenge. They will not rest until Troy is annihilated and Paris lays dead. So this I say to you now: do not let Paris out of your sight.” As I speak, my voice grows louder with confidence, knowing my words are true.

“You speak lies, Cassandra! Paris has done nothing but profess his loyalty to Troy, and he now sails to Sparta as part of an important trade opportunity. How dare you speak against your own brother? I have seen enough from you. Go, and leave me in peace,” Priam’s speech is harsh and knocks the breath out of my chest.

            He doesn’t believe me, I think, astonished. He’s really going to let Paris go and destroy us all.

            “When Troy burns, you will not think so highly of Paris,” I retort, and dash out into Troy’s main courtyard, running so fast that Priam’s guards will barely be able to find my tracks.

I run until the heat of the day shortens my breath and slows my pace so that I now appear to be walking briskly through the streets. I am fuming with rage, so much so that I ignore the hurtful glances and mutterings from my fellow Trojans as I pass them by. My thoughts scream inside my head as my feet guide me further on into the heart of Troy. They lead me to my haven, the only place where I can truly be at ease: the Temple of Athena. As one of her priestesses, I go there daily to make offerings and pray, but I also go to escape the unbearable frustration of my household.

I climb the last of the steps and am greeted by the imposing, yet familiar columns. I run my fingers over the precise engravings and allow my frustration to seep out of me and be absorbed by the stone. I walk inside where my goddess’ likeness stands, tall and beautiful. I set out my offering and say the proper blessings before I allow myself to turn around and sit at the temple’s entrance.

Leaning my head back against one of the columns, this afternoon’s confrontation with my parents catches up to me. Silently, I relive the horrible encounter, seeing everything from Antheia’s old, worn face to Priam’s disdainful glare. Priam, my father, does not believe a word I say, even if it isn’t spoken in prophecy. He regards me as nothing more than a blemish on Troy, his mighty city. A city that will soon go up in flames…

“Oh why can’t he see that what I say is true?” I yell out in exasperation, “Why can’t he see that Paris is going to ruin everything and his fine city will be nothing more than ash? Priam is so stubborn! I hate his pride, and the way he turns his back on me as though I am nothing more than a diseased animal. O Athena,” I turn around to face my goddess, “I want to save Troy, but he pushes me aside. Oh, what can I do? What can I do?” Overwhelmed, I break down, sinking to the temple’s gray floor. These are not the first tears I have cried on this ground. What can I do? The helpless thought remains with me as I pick myself up and trudge back to my home, where I will not be welcomed nor loved.

Three days after my visit to the temple, I awaken to a gray, gloomy morning. Instantly, I know what is wrong. Paris is no longer in Troy. The fear that grips my heart nauseates me as the vision of Troy in flames comes back to me, stronger than ever. I see the huge gate which encloses the city crumbling to the ground, the buildings being robbed, my own Temple of Athena vandalized. No.

            “No!” I shout, running to my door and twisting the knob until it gives way. I bolt out of my bedchambers, still in my nightclothes and my wild dark hair trails behind me like a loose cape. I search frantically through each floor of the house for Priam and Hecuba until I am in the courtyard. There my parents are strolling, enjoying the cool shade of the overhanging roofs. Upon seeing them so carefree after the world I know of has virtually just ended, I lose all self-control.

            “You let him go!” I screech, barely noticing the dozens of women and children who have looked my way, staring open-mouthed, “He’s gone to Sparta where our downfall awaits. Our blood will be on his hands and Troy will burn. Oh the flames, the flames!” I flail my arms in exasperation as the sight of Athena’s temple once again comes to mind.

            “Cassandra, stop speaking these lies at once. I have had enough of your outbursts. Where is Antheia? She should be accompanying you at all times. I will send for her, and you will remain in your bedchambers. Now go and be silent,” Priam again rebukes me and it’s too much for me to handle. I collapse on the ground, weeping and crying out of Troy’s imminent downfall. I hear the women murmuring to their children to stay away from me as they cradle them in their arms. My city has turned against me. There is no hope for Troy; the people do not believe a single word I have uttered.

            “If you will not believe me, then you deserve what is coming, Trojans! You women who comfort your babies will all be slaves, toiling away for Greek men’s wishes. I have warned you all! Troy’s doom is coming at the hands of Paris. Do not let him come back into our walls when he returns. Deny him refuge, and perhaps we will be saved. If not, then Troy will burn!” I continue spitting curses and wailing of the destruction soon to befall the city even as Antheia and two other guards pull me back up to my rooms.

            My escorts shove me roughly into my bedchambers and lock the door behind me. Antheia straightens the blanket on my bed and bids me lie down so that I may rest.

            “Come now, Cassandra. It’s been a rough morning. Rest and perhaps your misgivings about Paris will go away if you are not under such stress,” she tries to comfort me as best a servant can. I am in no mood for her soothing words.

            “You know nothing of stress. The fate of the city rests in my hands. I could do something to change it, if only they were to believe me! Oh, curse you, Apollo, and all these foresights you have given me! I despise you!” My anger comes spilling out as I curse my tormenter. The harsh words do not change Antheia’s stony gaze as she has heard them all many times before. She gives my blanket one last tug, and silently goes to stand watch at the anteroom. Suddenly overcome with weariness, I fall onto my mattress and scratchy, thin blanket. They are not comfortable, but I soon feel sleep’s spell coming over me.

            Within moments of falling asleep, I feel as though I am transported out of my body, out of Troy, and into the clouds high above the city. This is like no dream I have ever had before. I am free in my weightlessness, free of all my worries. I am happier than I have ever been in my life. The beautiful Aegean Sea spans out beneath me as I see the waves roll gently back and forth.           

“It could be like this always. It is not too late for me to undo what has befallen you, O Beautiful Cassandra,” a booming voice speaks from behind me. I turn around, still floating comfortably in the air, and the view before me takes my breath away. In all his splendor, the god Apollo appears in my dream, his wavy golden hair as bright as the sun. My tormentor has come to me again.

            “Why do you continue to make me suffer, great god of the sun? You know how I hate you and this curse you have given me. Every day, I foresee the lives and deaths of my fellow Trojans, and it is all in vain. My city’s doom is now imminent; my father won’t listen to my prophecy. How can you even think of showing your face to me?” I am angry that Apollo has come to me again. I know this encounter will only result in more suffering on my behalf.

            “Cassandra, it’s not too late for me to take back the curse. If you will only repay me for the knowledge I gave to you, then I can end your suffering in an instant. A woman as beautiful as you should not be wasting away in her own home; come, let us go to my dwelling in the skies where we can settle this silly, old feud,” Apollo hasn’t listened to my hateful statements against him. After all these years, he still has only one thing on his mind: to make me his possession. A new anger fills me.

“I would rather be confined to the dungeons of Troy for the rest of my life than give you such satisfaction, Apollo. You will never own me,” I find strength in my defiance. Apollo’s soft expression twists into an ugly sneer.

“Fine, be gone with you, and may your distress doubly increase. I’ve been patient in the hopes that you will change your mind, but now I condemn you. Leave and be tormented all the days of your life!” The beautiful Aegean Sea underneath me folds in on itself and turns black. Apollo leaves, and with him goes the light. I fall down into the nothingness.

I wake with a start from my dream, gasping for breath, my heart pounding steadily. The walls of my room seem to be closing in on me, as the shock from my experience sets in. Suddenly longing for fresh air, I spring up from my bed and dash out of my room past Antheia. She has dozed off as well, and my hurried footsteps startle her. Without giving her a chance to speak, I run up the stairway, higher and higher until I am on top of the building. I step out onto the roof and absorb Troy in its vastness.

            I turn full circle and look out over the city. My gaze rises to the horizon, following the direction in which Paris sailed to Sparta. The horizon becomes brighter, and my eyesight sharpens so that I see shapes on the edge of the ocean. They shimmer; at first I think they are only a trick of the early-morning light. They grow larger, and I can now see that they are black and huge. Ships are coming for Troy.

            “They have come! Our captors are on the horizon. We are finished!” I scream and fall down, holding my head in my hands. Antheia, finally having caught up with me, comes over to see what I am screeching about.

“The ships…death…war…black ships,” I mutter, hoping Antheia will catch on. She turns her gaze out to where I have just seen the ships.

            “Cassandra, there’s nothing there. It’s still just early morning and the sun’s only risen now. There are no ships,” Antheia says drowsily. I look again, and realize there is nothing there.

I shake my head in earnest, “There will be soon. They are coming for us. I have seen it. I know…”

 

 

 

Odysseus and Helen:  A Wartime Rendezvous

By John-Paul Helk

            Menelaus paced the tent.  “She has been disobedient.  She has broken the law.  She brought hundreds of thousands of men away from their homes to fight a deadly and costly war.  She left our child and me – right after the death of my grandfather no less!  Give me one good reason why I should not kill the wench.”

            Odysseus went over in his mind the real reasons he did not want her killed.  But he knew Menelaus – rash, irascible Menelaus – would never care how intelligent she was; he would never sit and talk with her, listen to her, never realize that she had a personality behind her looks.  “Do you wish to anger Zeus?  He is her father after all.  Do you dare anger the king of the gods?  He killed Chronos.  Are you really foolish enough to think he could not do the same to you?”

            “Zeus understands that she broke the law.”

            “All the same, for the safety of the men and yourself, do not kill her.  If you anger Zeus, then we shall all surely die and never see our homes again.”

            Menelaus paused, a grimace on his face that told Odysseus he was beginning to get through to him.  “And think,” he began again, driving his point home, “what the men might think and do if they discover you have angered Zeus and endangered us all.”

            Menelaus shook his head and sat down, almost defeated.  “Ah, they did not lie when they spoke of your cunning, Odysseus.”  He turned to look at his general.  “But they failed to mention your foolish kindness and love for women.”

            Odysseus’s eyes darted back to the king.  “Do you really think I do not see?”  He laughed.  “You do this because you value her life.  You value a woman as you should value a man.  Next you will argue against the slaughtering of pigs for food.  You are a fool, Odysseus.  A wise fool, but a fool all the same.”

*                                                                      *                                                          *

            Odysseus left the tent in disgust.  When would the others see that women were just as human as men?  That they had thoughts and dreams and feelings too?  Well, at least now he had something to talk to Helen about.  He went back to his tent and changed into his disguise.  Dressed as a shepherd, he went into the great city they were attempting to siege.  It was not working entirely too well though, if he was able to walk right in without fear of anyone stopping him.  He smiled to himself.  Not that they could stop him if they tried.  He was not just cunning, he was a good warrior as well, and between the two talents he could get past any guard.

*                                                                      *                                                          *

            Helen sat on the balcony outside of her room.  Paris was off at some war council so there was no chance of him interrupting.  She was waiting for her dearest friend – Odysseus.  He visited her at least once a week, and they had long and meaningful talks.  For the first time in her life, a man was listening to her opinion and treating her as if she mattered.  Not only that, but he was cute too.  Not that she loved him or wanted him, but it did not hurt to have a nice view during their conversations, and she knew he felt the same way.  While he may have been the most respectful man she had ever met, he was still a man, and thus he thoroughly enjoyed her beauty and grace.  Oh, how she wished Paris was so considerate.  He may have been the most gorgeous man she had ever laid eyes upon, but that did not excuse the fact that he saw her as property, to do with as he pleased whenever he pleased.  She loved Paris, but that did not mean she saw him as perfect.  She sighed and looked up at the clouds drifting along.  Oh, where was her Odysseus?

*                                                                      *                                                          *

            As he walked down the road, he could already see her golden hair glistening in the sunlight.  Her beautiful ivory skin, her radiant golden hair, her enchanting smile, everything about her down to her mellifluous voice was perfect.  Any man would love her, yet he did not.  He chose not to, for he loved his wife and child.  And, unlike other men around him, he saw the disrespect he would be doing to his family if he were to have her.  Besides, she was still Menelaus’s wife, even if he did want to kill her.  He reached her doorway and she turned to face him.  “What great deed have I done, that the gods reward me with your presence so?”

            “Ah, I am not so great a man.  I am just a man who can see past the flesh to the mind.”

            “Then let us see into each other’s minds and share our thought to pass the day.  What is on your mind, my friend, for I see the worry in your eyes.”

            “It is nothing for you to concern yourself with, for I have dealt with it, or so I hope.  But I do fear what might happen at the end of this war.”

            “Do not worry your mind with such things as you cannot control; rather, let the gods worry about the great things and you deal with the small.”

            “Ah, woman, again your insight astounds me beyond precedent.”

            She laughed, and tossed back her golden hair.  “Women will never cease to amaze men.  Men, unfortunately, ceased to amaze us long ago.”

            Odysseus chuckled at her jab.  “Ah, what wit.  Yet do I not amaze you, with what other men call foolishness and I call understanding?”

            “You do, and for that we wonder if you really are a man.”

            He bent over laughing.  “You are in quite the joking mood today.  What inspired this bout of mockery?”

            “The day, blame the day.  The beautiful weather, the drifting clouds.  All mocking us for they are free and we are not.  They are at peace and we at war.”

            “The way I see it, they do not mock, but rather call us to learn from them.  We just fail to do so.  Rather, we take our lessons from the birds.  We seek what we cannot find, and in turn find what we do not seek.  We are never at rest, always searching for something more.”

            “What do you mean by that?”

            “I simply mean that humans are restless creatures, always looking for something better, something more.  But we never find what we think we are looking for.  For example, Paris.  He took you looking for the perfect bride and happiness for eternity.  Yet now he is unhappy and terribly stressed.  We do, however, find things we never thought to look for.  On this trip, I thought I was looking for adventure, a military victory, and things of that sort. I never expected to find a friend, especially not behind enemy lines.  But alas, I have found it.”

            Helen pondered this a moment, but then said “Be that as it may, I have always looked for a friend of such wisdom and understanding.  You just came when I least expected it.  If the gods wish it, one can always find what they seek.”

            “Let us hope.”

*                                                                      *                                                          *

            Odysseus walked back to the tent, wishing he had more time with her.  However, neither one of them had an easy schedule, and thus their meetings were all too seldom and all too brief.  Menelaus was once again ranting about killing his traitorous wife, and Odysseus was just too tired to argue with him.  As he walked through the camp, he looked about him.  Everywhere he looked he saw displeasure.  Everyone seemed unhappy.  Whether it was due to the war and the tolls it had already taken, or for other reasons, Odysseus did not know.  But he wondered what kept them from happiness.

            He strode into his tent and sat down.  He could see through the flap the large black boats they had arrived in and he longed to sail home.  Unlike other men, he missed his family.  He wondered what his child looked like.  It had been nine years after all.  He strode over to his desk and began to write a letter home.  Although it would never get there, it helped to ease his pain.  As he began, there was a loud ruckus outside.  He ran out of the tent to see Achilles yelling at Agamemnon, who was carrying away a young girl.  “I will not fight!  You return her to me or I will not set foot on the battlefield again!  I love her!”

            Odysseus groaned.  Agamemnon’s pride was going to be the death of them all.  He was stealing Brisius because he was made to return his old slave girl.  There too had his pride cost them; many had died of that plague before he returned her to the Temple of Apollo.  Achilles stormed into his tent and then swiftly out again.  “You lay one finger on that girl and I swear, by Mount Olympus and its king, I will kill you!”

            Odysseus, as well as everyone there, knew this was no idle threat.  None of them could best Achilles in a fight, not even Menelaus.  Achilles was simply invincible.  But Agamemnon had his damn pride.

*                                                                      *                                                          *

            Odysseus anxiously awaited Helen’s arrival; it had been quite some time since their last meeting.  A lot had happened, and he had been extremely busy.  Suddenly, her head appeared on the horizon, followed by the rest of her.  Helen quickly strode over to Odysseus.  They were in a pasture, and Odysseus was lying in the grass.  “He wants to kill you, you know.”

            “It doesn’t matter.  All I want is to return home, see my parents, and see my child.”

            “I doubt he will even give you that opportunity.  He is enraged beyond anything I have ever seen before.”

            She smiled a very sly smile. “I have my ways of persuading people.”

            “Of that I have no doubt, but even the bull ignores the cow when he sees red.”

            “But I am so much more than a cow, and even the swine and the serpents stop and stare when I pass.  How much more then can a lustful man ignore me?”  Odysseus laughed.  “So how,” she continued, “are things going in the war?”

            “Well, Achilles returned to battle, and as you probably know, killed Hector.  But days later he was struck down, a feat none of us thought possible.  Then, when Ajax requested his armor but was denied, he killed himself, feeling disrespected.”

            “Paris also is dead.  I fear how many more will die before this war ends.  I entreated Priam to let me go, so that the war may end.  But he refused, and said I was to be married off to another of his sons.”

            “Menelaus will not be pleased.”

            “I know, but what can be done?  Unless this war ends soon, I fear many, many more will die.”

*                                                                      *                                                          *

            Odysseus slipped quietly out of the gates.  As he did so, he observed the guards inside the wall guarding the gate.  If he could but kill those guards, he could open the gates and let the rest of his men inside.  But he was far outnumbered, and fairly outmatched.  It would probably take a dozen or so fully armed men to do such a task.  Sneaking himself unarmed into the city was one thing, but a dozen armed men… he was struck with sudden inspiration.  He had found the way to end the war.

 

H o n o r

It’s found somewhere between dreams and reality.

By Jen Cray and Chelsea Rowan

 

            “Then we’ll attack at midnight,” Idomeneus concluded quietly, staring down at his hands as he idly opened and closed them, as if they were a door. “The Trojans are just as weary as we are. It’s been weeks since we’ve fought past sundown. Even if they’re just the slightest bit less watchful, it’ll be enough.”

            Menelaus nodded. “Sensible,”—Odysseus snorted. Menelaus was the last person to be deciding what was sensible and what wasn’t—“quick and simple. Our men will rejoice in an easy finish.”

            Odysseus raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I’m afraid I must dispute this course of action. Surely the Trojans aren’t imprudent enough to let their guard down with an entire army camping just outside their walls?”

Before Odysseus could continue, Agamemnon interrupted with a sharp, “Enough, Odysseus! First you refuse to come, feigning madness, and now you’re questioning our decisions? If we hesitate, we lose. We’ll lose everything.”

            Odysseus let out a bark of laughter. “Agamemnon, please, enough with the entertainment! If winning was as easy as simply storming into Troy at night, this war would have been over before it even started! This isn’t me hesitating, Agamemnon, this is me being reasonable.” 

            “Bravery is what wins a war, Odysseus,” Agamemnon replied gravely. “Not sensibility.”

            “You saw the eagle, Odysseus!” Diomedes cried suddenly, startling Odysseus. “The gods have sent good fortune to us!”

            “You see!” Agamemnon said, his tone obviously strained. “The gods have sent us a sign, Odysseus. We are to win this war!”

            Odysseus sighed as he tiredly rubbed his face. “An eagle that circles an enemy’s territory is no good omen.”

            Agamemnon cried out in frustration, but Menelaus kept him from losing his temper by intervening, “Odysseus, our men are tired. I am tired. I want to retrieve what is rightfully mine and return home. So please, Odysseus, stop complicating things.”

            So says the man responsible for us all being here, all for a pretty woman.

            When Odysseus didn’t reply, Agamemnon clapped his hands together and stood up, all traces of his previous anger gone. “So, that is that. Idomeneus, Diomedes—spread the word. And be discreet.”

            One by one everyone filed out of the tent till only Odysseus remained at the table. He leaned back in his chair and let out a long, tired sigh as he swiped a tired hand through his hair.

            “Odysseus,”

            Odysseus looked up, startled. Menelaus stood at the tent’s flap, lingering.

            “Fight with us, Odysseus. Even if your worries are accurate,”—even if we all end up dead—“at least you will die with honor, and not live with regret.”

            Menelaus turned and exited the tent.

            “Menelaus fights for his woman’s head,” Odysseus murmured to himself. “Paris steals with a god’s guidance. Where is the honor when all we’re doing is chasing our own greed?”

            He closed his eyes, praying to all the gods for his worries to just be worries and nothing more.

***

            Odysseus stood between Diomedes and Nestor, looking around anxiously. His previous feelings of foreboding had not receded like he had hoped. In fact, they seemed to increase as midnight creped closer and closer.

            Nestor peered at Odysseus curiously. “You seem anxious.”

            “And you’re not?”

            Nestor shrugged. “I’m old, Odysseus. I never expected myself to even make it this far. Our commander ordered us here, so here we shall be.”

            “Agamemnon—“

            Nestor shook his head. “No, Odysseus. It doesn’t matter if Agamemnon is making a mistake or not. What matters is that he is our commander and we must honor his orders.”

            Odysseus opened his mouth to retort but thought better of it. Nestor, however much it sometimes agitated Odysseus, was most usually right. And when he was wrong, it was usually from an unexpected turn in the wind.

            Darkness had long since fallen. Between the time of Idomeneus’ initial proposal and now, all soldiers and commanders had been mustered and aligned outside the Trojan walls. Idomeneus had also been right in interpreting that the Trojans were as tired as they were, and had indeed not left sentries posted on the walls. Agamemnon had rejoiced in this news; Odysseus had felt sickened by it. Hector was no longer green enough to forget sentries.

            “I wonder when—“

            But Nestor never got a chance to finish his sentence.

            Even in the dark, a shower of arrows could be seen flying across the Trojan wall. Men screamed out as they were run through, Nestor among them. Brushing away his momentary shock, Odysseus raised his shield, ducking behind it. Turning to his right, he saw that Idomeneus had also been shot.

            When the rain of arrows ceased, Odysseus lowered his shield and looked for Agamemnon. He was immediately relived to see him alive and still atop his chariot. Agamemnon turned and met Odysseus’ eyes. Even at such a distance, Odysseus could see the pure fear that filled the commander’s eyes.

            This fear only mounted as the Trojan gates creaked open.

            Odysseus’ worst fears were displayed when the gates finally opened wide. The entire Trojan army stood at the berth of the large gates, and went back into the city as far as Odysseus could see. For several heart-pounding seconds the two armies remained motionless. But then, a voice rang out, stark against the eerie silence.

            “We fight, men of Greece!” Agamemnon shouted, raising his sword in the air. “For our families, for ourselves. For honor!”

            Agamemnon let lose a battle cry before charging forward. Heart pounding in his chest, Odysseus pulled his sword for its sheath before running towards his fate.

            But the Trojans retreated. Agamemnon, along with Odysseus and the rest of their front lines, had only just entered Troy before their senses overrode the adrenaline that had sent them forward.

            With a sickening pounding, hundreds of boulders fell from the walls, crushing hundreds of soldiers. The Trojans fired more arrows, taking out even more Achaeans. The screams of crushed men were even louder than the falling boulders.

            Even Odysseus’ calculating mind couldn’t comprehend all the death that was erupting around him. A child’s toy horse and soldiers were crushed under soldier’s feet. Family’s homes were being burned to the ground as the Trojans added fire to their arrows.

            Keeping cover under his shield, Odysseus broke apart from the already crumbling formation. He dodged fallen men and stone boulders, not stopping his run till he was safe behind a building untouched by fire.

            He was only given enough time to catch his breath before two Trojans came into view. Sending a prayer up to any listening gods, Odysseus ran forward to meet the obviously seasoned soldiers. With a feral cry Odysseus raised his sword to parry the soldier’s blow. He immediately spun around, only to have to defend himself from the second soldier. Knowing he couldn’t go on fighting like that, he ducked the first soldier’s blow and swung at the second’s legs. With a cry the Trojan fell to the ground, grabbing at his legs. Odysseus barely paid him a glance before spinning back around and running through the remaining solider.

            Odysseus leaned against his sword, catching his breath. He looked up to see a half-carved horse on a stone wall. The picture was curious, as the horse was awkwardly large and appeared to have a platform under it. Odysseus shook his head and turned away.

            He took several calming breaths before standing straight, ready to rejoin the ongoing fray. He wasn’t going to hide out like a coward. He knew he was to die, and when he did, he would die with honor.

            He had only taken three steps when another figure rounded the corner. Odysseus relaxed, however, when he saw that it was Menelaus. The Spartan king was out of breath and had a long gash running down his left arm. Odysseus trotted towards him.

            “Odysseus,” he panted, leaning against his sword. “You were right. We shouldn’t have…we should have….”

            Odysseus placed a hand on Menelaus’ shoulder. “Don’t speak,” he told him. “You’ll need your breath.”

            Odysseus waited several seconds for Menelaus to regain evening breathing before saying, “It doesn’t matter who was right anymore, Menelaus. What matters now is that we fight as fiercely as we have since the beginning. Even if we lose, at least we’ll have our honor.”

            Menelaus nodded. “Look, Odysseus—“

            Odysseus shook his head. “No, Menelaus. There is nothing left to say.”

            Menelaus, now breathing normally, raised his sword. “Then let us go.”

            But as they returned out into the open, it was to a sea of Trojan soldiers.

***

            Odysseus jolted awake. Miniscule beads of sweat decorated his receding hair line in an ornate pattern. This was the doing of his all too realistic dream. His eyelids flickered open. The blurry vision slowly disappeared till he could see clearly. It was minutes before he fully comprehended his location and status.
            His tent was dimly lit; night was creeping over the clouds. The shadows dancing on the outside of it showed that soldiers were busy readying themselves for another battle. He remembered his disagreement with Agamemnon and now he knew they were walking into a sure death. Better to die with honor then not fight at all, he told himself, although his doubts were high and he was positive they would only all perish under the Trojan’s wrath.
            Sitting up in his chair, he wiped away the droplets of perspiration as he tried with desperation to recall what he saw in his sleep.
            What was his dream telling him?
            With despair, Odysseus slammed his tight fists against the arms of his chair. It was a mockery to him and his men to attack as they were planning on doing now. Values? Who need worry of values when death comes before you can even fight? Odysseus needed to speak with Agamemnon and he needed to speak with him now.
            Wearily, Odysseus stood, urging his tired limbs to move. He crept across the length of the tent until he reached the opening flap. Directly outside the opening stood a young warrior, barely older than twenty years of age. The young man looked at him with tired eyes. Odysseus felt little sympathy towards him. "Young man,” he stated with authority. "This is war. You must be ready at all times. Live up to your name and to the name of your family."
            The soldier nodded, looking almost exasperated as Odysseus felt. He turned to walk away, but Odysseus called him back. "Young soldier! I order you find Agamemnon, Nestor, and Menelaus and tell them to arrange themselves and all their commanders in my tent immediately." The soldier once again nodded and headed off into a crowd of horses and chariots. Odysseus turned back into his tent.
            It was not long before the team of commanders assembled before him in his tent. They all looked tired and weary, and obviously unwilling to participate in any games Odysseus might have up his sleeves. Odysseus smiled, however, quite pleased with himself.  "I have an alternative route for tonight's ambush."
            Agamemnon was shaking his head. Menelaus seemed to be ignoring Odysseus all together. Nestor was the only man who looked generally interested.
            "How about..." Odysseus hesitated, only now realizing that he didn’t have an idea where he was going.  His eyebrows knitted in thought as he desperately tried to recall his dream. The child’s wooden horse…the array of toy soldiers around it…the half-carved horse… Morpheus wasn’t playing games with him; the god was trying to save them all!

            The words blurted pass his lips, "A horse!"
            Just as he expected, the commanders’ faces instantly dropped. They looked at him with apathetic and miserable eyes. Odysseus knew he was disappointing his comrades. How could he sell this idea to those who thought he was only trying to get out of fighting, just like before? They continued to watch him, suspicion shinning in their eyes, and Odysseus had to be quick or he might loose his chance…and their lives.
            "As I was saying,” he continued, as if he had this idea all along. He turned his back to the small group, not wanting them to see his face as he hurriedly put together his plan. "We can attack in the dead of night, yet you do not take into consideration that we’re not the only ones scheming.”
            At this, Menelaus snorted. Odysseus whirled around to face him. He could tell Menelaus disagreed with his logic. Odysseus, however, had the advantage of knowing the gruesome outcome of their current plan.

            "Tell me, Menelaus, why we are at war again?" He questioned the man, feeling the anger rising in his voice until he was almost shaking.
            "To get my Helen back, of course!" Menelaus stood, his fist hitting the table with fury. Menelaus looked directly into Odysseus's eyes with pure venom.
            "They were smart enough to steal her away from you in the first place without your knowing!" Odysseus met his eyes with equal malignity. They stared at one another for some time before Menelaus buckled and lowered his gaze. He sat, fuming, with his arms folded over his chest. Odysseus felt almost defeated, but this was no time for shame. In fact, there was never room for shame.
            It was Agamemnon who stood next. He was not looking too happy himself. "Odysseus, this is nonsense. What of this horse? Either tell us now, or do not tell us at all." He stood proud, awaiting the next move from Odysseus. Odysseus, on the other hand, had already finished mapping out his strategy.
            "Very well. If you insist," Odysseus moved away from the table and towards to far side of the tent. When he stopped, he faced the commanders. They were watching him with wry eyes, maybe even sorrow for the madness they believed to overcome Odysseus. As he peered into each of their faces, he knew they wanted nothing more than to return home with the honor they all deserved. This pack of men would get just that.
            "No one man can receive honor for what he sees. He can, however, receive honor for what he gives. We are willing and proud. Are we fighters who attack whilst the enemy sleeps? No. Are we fighters who take on battle warrior to warrior? Yes. Our men, women, and children have wept for ten years from all this suffering. We need to end this war, and end it without losing three-fourths of our army. We need to shove our pride out of the way and succumb to the glory of winning with honor. We are Greeks, men, not coward Trojans who hide behind their walls.”
            A pause followed his long rant. Odysseus’ blazing eyes penetrated the thick air as he peered into each pair of eyes that were watching him. Nestor looked up at him with radiant eyes. This made Odysseus sure he would be allowed to activate his plan to take down the Trojans. Agamemnon sighed. He seemed to have taken all of Odysseus's words to heart, but still found no use for any type of 'horse.'
            "This horse..." Nestor spoke up, his voice sounded almost withered. Everyone in the meeting looked at him immediately, caring for what he had to say, "Could be a trap." He concluded with a small smile as he looked at Menelaus, who was glaring at him with envy and fire.
            Odysseus was bouncing on the balls of his feet, joy streaking across his face. "Exactly!" He exclaimed with bliss. "The stomach of this horse should be hollow, and this hollow stomach will house about twenty of our best soldiers. They will attack when it is least expected!"
            Agamemnon held up his hand as if to stop conversation, which it did. He drew all the eyes of the room onto him. "Please, explain to me, how would we get this horse inside the walls?" Heads nodded in agreement, and Nestor looked defeated, as if the idea had gotten his hopes up and they were now being let down.
            "You see,” Odysseus had not stopped his smiling. He had only become happier, in some respect. "We will ‘leave’ and the Trojans will believe us to be gone. We will also leave a gift to repay them for their loses. This gift is the horse."
            "What you are saying," Menelaus spoke up, now interested in what was going on. " is we drop off a large horse at the gates and the Trojans will just accept it as a gift?" He sounded as if this idea was worthless and a waste of his time.
            "I do not think it will work," Agamemnon said loudly.
            "And I must agree," Menelaus said, sitting back in his chair.
            "I believe it will work fantastically," Nestor said with complete authority. "This attacking at the middle of the night will do no good for any of you. If you want honor as much as I, you will agree with Odysseus and use his horse." The men looked skeptically at him, unsure with what they should do. They all had the highest respect for Nestor and to go against his orders would be ridiculous.
            Agamemnon frowned as he folded his hands together. He contemplated for some time as the men waited with haggard breath. It seemed like hours to them, but only a few mere seconds for Nestor and Odysseus. Finally he opened his mouth with his final verdict. "Nestor and Odysseus are right. The first plan will only bring us to a sure death. By using this horse, we will get the honor that is rightfully ours and we will have the right to leave for home.”
            Menelaus sighed deeply, but said nothing, as did the other men in the tent. They all raised and shook hands as if to seal the deal, then headed from the tent and back out into the night to explain the change of events to their men. Agamemnon said his goodbyes and ordered the nearest solider to prepare a horse large enough for twenty soldiers.
            Odysseus silently commended Nestor before turning his back to the older man and sighing contently.
                                       ***

            Odysseus felt the pressure of the moment. Standing just beyond the giant walls was his very invention. He looked up to the skies, a genuine shine of gratitude sparkling in his eyes. He had to give the gods gratitude for this one. Odysseus wanted to do now was go home.
            The man next to him moved slightly. Odysseus could tell that he was tense. He had to admit, he was feeling pretty tense himself. The air was stiff and silent. He could feel the nervousness in the air. Any minute now, the large group of solders would be filing out of the enormous horse to allow them entrance. Odysseus could feel his head swelling with excitement and fear.

            This excitement only mounted as the Trojan gates creaked open.

 

 

Thoughts of a True Hero:  The Journals of Hector

A story by Stephen Szyszkiewicz

 

I am Hector, crown Prince of Troy. I write my story so my story will go on, for I fear I will not go on much longer. This war has begun to take its toll on me. What war you ask? The war between glorious Troy and the rightfully angered Achaeans being fought outside our walls as we speak. Why this war? You will have to ask he who I am ashamed to call my brother, Paris. He brought that woman here, that beautiful, yet cursed woman. The fool kidnapped the queen of Sparta, the greatest military power of all of Greece! And to think, he didn’t even realize that all of Greece had taken a vow to protect her! So now, all of Troy is up in arms, and has been, for almost 10 years, because my brother refuses to give her back. 

“My Lord Hector! The battle goes ill! Priam demands that you take up arms and push the foe back, they are almost within knocking distance of the Scean Gates!” a messenger called.

“Haha! Tell my father I will rush to the front! Glory awaits!” I replied. I ran to gather up my men. “Men, awaken! Don your armor, sharpen your spears! Do so with all haste!  We ride to the Gates!” My men are among the best on all of Troy, well trained and armored.  As soon as we were suited up, we grabbed out spears, sheathed our swords, and picked up our shields. We ran to the gates, dodging carts in the marketplace. Never before had we felt such need.

We reached the gates, and the guard sounded his horn. The gates began to open, pulled by almost an entire herd of oxen. As it opened we saw a vast Greek force within a spears throw from the gates. When they saw the gates open, they mustered and charged. They drove the Trojans into the city, and were now fighting under the arch of the gates itself! Never before had the Greeks come this close. “Charge, fight them back, else Troy will burn to the ground!’ We surged forth.

I heard that whistle, that whistle that sounds death for most soldiers. Not me. I ducked, and an arrow shot straight through the horsehair plumed of my helmet. We were almost on them. I pointed my spear forward, raised my shield and plunged into the mass of Greeks. Chaos ensued. At this point I had to rely on my men to my left and right to make sure I did not get flanked.

“Fit arrows! Pull back! Aim! FIRE!” shouted some disembodied voice from atop the wall. I heard the twang of a thousand bowstrings, the whistle, and the sickening sound of arrows piercing armor. Hundreds of Achaeans heading to reinforce their allies at the gate fell. The remnants of their units fled. 

“Drive them back!” I shouted, as Trojan reinforcements began to arrive. Snap! My spear was broken on the shield of a Greek soldier! I bashed him with my shield as I drew my sword and cut him down. Before I knew it, we had pushed them outside the gates and were advancing farther across the plains.

Darkness was beginning to fall, and as it happened every night, the Greeks went back to their own camp, and we returned to Troy. As we returned, we saw the city’s engineers and architects bustling around the walls, patching up areas where the Greek catapults had punched holes and reinforcing the gates. Surgeons were riding about the field, tending to the wounded. As we approached the gates, the horn sounded and we marched in. The soldiers split into columns by their regiment and marched to their barracks. Most would spend the night repairing their armor and weapons and catching what sleep they could.

As I walked through the streets towards my home, I heard a horse coming up behind me. I turned, and saw that it was a messenger. “I bring word from Priam. You are to report to his home immediately.”

“Thank you; tell him I shall come, as soon as I remove my armor.” I replied.

“Sir, I do not think you will want to take it off just yet.”

“A raid?”

“I do not know for sure, but I heard talk of horses and swords and other instruments of war”

“Thank you. I shall return to my father’s house. You are dismissed.” I saluted him, and he saluted me as he rode back towards the stables.

I turned around and went towards Priam’s palace. I had to walk through the marketplace to get there. I always loved walking through the marketplace; it’s the heart of the city. There is almost nowhere you can go without passing through it. All of the streets converge in the center of it. All of the goods that we import and export pass through it. There are all types of people there, rich and poor, priests and heretics, royalty and slavery, men and women. As I walked through, I bought a small loaf of bread and ate it along the way. There’s no time to eat on the battlefield, so most soldiers only get 2 meals a day, but they make them count.

I finished climbing the seemingly endless stairs to the palace doors, and the sentries opened the doors. There sat Priam and his council of elders. “Hector! My dear son! Come, sit here.” He said as he gestured towards an empty seat. I sat down, and he began to speak.

“Too long have we allowed the Greeks to sit at our gates! Too long have we been defensive! We must strike back! Attack them before they walk our streets again!” The old man shouted himself into exhaustion and fell into his chair. Panting, he said “I have forgotten to tell you just how we will do it. You shall take an elite unit of soldiers on horseback into the Greek camp. Burn their tents, destroy the siege engines, but be sure to leave the ships untouched. If they want to leave, they can leave.”

“When do we depart?” I asked.

“Within the hour. The Greeks should be back at their camp by now and preparing to eat. Soon they will be retiring to their tents.” he replied. “Eutropius!” he shouted. A man walked into the room, removed his helmet and bowed to Priam. “Get your men ready. I believe you know my son, Hector? He will be leading you in this excursion.”

“My lord Hector!” he exclaimed as he bowed. “It will be an honor to fight under the command of the best soldier in all of Troy!”

“Thank you for your kindness. Get your men together and meet my men and I by the Gates within the hour.” I replied as I left. I ran to my soldier’s barracks and delivered the news. I went to the stables and mounted my horse. I rode to the armory, where I took a bow, some arrows, and an axe along with my sword. I also took some torches along with me. I rode to the gates and saw Eutropius and his men already waiting. Soon after, my men rode up the road.

We departed, and set off at a light trot across the battlefield. Eutropius and I began discussing tactics. The Greek camp was situated next to a stream which ran between the beach and a forest. We would send about 30 men through the forest, and the main force would loop around and cross the stream about 2 miles away from the camp. I was to go with the main force, and Eutropius would lead the diversion. When we heard Eutropius blow his horn, we were supposed to charge in from the Western side, coming right along the river.

We reached the forest just as the moon rose over the highest tower in Troy. As we separated, there were no formal goodbyes, just a nod would do. As we rode down the edge of the forest, we could hear the Greek commander, Agamemnon, reprimanding his men. I caught some of it. “Today we made it to the Scean gates. We made it into Troy. But we were driven back. Had we had the help of Achilles we would be torching the city as we speak.  Tomorrow we will defeat them, we will burn the city, we will… By this point I could not hear him anymore. I had my men cross through the forest. It was almost pitch black, and we led the horses on foot. We made it out, without losing anyone in the darkness. We remounted on the beach and rode until we could see the Greek campfires. They slowly began to extinguish, one by one. Any moment now…

“Men, fit arrows into your bows and prepare to light them. When we hear the horn we will charge, and while approaching the camp we will ignite our torches, and light our arrows. Burn the camp, but do not touch the boats on the beach. Destroy or at least put the siege engines out of commission.” I said. I could hear the men twanging the stings, and the horses restlessly kicking the sand about.

There it is! The horn! The assault is beginning! “CHARGE!” I shouted, and the men surged forth. We lit or arrows and let loose a deadly volley into the camp. Tent and huts alike were catching flame. We repeated the process as we approached. I ran out of arrows and drew my sword. And with that, we plunged into the hell that we had created. I rode through the camp, and saw Eutropius and his men riding towards the center of camp. I shouted “Head for the catapults! Take out the catapults!” His column shifted left and headed for the storage yards. As I rode through, a Greek managed to bash me with a pole, or long stick, and I was knocked off of my horse. I cut him down and rushed through the darkness, rallying any dismounted Trojans.

And then I saw him. A man, taller than the rest, in glorious armor which looked as if it had been made by the gods. The great Achilles. My men backed away and fled, leaving me to face him alone. He rushed me, thrusted with his spear, and missed. “I expected more from you, mighty Achilles.” I taunted as I slashed his spear in two with my sword. He pulled out his sword and came at me again. Once again I sidestepped him. However, this time I was not so lucky. He swung his shield at me and knocked my sword form my hands. He raised his sword to finish me, and I quickly pulled my axe from my belt and hurled it at him. A clean hit, it drove into his chest. I had slain Achilles, mightiest of the Greeks. But now there was no time to celebrate.

I relieved him of his sword and took his helmet as a trophy and dashed about, trying to find my horse. I found a horse, at this point it didn’t matter whose it was, mounted it, and sounded the retreat.

We rode out through the forest by way of the road the Greeks had made. We turned back and surveyed the damage. Quite a few Greek tents had burned down, most of the catapults had been destroyed or heavily damaged, and countless Greeks lay dead. We lost over 20 men in the raid, but whether they were dead or missing, I did not know. We galloped full speed to the city.

As we returned at dawn, I held up the helm of Achilles for all to see. The news spread through the city like a wildfire. I spent hours trying to find Eutropius, but as one of his men later told me, he was shot by a stray Greek arrow during the retreat.

The Greek assault never came that day. While most celebrated, I spent the day at home with my wife, Andromache and his son, Astyanax.

 

However, as we know, this is not the true end of the story. Hector never killed Achilles, he killed Patroclus, Achilles comrade who was wearing his armor. Hector stole Achilles armor and wore it into battle against Achilles, who exploited the only weakness; he thrust his spear through a small chink in the neck, killing Hector almost instantly.

 

 

The Man Behind the Warrior:  the Story of Patroclus

By Lauren Gebhard

          Many people do not know me for who I really am; they do not see my capabilities at all.   All they see is the surface, the best friend of Achilles.  Do not get me wrong, Achilles is a great friend; it is almost as if he is my other half.   Sometimes, when people hear the name, Patroclus, they automatically think, "Oh, he is the boy who is always with Achilles."  I am so much more than that, and sometimes, Achilles cannot even see it!   I just wish that he would let me stop living in his shadow and let me be…me. 

          Let me explain.  Achilles has been acting like a simpering woman because he is once again in a fight with Agamemnon.   It all started with Agamemnon taking that wretched slave girl away from Achilles.  What is her name again?  Oh yes, Briseis.  That girl has caused nothing but trouble for the army, and now, Achilles is too busy moping around, wishing that he had her back, instead of doing his duty.   It pains me to see him be in this state, but it also angers me because he will not let me comfort him in any way.  This feud has gone too far, and it is time to end it!

          I finally muster up the courage it takes to talk to Achilles.   I trudge over through the mass of tightly packed tents and come to what used to be Achilles and mine.  He made me leave because he wanted more room for Briseis, the nerve of him.   

          "Achilles!" I exclaim as I duck my head to go through the tiny doorway of his tent.   Then, my gaze falls onto him, and there, almost sobbing in the corner is my best friend, my companion, and "Greece's Greatest Fighter," Achilles.  "We must go.  We are about to attack Troy…again," I say softly whilst kneeling down to be at his height. 

          "Oh, I do not wish to fight!" he cries and turns away from me.

          "But, we need you; we cannot win without you.   Agamemnon is counting on us." 

          "He can rot in Hades for all I care!  Why should I go fight for him?" he scowls. 

          "Achilles, he is counting on us.  You are still not upset about that worthless slave girl, are you?" I ask slightly annoyed. 

          "Briseis is not 'a worthless slave girl!'" he yells.   Achilles stands up and turns to me, "You know nothing about her!  I thought you were different the rest of this pathetic excuse of an army!"

          "Achilles, listen to yourself!" I reply angrily.   "You are getting yourself worked up over a simple, unintelligent, WORTHLESS SLAVE GIRL!" 

          "I cannot believe what I am hearing!  You are my best friend, Patroclus!  I thought you would understand and have pity for me," he states, betrayal in his voice. 

          "How am I to pity you?  Look at what she has done to us.   All we do is fight and end up not speaking the next day!  Do you think that I can stand that?  And, you worship her like she is Zeus!" I say bitterly.  

          "You do not know her like I do, Patroclus.   She understands me, and I understand her.  I think I love her," he explains deep in thought. 

          "Then what does that make me, Achilles?  You made me leave the tent so she could stay here.  She is taking my place in your heart, and you know it!" I state firmly.   I cannot believe that this is what has become of my Achilles.  My dear friend giving up everything he has just for a slave girl. 

          "How can you say that?  You know no one will ever take your place.   It is I just have never felt like this for anyone before."

          I rub my temples in frustration, "She is faking it!   How would you act if someone kidnapped you and made you do whatever they wanted you to do?  How can you not see past this…infatuation?  Your country needs you; I need you!" I exclaim sadly. 

          "This is much more than what you believe it to be," Achilles replies coldly.   "I thought that you would understand me, but I was incorrect." 

          "Achilles, please do not hurt me like this.   I have known you all my life, and this is not the Achilles, my Achilles, that has been with me all these years.  What happened to that Achilles?" I ask.   I search for some hope in his eyes, just a tiny piece of my Achilles still within that soul. 

          "He went away and is never coming back," he replies flatly and turns away from me.   "Can you not understand what I am feeling?" 

          "Achilles," I say just above a whisper, putting my hand on his shoulder, "I will follow you anywhere, and you know that.   Though, you are making a huge mistake by not fighting.  There have been numerous women in our past, but in the end, it is Achilles and Patroclus.   I am sorry, my friend, but I cannot follow you this time.  I cannot be in your shadow anymore."

          "What do you mean?" he asks, removing my hand.   "Patroclus, how can you say that after everything we have been through?" 

           "You are letting your pride get the best of your senses, like always."

          "I cannot believe what I am hearing!  You want to fight for those petty kings you do not even know for your own self-esteem.  I thought you were better than that."

          I bite my lip.  I know I can never change Achilles' mind because of his stupid pride issues.   He can never get over the fact that someone besides him might be right for once.  I begin to choke back tears because I feel like he has pushed me too far and cannot take this constant bickering anymore.   He has always called me a woman, but I know I am so much more than he expects.   

          "You are wrong," I state bitterly. 

          "What did you say?" he asks turning back to me.  

          "I will not stay behind just so you can have your pride.   Greeks are dying because you cannot admit to yourself that you lost a worthless slave girl.  Get over it, Achilles!" I exclaim very annoyed. 

          "Why are you being so difficult?"

          My eyes roll towards the sky.  "I am the one that is being difficult?   I want you to fight; the Greeks need you so they can win!"  Achilles fumes with fury; I can tell I have gotten to him.  

          "Greece has won long before I was born, and they will win long after I am dead and burned!" he screams whilst throwing a sort of childish fit.

          "Achilles, stop it!  You are acting like a child who does not get what he wants!" He screams in frustration, and I can sense every ounce of scorn that he is throwing at me.  

          "No, Patroclus!  I will not surrender to that pathetic pig that some call a king, and if you were smart you would stay with me!" he yells right in my face.  

          What am I supposed to do?  Achilles is my best friend, my bother, and Greece is my home that I love.  I have always lived in the shadow of Achilles, and this is my chance to get away from it.  So what would any person do?   I take in a deep breath and brace myself for what I am about to say. 

          "I want to fight, but I do not wish to fail you.   There is only one way I can do that," I say nodding my head towards the corner of his tent. 

          Achilles follows my gaze but shakes his head.   "No, not in a million years will I let you have it.  That armor was given to me by my mother, and I have never let any other man wear it."

          The armor of Achilles is one that many soldiers would kill to have.   His mother, Thetis, goddess of the waves of the sea, had armor made by the gods for her son so he would always be safe. Achilles loves that armor more than life itself and would never give it up because it is that special and remarkable.   He would never even let me touch it in the past, let alone wear it. 

          "Please, I need it so I do not become injured.   I want to fight, but I want to return alive," I plead desperately. 

          "If you want to fight, then by all means go fight; though, I will never let you wear my armor," he growls at me bitterly because he is too selfish to even let the thought of lending it to me cross his mind.  "I cannot believe you would ask this of me."

          I huff in defeat, "Fine, Achilles, you win because I cannot see you ever changing your mind.   Be that as it may, you are still a soldier; if you refuse your duty to your people and your kings, then may the gods be with you.   As for me, I will do my duty because I know it is expected of me."  I stand there with pride, knowing that I have spoken the honest truth to Achilles, and how he takes it is up to him.

          He grunts and makes his way for the doorway, "You will learn, boy."   With that, he storms out in anger. 

          Once I make sure he is away, I come up with a very clever plan.   If I just take his armor, I can solve two problems.  One, I will get to fight for once without being in Achilles' shadow, and two, Agamemnon will think it is Achilles fighting.  They will no longer have this insignificant feud that is tearing the army to pieces.  So, I slip into the armor and venture towards the rest of the army.   No longer will I be "Patroclus, friend of Achilles" to anyone.    

                                                ___________

          Have you ever had that feeling that you are finally in control of everything?   You had just gotten something off your chest that had been there for so long and you finally have the feeling of being free.  At this very moment, that is exactly how I am feeling.  

          I lead the army to battle with the wind in my face and this new found adrenaline buzzing throughout me.   I feel unstoppable.  Maybe it is just my imagination, or maybe it is something to do with this armor.  I have never felt so invincible before.  I have always been the man behind the warrior, and now I am the warrior.   Though, that might have to do with the fact that everyone thinks I am Achilles.  Nevertheless, I feel simply wonderful.  We are coming up upon the Trojans, and the adrenaline takes full effect.  

          My pace quickens as I charge head on, slaughtering every soldier within my path.   They fear me as much as the real Achilles, but that may have to do with the fact that he has taught me everything he knows about fighting.  I feel so in control right now, I do not think Hector could even stop me.  

          Speaking of the weakling, I can see him coming towards me on his oh so noble horse.   He thinks he is so powerful, when in reality he is not.  Apparently, he is Troy's greatest fighter.  Yes, I will admit, he fights pretty well, but Achilles is ten times better than Hector.   I can tell he sees me because he immediately becomes more violent from determination to battle with me. 

          Within that moment, the carnage increases tenfold, with Hector and I killing every one of the enemies in our path to get to each other.   Every soldier I kill makes me want to pierce Hector's heart with my spear even more.  I am covered head to toe in blood and frankly, I really could not care less.   Only my slaughter of Hector matters. 

          Once a path is cleared for Hector and me, the tension of the battle is increased.   His horse charges towards me, and his sword slashes me in the arm. 

"Get off your steed, coward!" I scream with confidence.  His horse instantly turns around, and he jumps off it.
          Running towards me, he raises his sword, prepared to make a blow.  I dive to the side, and Hector misses.   For the most part, our fight is us swinging and missing, but that becomes very boring very quickly.  I know I am much more than this pathetic attempt to show off, and it is time to get down to business.   I take my sword and charge towards Hector head on.  I catch him off guard as I slash both legs.  He groans in pain but then retaliates.   Taking a dead soldier's knife, he attempts to drive it through my lower leg but misses.  Hector growls in anger and keeps trying.  

I laugh in his face and drive my sword through his arm.  "So this is Troy's greatest warrior, high and mighty Hector!"  I kick him in the stomach so he falls over.  "You are just an egotistical nothing like your brother!"   Wow, does this energy make me a completely different person!

He looks up at me disgusted, "You are nothing but a pig, vermin!"  I kick him in annoyance.  How dare he say that to me!  Who is winning this fight?  Oh, that is right, me!

I hover over him, my spear in hand, "This is how Troy will remember their great warrior!"

Just as I am about to make one fatal stab in his chest, I feel a throb in my leg that causes me to fall.   I hold my leg screaming with pain, and I can taste the blood coming from my mouth.  This was not an ordinary wound; this was fatal.   How could I not be thinking right?  Had I known he still had that knife, I would have cut his disgusting Trojan hand off.  A grin forms across his face as he clutches the spear that has once in my hands.  

          Many thoughts rush through my head, and the first was Achilles.   All that he taught me wasted in one battle because I did not listen to him.  Maybe he was right; I should have never gone to fight.  As Hector drives the spear through my heart, I see Achilles face in my mind.   I cannot fail him, not now, not ever. 

          "I want all to see the face of the dying Achilles!" Hector exclaims and pulls off my helmet.   When my face is revealed, he gasps.  "Who are you?"

          "Patroclus," I state hoarsely.  "You could never kill Achilles, you disgusting Trojan."

          As I make my last breath, one thing is true.   I could never be my own self, and I could never measure up to Achilles.  He may be my best friend, but he is truly the greatest warrior of all time.   As for me, I am Patroclus, the man behind the warrior. 

 

 

 

RUIN:  The Fall of Troy                   By Mike Fynan

 

The night seemed joyous enough; the Trojans inebriated themselves as they celebrated their victory over the Achaean army.  Only half a day earlier, a Greek named Sinon had approached the gates of Troy, and informed the king of Troy, Priam, that the Greeks had abandoned hope of winning the war, which had consumed ten years and countless lives.  And, as a trophy, Sinon had brought with him a wooden horse, a gift of victory to the Trojans.  Never one to hold back pride, Priam had proudly ordered his men to haul the horse into the city and had it set in front of the temple of Athena.

Now it sat there, looming ominously over the streets of Troy, which were mostly empty by now, for all were either asleep or inside rapidly consuming alcohol.  For the Trojan Horse, as many now called it, was indeed a symbol of doom and the end of Troy.  They just didn’t know it yet.

The time was perfect.  No one was ready now for any sort of attack, least of all a surprise attack beginning from within.  And yet, Athanasios marveled, Odysseus waited still.

Odysseus was, Athanasios had to admit, was a great man.  King of Ithaca, his outstanding performance on the battlefield had aided the Greeks greatly, almost as much as Achilles (the late Achilles, he noted with a pang) had.  And the man had a great personality.  He was just . . . so friendly.  He had boosted the morale of many Greeks when they had believed that they were at the low point of the war, and he was just a pleasure to discuss things with.  But the greatest weapon Odysseus had was his mind.  Athanasios marveled at how complicated the mind of Odysseus must be.  So many strategies, so many plans, so many victories had their genesis in the mind of this man.

The Trojan Horse was his greatest plan yet; Odysseus had concocted the scheme in which the Greeks sailed away from Troy, pretending to have given up.  But they had left behind the horse and a messenger, a supposed deserter, to give the foolish Trojans the false tidings of joy.  But, in reality, the horse contained twelve of Greece’s finest soldiers, waiting to climb out of the horse and unlock the gates for the remainder of the Greek army, which had probably by now crept back to Troy on foot.  With a ready and fit army against unprepared and shocked drunks, the odds seemed highly in Greece’s favor.  If only Odysseus would get them out of this wooden prison!

The atmosphere of the Trojan horse was not exactly ideal.  It was dark, with the only light that penetrated the gloom was the faint moonlight that trickled in through the small hole in the top of the horse.  Athanasios could barely make out the features of his tent mate, Epaphroditos, who sat right beside him.  And after hours of motionless sitting in the belly of the beast, the armor was beginning to get very uncomfortable, as well as Athanasios’s sitting position.  Sweat was accumulating beneath his armor and clothes he wore underneath.  All in all, the horse was very uncomfortable.  Athanasios briefly wondered if, when the story was told generations to come, they would mention the immense discomfort of those inside.  Probably not, he decided.

Suddenly, Odysseus, whose frame was illuminated by the moonlight he stood beside, stiffened his figure and seemed to listen attentively for some sign.  Athanasios strained his ears, but he could hear nothing.  Obviously, Odysseus did, or at least had had some other sign presented to him, invisible to the others, because he put his finger to his lips and bent down.

For a moment, Athanasios could not see him, but then he saw a large section of the bottom of the horse, a few cubits by a few cubits, fall partially out, held to the horse by a hinge.  Odysseus motioned to his men to follow him, and, one by one, they stealthily climbed out of the horse.

Athanasios was the last out, but he was no less eager than the rest to escape the wooden structure.  When he was out, he briefly glanced back up at the horse.  After a moment of study, he decided that it definitely looked fine.  Perhaps Agamemnon would take it back to Greece with him after the battle had been won.  It would definitely look splendid in front of a Greek temple, rather than in the midst of the Trojans.  But he was shaken out of his reverie with Odysseus’s quiet signal to move along, and Athanasios was soon slinking down the abandoned streets with the other eleven Greeks towards the gates of Troy.

It took about ten minutes of cautious moving, with frequent stops at so much as a wisp of wind that lasted for a few seconds, with Odysseus commanding silence and readiness, only to give the order to move on a minute later.  It was necessarily slow, but painstakingly slow nonetheless.  So Athanasios was filled with a mild sense of relief when they rounded the corner of the next street to find the gates in front of them, guarded only by two dozing sentries.  Odysseus signaled to two of their company to go around a side alley to dispose of the guards.  A minute later, the sentinels’ eyes widened as the Greeks leapt out of the shadows to the sides, but before they could react, their throats were silently slit and with them began the death of Troy.

When they slumped to the ground, Odysseus motioned to the company, and they charged the gates, which the two silent assassins had by then managed to begin to open.  By the time Odysseus reached the gates, they were open, and they let in a deluge of blood-thirsty Achaeans.

The results were exactly as desired.  Men, women, and children ran out of houses frightened, confused, angry, drunk, or a combination of these things.  And they were slaughtered, or at least subdued, each and every one.

Athanasios, seeing the fight had commenced, silently retreated to the side alleys, and hurried to the palace of Troy.  For he had a plan of his own.  The whole reason this war had begun was because Paris, a foolish prince of Troy, had arrived at Sparta on business, so he claimed, and had left with the lovely Helen of Troy, wife of Menelaus and queen of Sparta.  Menelaus now had one strict goal in this war: to find Helen and kill her for her disobedience.  But Odysseus believed that Menelaus’s thinking was in error.  If Helen was killed, not only would a fair beauty be lost, but it would invoke the wrath of Zeus.  Odysseus also believed in what women thought, but that reason did not count for Athanasios.  So what he would do now would be to go to the palace of Troy, find Helen, and return her to Greek lines, and hope that his part in saving her would give him some say in her future.  If she had one.

The sounds of fighting rang around Athanasios, but nothing or no one noticed him as he crept along the streets of Troy.  This was all in his advantage.  As these thoughts ran through his head, a door burst open in front of him, and Athanasios drew his sword expecting a quick and easy kill.  Instead, a large Trojan man clad in armor and armed to the teeth leapt out of the opening and let out a battle cry, which carried the message of death to the first person he laid eyes on.  Unfortunately, that person was Athanasios.

The Trojan drew a large barbed club, stepped forward, and swung at Athanasios.  The Greek soldier held his sword in a defensive posture, which blocked the blow and sliced the club in half, thus saving Athanasios’s life.  But his sword was knocked out of his hand, and before he could react, the ogre had lifted him by the helmet and hurled him across the street.

When Athanasios opened his eyes, he realized he had been unconscious for a few moments, and as he looked up, he saw the Trojan standing over his body, holding a spear poised to come down hard on Athanasios.  But before the brute could let his lethal weapon go, he took a few steps back, and Athanasios saw the arrow wedged between his helmet and body armor, directly in his neck.  Another arrow flew, and the warrior was dead.

Athanasios, scarcely believing his luck, glanced up and behind him to see Odysseus lowering his bow and hurrying over to Athanasios.

“Are you all right?” he inquired, but before Athanasios could so much as nod, wily Odysseus nodded and said, “Good.  You will accompany me to the palace.  Make haste, make haste!”  Seeing no other option, the young Greek leapt up to his feet and followed Odysseus towards the palace.

They arrived at the palace with no incidents.  When the pair approached the door, they saw it had been forced open, and the guards had been slain.  Someone had been there already.

“No,” Odysseus breathed, and he flew into the palace.  Athanasios followed on his heels, but as he entered, a group of archers from a side door shot at him and Odysseus.  “Take care of them!” Odysseus shouted to Athanasios before bolting up the stairs.

Frustrated that he was missing what was most likely the debate over Helen’s life, Athanasios charged the archers as they shot him.  But they were amateur soldiers who had just woken up, and Athanasios was a fine Greek soldier.  Within a minute, he had slain them all.  With a sigh of relief, he bounded up to join Odysseus.

There were no clear signs as to where Ithaca’s king had gone, but Athanasios could hear the sounds of a quarrel coming from a few rooms over, and he recognized the voices of Menelaus and Odysseus.  Eagerly he headed for that room, no doubt Helen’s chambers.

As he entered, the scene he beheld could not have been stranger.  Helen, whose beauty had not faded with ten years, stood with a bloody knife in her hand and a look of desperation in her fair eyes.  The body she stood over was not one Athanasios recognized, but his features revealed him to be a son of Priam.  Menelaus stood on the other side of the body, sword in hand and a look of murderous anger on his face, while Odysseus stood beside him, pleading with him.

“…was forced to do what she did!  Do not tell me that the spell of a goddess can be broken by a human, even one with the lineage of a god.  And now she has proven herself to you, by slaying the man Priam has tried to wed her to, and yet you insist on killing her?  Do you wish to incur the wrath of Zeus, who is her father by birth?”

“And do you, clever, wily Odysseus, expect me to believe the lies this chattel tells me?” Menelaus replied.  “Some people will say anything to escape death.  I know how you feel about women, my friend, but put those foolish things aside and see my way!”

“But your way is wrong!” Odysseus countered.  “You shall gain nothing by slaughtering her, and you will lose everything.”

“Including this.”  Now Helen spoke, and as all three pairs of eyes moved to behold her, she reached up to her shoulders and extracted the pins holding her dress up.  Athanasios had seen many wonders in his life, but the beauty of the daughter of a god could compare with nothing he had ever seen.  “It’s been a long ten years, Menelaus,” she continued.  “I’ve missed you.”

Both leaders of the Greek army smiled, and Athanasios briefly wondered if that desperate move by Helen had been planned by Odysseus prior to this night, during one of his many rumored visits to Helen in Troy, despite the siege.

But although Odysseus smiled out of happiness for a friend, Menelaus’s smile was different.  “I’ve missed you too,” he whispered to himself.  Then he turned to Odysseus and Athanasios and said, “Odysseus, secure the palace.  You, too, soldier.”

With a knowing nod, Odysseus smiled and left Menelaus and Helen to themselves, motioning for Athanasios to follow.  In that moment, Athanasios wished he were the king of Sparta.

Odysseus led Athanasios up more stairs, until it seemed they could go no further.  By then, a few more soldiers had joined them.  Odysseus stood by the lone door for a moment, and then kicked it open.  When Athanasios was in and had a clear view, he saw a woman (Andromache, he guessed) accompanied by a few maids.  And in Andromache’s arms was a child.  Scamandarius, or Astyanax, as he was known in the city, was the son of Hector and the future king of Troy.

Odysseus stepped forward and snatched the child from the poor woman’s arms.  She made a lunge for Odysseus, but Athanasios was by her side in a few bounds and held her tightly.  Odysseus looked into her eyes for a moment, and simply spoke the words, “I am so sorry,” and Athanasios thought he saw the man’s eyes water.  Perhaps he was thinking of his son in Ithaca (Telemachus, was it?).

But before Athanasios could see further into the king’s soul, he turned away from Andromache and proceeded to the window and held the child out of it by its ankles.  Andromache let out a shrill squeal, but Odysseus ignored her, and, after a few moments, let the child go.  Andromache tried to move towards the window, and Athanasios let her, more out of his desire to see than hers.

He was just in time to see the child hit the ground and splatter across the street.  Andromache let out a wail and fainted.  Athanasios looked at Odysseus, who was staring out at the horizon, over which the sun’s first light was beginning to creep.  How ironic, Athanasios thought.  The rise of the sun, the fall of Troy.

 

 

Our Gilded Cages      By Marcy Hannemann

 

He really did look magnificent. I always thought of him as some majestic wild animal, because in truth that was what he was. I never knew what he was going to do next and I think that that was why I was so entranced by him. That was all it was too; just entranced. I couldn’t stand it when the men around the camp would say something about the look in my eyes. “You’ve got love in your eyes girl. Don’t fall too hard. He’s out of reach.” I hated that. I hadn’t fallen; I was here against my own will. Despite this though, I really felt something around him. I couldn’t stand this attraction. I hated him.

“What are you thinking of?” His voice was like a loud rumble in my chest. I could’ve sworn hearing him talk made my heart nearly melt. I have no clue if this was because of the rage and disdain I felt towards him, or something else entirely.

“Why am I here?” I asked instead of answering his question. The truth still felt too precious to give to him. He was holding me captive after all.

His face dropped a little bit for a split second. “Briseis. . .” He let his voice trail off, a twinge of pain caught in the middle.

I wanted to reach out to him, to touch this indestructible monster, but I couldn’t. I was afraid of what that might mean to him, of what my compassion could lead to. So instead I sat with my hands in my lap, wondering about the storm that always seemed to be raging within him. I suppose everybody has a storm within them, though. Everybody has some hidden pain that can’t be let out. Everybody has secrets locked away somewhere, just waiting to be freed. The only thing is, you have to find the key first.

Where was his key? How could I get to it? How could I let out all of those secrets? Did I even want to let those skeletons out into the open, to wander around haunting people?

“Achilles! You’re needed,” a giant of a man shouted into our tent. I jumped at the sound of it, which made Achilles laugh. Oh, how I enjoyed his laugh.

“What an amusing creature you are,” he remarked as he patted my head and ducked out of the tent.

I laid down and stared out the small opening to the tent. I felt the sun stretching across my face, and I let my eyes close. I found myself growing to almost enjoy the hustle and bustle of the camp. Everywhere somebody was doing something, but people still had the time to stop and give me a kind word. Sometimes that’s the only thing that gets me through the day.

Although the tent was a rather large one, I still felt trapped. Achilles ordered me not to leave, and I was a little afraid of him, so I listened. My activities were certainly limited. To tell you the truth, I think this was the longest amount of time I’ve had alone with my own thoughts.  I was beginning to realize things about myself I never had before. Not that I could really name any of them, but they were there.

The warm sun on my face made me feel drowsy, even though I had slept enough for twelve other people already. The noise around me began to drift away and I was asleep in no time.

***

 “Birdie, birdie, birdie,” a familiar voice whispered close to my ear. This was my manner of waking up for however long I have been in this tent. It was the name Achilles had given me. He told me it was because I was like a beautiful caged bird. This was another endearing characteristic of Achilles’ that I wanted to dislike.

“This bird needs to stretch her wings,” I grumbled, flipping onto my back and looking up at him. He sat there on the sand, looking childish and wild. I found myself close to smiling, but I caught it before it crept out.

“No this bird needs to eat, since it doesn’t get up early enough to catch the worm,” he joked with me and handed over a wrapping of food which I did not bother to look at. My stomach was rumbling and I realized I had slept all the way through to the next morning. Now I understood the early bird comment.

“Maybe if I wasn’t cooped up so I would not have to sleep to take up my time!”

His smile went away. “It’s dangerous out there you know. I can’t keep my eye on you all the time.”

“You don’t need to watch over me. Worry about yourself.”

At this he smiled, and I was glad. “You know I don’t need to do that. I’m Achilles.”

“How could I have forgotten that? Invincible Achilles, unable to feel any pain. It must’ve slipped my mind. After all, I don’t think an animal like you would bother to feed the poor little bird.”

“I’m only doing this so that the bird will one day stop wanting to fly away.”

This time it was my turn to feel a wave of sadness. He wanted me to stay here with him. Always. “You can’t take flight away from a bird. It is always going to fly away.” I wanted him to understand this.

“Then maybe I can just teach her how to come back.”

***

A noise awoke me that night. At first I didn’t know where it was coming from. Then I realized it was a few feet away from me. It was Achilles, and he was sobbing. I didn’t know what to do. I was at a loss for words and actions. Not knowing what else to do, I crawled over to him and put my head on his shoulder. He made no recognition of my presence, he simply kept sobbing.

I began to wonder how untouchable he really was. How lonely was he? Was his title as such a great warrior finally getting to him? Then I thought maybe we all have our cages. Mine being this tent, and his being his name.

***

The next morning he was awake and moving around when I got up. I sat there and watched him move about the tent for a long time. Neither of us said anything. We seemed to have a silent understanding that what happened last night was better left unsaid.

I put my head back down and looked up. My thoughts began to drift.

“I’m sorry if you want to leave,” he said quietly to me. I sat up and looked at him. He looked so incredibly sad, sitting there with his legs crossed and his shoulders slumped. I said nothing to him. I truly did want to leave, but there was something that was keeping me here still.

“I’m sorry that I won’t let you leave this tent. It’s just that once you leave here, it’s all real. You’re no longer the woman I come back to at night. I feel like this whole thing would be broken.”

I was still silent. What could I say to that? What did he want to hear? “What would be broken, Achilles?”

“This. This whole entire thing. I’m afraid of this ending. I feel close to you Briseis and I don’t know why. You make me feel so at ease with myself. I want the both of us to stay here forever. In this cage of ours. My bird and I.”

Then it struck me. “Achilles, this tent is not the cage. You are.”

He looked up at me finally, and I couldn’t read his face. There were too many emotions there for me to pick apart.

“Agamemnon is trying to take you away from me, birdie.”

“What? Taking me away? To where? For what?”

“For himself. That is why you can’t leave this tent.”

I felt a swelling of emotions then. I felt a longing for this safe haven, for this tent and for my lazy days. I felt a sadness for these times I had spent alone with my thoughts and alone with Achilles. But most of all, I finally figured out what this fire in my heart was. It was love.

 

    Below are several of my favorite short stories created by my Honors English I classes, as part of our research and creative writing project on Pharoah Tut.ankh.amun and Ancient Egypt.  Enjoy reading them!

THE CURSE OF KING TUT

by Jamie Warren

     As I woke up to the smell of tea and muffins being prepared, the wave of heat overpowered me causing me to experience another drowsy wave. The heat of the Egyptian desert was immense and completely unbearable. As I struggled to get out of my bed, my arms shook with the weight of my still-half-asleep body underneath. After many attempts to pull myself out of bed, I finally succeeded with my feet planted firmly on the ground. I stumbled out into the kitchen where I saw my assistant and roommate making some breakfast.

            “Hello, Howard,” he mumbled as he poured himself a cup of tea.

            “Hello, Harry.” Harry Burton was a photographer loaned to me by New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art. He was a very nice man whom I had grown to enjoy the company of. “Where is Lord Carnarvon?” I asked looking around. Lord Carnarvon was another man who had helped me discover King Tutankhamun.

            “I’m not sure, he’s usually stirring around this time. Would you like me to check his room?” requested my eager assistant. I didn’t have to respond though, as he had already gotten up. After a moment or two went by, Harry walked out with a perplexed look on his face.

            “He’s not in there,” he stated. As I got up to search for my other partner, something caught the corner of my eye; a piece of paper near the doorway. I tore the paper down and began to read it. It was a memo from my dear friend Lord Carnarvon. It read:

 

                        Dear Howard and Harry,

I am deeply sorry for the sudden departure, however I’ve been feeling quite ill lately. I have gone home to my daughter, Lady Evelyn, in hope that she will take care of me and help to make me feel better. If I am well again soon, I will return. If I am not, then it was very nice to meet you, Howard Carter. Also, thank you, Harry Burton and Alan Gardiner. If it wasn’t for you men, the lost tomb of King Tutankhamun may still be concealed.

Sincerely,

            Lord Carnarvon.

 

            “Harry!” I shouted still reading the note. “Come over here! Lord Carnarvon left us a memo!” Mr. Burton came running over and took the note from my hand. His eyes grew larger and wider. After finishing the note, he looked up at me. I could tell by the expression from his face that something was wrong, but I couldn’t figure out what. After trying to decode my friend, I finally questioned him on what was the matter.

            “Don’t you see?” he was practically shouting. “Why do you think that Lord Carnarvon suddenly got ill?”

            “I don’t know,” I responded, not seeing the point of Mr. Burton’ s screeching.

            “Think about it, we’ve been out here for quite a while now, and a couple months after we discover the lost tomb of King Tutankhamun, Lord Carnarvon starts feeling ill. One thing led to another and now he’s too ill to even stay out here!” I continued to stare at my friend, still not understanding the point of what my partner was saying. Mr. Burton sighed and continued, this time more calmly. “Do you remember what that clay tablet said, the one you found in the Antechamber of King Tutankhamun’s tomb?”

            “Of course I do! The tablet read: ‘Death will slay with his wings whoever disturbs the peace of the pharaoh’. What is your point?” I inquired.

            “Again I ask, why do you think Lord Carnarvon suddenly ill? It must be the curse of the tomb! It’s already starting to take Lord Carnarvon’s health! We could be next!” shouted my panicky assistant.

            “Relax, Mr. Burton! You actually believe in that frivolous curse?” I asked.

            “I’m not sure…I…I just find it peculiar that after we disturb this tomb someone becomes suddenly ill! Maybe we shouldn’t have continued to disturb that tomb after we read that curse,” stuttered my anxious associate.

            “Are you mad?” I shouted flailing my arms in the air. “Are you trying to tell me that you are regretting uncovering the lost tomb of King Tutankhamun? We made history! Do you even realize how much historical knowledge we have uncovered?” I couldn’t believe what my partner was saying.

            “Hello? Is anyone there?” we heard a call come from the other room. As we both began to stroll into the living quarters, we could see our other associate already making his way into our house.

            “Good day Harry, Howard. Where’s Lord Carnarvon? Still sleeping? He’s wasting the day away!” our dear friend laughed at his own joke.

            “Hello Alan,” I responded. “Lord Carnarvon had been feeling under the weather, so he went home so his daughter can take care of him. If he feels better he will come back but if not he thanks all of us for all our help.”

            “Oh I see. What a shame that is, what a shame,” he said, shaking his head. “Well are you men ready to go?”

            “You don’t see it either?” blurted out Mr. Burton. “You both are oblivious! The curse, Lord getting sick suddenly, don’t you see? The curse is launching!”

            “Your crazy!” I howled. “How many times do I have to tell you the curse…”

            “How can you say that with a straight face?” interrupted my associate. “Even you said something was peculiar when you canary was eaten by the cobra. The cobra, the symbol of the ancient pharaohs, any connection?” he was shouting again.

            “I think you are both insane,” replied Alan calmly with a smirk. “Now, if you two are finished, there are people waiting for interviews.”

            “Again?” complained Mr. Burton.

            “What do you expect? We discovered a lost tomb!” exclaimed Alan Gardiner as he walked out to the dry desert atmosphere.

            As we walked across the sinking desert sand, news reporters, magazine writers, and archaeologists just trying to get a glance of the tomb swarmed us. Not that we were bothered by this cluster of people, by this time we were used to it. We had discovered the tomb of King Tut about two months ago, and people began to swarm us about six weeks ago. Different countries trying to get pictures, quotes, anything that would be interesting for the people who are curious about the tomb of the boy king. Photos were being taken of the entrance to the tomb with my comrades and myself. Because the tomb housed so much fabulous expenses, this discovery was an astounding moment in history.

            A couple weeks after Lord Carnarvon had left, something ghastly happened. Harry, Alan and I received a letter from Lady Evelyn Herbert, Lord Carnarvon’s daughter. It was a tragic letter that I will never forget. It simply stated that Lord Carnarvon was dead. He had gone home to his daughter, and a week and a half later she decided that he was too sick to just have a common cold or even a virus. She took him to a hospital in Cairo and he had died there. In the letter it also stated that many odd rumors had been floating about. One rumor had been that the moment that Lord Carnarvon had died, the lights in Cairo went out for five minutes. Yet another gossip was that Lord Carnarvon’s dog, in England, howled and dropped dead at two o’clock in the morning. The letter was not only distressing, it was also baffling. It was also another excuse for my collaborator to pester me about the curse.

            The moment after we read the letter Mr. Burton shot a look at me, just as I had expected. I waited for him to begin lecturing me, and just as I had planned, he did.

            “Do you believe it now? Do you? Not only did Lord Carnarvon die, but also all those eerie, disturbing events took place during that time. What do you say to that now? Is it still some silly rumor? Is it?” he was getting hysterical by now.

            “Harry calm down! Obviously the part about Lord Carnarvon dying wasn’t a rumor, but think about it. Lord Carnarvon was 57 years old, it’s not like he was very young! Many things could have happened to him. They don’t even know the cause of the death yet,” I explained, trying to calm down my nervous associate.

            “Okay well how to you explain the lights going out in Cairo when Lord Carnarvon died?” asked Harry, his eyes growing wider with fear.

            “You know as well as I do that Cairo is notorious for having its lights go out without warning,” I stated even though it was useless. “People are just making up silly excuses to believe in the curse!”

            “Okay but how do you explain Lord Carnarvon’s dog howling and then dropping dead at 2:00 _A.M.? What’s next, are you going to tell me that that happens all the time and people made this up also?” asked my partner, still unsure about my explanations.

            “You know how rumors are, how many of them can you truly believe? How do we know that this isn’t just a made up story to make the curse of King Tut seem real? Honestly this whole ‘curse’ thing seems like just a bunch of rumors gone wild,” I explained, only half believing my own explanation.

            Mr. Burton didn’t bother me much about the curse after that, but after these rumors sparked, I started to think about them more. Why was it that Lord Carnarvon had died so suddenly? Why was it that his dog dropped dead at two o’clock in the morning? The questions buzzed in my mind. Was there really a curse of the boy king, King Tutankhamun? If there was who would be affected by it? I was with Lord Carnarvon when we discovered the tomb. Would I be affected with it? More importantly, when would I be affected with the curse?

          

 

THE DEATH OF A KING THROUGH THE EYES OF AN ARTIST:  The Story of King Tut

by Francine Odri

            In the burning deserts, the only small comfort is the beautiful Nile River. It flows with a cool simplicity from the south of Egypt all the way to the north tip of the New Kingdom. The beautiful palace of Tutankhamun in Memphis stands tall, a bit far but not too distant from the life-giving Nile. From the highest point, one can see the river glimmer and sparkle as if calling “Come, relax, and enjoy my cool water. Take a break from the heat.” Hidden in the papyrus plants that stood tall around the river was a young man. He knelt next to the Nile and splashed the refreshing water on his burning face. Then, he went back to his work. Unlike the other workers in the kingdom, he was the palace artist and got to paint wherever he pleased, as long as he got his work done. His name was Khenti.

Khenti stared at the papyrus drawing he was working on of the Nile. He scowled at his pathetic attempt to portray the eastern morning sun shining on the river. The picture was meant to symbolize the beginning of life, but instead it showed the abilities of a beginner artist. Angrily, Khenti put the picture at the bottom of the pile of items he was carrying and started walking in the direction of the palace.

Khenti passed through the palace doorways and was immediately met with the sound of scurrying feet and bits of conversation, the sounds he had grown up with, the sounds of the Pharaoh’s palace. He walked down a busy hallway and spotted the Queen Ankhesenpamun, beautiful wife of the young pharaoh, King Tutankhamun. She was speaking with one of the head servants. He bowed his head in passing  her and turned to go into the room next to them where his supplies were stored. He couldn’t help overhearing the Queen’s conversation.

“His condition is getting worse everyday. I cannot help but worry about his health. What would happen to the Kingdom if he were to… die? I cannot bear it!” she slumped into a near chair as the servant fanned her face and called for help. As the servants fussed over the Queen, Khenti quietly slipped away down the nearest hallway. He knew the Queen was talking about Tutankhamun. The whole palace was worried about the boy-king’s health, which was steadily getting worse with a sickness that the palace healers could not identify. The King was charismatic, young, and loved by the entire kingdom, and we could not bear to lose him, especially since he had no heir to take the throne.

Khenti turned around a corner and was met with the two most intimidating men in the whole palace: the advisors of Tutankhamun, Ay and Horemheb. Khenti quietly gasped and hid himself behind one of the many statues of the gods. This one happened to be of the sky god, Horus.

“This is taking too long! I knew this plan would not work! The healers are growing suspicious,” shouted Horemheb, who was known to be ill tempered.

“Shhh. You don’t want others to hear,” whispered Ay as he cautiously glanced around the deserted hallway. “Don’t let your temper get a hold of you. It makes even the greatest men do rash things.”

“What in the world could these evil men be planning?” Khenti thought to himself.

“Here is my new plan,” Ay quietly said. “The small doses of poison you have been placing in the King’s food have made him weak. The palace is expecting his death. I think a quick blow to the head should do the trick. We would need to get him alone in his room, and then you could deliver his death. We have worked too hard for too long to have him destroy our plans of change for Egypt. His new ideas must be stopped. Then, we would have control over all of Egypt.” Khenti was terrified and could not contain the gasp that escaped his lips. This time, the two men heard him. Horemheb leaped behind the statue and pulled Khenti out. Horemheb held him tight around the neck and covered his mouth so that a scream could not pass Khenti’s lips.

“Listen to me, whoever you are!” Ay scream-whispered to Khenti’s face. “What you heard here is never to be mentioned to anyone! Do you hear me? No one can ever know this! You had better forget what you heard for your own good or you may find that there will be more than one murder in the palace!” Horemheb shoved Khenti to the ground and the two men left him there on the ground, gasping for breath with tears streaming down his face.

The eighteen-year-old King lay in his room in his palace. The quiet footsteps in the room had stopped, he was alone. Gathering his strength, he pulled himself up, gasping for breath. His shaking arm reached for the piece of papyrus. He had known for hours the truth, that he was being poisoned. It was the only explanation. One has a lot of time to think when one is in bed for days. He was going to die and he knew it. Someone was going to win and he was going to lose. Tutankhamun could feel the tombs in the Valley of the Kings getting closer with every breath. He needed to have someone he trusted take the throne. He took the papyrus and wrote in hieroglyphics that he King Tutankhamun, son of Akhenaten, Pharaoh of Egypt, et cetera decreed that his wife, Queen Ankhesenpamun would rule by herself. Tutankhamun pulled himself up to put the papyrus on the table by the doorway, where it could be seen and felt the sweat on his forehead. Suddenly, the door burst open and in came Horemheb carrying Tutankhamun’s huge metal shield. Horemheb raised the shield high above his head and quickly brought it down. As the light of the sunset crept into the room King Tutankhamun drew his last breath and collapsed to the floor in a pile of blood. Ay burst into the room and said with a smile, “The great King Tutankhamun is dead.”

In the following months Egypt prepared itself for Tutankhamun’s funeral. The undertakers set to work on his body and Khenti set to work on the paintings in his tomb. He made them as beautiful as he could. Ay had succeeded. He had married Ankhesenpamun and become the new pharaoh. Khenti’s heart could not take this pressure. The villain had won. He was living in Tutankhamun’s palace, eating his food; he was married to his wife! Khenti no longer cared for his life, but for the sake of Egypt. He could not stand and watch as a murderer ruled Egypt. He decided he would tell the Queen. She could do something.

At the end of the day Khenti abandoned his work and went quickly to the Queen’s chamber. She was seated while a servant brushed her hair.  Khenti bowed deeply to her and said breathlessly,

            “My Queen, I hate to disturb your Grace but I have something to tell--” Just then, Ay burst through the doorway. He smiled at Ankhesenpamun and said,

“Sister, let me take care of our guest.” He led Khenti by the arm out of the chamber and down the hallway to a room rarely visited. Ay emerged alone, and no one ever heard what the palace artist had to say.  Outside, only the flowing Nile waters held the burning secrets of the new king.

 

 

Deceiving Egypt:  Aye's Account of His Uprising,

                               Becoming Pharoah, and Death

by Jen Cray

 

            I’ve been watching him.

 

I doubt the boy knows, – Mudada, I believe his name was? – he is a very careless sort. Yes, he carries out his duties with efficient speed, but secrecy does not exist in his world. As chief-servant to a deceased pharaoh’s Queen, secrecy is vital. Assassins and rogues looking to steal the crown for their masters lurk everywhere in times like this. Ankhesanamun is in need of protection, and her servant is doing nothing to aid such protection. Why, someone as cunning as I might figure out Mudada’s pattern. And that I certainly did.

 

Approximately eleven days ago I witnessed Mudada delivering a letter written in Ankhesanamun’s hand. The Queen of Egypt is not to be writing letters after her King’s death, and even if she had a need to, she should enlist in a palace scribe to write her letter. And then the letter should be passed to me to read over it. Both of these things were not done.

 

Yesterday Mudada returned from his delivery with a letter in his hand. Today, in the brisk dawn morning, he is leaving Ankhesanamun’s chamber with a letter in his hand. And this time, I will not let him pass without question.

 

“Boy!”

 

He jumps and drops the letter. If it hadn’t been for my age, I would have run forward to grab it. Instead I only revealed myself from my hiding spot. Mudada hurriedly bends to pick up the letter, but once he does, it only hangs loosely in his pale hands.

 

His face pales instantly as he recognizes me. I gesture to the letter and he immediately hands it over. He goes to run, but I command him to stay. I slowly unroll the papyrus, the ink only barely dry. At first I simply scan the letter, but as certain words jump out at me, I read it word for word.

 

I have read the letter several times before finally handing it back to Mudada. He bows to me before running off. I hardly notice, for my entire body is numb.

 

Only one sentence – one fragment – registers to me. Ankhesanamun is searching for a prince to marry.

***

It took me several hours to come to this conclusion, but I soon find myself in Horemheb’s company, the contents of the letter spilling out of my mouth.

 

“Ankhesanamun knows I am looking to wed her, to properly gain the position of pharaoh,” I conclude. “She’s been in correspondence with the Hittite king, Suppiluliuma. She’s looking to marry one of his sons.”

 

For several long moments Horemheb is silent. “And why do you come to me with this?”

 

I regard him quietly before finally answering, “Because you are an important military official. You can – ah – dispose of Zannanza.”

 

“And your exact plan?”

 

“The Prince will be tragically and mysteriously killed on the Hittite border, in Syria. The King will be enraged! In his grief, he shall refuse Ankhesanamun a husband of his kin. Ankhesanamun will be out of resources, and in her own grief, she will be easily manipulated.”

 

            “Then what?” Horemheb demands, voice scratching. “Who will step forward to take Ankhesanamun as their bride?”

 

I wave a hand, as if to say details, details. He cannot know that I have prepared to go to any length to become pharaoh, even if it means disposing of Horemheb himself. So I airily reply, “I will, of course. Who better than our deceased pharaoh’s right-hand man?”

 

Something fleeting crosses Horemheb’s eyes; I try to catch it, but the general is quick to replace the curious emotion with a sadistic grin and hungry eyes. I shall worry about that later. I have more pressing matters at hand.

 

“When should I muster my men?”

 

I grin. It isn’t a matching grin to Horemheb’s blood-thirst, but an outbreak of relief. Horemheb is a powerful man; I would be foolish to make him an enemy. “The delegation leaves in the morrow. Leave when you feel suited to, but be at the border when they come.”

***

It has been three, long tedious days. Preparations for the boy king’s burial are almost complete, and I am weary from it all. No word has come from Syria yet. I do not know whether to be relieved or worried from the lack of news. I go with relief, for being worried will surely show, and certainly raise queries.

 

And then – as if the gods were listening – I hear someone call my name. Yet again I had found myself wandering the palace, as I have become far too restless. Turning, I find Horemheb hurrying towards me, and the triumphant look on his face is unmistakable.

 

“I have ridden ahead of my soldiers so I could bring you the tragic news,” he explains as he runs his hand through hair matted with sweat. “I left Jabari in command, so do not fret. He is trustworthy.”

 

“Come, dear man, what news do you bring?” I cannot wait any longer. I have waited several decades already. I have fulfilled my share of waiting.

 

“Prince Zannanza will no longer be a problem, nor will his father.” Horemheb grins as he says this, and I distantly wonder if he took the final blow to end Zannanza’s life.

 

I do not grin back. I do not show any signs of cheerfulness over this news. Expression is a foible, one I have shown on too many occasions recently. As pharaoh I can not to be susceptible to such follies. “And are you certain no one escaped? Certain that even a single scribe or handmaid didn’t escape from your men?”

 

Horemheb laughs. It is not a happy sound, but a mirthless echoing through the corridors. He does not realize that Zannanza’s kill would be the last he shall make as general, I think mutinously, almost unnerved by his laughing. Nakhtmin will make a much more suitable military official. I conveniently ignore how Tey will feel about such a promotion for her son.

 

“No one escaped us, dear Aye.” He finally answers. “Every last one of them, dead.”

 

I nod. “Very good. Report back to your quarters and stay the night there – in utter silence. Ready an excuse for your men’s absence. While the Hittites will blame us for Zannanza’s death, we cannot have our own people accusing us.”

 

And there it is again, that curious expression. This time it isn’t fleeting – it remains, a lingering shadow in his dark eyes. Yet I cannot pinpoint its exact meaning, for neither is it rage nor jealously. Though perhaps both? Yes, I will need to dispose of Horemheb as general.

 

He shakes his head, as if clearing water from his ears, before finally nodding. The expression, however, remains. “That I shall do.”

 

And without another glance, he turns back in the direction he has come. Slowly the reality of his news rises inside before I’m fighting the urge to grin. I have already taken the necessary measures needed to become pharaoh. All that’s standing in my way now is one person – Ankesanmen.

***

I empty the entire flask into the cup. I run my finger along the clay as I watch the poison swirl and sink before finally blending in with the dark red of the wine. I hold murder in my hand, and this realization causes the moment before Tut’s death to come swimming back to me. The fear, the anxiety…the overwhelming desire to just do it. I balked then, but I won’t now. Tut’s murder was sloppy; people knew it was murder. Ankhesanamun’s death cannot look like murder, or eyes will turn on me.

 

I tuck the empty flask behind my knife in its sheath. I don’t know why, but the feel of the empty bottle on my thigh is what propels me into the next room, to where Ankhesanamun waits, unbeknownst to her fate’s calling.

 

“Your wine.”

 

She takes it from me without even a glance. There’s a map laid out before her that she’s staring at intently. Bending forward slightly, I take a better look at it and find it to be a map of Syria.

 

“Where is Horemheb?”

 

The question startles me. I recover quickly however and answer, “Horemheb is preparing to leave. He has been demoted.”

 

She takes a drink of her wine as she listens, and when I tell her he’s been demoted, the liquid barely makes it down her throat. “Demoted? What has Horemheb done to be demoted?”

 

“He has done nothing, my Queen. It’s only time for change.”

 

She opens her mouth to retort but thinks better of it. She often forgets that I am no longer her servant, but her pharaoh and husband. It is now I notice a slight pallor growing on her cheeks, spreading until even she can feel the effects.

 

“What have you done to me?” she demands, and I can see that she’s already fighting to stay awake, fighting the urge to just slip away.

 

“You’ve been too much of a hindrance these last several months,” I tell her. I kneel before her and rest my chin on my hand, observing her.

 

“I am the rightful Queen!” she cries, but her voice is feeble, weak. The flask presses harder against my thigh. “You killed Tutankhamen. You don’t deserve the title you hold. You are no god in my eyes.”

 

Her words have no effect on me. “My dear Ankesanmen, do you see now why this must be done? You know too much. You will not get in the way of my ruling. I’ve waited far too long for this, and you will not hinder me any longer.”

 

“Will you kill Horemheb as well?” she asks me in a whisper. A hand clenches at my heart as her words finally have meaning. How does she know of Horemeb’s role? “He will kill you. Demoting him won’t do anything.”

 

Her eyes flutter before they finally close. Her breath evens out before disappearing completely. Ankesanmen is dead. The Queen is dead and I feel not even a touch of remorse.

 

Egypt is mine.

***

It has been five years since I have become pharaoh, and five years since Ankesanmen has been dead. Add two months and you have Tutankhamen’s death. But the boy king no longer exists in Egypt. He is only a memory, a whisper of a ruler. His name and face removed from all monuments and shrines, he has been eradicated from our history. Even dear Ankhesanamun did not receive a proper burial. It had always been my intention to give her the right passage into the afterlife, but that could not be done to a ‘traitor of Egypt.’

           

My life was complete – all I had left to do was actually rule Egypt. Apparently the gods had different plans for me, because as my last servant left my room, another man entered: Horemheb.

 

He was wearing that expression again, only this time it shinned so brightly on his face that it sent the chills don’t my back and my neck prickled. Ankhesanamun’s words come rushing back…demoting him won’t do anything…

 

I find myself utterly defenseless. I look hurriedly look around for anything I can use for protection, but nothing catches my eye. Horemheb grins.

 

“You were nothing but a pawn to Tutankhamen,” I taunt him, using the only card I have at my disposal. “He needed protection, and who better to protect than a madman who could wield a sword?”

 

His tanned face flushes. His knuckles turn white as he clenches them, and I know he is resisting the urge to grab his dagger. I know he did not come here to commit murder on the pharaoh, but after everything that has passed between us these last five years I know he wouldn’t regret killing me. I turn away from him to where several maps are laid out on my desk.

 

I hear the scraping sound of a dagger being drawn across wood. I close my eyes and tilt my head up. Oddly, I feel no fear, only a need for absolution, for a forgiveness I do not deserve.

 

“I will become pharaoh.” He tells me, and in all the good humor I have left, I laugh. I can hear him seething behind me, glaring through his menacing eyes. “And you shall be dead.”

 

Tutankhamen – murdered. Ankhesanamun – murdered.

 

In a moment’s time, I will bear the same title, and at that time, we will become equals. Killed by a power-hungry tyrant when all we wanted was to bring glory to Egypt – and glory to ourselves. Tutankhamen will no longer be the boy king mysteriously killed; Ankhesanamun will no longer be the royal traitor; and I will no longer be that old man who eradicated Tutankhamen’s very existence. Together we will be victims of greed, and nothing else will matter.

 

I hear Horemheb step forward; hear the upward swing of his blade. His bloodshed was never in sin until I commanded him to murder Zannanza, when I roped him into my intricate design. Tutankhamen gave me my start when he promoted me; I gave Horemheb his when I sent him to Syria. We’ve created our own murderers, Tut and I have, and no matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t put a rift in the design’s ripple.

 

The rustic smell of steal and blood assaults my senses before I’m drowning in a black pool. The pain fades, and my head clears – if absolution comes, it will be here that we shall meet.

                                                                                                        The End

 

 

Pharoah Tutankhamun:  King Tut's Final Days

                                          as Told by the Unknown Accomplice to the Murder

Recorded by Catherine Buck

 

 

Prologue

“Egypt. Land of intrigue, mystery and unexpected adventures. Yeah, okay. This is such mysterious sand.” With a groan, you plop your weary body down onto a sand dune and wipe the sweat from your forehead, while taking a large quaff of water from a quickly emptying canteen. A few weeks ago you’d left home for a hard earned vacation to Egypt and the Valley of the Kings with dreams of mummies, treasure and yet to be discovered tombs. The most adventurous thing you’d gone through so far was being separated from your tour group, which wasn’t all that upsetting, considering the company. Feeling terribly sorry for yourself, you run your hand through the ancient sand. As it strikes something hard, you jump up and shift eagerly through the sand. Could it be treasure, an entrance to a lost tomb? Your heart races, then sinks upon realizing it is merely a discarded tablet filled with undecipherable symbols. You squint at them, in the hopes of making it magically make sense…

 

                1

My name is Sokkwi, and I murdered Pharaoh Tutankhamun. This is how it came about. I am an assistant to Djadao, head cook to the pharaoh. One afternoon, we were preparing for yet another feast, and it turned out that there had been a miscommunication between the cooks and the hunters, and we were short several geese. As always, I was left with the odd job.

                “Sokkwi!” barked Djadao, his stomach wobbling up and down. “Go out to the marsh and get five more fat geese. That idiotic Rami never gets enough birds. You’d think he was scared of them or something. I’ve got more than enough beef and two times as much fish as I need, but barely any geese.” Grunting out a beer-smelling laugh, he pointed a stubby finger out the stone doorway. I obediently shuffled out with only an “I’ll see what I can do.” Walking out, Djadao’s pretty daughter Amisi gave me a sympathetic smile. Elated, I left without any sort of misgivings about the expedition. Looking back, I realize that perhaps I should have been more cautious.

 

                 2

As I trudged out to the marsh armed with my trusty bow and arrow, I noticed that there was some sort of commotion afoot; several startled ducks noisily took to the air. In any other part of the marsh, this would have been understandable because of the amount of peasants out hunting food for their family, but this was my special spot, unknown to all prying eyes. Or so I had thought. Disturbed by the intruder to my marsh, I peeked through the long reeds, trying to make out who it was. He was an older man, that much was evident, but appeared in fairly good physical condition for his age. He must have been rich, for he was dressed in finely woven linen and glistening jewelry. As I cautiously observed this potential threat to my special hunting ground, he turned and fired an arrow in my direction. Startled, I leapt up, only to find a duck impaled neatly by my side.  The man looked at me, visibly confused, and asked, “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

                “I am Sokkwi,” I replied, then, rather proudly continued, “Assistant cook to the Pharaoh Tutankhamun.”

                His eyes narrowed slightly. “Is that so? Impressive. I wonder…no, no.” He looked me up and down, pensive. “Would you- no, it would be too dangerous. And yet…”

                “What is it?” I asked, interested.

                “Well, you see…” he paused, then seemed to finally make up his mind. “I have had the privilege of speaking to the Pharaoh, upon occasion, and…” My eyes widened in respect. He smiled appreciatively. “Yes, and it has come to my attention that a certain ingredient that I am fond of using is missing from the menu for tomorrow’s feast. In fact, if you were to place it in the pharaoh’s food for me, I am sure it would change his whole outlook on life. Why, I would see to it personally that you would be greatly rewarded.”

                “What sort of ingredient?” I asked, hesitantly. If Djadao caught me messing with the food it would be very bad. Then again, might it be worth the risk? Who knows what sort of rewards this man could give?

                “It is made from the leaves of a plant, it is not uncommon. I would advise you to ask Saini if he could prepare some for you. It shouldn’t take long, and would be effective immediately. Yes, what a wonderful idea. What an intelligent child!” He smiled at me in a fatherly way, and although flattered, I couldn’t quite remember what I was being praised for. “Good. Now, I’m counting on you. Don’t let me down!” With these parting words, he picked up his duck and strolled away, leaving me quite bewildered in the marsh.

 

3

Catching myself, I decided to catch a few geese quickly, then go and get this special ingredient as fast as possible, so Djadao wouldn’t become suspicious. I doubted he would have done differently if approached in the same way, but nevertheless, it was unlikely that he would let me add something to his precious culinary creation. As I headed towards the shop of Saini, a physician, deep in thought, I bumped into a huge, well-built man of middle age.

 “What do you think you are doing?” He exclaimed. “Do you know who I am?” Petrified, I shook my head. “I am Horemheb, commander-in-chief of the royal military! Who are you to almost knock over the head of the royal military?” he glared at me commandingly, waiting for a reply.

“No-no one sir. I am no one.”

“That is right. You are no one, and I am someone. Someone important who will soon become someone very important. Stay out of my business.”

With a swift nod so as not to appear disrespectful, I quickly entered a large stone building, shading my eyes from the hot Egyptian sun. It was alive with the hustle and bustle of preparing some departed official for the afterlife. They were rather far along in the mummification process, I gathered, as several canopic jars were already filled with dried organs, presumably the liver and intestines. My eyes scanned the unfamiliar faces of the embalmers bustling about, anxiously searching for Saini. I did not see him, and was now becoming frantic. I could not be gone much longer. A table away from the embalmers caught my eye. Hastily walking over, I searched through the herbs for one that resembled what the man in the marsh had described. Finally, I found it- long and thin with white flowers. Its stem was rather peculiar, with red markings. Frowning, I glanced around to make sure I wasn’t being watched, and stuffed a small amount into my bag. Edging out, one of the top embalmers caught my eye and realized something was wrong. With a shout, he started towards me. I fled, soon losing the breathless priest.

 

4

Guiltily, I snuck back into the kitchens. It was well alive with the rich smells of rosemary and thyme, with the aromatic sizzling of the fish, with the chatter of many workers preparing for the celebratory meal. Clutching my geese, which were beginning to have an unpleasant smell about them, I looked furtively around for Djadao. The likeliness that he hadn’t noticed how long I was gone was extremely slim…

“Sokkwi!” came the loud guttural roar. Djadao ran towards me as fast as his lumbering legs could carry him. “Where are those geese, you little fool? How long has it been since I sent you out? Too long! The rest of the meat is nearly cooked and done- I’ve even got a whole leg of ox ready to eat, but the goose isn’t anywhere to be seen! Do you have any idea how much trouble I would be in if you forgot one of Pharaoh Tutankhamun’s favorite dishes, not to mention my embarrassment-”

“Here are the geese,” I said, cutting his tirade short.

He eagerly snatched them out of my hands. “Good. I don’t have time for this. I’ll deal with you later, but now go make yourself useful.”

I slunk over to the part of the kitchens farthest from Djadao, my pride smarting. I contented myself with decapitating a few garlic heads and watching Amisi methodically knead the bread dough. The breads of Djadao’s kitchen were his pride and joy: flavored with honey, sesame, and cinnamon; shaped into elaborate designs. On one occasion he had even overseen the preparation of a crocodile shaped cake. As I finished my garlic and scraped it into the dish of lamb, I overheard other assistants chatting about the days events, in hushed whispers, attempting not to attract the attention of the head cook.

“This whole day has been stress. First I’m slicing pomegranates, then dates, now lentils? We really need more help around here.”

“I can’t complain. This is one of the better positions to get- better than farming out in the fields.”

“That’s easy for you to say- you’ve been making beer all day. And doing more than making it, from what I’ve seen.”

The other winked back at him. “But who can tell? I love feasts.”

Slowly but steadily all the parts of the meal began to fall together. The rich aroma of the dishes wafted towards my nostrils. I took a deep breath, taking it all in. As demanding as it might be, I love my life here. Here in the kitchens I was in my element.

But my tranquility was to be short lived- soon the rich guests and entertainers would be arriving, and we still had much to do. All the food was cooked, but a huge part of preparation was presentation. I took it upon myself to arrange the olives and chickpeas in an elaborate circle. Satisfied, I positioned myself as inconspicuously close to the wine for the banquet as possible, figuring it would be the easiest way to ensure only Pharaoh Tutankhamun would receive the plant’s…effects, whatever they might be. The man from the marsh had said it would ‘change his whole outlook on life.’ But surely, it would be all right, no one would wish to harm the Pharaoh Tutankhamun in any way. My conscience twanged irritably, but I pushed the doubts out of my mind. I was to be ‘richly rewarded’, after all.

 

5

The next few hours were a blur, and, looking back, it is difficult to remember with utmost accuracy all the details of the banquet.  The actual placement of the plant into the wine went much smoother than I had anticipated. I don’t think that anyone noticed, and I took great care that Djadao didn’t.

Although most of the banquet is still hard to bring to mind, one event comes to me now as if it happened mere moments ago, and I have no doubts that it will remain forever emblazoned into my memory. As I gave a slave boy the bowl of wine with the instructions that it was for the pharaoh and the pharaoh alone, I saw him. Pharaoh Tutankhamun walked along, greeting guests with cones of perfumed wax on their heads, as his wife Ankhesenamun gave them each a lotus bloom of welcome. It was with a shock that I realized how young the Pharaoh Tutankhamun and his wife were, barely any older than I. And yet they seemed so sure, so confident. Dressed in all their royal finery, it was easy to picture them as gods.

And then, in the most painful memory of my life, Pharaoh Tutankhamun turned, for no apparent reason, and our eyes locked. A chill ran down my spine. This was truly the living image of Amun, and he saw into my soul. My heart pounded, and my conscience screamed angry curses at brain. I had to get that bowl of wine back. Looking wildly around for the server, I spotted him finally: handing it to the Pharaoh. I opened my mouth to shout out a warning, but no noise came out. Pharaoh Tutankhamun took the bowl, and raised it to his lips. I turned away, and reentered the kitchens, my heart heavy.

 

6

The rest of the evening passed right on schedule, virtually uneventful save the dropping of a large platter of cinnamon rolls by Akoalu, a young assistant. The musicians played their harps and drums, the dancers twisted and turned, and I watched the pharaoh silently, waiting for his outlook on life to change. At the end of the banquet, I went to sleep satisfied that hr was fine and there must have been a mistake. But deep down there was doubt.

The next morning came rapidly, and it seemed like I had barely shut my eyes when the bright sunlight flooded into the room. I got up, dressed in my loincloth and went out into the kitchens to being preparing the morning meal. I was usually one of the few up at this hour, and was quite surprised to see many worried looking people crowded around in the kitchens, whispering amongst themselves. Djadao was not present. My heart rate sped up: something was very wrong. No one was ever to be in the kitchens when Djadao was not present. He would throw a fit if he knew we were all congregating in here without him.

Rami noticed me standing there looking lost, and walked over. He opened his mouth and closed it, looking very much like a fish gasping for breath on the bank of the Nile. He tried again. “The Pharaoh Tutankhamun has gone to meet Osiris.” I flinched. Dead? But Pharaoh Tutankhamun was so young…so full of life. Just last night he had been greeting guests. I turned to go try to find Djadao. Doubtless, he was stressed over the up and coming funerary feast. Rami grabbed my shoulder. He wasn’t finished. “And they think Djadao sent him there.”

I stopped. “What? Who does?”

“Mainly Aye. Also the doctor, Saini. Apparently they found…” he paused, looking over at the figure of Amisi, Djadao’s daughter, huddled in a corner, shuddering. I left Rami and never heard what he had to say. Crouching down next to the girl, I muttered what I thought were comforting words. Suddenly she raised her head and shot me a look of pure venom, then silently got up and strode out of sight. I stared after her, dumbstruck. Gone was the sweet girl who had smiled at me the day before. It would seem that she had inherited some of her father’s personality, after all.

 

7

Days flew by and eventually Djadao was released because they needed someone to prepare the funerary feast, and he was the best they had. It was a long, extensive job, albeit not too stressful, since we had quite a while waiting for the embalmers to finish purifying and drying the body. I had been hoping that soon everything would return back to normal, or at least as normal as it could have been without the Pharaoh Tutankhamun, but Djadao seemed changed from his ordeal. He had taken to smuggling more and more of the wine intended for others into his private chamber. He had always done this upon occasion, but it was becoming more and more frequent. I noticed it most on the afternoon before the burial, as I was coming to inform him of several new food items that were to be buried with the Pharaoh Tutankhamun.

“Djadao? I’ve got two jars of honey here. Some juniper berries and coriander as well. Where would you like me to put them?”

He glanced up at me, frowning. “Over there with all the rest.” I walked over and placed the funerary gifts by a large pile of barley, sesame, duck, and a basket of almonds.

Djadao gave me a nod of approval. “You wouldn’t believe how much wine we’ve been getting. Kid’s gonna enjoy ‘imself in the afterlife, that’s for sure. Sweet wine…the best pomegranate wine I’ve ever laid eyes on…loads of the stuff. No beer, though, just the ingredients. Hope he figures out how to make it. Bah, what do I care? Now it’s Aye I’ve gotta care for…dumb old man.”

                I frowned. He had had too much wine or beer himself. “Aye? But surely Ankhesenamun wouldn’t…”

                He waved his hand wildly. “You think he’s gonna let a female rule? Mess up the whole system again. Mark my words, Aye’s gonna find some way to get up there. My, wouldn’t he like to be a god. Wouldn’t we all?” then he went off into a slurred song praising the gods.

                A thought entered my mind, a devious evil little idea. It seemed impossible, and yet… “Djadao,” I said, “What is Aye like?”

                “The vizier?” he scratched his head. “He’s old, tall…dunno much about him. Hunts the best birds out of my marshes, but who am I to complain? I never trusted him much…sneaky looking.”

                My heart plummeted with horrified realization. I had been used. Something of my dismay must have shown on my face, for Djadao looked worried. Not concerned on my behalf, but uneasy that I might get sick on him. “What’s this? You been eating too much? Don’t go eating up the funerary feast, now.”

                I shook my head. “No…I’m just tired. I think I’m going out for a little bit.”

                He shrugged. “Don’t concern me. Just leave the jug.”

 

                8

I fled. I ran and ran, in a vain attempt to pass my conscience along the way. I was a murderer. Dead. I had killed my lord and my king, the Pharaoh Tutankhamun, Neb-Kheperu-re, king of upper and lower Egypt. For many people this may have given them a feeling of power, influencing the course of history. But it frightened me. I did not want to be monumental. I simply wanted to live out my life without angering the gods. How now could I ever hope to achieve immortality? As the horrible thoughts sunk in, I slowly began to stop running. I was attracting too much attention. Peasants on the streets were beginning to stare at the insane servant boy. Insanity? I laughed. No, insanity would be a blessing I did not deserve. I knew what I had done, and it haunted me.

After quite some time writhing in my own self-despair, I decided that I had to get it out. I could not contain the horrible beast of a secret within me any longer. But who to tell? I finally settled on Suten Anu. He was a friend of mine from childhood, and had the privileged position of being a minor scribe. His schooling was still not complete, but he would help me. The idea grew, and became more and more logical in my mind. I would get the whole thing off my chest by telling him, who would in turn record it for me, so that one day the truth will come out and the one who tricked me will be exposed as the liar he is.

I found him. He seemed surprised to see me, but very excited. Suten Anu is a very friendly, kind and helpful person. I doubt if I will ever be able to repay him for the service he was doing me.

 “I need- I need you to write something for me. It’s sort of really important.”

“What about?” he laid down a papyrus scroll he was studying.

“Pharaoh Tutankhamun….”

Suten Anu raised an eyebrow. “Really? Did you hear that they, the embalmers, I mean, dropped the body? Right on the head. They tried to cover it up, but someone leaked the story.” He paused, glancing over at me thoughtfully. “I’ll write for you, but…do you mind if it’s carved? I haven’t quite mastered writing on papyrus yet. It’s much harder than it looks, you know.”

I assured him that it would be fine, and then rushed straight into my story. It was hard to get going, but soon the words flowed. When I had finished, he took a deep breath and looked at me. “Wow. So now what are you going to do with your life?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Hide, I suppose. Find some way to…to escape my mind.”

 

Epilogue

…but to no avail. The tiny symbols blur before your eyes, and your head begins to throb painfully. Figuring that it must be something of no importance, you pocket it as a souvenir. It wasn’t the best quality tablet, but it was free, which was better than everything else in this over-priced tourist trap.

Then, off to the distance, you notice something much more exciting- your tour group back searching for you. They look rather annoyed, but no matter- you are saved! In your eagerness to get back to civilization, you sprint over so fast that the tablet falls out of your pocket, only to be covered swiftly by the sands of time.

The End.