Troy fell.
That's what Homer wrote.
That's what it says in every record from then onwards.
Two words.
Short, impersonal.
A yawn pushed from the back of the throat of a bored college student.
Troy fell.
Empty words that totally and completely fail to convey, even in the slightest, the absolute carnage and brutality, suffering, horror, the inevitable destruction and collapse that comes after a ten-year war, the failure and fall of a great civilization.
I was there, collapsed myself, on the blood-soaked sand, crammed amongst other Trojan women I had spent two years living with. They might not remember me from the beginning of the war, but I remember them: bright, herding children, protecting their pastries from vagabonds and laughing, sun shining down as their husbands planned for their victory. Yet here we stood, lined up for export, eyes blank, empty with shock and grief.
I am here.
I watch infants torn from mothers already mourning their lost husbands, dead sons, mutilated brothers. The tiny children were tossed carelessly aside, useless. Some were flung into the red-tinted foam where they bobbed for a moment, wailing. Others were torn apart before the unseeing eyes of their mothers. Now and then, a woman would scramble, finding the strength to fight back and a desperate struggle would break out, only to end with the woman's body joining that of the child.
All along the beach, men strode, sandals stained with the blood of their comrades and enemies. Cursing, shoving, punching; they were urgent to restore not Troy's order, but their own- to divide the spoils, women, and to run.
Head down, I crouched in the sand, watching from beneath my matted hair. I saw my Lady led past; the woman I had served, Andromeche, to be handed over to Neopatolemus, to spend the rest of her life serving the people who had held her helpless as they hurled her tiny son from the tallest tower in Troy.
Somewhere in the 1800s, my fellow historians were safe- I hoped. I was the only one still here, stupid enough to stay, stupid enough to be caught.
At any moment the rough hands would drag me forward, pull down what little was left of my tunic, decide what I was worth, and then allocate me to some grinning Greek. I would then be loaded onto one of the ships.
If I was lucky.
If the Greek didn't smile, if I wasn't good enough slave material (and believe me, I wasn't) then I would be thrown to the ground, raped violently and repeatedly until I bled to death.
I was under no illusion. It was happening to hundreds around me.
This is where a passion of History will leave you. This is what happens to people who are gifted with Time. Right here, on the front line, up close.
Personal.
To you. To me; to anyone who Time favored.
I could have done anything I wanted: with a Time gift, I could've lived and died in the Renaissance. I could have been anything, even without the gift.I could've been a crime-scene clean-up worker, a bomb expert, or a firefighter, or something sensible, something safe. Hell, I might've even been an idol.
But no, I had to apply to Thrusk. Over time the stories pile up; I'm thousands of years older than I appear. I have bowed before more kings than I can count, have watched executions and elections.
And here I was, at the end of my personal Timeline.
More women were fighting back in earnest now, shrieking, clawing.
They were cut without a second thought. The Greeks could afford to be wasteful now; the city had been emptied and there were so many of us that every Greek would go home with more than they could carry in spoils of war- weapons, food, temple goods, gold... and slaves.
Long lines shuffled towards the boats. Greeks screamed for them to hurry, move.
I didn't understand why they were in such a hurry. It would take days to finish the job, but perhaps they feared the aftershock.
Footsteps.
I crouched lower, pulling my stole around my face and head .
The two women in front of me were yanked away, wriggling and yowling.
Dirty feet, scabby and stained. Rough leather sandals.
A grimy hand snatched at my hair and hauled me to my feet.
It was my turn.
The city burned behind us. The disease raged within its walls, and the stench of death hung tangible in the air, snatching at our breath and destroying what little hope remained.
Burning flesh, coppery blood, vomit. Black smoke billowed in sickening clouds out over the remnants of the once-proud city, sending an undisputable message to gods and men alike.
Troy had fallen.
