I WAS INSIDE TROY — THE WAR THAT DESTROYED A CITY ( A first-person historical-mythic novel narrated by Theron )

Without Achilles on the field, Hector became more dangerous.

Not because he changed.

Because the space around him did.

Trojan forces advanced farther than they had in years.

The Achaeans were pushed back across ground they had treated almost as permanent possession.

From the walls, we watched camps shift.

Defenses tighten.

Greek formations bend.

Every Trojan success produced celebration inside the city.

At first, cautious.

Then louder.

The market began closing later again.

Someone brought out a flute one evening.

People danced.

Imagine that.

After years of funerals, people danced because the enemy had been pushed a little closer to the sea.

Ione stood beside me watching.

“You’re smiling,” she said.

“So are you.”

“I did not say it was wrong.”

“We might win.”

She looked at me for a long moment.

“You sound Trojan.”

“I’ve been here longer than I lived anywhere except Chios.”

“Then say it.”

“What?”

“Say ‘we.’”

I realized I had.

We might win.

Not Troy.

We.

That frightened and pleased me at once.

My father would have called me foolish.

My mother would have understood.

Home is often just the place where your worries learn local names.

Mine had.

Hector became almost impossible to avoid during those weeks.

His presence dominated the city because his victories fed everyone’s hope.

Men returned from battle shouting his name.

Children played at being him.

Old soldiers nodded when he passed.

Priam appeared younger in public.

Even Paris fought more often, though opinions about his courage remained complicated.

I saw Helen once during that period.

She stood high on a wall with several attendants.

People around her celebrated a Trojan advance.

She did not.

She watched the distant Greek lines.

I wondered what she saw there.

A former home?

Enemies?

A husband?

Men dying because of choices partly hers, partly others’, partly the gods’ if the poets are believed?

Again, everyone around Helen believed they understood her.

Again, I knew enough not to try.

Then came the day Hector drove the Achaeans back toward their ships.

The city exploded with excitement.

People climbed rooftops.

Prayers filled temples.

Myrine shouted at anyone blocking her view.

Ione’s aunt actually abandoned her work for several minutes to watch.

Smoke rose from the Achaean side.

Trojan soldiers had reached the defensive area near the ships.

A rumor spread that one vessel had been set on fire.

Then another rumor said three.

Then ten.

By evening, the number had become most of the Greek fleet.

It was not true.

But truth moves poorly during victory.

People want better news than reality can provide.

That night, Troy celebrated.

Not officially.

No proclamation announced victory.

But wine appeared.

Music sounded.

People embraced soldiers returning from the field.

Sira gave away bread she could not afford to give away.

Dymas drank too much and told the same story four times.

Ione and I sat on the roof of Myrine’s house.

From there, we could see distant fires.

“Do you think it is ending?” she asked.

“Yes.”

I answered too quickly.

She noticed.

“You don’t know.”

“No.”

“Then why say yes?”

“Because I want one night where we believe it.”

She leaned against me.

“All right.”

For one night, we believed.

We imagined the gates opening without fear.

Fields replanted.

Trade returning.

Ships arriving with wine instead of warriors.

Children walking beyond the walls.

I told Ione I would take her to Chios.

She told me she would hate it.

I told her she could hate it beside me.

She agreed.

Below us, Troy sang.

Our confidence lasted into the next morning. Men repairing the gate sang while they worked. Women discussed reopening farms closest to the walls if the Greeks retreated farther. Sira asked whether I thought traders would return quickly after peace.

'Immediately,' I told her.

'You merchants smell profit farther away than dogs smell meat.'

She was right.

For the first time in years, I took out one of my old trade tablets. Most of the marks had faded or been scraped away and reused, but I could still see traces of quantities I had written during my first week in Troy. Oil. Cloth. Wine. Prices that now seemed absurdly cheap.

Ione found me studying it.

'Planning to become a merchant again?'

'Maybe.'

'You were terrible at it.'

'I survived.'

'Because you stopped.'

I laughed.

We began talking about ordinary futures as if speaking them aloud could summon them. A house. Travel. Children. Chios. Perhaps another island after that. Perhaps we would grow old somewhere that did not have walls.

I can still feel how close that future seemed.

That is why hope can be cruel. It does not merely promise survival. It gives you details.