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It was late at night, when the Achaeans left their hiding place, the giant wooden horse, filled with soldiers. They had stayed in the statue for many hours, waiting until the city of Troy had fallen asleep.
When the partying of the false victory came to an end, the sun had long set in the ocean, leaving only torches to light up the night. The people of Troy felt the need to celebrate long and extensively after ten years of war. The Achaeans would celebrate victory too, though that would have to wait until morning.
Teucer climbed out of the horse quickly, ignoring the drunken trojans that had fallen asleep, succumbing to exhaustion and alcohol. Someone else would take care of them.
His comrades spread out. Some cut the throats of the unsuspecting men around the wooden statue, so that they would never awaken from their dreams, others ran towards the gate, to open the heavy door and allow the Achaean army to storm the city.
But Teucer had a different plan. He longed to see the beauty and wealth of the city before all was sacked and burned. Instead of joining the others he found a path leading him to the king’s house and ran ahead before others could have the same idea.
He wished his brother were with him, the great Ajax. The strand of hair Teucer had cut off at his brother’s funeral had only just started to regrow. His brother should be here, he thought. His brother deserved to see this too, experience the destruction of the enemy they had fought for ten long years. But Ajax had already entered the underworld, now dwelling among the dead as one of them.
Ajax had been one of the greatest of the Achaeans, stronger than all others, unrivaled in combat and a mighty opponent. Even stronger than Hector, the Trojans champion.
In the ninth year of the war Teucer was on the battlefield when Hector appeared on the front line. But instead of joining the fight the trojan warrior had restrained his own men, telling them to sit down. And because Hector was a trusted man, they had obeyed his command.
And then the Achaeans had sat down as well, waiting for the noble Trojan to speak. To Teucer it had seemed all so bizarre, both sides sitting on the ground when they usually fought each other on, amongst the bodies of the already fallen warriors.
And when Hector had spoken all the men had listened. Teucer was certain that even the gods had been paying attention. “Trojans and Achaeans, listen to my words,” The trojan prince had called out, “Zeus promises ill for all of us until either you destroy my city or until you are defeated at the Trojan shore. But of your princes here, choose one as champion to fight against me alone. If he defeats me, then he may take my armour, but he will return my body to my father, so that I can receive a proper burial. And should I win, then I will treat him the same and surrender his corpse to his friends, so that you may build a tomb to honour him.”
At first the Achaeans had hesitated to volunteer as champions. They all had been hesitant to face Hector in battle. Teucer himself had decided against fighting the Trojan, knowing full well that he was outmatched. Besides, the Achaeans would have never allowed someone half-trojan like himself to represent them.
But Ajax had volunteered, eager to face Hector. And he had been chosen, but not by luck.
The Achaeans had decided that everyone who wanted to fight in the duel should cast his lot into the leader’s helmet and the man whose lot fell out first when the container was shaken would be their champion. The result should have been decided by chance or maybe a god’s hand. But Teucer had watched as Ajax had picked the lightest lot for himself, so that outcome was certain.
And so it had been Ajax who fought against Hector.
The duel had started with the two opponents lunging at each other with their spears in their hands, ready to strike each other as soon as their enemy came in range.
Teucer’s heart had beat faster than ever with fear for his brother’s life. But of course his concern had been unfounded, for when Hector’s spear struck against Ajax’s shield, the sound of bronze hitting against bronze rang across the silent crowd of onlookers, but nothing more happened. Ajax, fully unharmed, hit his own spear against Hector’s buckler. But instead of the shield stopping the weapon, the spear slashed right through the defense, cutting into the enemy’s neck.
Teucer remembered his relief at the sight of the enemy wounded. His brother already had the advantage. And though no god had been willing to protect the Achaean warrior, the Trojan hadn’t been saved by divine intervention either.
Then the warriors had turned on each other with heavy stones, Ajax once again protected by his large shield, when the stone slammed against the bronze. But Ajax's throw had been heavier and had pushed Hector to the ground.
A collective gasp had run through the crowd. Fear on one side, hope on the other.
But before Ajax could have ended Hector’s life, Apollo had pushed the Trojan back onto his feet, forcing the fight to continue. And so it had.
And it went on until the sun set and darkness fell.
The armies, tired of the balanced battle where none of the champions seemed to gain the upper hand again, pulled the fighters apart, reasoning that their duel should not continue into the night.
Now Teucer looked at the stars above the city. He knew that soon they would be hidden behind the smoke rising from the burning city. As if the gods themselves would turn away in disgust, or maybe sorrow, at the foolish mortals burning down the earth to ash.
He passed by groups of trojan soldiers and citizens all caught in a drunken slumber and continued on his path without stopping. Someone else would have to take care of them. It wouldn’t matter if it was him who slit their throats or someone else, they all would die tonight.
The battlefield from what felt like centuries ago flashed back into his mind. Ajax and Hector had eventually settled their fight in a tie, deciding that they were too alike in skill to find a winner.
The two had parted in friendship by honouring each other with presents.
Hector had gifted Ajax a silver-studded sword, together with its scabbard and belt andAjax had given Hector a purple-dyed belt in return.
And when the Achaeans had celebrated that night, Ajax had only spoken about his opponent with the respect of an equal.
Teucer hadn’t known how to feel then. Of course he had been flooded with relief that his brother hadn’t even been injured in the duel, yet something stirred in his heart when he had heard Ajax praising Hector’s skill.
Teucer had never gotten to know Hector as anything more than an enemy, yet he had wondered from time to time what it would have been like to meet the man before the war. They were cousins after all.
Teucer’s mother had once been a princess of Troy, a sister of Hector’s father. But she had been kidnapped and given to King Telamon, Ajax’s and Teucer’s father, as a slave.
And so, when Teucer heard Ajax speak about the Trojan royal family with respect, he wondered if maybe he shouldn’t hate them either, even if they had unintentionally made his life so much harder.
Fighting in the war had never been a problem for Teucer. He had never been attached to his mother’s side of this family, had never even met them before the war, and since then only seen them on the battlefield. They had never been anything but his enemy, yet when Ajax had started calling Hector his friend, a little bit of hope had flickered in Teucer’s heart and remained there for just a moment. By the morning he had put that feeling aside again, ignored it as if it had never been there in the first place. Even if his enemies were respectable people they were still his enemies, he couldn’t change that. And if Teucer, of all people, would suddenly start sympathising with them, he could lose the last of the respect the Achaean kings showed him.
But now Teucer stood before the house where Hector had once lived, where the dead man’s remaining sisters and brothers, wife and son, and mother and father slept peacefully. He didn’t know what pulled him to this place. It was as if Fate had taken his hand and led him here. He couldn’t save his mothers family, but he wasn’t sure if he could kill them either. He took one deep breath before stepping inside the building.
All alone Teucer wandered through the halls, admiring the house. Lit torches lined his path, making his shadow flicker and dance against the walls. He had imagined the palace looking much more prosperous, just like the stories told. A rich city with wealthy people. Yet such stories were older than the war and now, Teucer noticed, the once noble city looked tired and worn from the last ten years of war and hunger and fear. It was a cruel irony, that the longer the war had lasted, the less treasures awaited them now. He wondered if perhaps leaving defeated after the first year, the second or even just yesterday might have been a better use of all their time.
Now even the richest house in Troy was muted in colour, sparse in art and lacking in gold.
He didn’t know what he was doing there, he thought as his footsteps echoed through the empty rooms. He should be outside, killing the trojan soldiers that were sleeping peacefully for perhaps the first time in a century, and he should leave the royal family for a mightier man to slay, someone whose stories would be told by the poets and bards for years to come. It wasn’t his place as a slave-son and disgraced prince.
Yet he couldn’t just turn around and join the destruction outside the walls, curiosity holding him captive and drawing him deeper into the house. But what would he do if he met anyone, a stray slave or servant roaming around, prince or princes, the King or Queen?
Would he have to kill them, while they were drunk on a false victory?
Perhaps it was a kindness that they at least got to die in the belief they had won the war. Ajax hadn’t been so lucky, stabbing his own sword though his chest in his anger and grief. For more than nine years he had fought in the war, been a part of it from the start and then he hadn’t lived the few more months to witness its conclusion.
Teucer held his bow clutched tightly in his hand. The string was fresh and unused, as he had fastened it onto the limbs only hours before. The arrows rattled softly in his quiver with every step he took. But that didn’t matter, because he wasn’t trying to be quiet. Any person awake enough to hear him approach would already have heard the carnage outside and run as far as they could.
So he was a bit surprised when he did eventually find someone. The old man that appeared in front of him, face illuminated by the torches on the walls, had the stature of a long retired fighter. Sharp, intelligent eyes were studying Teucer just as Teucer was studying him. He didn’t recognise the man, but he felt familiar in a way Teucer couldn’t describe.
The man was old, older than any of the princes of Troy, and worn by age and stress, but he was clothed in expensive fabrics. Teucer didn’t need to recognize his face to know who he must be facing.
And surprisingly, the man seemed to know him as well.
“Come into the light, young man,” King Priam spoke, “so I can see your face. I want to make sure that my eyes are not tricked by the shadows.”
When Teucer obeyed the command, he did so hesitantly. He wasn’t reaching for an arrow, but ready to do so at any moment. The King continued, “Ah, I recognise you. My sister’s son, is it not? I feared I would not be able to recognise her after all this time, but you are the perfect likeness from her in younger years. For a moment I believed her own shade had come to visit me one final time.”
Teucer stepped even closer, though the distance still felt impossibly great. Was the king not scared? Had the man not realized why he was here? Had he not seen or heard or understood what was happening to his city?
Because how else could Teucer stand in the heart of Troy, have entered undetected, if not in company with the rest of the Achaeans? Why wasn’t he afraid?
“You remind me much of my own son Paris,” the old king muttered placatingly, perhaps sensing the uneasiness in him, “the one son of mine, whom I was forced to abandon when he was not even a year old. And when he returned alive and well to me, then I felt even more joy than when I first held him in my arms. When he stood before me, seeming a blessing, I knew I had to make a decision. Already then I knew that my city and family were doomed to fall if he stayed. All of it had been shown to me. But despite being aware of what was to come, I accepted him back into my care. And like so many others he is not here today to see the prophecy fulfilled.”
The story could mean a lot of things, but it was certain that the old man had realized that an army was storming his city. Instead of running away the old King had decided to stay in the ruins of his doomed city.
Teucer wondered if that tale could mean something more, a secret meaning hidden in between the words. Had Priam told it in a final attempt to save his own life by appealing to their shared family or was it a last piece of kindness so they could both have their closure?
There had not been many people in his life that had been nice to Teucer. His mother, of course, had supported him wherever she could, but her abilities had always been limited, her influence had always been small. And then of course Ajax, who had never once hesitated to call him his brother and fought beside him during the war.
Meanwhile his father and his father’s wife had been more strict with him than with Ajax, more reluctant to accept him as part of their family. Teucer always had to prove himself to them, always giving his best.
When the brothers had joined the war against Troy, the opinions of him had often changed unpredictably. Some days he had been showered in praise, when he had once again killed an important Trojan, other times his comrades had just barely enough respect to not call him an enemy as well.
Now confronted with the unconditional affection of a total stranger, he didn’t know how to react. It felt wrong in too many ways. He felt the need to correct the King.
“I tried-” Teucer’s voice broke as soon as he first tried to speak again. It had been an entire day since he had spoken, having to remain silent while they had been hiding inside the wooden horse. “I tried to kill your son,” His voice wavered, as the many times he had stood on the battlefield, fighting against Troy, came rushing back to him.
Once Teucer had stood on the battleground, shooting one arrow after the other into the furious crowd like he did on most days. But unlike usual, Hector had appeared, cutting down the Achaeans around him from atop his chariot. Priam’s beloved son was easily recognizable amongst his comrades, standing out due to his superior skill and strength. Besides, Teucer had no trouble identifying him, for ever since the duel between the mighty enemy and his brother Ajax, Teucer had burned the image of the other warrior into his mind in case they came across one another.
At that duel Teucer had made two important realizations, which had stuck in his mind from then on.
Firstly, that Hector was not invincible, that he could bleed, and surprisingly easily too, that even under Apollo’s protection the man could be harmed.
And second, though all the more important, that if there were one person in the entire world that could be a threat to Ajax, then that person would be Hector. No one, no one else would be able to match Ajax’s strength, no one else was able to harm him.
And with those two facts in his mind, Teucer hadn’t hesitated to draw his bow and aim for the son of Priam.
That day he had also made two mistakes.
Yes, Hector could be hurt, but the God Apollo still stood by his side. Any arrow that Teucer had shot had harmlessly whipped past, failing to strike the target. One arrow after the other, all intended to be fatal was deflected by the gods hands.
Instead they hit the people around Hector, one killing his charioteer.
That had been Teucer’s first mistake.
Enraged, Hector had cried out loudly, jumping from the chariot onto the battleground.
As Teucer had readied another arrow, he had wondered if that was the first time his cousin noticed him. He had wondered briefly if he was about to be recognized or if he would seem just like any other Achaean.
If Hector had noticed any resemblance, then he had fully ignored it, as the man had taken a heavy rock from the ground and had hurled it at him.
And Teucer’s second mistake that day had been fighting on his own, for he had no one to protect him as the stone hit him against the collar-bone, where neck and chest were separated. The drawn bowstring had snapped in his hand, the threat slashing a welt into his hand and wrist like a whip.
Next he had fallen to his knees from the sudden impact and immediately following pain. His hand had grown numb around the angry red line on his skin. The bow had dropped to the ground at his side uselessly.
In that moment Teucer had realised that it was the first time he ever had to watch out for himself, because his brother hadn’t been close enough to protect him with his shield. Teucer believed that he had, in that moment, looked death straight in the eyes and somehow still survived.
Ajax had been there when he needed him, running to his aid. His brother had used the shield he carried, held it above him, and sheltered them both from harm.
And then Ajax had stayed with him, hiding him from sight until their comrades had carried him off the battlefield to recover.
Teucer missed the times they had spent together, fighting side by side.
The brothers always came running, when they heard the other in distress.
Once, while Hector had led his comrades to the ships, which rested on the Trojan shore, intending to burn them down and thereby making the Achaeans unable to flee.
And Ajax had stood strong on top of the deck of one ship and defended it from the torches. And though he had protected the flammable hulls from any damage Teucer's brother hadn’t managed to protect his comrades and the Trojan prince had used the opportunity to slay their friend Lycrophon.
Teucer remembered how Ajax's voice had cut loudly through the cries of the battle, when he had yelled, “Teucer, get your bow and arrows and join me!”
As soon as Teucer had heard his brother’s command, he ran to his side and joined him, shooting bronze-tipped arrows at the attackers.
But when he had aimed at Hector, the string snapped in his hand once more. That time, it must have been godly intervention, the mighty Zeus himself, who foiled his shot. As the threat broke, Teucer had felt an electric tingle in his fingers, where they made contact with the bow and he let the weapon drop to the ground. The arrow, which had been readied with the intent to rob Hector of his life, harmlessly flew astray. The limbs of his bow sprung into the opposite direction, as the string failed to keep them in the proper position.
Teucer had shuddered in anger after his brain had caught up the moment, because he had made the effort to string a new string on the bow in the morning, so that it would reliably shoot as many arrows as needed throughout the day.
Despite that misfortune, he had been largely unharmed and had returned to the battle with a spear and shield instead, having to listen to Hector telling his comrades of Zeus’ support.
When withered hands settled on his face, Teucer was ripped from the memories, drawn back to the current moment. Priam was holding him gently, as if he had not heard what Teucer had said.
“My boy, don’t be afraid. I love all my children, yet I care about my brothers and sisters as well. And their children too, I love them like my own. Even when I should feel nothing but anger,” the King told him softly.
Teucer could smell the scent of fire, a faint orange glow shone through the windows, illuminating the room. “I didn’t kill Hector,” he said, “That was Achilles. But amongst the people I slew were Melanippos and Gorgythion, who were your sons as well. That you should know, before you judge me as blameless.”
“I know and I loved them. And I know you aren’t blameless, but neither am I nor are my sons. There were many times where I could have stopped the war, even before it had started, for the gods told me it would happen. I could not send Paris away a second time and when I chose to shelter him and beautiful Helen, despite my knowledge of what would happen if I protected them, I accepted whatever the gods would let happen. I am to blame for Troy’s fall as much as all others involved. That is a heavy guilt weighing me down,” Priam explained, “And just as you’ve hurt my family, mine has hurt yours. We might have had no part in your half brother’s demise, yet it was my child who killed Achilles, your cousin. We all are at fault for each other’s suffering, no one of us is innocent.”
Teucer blinked, feeling a void of emotions. He didn’t care about Achilles, he was unsure if he ever had. He had only cared about Ajax. Had Ajax cared about Achilles? After all they were cousins as well. Maybe.
No Ajax had definitely cared, Teucer was certain of it. After Achilles had been shot by Paris, Ajax hadn’t been in control of his actions. He had been irrational. He had been furious while Teucer had just been numb.
“I wish,” the King filled the silence. He was still holding onto Teucer. “I wish you and your mother had lived here. She would have lived like the princess she was born as. And you, you would have never been alone. I would have loved you like my own son. I would have raised you and you would have never fought against us.”
Teucer allowed himself to indulge in the dream for a while.
He would have seen wealthy Troy by daylight. He now would never be able to, for when the sun would rise, the city would already be in ashes.
He would have seen his mother smile. Something he had believed she couldn’t.
He would have known the part of his family, which he had only met during the war.
Priam would have been kind, kinder than Teucer’s father ever had been.
Hector, Hector would have treated him like a younger brother, Hector would have cared for him. Hector could have been his Ajax.
He would have trained together with Paris. They would have learned archery together, fought side by side on the city’s high walls.
He would have…
He would have fought in the war as well, but this time on the other side. He would have seen the Achaeans as his enemy, would have done anything to stop them from destroying his home.
He would have stood upon the battlefield and might have taken Paris’ place. Might have aimed for Achilles. Might have killed him. Might have felt triumph as the strongest of the Achaeans was killed by his hands.
But he might also have fought Ajax. Would his half-brother have recognised him? Would he have known? Would he have cared?
Or would he have taken a stone and hurled it at Teucer. Would he have pierced him with his spear? Would he have stabbed him with his sword?
Would his giant shield have protected him, and only him, from Teucer’s arrows? Or would Teucer never have tried to shoot him in the first place?
Teucer could imagine his own demise, slain by his own brother’s hand. It seemed so real that for a moment he believed it was about to happen.
He was on the ground, fallen, injured, but alive. He was scrambling backwards as Ajax approached, looming over him like a giant. His half brother’s shadow fell over him as he stared upwards with frightened eyes.
Ajax picked up a stone, larger than Teucer’s head, ready to let it drop downwards to crush his chest and skull.
Then Ajax looked at him, their gazes meeting and he recognised his brother. He froze while Teucer’s hands found his bow, which had been dropped into the dirt.
And Ajax waited until Teucer had aimed an arrow upwards, ready to release it from the string.
Ajax might have dropped the stone. Teucer might have shot his arrow. Maybe one of them had died, maybe both. Or perhaps they had just stepped apart and both lived to see tomorrow.
The vision suddenly was too abstract. Teucer did not believe he was capable of fighting his brother. He could not imagine killing Ajax. He could not imagine Ajax dying. No one could kill him, for it must surely be impossible.
No one, not Teucer, not Hector, not anyone from either side, but only Ajax himself.
He had not been present at Ajax's death, had not witnessed it, yet the news had reached him quickly. He remembered running through the camp, ignoring everyone around him as frantically he searched for his brother. He remembered his throat hoarse from uneven breathing and from shouting his denial of the situation.
He remembered, as clear as the present, finding his Tecmessa, his brother’s wife, beside a body covered by a heavy cloak. He remembered falling to his knees at the sight, believing all joy to have left the world.
He remembered it all.
And then, despite the sight, he had forced all the emotion to the side and had asked the grieving widow where her son was. And then he had told her to hurry and bring the child to him. It had been Ajax's wish that they would remain safe, even after his death. Ajax had entrusted his brother with the care for his family. His wife and son, who would, if Teucer would not protect them, return to a life as slaves.
And so, Teucer had ensured their safety first and only when he had been left alone, let himself grief for as long as he was allowed.
Ajax had not sought for him to say goodbye, maybe if he had, Teucer thought, maybe then his death could have been prevented. Maybe he could have convinced him to stay, if not for Ajax’s own sake, but Tecmessa, Eurysaces and Teucer.
With a pressing need to see Ajax, he had drawn aside the cloak, and had found not only his brother’s lifeless body but also the bloodied murder weapon. A beautiful, silver studded sword.
Since then he had not thought clearly. He remembered Tecmessa returning, her son Eurysaces, named after his Ajax’s mighty shield, at her side. Teucer remembered instructing the boy to take a strand of hair from all three of them and kneel before the body, so that Ajax would have the strength to reach the underworld. He remembered telling the boy that he’d protect him and make sure no one would interrupt the ritual.
He remembered the Achaean kings arriving, intending to stop the burial and bring Ajax dishonour even after his death, saying an uncontrollable man like him did not deserve a proper funeral. He remembered standing before them, insulting them, being insulted.
The memory was only distant and blurred by emotion.
The last thing he remembered from that day was turning to his brother’s son and saying, “My child, show your father your love for him by helping me carry the body.”
He had left the silver-studded sword behind in the sand.
“It was Hector’s gift, which my brother used,” Teucer told Priam. “Until his end, he had spoken of your son with admiration. He called him a friend. But even so I can not leave his family behind and therefore I can not accept your kindness. You must wake your sons and daughters, all who you care about and leave, for even if I will not kill you, I cannot promise you my protection.” With these words, he escaped the king’s grasp, stepping away. “I wish a kinder future upon you then what fate has prophesied, King of Troy.”
When he stepped out into the streets he smelled the smoke, saw the flickering flames and heard the crackling of the fire. The streets were already coated in ashes and blood.
By morning Troy would be burned to the ground. By morning his mother’s family would have all been killed.
People rushed around, screaming in triumph or in pain, depending on which side they belonged to. A few Achaeans hurried past him, into the house which he had just left behind. He didn’t stop them. It didn’t matter.
Soon he would set sail for his own homeland. He would take all the treasures his brother had won with him, he would ensure the safety of Tecmessa and Eurysaces until they reached his brother’s home. Then Teucer would face the wrath of the king as he informed him of the depressing news. And then he would convince Telamon to let Ajax's wife and son stay, if no one else. He would make sure his father understood that his brother had loved them, had not cared that his wife was a slave and that he had loved his son no less, despite the boy’s mother’s standing.
And then Teucer would leave, and he would go far far away, and he would start a new life.
The ashes, illuminated by the first light of a new day, glowed golden as Teucer walked out of the gates of a city that, once upon a time, could have been his home.