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

I had seen Hector hundreds of times before I truly saw him.

That sounds foolish.

Let me explain.

For years, Hector was part of Troy’s landscape.

He rode through gates.

Spoke with officers.

Led men onto the plain.

Returned covered in dust.

Appeared at ceremonies.

Stood beside Priam.

People pointed him out to visitors as they pointed out towers.

There is Hector.

There is the wall.

There is the temple.

We turned him into architecture because believing in him made us feel secure.

Then, during the sixth year of war, I saw him kneeling beside a frightened child.

The boy belonged to a soldier who had been killed outside the western gate.

His mother was speaking with Ione’s aunt about arrangements for the body. The boy sat on a low step staring at Hector’s helmet.

Hector had come to speak with the family.

When he approached, the horsehair crest on his helmet frightened the child.

The boy began crying.

Hector stopped.

For a second, nobody moved.

Then he removed the helmet.

Set it on the ground.

Knelt.

The boy stared at him.

Hector said something too quietly for me to hear.

The child nodded.

Hector took a small carved horse from a pouch and gave it to him.

The boy stopped crying.

That was the first time I understood what Troy asked of Hector.

Everyone wanted something.

Priam wanted a son and commander.

The army wanted a leader.

Citizens wanted protection.

Allies wanted confidence.

His wife wanted him alive.

His child wanted a father.

And Hector was expected to somehow be all of those men at once.

I met him properly several weeks later.

I was helping Dymas carry messages between supply officials when Hector entered the courtyard.

Dymas bowed.

I followed a moment too late.

Hector noticed.

“You are not Trojan.”

“No, my lord.”

“Where?”

“Chios.”

“How long have you been here?”

I considered the question.

“Long enough that Myrine charges me less rent.”

Dymas made a sound like a man choking.

Hector stared at me.

Then, unexpectedly, smiled.

“You must be almost family.”

“Almost.”

“You write things.”

I looked at the tablet in my hand.

“Yes.”

“What do you write about Troy?”

“Mostly that the bread was better before the war.”

Dymas was definitely going to kill me.

Hector laughed once.

It changed his whole face.

Then it vanished.

“Write that we remember what it tasted like.”

He left.

I wrote it immediately.

Later, Ione told me I was an idiot for speaking to a prince that way.

“He laughed.”

“That does not make you less of an idiot.”

Hector’s family became more visible to me through the years.

Andromache, his wife, moved through Troy with quiet dignity. She was not the decorative princess outsiders expected. War had taken much from her own family. She understood loss before Troy’s greatest losses arrived.

Their son, Astyanax, was still small.

I once saw Hector lift him onto his shoulders near a courtyard.

For several minutes, the commander of Troy walked in circles while a child grabbed his hair.

Men nearby pretended not to smile.

Then a messenger arrived.

Hector lowered the boy.

Kissed Andromache.

Picked up his helmet.

Returned to war.

That sequence repeated in different forms for years.

Home.

Duty.

Home.

Duty.

Every return temporary.

Every departure uncertain.

The war had created heroes because ordinary men could not carry expectations that large.

But beneath the title, Hector remained a man.

He was tired more often as the years passed.

I saw it in the way he sat after meetings.

In the silence before riding out.

In the lines forming around his eyes.

People cheered when he entered the city.

I sometimes wondered whether the cheering sounded like gratitude or another demand.

Protect us.

I saw that weight clearly one evening after a difficult battle. Hector returned through the gate after sunset. There was no cheering because most people had already gone home. Only a few guards, servants, wounded men, and families waiting for news remained.

Hector dismounted slowly.

For several seconds, he simply stood beside his horse with one hand resting against its neck. His head was lowered. Nobody approached.

Then Andromache appeared.

She did not run dramatically toward him. She walked. He looked up. Something in his face softened.

She touched his arm.

They spoke too quietly for me to hear.

A servant brought Astyanax, half asleep. Hector took the child carefully. The boy placed his head against his father's shoulder.

That picture stayed with me more powerfully than any battle.

The next morning Hector rode out again.

People cheered.

I did too.

But now I heard the selfishness inside our praise. Every cheer meant: go risk yourself again so we may remain behind the walls.