I took my pen one last time. Should I write about him? How can I make a protagonist from my other work this cruel? But if I don’t write about it someone else will surely. Why can’t I be that someone else? The confusion here is not about whether I should write the truth or a lie instead. The complexity that arose was about whether I should write the truth or omit it? Ok. Fine. I will write it. Let them hate me for writing the truth but history will remember me as an honest man. My father told me about it. Maybe he came to know about it from his father. These stories have been flowing through generations. Maybe someone had added it to malice his character? It is possible. Because everything else we’ve known about him is nowhere near to this cruelty. No. No. Don’t do that. I’ve been doing this for long now. The work is complete. This is the only story that I hesitate to write. Fine. Let them say whatever they want. They all know this is the truth. Nothing must stand in the way of truth. I will write it. I must write it.
I dipped my pen into the ink-pot and put a dot onto the paper. That moment, I realized that everything is actually happening before my eyes. I will not have to write it. I will have to live it. It makes it even harder for me. How can I live something that I even hesitate to write? But I have made my mind. I closed my eyes and put my pen on the paper.
I can see the big gate of a city. That damn cursed wooden horse is right before me. A city drowns in the tide of war. Maybe the two sides had a fierce battle. But what appears now is a ruined city. Some remaining soldiers of the lost side are being enslaved. The victorious soldiers are busy plundering the city. Looting whatever they can. Killing away the old ones. Enforcing slavery on the capable and children. And raping the women. I cannot talk about the atrocities that I have just witnessed. I have already written about it but I don’t know why this time it feels more real to me. Right there, in front of me, stands the palace of King Priam. Shining always in the glories of Troy, today this one looks like a widow set on fire for the loss of his husband. I don’t know why but I can feel the helplessness of that poor thing.
I followed the path that led me to the palace. I can see the inside of it. Most of the palace is burning right now. The Greeks are looting the jewelry and coins. I do not want to describe this horrific sight and that is why I should not wander in the palace. I will take the direct route to the room of Prince Hector. Whatever I will see there will be crueler than what I have witnessed so far. But isn’t that the reason behind me wandering in this history?
I am approaching my destination. The doors are broken. Maybe Andromache, wife of Hector, overestimated the strength of these doors. What are these puny things in comparison to the unbreachable mighty walls that Troy has? But they are inside now. In the Troy. In the Palace. In her bedroom. There are only two of them. I recognize the one that is holding Andromache is Neoptolemus, son of Achilles. She is begging him for the life of her son Astyanx. But he is no mood to let Astynax go. The other man is holding the little Astyanx from his feet. I recognized that other man too. But what is he doing? More of so, why is he doing this. Andromache asks the same question to him. While going over to the balcony, he replied,
“For he shall not seek revenge from my nation!”
He is about to throw that child from the balcony. A child not even capable to walk by himself! I see that that man has no regret or mercy for what he is about to do. I know that he will throw the baby and I cannot be a deaf and dumb witness to it.
I shouted, “Odysseus! Please don’t.”
But before my voice reaches him, he threw that child from the balcony. I cannot see any regrets for their deeds in the eyes of any of the two men. Yes! He is a murderer. Hero of my other work is nothing else but a murderer. A stone-heart who kills a child for the crimes that he may have never committed.
I shout in anger, “No! You are no Hero!”
“What!? What happened?”
My vision is fading away. The Troy is flying away from me. I am again in my chair, back from the journey of history. The only change I can see is that the paper in front of me seems full of writing. The scenes that took place before my eyes are all written on the paper as that happened.
“Father! What happened? Why were you shouting?” My 10 year old asked me.
“Nothing. Just a bad dream!”
“You want to know something interesting? I beat up Euripedes.”
“Why? Why would you do that?”
“For Greece!”
“What!?”
“HaHa! Nothing. We were performing the drama from the Trojan War theme. He was one of the Trojans. That’s why!”
That sparkled my eyes. I was again in a dilemma that whether I should add my recent writings to my work named ‘Iliad’ or not! I took those papers and threw them in the fire.
“Father! Why did you burn them!?”
I turned around. Smiled and whispered, “For Greece!”
