Polyxena----Princess of Troy



(1 )

I remember the day when all these began.
I was nine, and had to rely on someone to hold me up before I could peep over the battlement on the citadel of Troy.  It must have been one of my brothers, I forgot that part.  Something more dramatic was getting hold of my attention.
It was a beautiful dawn when the first line of ships broke the horizon. I side-glanced at my father and saw him gulp down his shock and surprise. There were so many of them, galleons with full sails displaying the insignia of renowned chiefs: Ithaca, Sparta, Mycenae among many more.  Oars on both sides of the vessels dipped and rose, adding speed to the menacing crafts of war.  And after the first line, there more, many more.
“There must be more than a thousand ships!” Some exclaimed.  Heads turned, icy eyes gazed at the undiplomatic speaker.  Nothing hurt more than such stark truth.
Only Cassandra, my elder sister, remained perfectly still, nodding slowly as she cast her green eyes over the vast blue waves now littered with ships.  Cassandra was right again, though nobody ever believed her prophesies until they came to pass.  They said she was both blessed and cursed by her patron god Apollo: blessed so that she could see into the future, cursed in that she was never taken seriously.
“This will bring war and destruction to Troy!” she had declared in one of her fits on the same day when Paris brought Helen into the great hall of our palace. Her accusing finger pointed at the new bride of my brother.  She was also the former queen of Sparta from where she had eloped with my brother.  
They said she was the most beautiful woman in the world.  In a way, I could not demur. Her head with its tumbling golden fleece, a face so fair, shoulders so slender, bosom so full and proudly erect, a waist that seemed easily held by two hands, she was in every way everything a man would desire.  But there was more than physical beauty that made her so special.  Helen was irresistible as she possessed a unique quality that would arouse the desire of any man to willingly lay down his life to protect her. It was present in every tiny movement she made: the down-casting of her eyes as if in deep sorrow, the turn of her exquisite neck, a whisper, a sigh.  The hardest hearts would melt.  Even my father, who had seen so much of the world and countless beautiful women, was no exception. He should have sent her back.  He was determined to send her back. Once he looked into her eyes, he knew he could never bear to give that order.  
So, the Greeks came.  Her former husband Menelaus, came. Agememnon, brother of Menelaus, High King of the Greeks, came. Odyssey of Ithaca, the most cunning of the lot, came. And Achilles, the most feared leader of the Myrmidons, came.
Hector, my brother and designated heir of my father, later told me that the Greeks would come no matter if Paris brought back Helen or not.  Agememnon’s ambition to control the trade lanes made war between Greece and Troy inevitable.  Helen was only his long-waited excuse. That might be true.  Nevertheless, they came in her name: a face that launched a thousand ships and spilled rivers of blood on our shores.
The first line of ships had neared the shallow coast.  I saw the first of the foes jumped down from the side and waded ashore, daring others follow him. This Greek slew four of our men, two of them my half-brothers, before he was struck down.  I later learned that he was called Protesilaus, and he was honored for willingly be the first to land as an oracle had declared that the first one to do so would be the first to fall.  
I saw the lines came closer and closer: the Greeks surging up the beach and our men rushing down to try pushing them back into the sea.  I saw men fall, blood spilt, armour of the fallen removed by victors, the white naked bodies of the victims left on the sand awashed by incoming tides.  All these I saw on a spot so high, so removed was I from the cries of pain, the horror of deaths that my eyes were drawn towards the play of slaughter down below.  
“Take her back to the palace.  It is no scene suitable for a young girl.” Priam, my father roared.  
Against my will I was pulled back from the battlements and hushed back to the security of my chamber.  
“Do not worry, my child.  It would soon be over. Hector will drive them back into the sea,” my mother whispered into my ear.
But she was wrong.
It was not over, not for a long while.
For the next nine years, Troy was under siege. There were countless battles in which more people died, among them many I held dear.  Forever my life was changed.  The leisure of quiet summer evenings filled with sweet songs were gone, replaced by the sound of battle-drums and trumpets, cries declaring victories or moans of despair at set-backs. Smoke columns rivaled the height of our tall towers: smoke from burning ships and pyres cremating the dead.
Hecuba, my mother, taught us how to uphold our courage and dignity even in face of great sadness and loss.  And great losses there had been.  She had lost many of her sons, my brothers.  I often disappointed her, for it was not in my nature to act stoic in face of grief. Although I tried hard to keep back my tears, they would seep out each time a close one failed to return.
War, had become more than stage-plays from afar. Somewhere along these nine years, my childish innocence died. In the midst of war, a princess metaphoric from a carefree larvae to butterfly, always on the alert of sudden perils, or ill-tidings. My parents were kind to us, I especially, as I was their youngest, a girl, and one with exceptional beauty, so they told me.  With such love they had tried to shield me from the bloodshed just outside our gates.  But you could never shut out sufferings like that, not of this magnitude, not for so many years long.
I had wished to be born a male, a prince-warrior who could put up a bronze armour and take share in the battle-line, fighting for our people and if necessary, fall heroically, like so many of my kin.  But this was not to be.  I was too weak to bear arms and could hardly have the strength to draw a bow.  I could ride though.  After all, I am a sister of Hector, the tamer of horses.
I watched.  I learned.  I grew.
I am Polyxena, daughter of Priam, princess of Troy.

(2)

It was impossible to fight on every single day for nine years.  
Should that be the case, there would not be enough warriors from either side to be slain  Fierce battles were inter-spaced by quieter days of stand-offs, games on special occasions such as divine days of certain gods or goddesses, and even feasts when an ally from afar would join us.  
The confidence that we would prevail was always there.  The walls of Troy were high and reputedly could not be breached. We had so many allies who were no friends of the Greeks.  And if friendship might not be a strong reason to bring our allies to fight on our side. There was an abundance of gold in my father’s coffer.  For Troy was rich, its riches the result of three generations of trade, the city sited in a commanding position at the throat of caravan routes. Copper and tin mines brought us further wealth and Greece armor would be hard to make without our supply of tin.  Perhaps this was a more important reason to have brought the thousand ships.  Agememnon knew: if Troy stands, Greece will always remain in a shadow.
Year after year the war dragged on with neither side coming out as victor.  The stalemate was proving insufferable for both sides and there had been more than one occasion that a more straight-forward way was proposed to end the war.  Personal duels between Paris, the wrong-doer and Menelaus, the wronged were arranged with Helen as trophy.  But Paris was no fighter and instead of fighting to the bitter end, he chose to flee, relying on his light of feet to outrun his rival.  Indignant at the cowardice of his brother and yet not cruel enough to force the latter to be slaughtered in single combat, Hector intervened and a personal duel degenerated into general melee. More blood, more deaths.  Further stalemate.
I would not repeat how it came about that Achilles, the most fearsome of the enemy warriors withdrew from the fight, over the quarrel with Agamemnon, how his friend and rumored lover Patroclus was slain by Hector who had mistaken him for Achilles and once realizing the error, had stripped the fallen Patroclus of the armor which had been lent him by his lover-friend. All these I did not personally witnessed as I was ordered by my mother to stay inside the palace.  
I only joined the conflict in person when Hector, the bastion of Troy, fell under the spear of his born-rival as a warrior outside the Scaean Gates.
The wailing of the entire city at the sight of Hector falling onto the dust shook the foundation of Troy at its very roots. My mother could no longer put up her stoic façade as she tore her buxom attire to express her despair.  Together with Cassandra and I, we rushed up the ramparts and joined the wailing Andromache, holding tight the baby infant Astyanax.
I looked over the battlement and saw my brother lying spread-eagle just more than an arrow’s flight from the walls, his magnificent armor being stripped by the victor. In naked death, Hector still looked so worthy of the mightiest Trojan warrior. Even from the great distance, I could see the white of his eyes which had stayed open, as if pleading one last look at his beloved wife Andromache and Astyanax, their off-spring. His torso was so white with battle-scars here and there that he had gathered over the years of fighting. We could see the patch of crimson red over his chest, the point of entry by the blade of his opponent that took his life.  The weapon had since been withdrawn.  Achilles was now busy tying the feet of my brother together.  The whole city looked in horror as the body of our prince was towed behind the chariot of the victor, slowly at first before gaining speed as Achilles whipped his horses into gallop.  Three times round the city of Troy he went, the dead body of Hector trailed and bumped over rocks and sand, leaving streams of red in its path.
“No! Mercy!” My mother shouted over the walls.
My father, for the first time of his life, wept before me.
Andromache held her head with her hands in despair, Helen now having taken over the child who cried without knowing the reason for the clamor around him.
I did not cry.
If my sight could be turned into poisoned arrows, I would pray to Apollo to grant me the power to strike down the slayer of my brother, at the price of turning me blind ever after.  What was the use of sight now that the pride of Troy was destroyed?  
I hated him.  I would hate him as long as I live.
“I will kill him.” I whispered.
A hand landed on my shoulder.  It belonged to Cassandra.
“You will bring about his death.  And then, he will bring about yours.” She said.
I turned towards her, not fully comprehending.  When I swore, it was made out of spite.  How could I kill him when I was not even a warrior?  Even if I were trained in the arts of war, what chance could I have when even Hector failed?  And how could he bring about my death when he was dead himself?  I believed not in the vengeance sought by ghosts. But even if I did, nothing would stop me from taking his life.  I swore this over the blood of my brother.  
And then he stopped the chariot, just in front of the walls, directly facing the point where we stood.  As if showing off his vanity, he removed his helmet and shook loose his mane of golden hair.  Our eyes met, even in that great distance, and I felt a coldness down my spine.  
There was something in those eyes that nobody really noticed.
I did.
It was something we had in common.
It was loneliness.