[h1]RPGC#13 - Resolutions[/h1] The full list of runner-ups, staff picks, special category winners and honourable mentions can be found [url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4134449]here[/url]. [h2]Winning entry: Ashes of Illium, by [@Silver][/h2] [i]Darkness. At first, that’s all I can see. I am surrounded by an infinite void. I try to move, but I am formless. I try to yell, but I am voiceless. Is this death? A light! In the distance! Small, but it’s there. It burns a dull red. Can I approach it? No… it approaches me. It grows closer, larger, deeper. Soon this dim light has all but enveloped me. Suddenly, I am standing. I feel a cool breeze on my skin and my neck tingles. I am clad in armor under the light of the moon, sword and shield in hand. Am I to fight? I can see no enemy. The light rises, taking the shape of desolate structures. I am encircled by the smoldering skeleton of what was once a city. Wait. Not just a city. My city. The city I swore to protect. Troy. [/i] [hr] Agenor awoke, sitting up with a violent start. He gasped for air, struggling to discern his surroundings. His eyes adjusted to the dark and it took only a moment for him to regain his composure, his breath steadying. In the sheets beside him, his wife sighed but did not stir. The tired young warrior swung his legs over the bed and stood up, stretching his limbs and releasing an unwelcome yawn. The room was black as pitch, illuminated by the moon alone. Thin drapes waved in a gentle breeze, and all was silent. Agenor massaged his sore arms and walked through the floating drapes onto the balcony overlooking his street. His house sat on a hill on the inland side of the city, providing a clear view of almost all of Troy. To the west, and farther uphill, King Priam’s palace loomed in the darkness, its silhouette outlined by a thousand stars. Looking east, he could see the market district, the massive Scaean gate embedded in the city’s towering walls, and the ocean, glimmering faintly in the light of the moon. The ancient city was quiet as a corpse, save the barking of a dog in the distance, but Agenor knew it wasn’t long before the sun would rise and the Trojans would awaken. Children, like his son, would run through tight alleys to the schoolhouse, merchants would wheel their wares to the market, and the pious would give their offerings at the temples to the gods. For himself and many others, he knew a far more difficult day awaited. A floorboard creaked and Agenor spun around, his soldier’s instincts kicking into gear as he reached for a sword that wasn’t there. To his relief, he was met only by his wife, Calandra. “It’s past your bedtime,” she said, a coy smile flashing across her face. Her brown hair tumbled down her shoulder like a waterfall, her green eyes sparkling in the dark. “Calandra,” Agenor breathed, relaxing his composure. “I just… I needed…” Agenor’s wife planted a gentle kiss on his cheek. He sighed and turned away, leaning over the balcony and gazing out across the sleeping city. “They’re out there somewhere, the Greeks,” he said, lost in his thoughts. “Watching. Waiting. Come dawn they’ll be at our walls again.” “As they have been for ten years,” Calandra said, a note of comforting confidence in her tone. “And come dusk, they’ll be fleeing back to their little boats.” “Yet every day our men die and our supplies dwindle,” Agenor replied. “Meanwhile, the Greeks seem to have endless reinforcements out of Mycenae. I don’t know how long we can last.” “What words are these from my husband? The only man to stand up to Achilles and live!” Calandra stepped closer, wrapping her arms around Agenor. “You sound like a man who has forgotten what he is fighting for.” Agenor shook her off. “I know what I fight for,” he said. “The very day I became a man, I swore a vow to protect Troy and her people to my dying breath. I intend to.” Calandra shrank back, somewhat deflated. She seemed to direct her next words to the ground: “Is that all, then?” Agenor turned back and looked at her, admiring how even her dejected expression couldn’t detract from her breathtaking beauty. “No…” he replied, taking her in his arms. “Of course not. I fight for you, my love, and for Kiril. Troy be damned, I will never let my family come to harm. I promise. You are my home.” [hr] “Get up, Dad! Get up get up get up!” Agenor felt himself wake, considerably less alert than he’d been after his dream. His eyes opened groggily and he found himself in his bedroom, enshrouded in brilliant sunlight. Outside, the silence of the night had turned to the unruly clamor of the morning as villagers’ voices mixed with the cries of the scavenging seagulls on the rooftops. Calandra was nowhere to be seen. Instead, standing impatiently in the doorway was Agenor’s son Kiril, a spritely boy of eleven with his father’s sandy hair and his mother’s deep green eyes. Kiril was bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Get up, Dad, we have to go!” Agenor hastily rose out of bed, his heart racing once again. “What’s wrong, son?” he demanded, “Have the Greeks breached our walls?” Instead of answering, Kiril dashed past his father and onto the balcony. “Look at it! It’s so big!” Agenor pushed through the drapes, now filled with a nauseous mixture of concern and confusion. The bright morning sun stung his eyes, and it took him a moment to follow Kiril’s gaze. And there it was, towering above the buildings of Troy, above even the Scaean gate, which had opened upward to admit it. Agenor could hardly believe his eyes. Standing proudly in the center of the market district was a giant wooden horse. “Where did it come from, Dad?” Kiril asked, staring at the structure with enraptured eyes. “I… I don’t know, Kiril. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Agenor wrenched his gaze from the massive mount and peered back into the house. “Where’s your mother?” “She went into the market this morning. She told me to let you sleep,” Kiril answered. Agenor took one last look at the horse, then stepped into his room and started getting dressed. “I’m glad you didn’t.” As soon as he was clothed, he gestured to Kiril and the pair walked down the stairs and out into the street. It became immediately apparent that they were far from the first to have spotted the horse. All along the cobbled road, individuals and families were pouring out of their homes and walking west, toward the gate. All heads were turned in wonder toward the horse’s head, which peered menacingly over the rooftops. Agenor and Kiril followed the river of Trojans until the street opened up and they entered the market square. On the ground, the market seemed indistinguishable from any other day. All along the edges of the plaza, merchants had set up their stalls, laden with exotic food, colorful jewelry, pungent incenses and all sorts of sundries from Troy’s inland neighbors. Despite the length and intensity of the war, Troy had never been fully encircled by the Greeks, allowing for a steady flow of goods and reinforcements. It was a small consolation that the city wouldn’t starve to death. The mere presence of merchants was where the normalcy ended. The market was full of Trojan citizens, but shopping for goods was the last thing on their minds. Instead, all eyes were focused on the massive wooden beast casting its shadow on the plaza. Up close, the horse was even more incredible. It was fashioned almost entirely from driftwood and weathered old planks, seemingly from the remains of scuttled ships. The head was exquisitely detailed, a wooden mane ran along its back, and ribs made of knotted old fir trees stretched across its rotund belly. Sandy wheels sat on the tiled ground in place of hooves. Agenor could scarcely believe his eyes. His thoughts were interrupted by a rough hand landing on his shoulder. “What a sight, eh Agenor?” The warrior turned around, greeted by several familiar faces. First was Hypanis, a grizzled old veteran with a scar on his cheek and a permanent smile. He was dressed in bronze armor, but held his helmet under his arm. Behind him stood Ripheus and Dimas, both younger men who had fought alongside Agenor in defense of the city. Hypanis gestured up to the horse, rambling in his excitement. “Our sentries spotted it this morning in the Greek camp. It was the only thing there! The rest of camp was deserted. Saw it with my own eyes. Isn’t it a majestic creature?” “Yes…” Agenor responded, still somewhat perplexed by the unexpected situation. “It’s remarkable. But why is it here? And where are the Greeks?” “Sailed back to Mycenae!” Dimas interjected. “Gone in a single night!” “The cowards finally gave in,” Ripheus added, grinning. “The war is over, Agenor! Will you celebrate with us?” Hypanis demanded. Before Agenor could respond, he recognized his wife emerging from the throng of citizens, followed by Coroebus, another Trojan warrior. “Calandra!” he exclaimed, embracing her as she approached him. “What do you make of all this?” “I can scarcely believe my eyes,” she murmured back, looking up at the horse and ruffling Kiril’s hair. “I’ve seen bigger,” Coroebus joked. “Good to see you on this victorious morning, friends. Certainly this night will be one of celebration!” “Indeed it shall!” roared Hypanis, who had apparently already begun his own celebration, the scent of wine hanging on his breath. “My doors are open to all tonight!” Ripheus and Coroebus joined in the festive salute, but Dimas was less enthusiastic. He leaned over and spoke to Agenor in a hushed tone. “I’m not so sure of our victory, friend. It’s not like the Greeks to simply up and retreat like this, nor to do so humbly. Menelaus is not so easily appeased. Capys said as much this morning on the beach; he thinks the horse is not to be trusted.” Coroebus overheard, slipping in his own remark: “Ah, you sound like my wife. If I listened to her every time she expressed concern, we’d never have been married in the first place.” This brought another roar of laughter to the group, and when it died down Hypanis firmly invited the group to his abode in the eastern quarter. Dimas declined, stating his intentions to keep his family close, which elicited a mocking snicker from Coroebus. Agenor looked to his wife, who nodded with a smile. “Perhaps it’s truly over,” she said. “I’ll take Kiril home. You should enjoy yourself tonight.” Agenor nodded and walked away with the other men, laughing along with the rest in the shadow of the wooden horse. [hr] By nightfall, all of Troy was partaking in the celebrations. The streets were full of festive shouting and dancing, and children ran from temple to temple placing laurels on the altars to honor the dead. The succulent smell of diverse feasts permeated the night air; the entire city was awash in music and laughter. Even as the moon rose in the sky and the festivities began to recede, Agenor and his comrades continued to enjoy each other's company. When the war began with Helen’s flight from Sparta, many of them had been mere children. They were raised in a city plagued by death and destruction. Fighting was all they had ever known. Now, the greatest fleet ever assembled was sailing back to Greece in shameful defeat, and finally Troy could know peace. The sense of relief was overwhelming. Hypanis had sent his servants away an hour before, and the four men sat alone in the dining hall, sharing drinks and stories of the war. “And, I swear to the gods,” Coroebus was saying, wiping wine off his his chin, “The bastard left his sword and shield right there with his leggings and chased me all the way back to the walls!” Agenor, Ripheus and Hypanis laughed rambunctiously, knocking back the dregs of wine and mead that remained in their chalices. Hypanis cleared his throat, turning to face Agenor. “But the bravest thing I saw in this war, hell, in any war I’ve fought, was the way you faced down mighty Achilles.” He stared at Agenor for a moment, as if to assure his sincerity, before continuing. “The Greeks had just broken through our lines on the beachhead. It was an utter rout. Every Trojan man who could run was headed for the Scaean gate like a cat fleeing a dog. The war might have ended that day. But you—” he pointed a thick finger at Agenor, “You turned around. You stepped forward and met Achilles, their champion, sword for sword. When I saw what you had done, when all of Troy saw you there, in your shining armor, we turned back around and fought like lions. You saved every one of us.” Agenor shook his head humbly. “You’re too kind, Hypanis. Perhaps your memory is gilding in your old age.” Hypanis guffawed and poured more wine into his cup. “Tell me, boy: what was going through your head that day? How in hell’s name did you muster up the stones to challenge the greatest warrior in the land?” Agenor sat back in his seat, gazing thoughtfully at the candles on the chandelier above. “I was running in fear, like everyone else. I knew that if I tried to fight, I’d die. But then I thought of my family, and my vow to protect Troy, and I realized that living another thousand years would never wash away the shame of failure if I let either of them come to harm.” Hypanis nodded. “I believe that. A beautiful family you’ve got, Agenor, and a beautiful city.” Ripheus stood, raising his chalice toward the ceiling. “To Troy!” he shouted. “To Troy!” Coroebus and Hypanis answered, followed by Agenor. As they tilted their heads back to drink, the room shook with a deep rumble. Hypanis lowered his chalice, gazing toward the door and the shuttered windows. “What in Jupiter’s name was that?” The room shook again, and in the silence of the room a new sound was suddenly perceivable from outside: thousands of screams. Before any of them could move, the door burst open. Hypanis, having worn his armor the entire day, drew his sword instantly, and Agenor braced himself for a fight. Instead, it was Dimas who stumbled in, panting from exertion. Coroebus was the first to speak: “Dimas! What the hell is going on out there?” “It… was a trap. The damn Greeks…” Dimas struggled with each breath, “...were hiding in… that godforsaken horse.” “Gods above,” Ripheus gasped. “How many? Damn it, how many, boy?” Hypanis demanded. “It doesn’t matter,” Dimas responded, his breath returning. “The entire army’s in the city. They’ve opened the gates. Their fleet was anchored at Tenedos, waiting till nightfall to strike.” Hypanis let out a guttural curse and threw his chalace. He whipped around toward his comrades. “Well, what are you waiting for? To the armory, men! Troy is burning!” The four younger men followed Hypanis at breakneck speed through the narrow halls of his home, finally arriving at the bottom of a dark set of stairs. Only one armor stand filled the room, its trophies already encasing Hypanis, but there were several extra weapons. Agenor and Ripheus grabbed swords off the wall, and Dimas and Coroebus armed themselves with javelins. Within a matter of moments they were on the street. The scene was horrifying. In the dark, the city was an unrecognizable flurry of fire and death. All around buildings were burned to the ground, and the screams of the dying filled every corner of the city. Even as Agenor ran through the winding streets with his allies, the dreadful imagery of his nightmare pervaded his thoughts. “Aeneas is assembling a force to defend the palace,” Dimas said, “That’s where the fighting is fiercest!” “Then that’s where we’re headed, boys! To Aeneas!” Hypanis roared back. Dimas led the way, ducking through alleyways to avoid combat. They entered a small garden in between two houses, and Dimas turned to yell into one of the windows. “Aeneas! I found them!” The door opened and out stepped Aeneas, the fair-haired son of Anchises, armed to the teeth. “Have you found reinforcements?” Ripheus asked, looking over his shoulder to the street to watch for attackers. “You’re it,” Aeneas replied, and charged back out into the road. The rest followed. They ran down the cobbled road and turned a corner, passing into shadow under a wide bridge, and suddenly Ripheus gestured for the others to stop. Around the opposite corner, a band of a dozen dark figures ran under the bridge, their armor clinking as they moved. The other party caught sight of Agenor and his company and halted. A moment passed in deadly silence, then the leader of the strangers called out: “Hurry, men! What holds you? We’ve yet to take the city!” Ripheus moved to draw his sword, but Coroebus frantically gestured for him to stop. He called back: “We’ve just sacked the Temple. What are your orders?” The Greeks approached at a walk. The leader replied nonchalantly, “We’re to move into the eastern quarter and--” As soon as he was within reach, Coroebus thrust his javelin into his opponent’s neck, blood spraying in all directions. All at once the Trojan warriors lunged forward, cutting down their enemies. The Greeks hardly had time to react before half of their squad lay dead on the floor, and those remaining were little match for the battle-hardened defenders. Agenor bashed one back with his shield then cut across his leg, sending him to the ground where Dimas finished him off. The screams of the Greek invaders mixed seamlessly into the burning city. When it was finished, the Trojans had not lost a man. “Let’s move,” Aeneas insisted, “By now they’re sure to have reached Priam.” “Wait!” Coroebus said. “The streets between here and the palace are crawling with Greeks. We got lucky this time… but we can get there without a fight.” He knelt down and unclasped the Greek leader’s breastplate, then removed his own. He picked his opponent’s armor up off the corpse and strapped it over his chest, knocking it gently with his spear for effect. “Let’s change our shields and adopt Greek emblems,” he said, a smug smile dimly visible in the shadow of the bridge. “We can sneak past without trouble.” Aeneas looked impatient, but they all followed suit, stripping the dead of their armor and using it to replace their own. Hypanis gingerly placed his own pieces on the road near the edge of the bridge, apparently hoping to retrieve them later on. As soon as they were properly disguised, they continued their journey. Coroebus’s cunning served them well. Agenor held his breath as they passed several regiments of Greek troops, pillaging buildings and setting fire to defenses. He could see Ripheus bristling with fury, but to his credit Agenor’s friend kept his sword arm in check. Occasionally the Trojan warriors could hear the clash of bronze, but otherwise it seemed that the ancient city of Troy had fallen in a single night. They rounded another corner and Priam’s palace came into view before them. In the daylight, the palace was a sight to behold. Red stone rose seamlessly out of Troy’s central hill, with towers and battlements stretching to the sky. Now, the once majestic fortress was beginning to crumble. Fires sprouted from cracks in the hardened carapace, and one of the towers had already toppled onto the street below. On the wide steps of the palace, it seemed that the battle for Troy had come to a head. At least a hundred stalwart Trojans stood between the invading army and the palace, facing off close to a thousand Greeks. The din of weapons colliding and men shouting was deafening. A few blocks from the fighting, Aeneas came to a halt. The rest stopped with him, turning to listen as he spoke. “It’s worse than I’d heard. At this rate, I’d say we’ve less than an hour before the palace falls.” “Then we die fighting,” Hypanis shot back, his eyes steeled with determination in the light of the flames. Aeneas nodded. “Perhaps,” he conceded. “But we’ve another duty still. My wife Creusa is rallying the survivors, women and children. If we get out of this alive, we need to evacuate the city. The sun has set on the Trojan empire.” He looked to Agenor and Dimas. “You should find your families while there’s still time. We’ll join the defenders on the steps. When you’ve cleared your homes, meet me at the eastern gate. There are shipyards at Antandros that can send us off at dawn.” Before Agenor could respond, there was a shout from down the street. The Trojan warriors turned to see a band of Greeks running toward them, weapons raised. Aeneas braced himself and turned to Agenor. “There’s no more time! Gather your families and meet us at the eastern gate! Go!” Agenor and Dimas vanished into an alleyway and sprinted at full speed as the clash of weapons rang out behind them. They leapt over debris and ducked under arches, narrowly navigating the dense maze of backstreets. A Greek patrol emerged from a doorway in front of them and Agenor barreled right through, raising his shield like the prow of a ship. They managed to avoid direct engagement and finally Agenor spied the front of his abode in the southern quarter. It seemed mostly intact, but no light shone from within. He slowed his run and heard Dimas skidding to a halt behind him. “I’m going down the street to find my kids,” Dimas said, picking his pace back up as he headed west down the road. Agenor nodded and turned back towards his house. To his alarm, the front door was ajar. He wedged the tip of his sword in the crack and it creaked open, light spilling into the passageway. He took one last look down the street, then raised his weapons defensively and quietly trod into the house. The scene was eerily silent and profoundly alarming. Immediately inside the entrance, an amphora lay shattered on the floor. Clothes were strewn about the dining room and one of the chairs was broken against the wall. Every drawer and chest was open, and most were empty. The Greeks had been here, and they’d been thorough. As he peered around a corner to assess the damage, he heard a creak from upstairs. The intruder was still there. As quietly as he could, Agenor paced towards the stairs. He walked up with immense caution; every step seemed to take hours. His sword arm was arched back, ready to strike, and he held his shield close. As his room came into view, he could see the drapes billowing in the wind, lighting up the room with the radiance of the burning city. He walked towards the bed, then peered into the doorway of Kiril’s room. His wife let out a scream and swung at him with an axe, which he caught in his shield. She struggled to pull it free, but he wrenched it away, dropping his equipment and grabbing her arms. She beat furiously at his chestpiece as he tried to calm her down. “Calandra, my love, it’s me!” he insisted. “Everything’s alright! I’m here now!” She stopped resisting and looked into his eyes, realization dawning on her. “But… your armor,” she whimpered, her stance loosening. Agenor looked down, suddenly remembering the Greek insignias. “We had to scavenge it to get through the city. It’s hell out there, Calandra. All is lost.” In the light of the flames, he noticed a cut on his wife’s face. “Your cheek!” he exclaimed. “What happened?” Calandra looked down and stepped to the side, pointing into Kiril’s room. Agenor looked inside, at first noticing nothing until his glance fell to the floor. A Greek soldier lay dead in a pool of his own blood, a large wound in his breast. “I had to protect Kiril,” Calandra said. As she spoke, their son came out from his hiding place. At a loss for words, Agenor grabbed him and hugged him tightly. Calandra was more practical. “We need to leave, now. Is there a way out of the city?” Agenor let go of Kiril. “I’m not sure. Aeneas is gathering survivors, we’re to meet him and figure out a plan from there.” His wife nodded, bending down to pry her axe from the Greek shield. “Then we should get moving.” Agenor led the way down the stairs, his wife following with Kiril on one hand and her weapon in the other. As they emerged, Dimas came running towards them with his own wife and two young children. “The Greeks are burning everything!” he called. “We’re running out of time!” The seven of them took off down the street. The sky was growing brighter, but Agenor could tell from the sickening red tint of the air that it wasn’t the sun’s work. On both sides of the street, the houses they passed were deserted and dilapidated. The invaders had swept through once already, looting and pillaging. Blood trickled between the cracks in the cobbled road. Agenor was exhausted, having gone a full day without sleep only to be met with combat and exertion. Calandra’s eyes burned with protective fury, but her stumbling gait betrayed her own weariness. Kiril was openly terrified. As they drew near, the eastern wall seemed to rise above the rooftops and touch the sky. Agenor perceived a low rumble and quickly slowed his pace, holding an arm out to signal to his followers. They stopped to listen, soon recognizing a large mass of footfalls. Agenor motioned for the group to hide in the ruins but was too late. The approaching crowd rounded a corner and came into view. At the head was Aeneas, holding his son with one hand and carrying his father on his shoulder. Behind him was Hypanis and his comrades, who seemed winded but unharmed, and at least a hundred other Trojan citizens. Children clung to their mothers, unsure of their future as their homes burned around them. The whole crowd was burdened with as many possessions as they could carry. Coroebus ran up to Agenor and Dimas and hugged them. “Thank the gods. We weren’t sure you would make it.” Dimas turned to look over his shoulder, his eyes widening. “I’m not sure we did.” Coming from the west, illuminated by the rising sun, was the entire Greek army. Their weapons glinted in the morning light as their boots thundered in rhythm, seeming to shake the very earth beneath them. Their armor shone green under a speckled coat of blood. At the front, an armored figure lead the march. A tattered virescent cape flowed effortlessly behind him as he strode forward, sword in hand. His face was masked by a fearsome helmet. Agenor sensed Aeneas approaching from behind him. The warrior gazed out across the rapidly narrowing space between the Trojan refugees and the Greek horde. He seemed to recognize the armored man. “That’s Pyrrhus,” he exclaimed. “Son of Achilles. The bastard slew King Priam in cold blood.” Pyrrhus, dread prince of the Greeks, closed the distance and stopped, the army coming to a rumbling halt behind him. He lifted his hand to his helmet and pulled it off, revealing a mane of red hair and a menacing smirk. He called out to the dregs of the Trojan Empire: “Is that proud Aeneas I see, fleeing his city with his tail between his legs?” He let out a hideous snicker. “Just as well. Too slow to save your king, and too cowardly to save your country. You’ll have the honor of dying by my sword.” Aeneas reached for his sword, only to find it held in place by another’s hand. Agenor looked him in the eyes and shook his head. “Go, Aeneas. Take your family and flee. Carry the gods of Troy to a new city, that one day our people may rise again.” “And what of you, Agenor?” Calandra interjected. “Will you abandon your family?” Agenor turned to his wife, his gaze solemn and sincere. “I was born to fight, my love, not to lead. That is Aeneas’s realm. This is the only way I can assure your safety.” Calandra opened her mouth to argue but choked on her words. Instead she only shook her head, hugging Kiril close to her chest as tears rolled down her face. Agenor turned back towards the Greek army, ready to face them alone. “What was that you’d said about living a thousand years, Agenor?” Hypanis said, arriving at Agenor’s side with sword in hand. “It would never be worth breaking my vow, to city and family,” he replied. Ripheus joined them, then Coroebus and finally Dimas. The five men stood as one, their weapons shattering the morning light onto the street. As Aeneas led the huddled mass through the eastern gate, the Greek army charged forward. Agenor met Pyrrhus sword for sword. [hr] [i]Darkness. At first, that’s all I can see. I am surrounded by an infinite void. I try to move, but I am formless. I try to yell, but I am voiceless. Is this death? [/i] [hr] [hr] [hr] [hider=Author's Notes] In researching for this piece, I drew information from reference texts on the Iliad and related works, general public databases and relied heavily on the text of the Aeneid in its original form. I went to great lengths to make the story as historically and mythologically accurate as possible, but we’re all human. Or I am, at least. I’ve taken some time to go through and identify the faults I could find and chose to keep, as well as the many artistic liberties I allowed myself. For starters, the character of Agenor is not my own fabrication. He is understood to have originated in Homer’s Iliad, in which he’s credited with facing down Achilles in the midst of a total rout. The details are somewhat less romantic, but the foundation is there. As a minor character in a massive epic, the gods did not see fit to describe his family, so I invented one. The dream sequence in the beginning was inspired by Aeneas’s own dream in the Aeneid, in which the ghost of Hector warns him of Troy’s downfall. I decided from there to include Aeneas in the piece, fascinated by the prospect of a shoving a protagonist onto the sidelines of his own story. Aeneas is the famed Trojan who, in the Aeneid, leads the survivors of the Trojan siege out of the city and across the sea to Latium, where he lays the beginnings of Rome. I could go on for days but you’re probably already bored. Hypanis, Ripheus, Coroebus and Dimas were all real as well, and Vergil depicts them fighting alongside Aeneas in defense of the falling city. That part I got right, the rest I either made up, screwed up, or both. For one thing, Coroebus was almost definitely unmarried, but I couldn’t resist referencing Cassandra, the ill-fated Trojan prophet doomed to being disbelieved by her people. She predicted the fall of Troy. Apparently Priam actually married her off to some guy called Eurypyplus, but Coroebus was another of her suitors. In my defense, Vergil refers to her as Coroebus’s “bride.” As for the other three warriors, I made up their personalities as I saw fit. Unfortunately, the Aeneid has all of them die outside the palace before Priam, but I decided to drag out their suffering. Lastly, I couldn’t help but directly transpose one line from the Aeneid: “Let’s change our shields and adopt Greek emblems.” That did happen, and it was Coroebus’s idea. I’ve always been interested in the character of Pyrrhus. According to the Iliad, the Trojan seer Helenos listed his participation in the war as a requirement for a Greek victory. Sophocles’ play Philoctetes describes him as a kind and honorable man, but most other accounts show him to be brutal. He did indeed slay King Priam and several others, and I saw him as a fitting villain for my story. It was only later that I learned that, according to Pausanias, he actually killed Agenor during the sack of Troy. Funny how things work out sometimes. As for the Trojan War in general, your guess is as good as anyone's. Many modern scholars postulate that the city of Troy actually existed, citing ruins on the Turkish coast. In the rubble of the ancient city, hints of a great inferno are abundant. I, for one, believe in the heroes of old. [img]http://www.poetryintranslation.com/pics/Greek/interior_homer_iliadbkXXI1to33.jpg[/img] [/hider]