The Song of Troy

I shouted to him from where I stood, my axe hanging at my side. ‘Pick up a sword and die, Priam!’

But he stared vacantly at something beyond me, his rheumy eyes filled with tears; he neither knew nor cared. The air was charged with the noises of death and mayhem, and smoke was already lowering the sky. Troy was dying around him while he sat on the edge of madness at the foot of Apollo’s altar. I believe that he never did realise we came from the horse, so the God spared him that. All he understood was that there was no further reason for him to continue living.

An ancient woman hunched beside him, clinging to his arm, her mouth open on a constant succession of howls more akin to a dog’s than to anything human. A young woman with masses of curling black hair stood with her back to me at the altar table, her hands flat on its slab, her head tilted far back in prayer.

More men were arriving to defend Priam; I met their onslaught contemptuously. Some wore the insignia of sons of Priam, which only spurred me on. I killed them until one alone remained, a mere youth – Ilios? What could it matter who? When he tried to attack me with a sword I wrenched it from him easily, then took his long, unbound tresses in my left fist, my shield abandoned. He struggled, pummelled my greaves with his knuckles even as I tipped him onto his back and dragged him to the foot of the altar. Priam and Hekabe clung together; the young woman didn’t turn round.

‘Here’s your last son, Priam! Watch him die!’

I put my heel on the youth’s chest and hauled his shoulders clear of the ground, then smashed his head in with a blow from the flat of my axe. Suddenly seeming to notice me for the first time, Priam jumped to his feet. Eyes on the body of his last son, he reached for a spear leaning against the side of the altar. His wife tried to restrain him, howling like a she-wolf.

But he couldn’t even negotiate the steps. He stumbled and fell to lie at my feet with his face buried in his arms, his neck presented for the Axe. The old woman had wrapped her arms about his thighs, the young woman had finally turned and watched not me but the King, her face filled with compassion. The axe came up. I judged the stroke so there could be no mistake. The double-headed blade streaked downwards like a ribbon in the air, and I felt in that exalted moment the priest who lives in the hearts of all men born to be kings. My father’s axe completed the stroke perfectly. Priam’s neck gaped under his silver hair, the blade went through to meet stone on the other side, and the head leaped high. Troy was dead. Its King had died as kings had died in the days of the Old Religion, their heads proffered for the Axe. I turned to find none save Greeks in Apollo’s courtyard.

‘Find a room you can lock,’ I said to Automedon, ‘then come back here and put the two women in it.’

I ascended the altar steps.

‘Your King is dead,’ I said to the young woman – a great beauty. ‘You’re my prize. Who are you?’

‘Andromache of Kilikia, Hektor’s widow,’ she said steadily.

‘Look after your mother, then, while you can. You’ll be parted soon enough.’

‘Let me go to my son,’ she said, very controlled.

I shook my head. ‘No, that’s not possible.’

‘Please!’ she said, still in complete control.

The last of my rage left me; I pitied her. Agamemnon would never permit the boy to live. His order was the total extirpation of the House of Priam. Before I could deny her access to her son a second time, Automedon came back. The two women, one still howling, the other quietly imploring to be let see her son, were led away.

After that I left the courtyard and began to explore the labyrinth of corridors, opening each door and peering inside to see if there were more Trojans to kill. But I found no one until I reached an outer perimeter, opened yet another door.

Lying on a bed, sleeping soundly, was a very big and powerfully built man. A handsome fellow, dark enough to be a son of Priam save that he didn’t have a Priamish look to him. I entered without making a sound and stood over him with my axe very near his neck, then shook him roughly by the shoulder. Obviously the worse for wine, he groaned, but became abruptly alert the moment his eyes took in a man wearing the armour of Achilles. Only the axe blade against his throat prevented his making a flying leap for his sword. He glared up at me hotly.

‘And who are you?’ I asked, smiling.

‘Aineas of Dardania.’

‘Well, well! You’re my prisoner, Aineas. I’m Neoptolemos.’

A flash of hope lit his eyes. ‘What, I’m not to be killed?’

‘Why should I want to kill you? You’re my prisoner, nothing more. If your Dardanian people still think highly enough of you to pay the exorbitant ransom I intend to ask, you may yet be a free man. A reward for – er – being nice to us in battle sometimes.’

His face exploded into joy. ‘Then I’ll be King of Troy!’

I laughed. ‘By the time your ransom is found, Aineas, there will be no Troy to rule. We’re going to tear the place apart and send its people into slavery. Shades will walk the plain. I think your most sensible course would be to emigrate.’ I let the axe fall. ‘Get up. Naked and in chains, you’ll walk behind me.’

He snarled but did exactly as he was told, and gave me no trouble whatsoever.

A Myrmidon brought my chariot up through the burning, melting streets. I found some bits of rope, took the two women out of their prison and tethered them fast. Aineas held out his wrists for binding of his own volition. All three tied securely, I told Automedon to drive out of the Citadel gates and back to the Skaian Square. The sack was getting under way – not work for the son of Achilles. Someone hitched Priam’s headless body to the back of the car, as Hektor’s had been; it slid across the cobbles amid the feet of my three living captives. Priam’s head sat atop Old Pelion, his silver hair and beard soaked in blood, his dark eyes wide open, transfixed in grief and ruin, gazing sightless over burning houses and mangled bodies. Little children cried vainly for their mothers, women ran dementedly hunting for their babes or fled from soldiers bent on rape and murder.

There was no holding the army. On this their day of triumph they vented all the spleen of ten years of homelessness and exile, of dead comrades and unfaithful wives, of hatred for every Trojan person and thing; they prowled the smoke-palled alleys like beasts. I saw no sign of Agamemnon. Perhaps some of my hurry in quitting the city stemmed from reluctance to meet him on this day of utter devastation. It was his victory.

Not far from the Citadel, Odysseus emerged from a side lane, waving cheerfully. ‘Going already, Neoptolemos?’

I nodded despondently. ‘Yes, and as fast as I can. Now that my anger’s gone, my belly isn’t strong enough.’

He pointed at the head. ‘I see you found Priam.’

‘Yes.’

‘And who else have we got here?’ He inspected my prisoners, bowing to Aineas with an exaggerated flourish. ‘So you actually took Aineas alive! Now he was one I was sure would make it hard for you.’

I flicked the Dardanian a glance of scorn. ‘He slept like a babe through the whole business. I found him mother-naked on his bed, still snoring.’

Odysseus roared with laughter; Aineas grew stiff with fury, the muscles of his arms bulging as he fought to be free of the ropes. Suddenly I realised that I had chosen the more galling fate for Aineas. He was far too proud to stomach derision. At the moment I woke him, all he could think of was the throne of Troy. Now he was begi

I untied old Hekabe and jerked her forward. Howling. Then I put the end of her tether in Odysseus’s hand.