The Siege of Troy: Shakespeare’s Imagined Play

Shakespeare:

Good gentles all, lend me your patient ear,
for here we set before you an ancient wound,
that bled when kings were but men in armour
and women wept upon the walls of stone.

Behold, this tale is not new—for Homer sang it,
and poets since have draped it in their tongues.
Yet still it burns, as embers hidden in old ash,
that flare when breath of theatre blows.

Here shall you see the city Troy—
her towers proud, her gates betrayed,
her princes slain, her prophetess scorned,
her fairest bride a prize and curse.
Here shall you hear Cassandra cry,
though laughter mocks her foresight;
here Hector, noble, meets his hour
against Achilles’ rage.
Here shall you watch a horse, more deadly
than ten thousand spears,
rolled within the gates by revelry and drink.

And yet, amid the ruin, note ye this:
where crowns fall and spears clash,
a Fool shall strum his broken lute,
and whisper to you what princes dare not say.
For folly speaks wisdom where pride is deaf,
and jest uncovers what prophecy veils.

Call it tragedy, call it mirror:
it is the story of cities that forget,
of fathers who sacrifice sons,
of women who foretell and go unheard.
Mark it well—for though Troy be dust,
its echo walks our markets still.

So, if your hearts be strong enough,
enter with us the blazing gates.
Let fire write the lesson,
and ash deliver the truth.

Act I — The Spark and the Shadow

Scene I — The Prophet Scorned

A high place upon the walls of Troy. Torches gutter in a wind that smells faintly of the sea. A few Citizens linger; a Watchman dozes against a merlon. Cassandra appears, hair unbound, eyes fevered with vision. Far below, the plain lies dark, pricked with a few hostile fires.

Cassandra
Hark how the night inhales as if to blow—
It fattens breath to feed a greater flame.
I see our roofs unpetalled, one by one,
And children roasted in to-morrow’s sun.
Not thunder’s hand, but mortal carpentry
Will root our ruin on its wooden feet.
A horse—O blind delight!—a coffin groom’d,
A belly stuffed with knives that learn our names.
Burn it, break it, drown it in the sea—
Or I shall warm my hands at Troy’s own ash.

First citizen
Peace, lady. Thou’rt Apollo’s favored mouth,
Yet faith runs from thee like a frightened foal.

Second citizen
Her words are whetstones; still, our bread is dull.
What good is prophecy that salts the wound?

Cassandra (a bitter laugh)
I am the bell that tolls before the church,
And none will pray till after bones are set.
Remember me when smoke becomes a psalm.

Enter the Fool below upon the stair, with a cracked lute and a bent spoon thrust in his belt.

Fool
Sweet lady, lend thy thunder half a jest;
Men swallow warnings better sugared first.

Cassandra (turning on him)
Do it—make pastry of the plague I cry.
Let laughter frost the cake of funeral.
When mouths grow black with soot, thy joke shall cough.

She descends. The Watchman stirs; the Citizens exchange uneasy looks.

First citizen (low)
If doom must come, let it come quietly.

Second citizen
Hush. The night has ears. And we have wives.

They slip away. The Fool watches the dark where Cassandra went, chastened, then touches one uncertain note that dies at once.

Scene II — A Balcony of Fire

Within Troy. A balcony overlooking the city. The moon is bright; far off, the Greek camp pricks the rim of the world. Paris and Helen enter softly.

Paris
Night’s silver tongue would flatter even grief,
Yet I believe it when it praises thee.

Helen
Praise is a leash that pulls me to the pit.
This face—this bright misfortune—hunts my steps.
I am no woman, Paris, but a sign
Men read the way to murder by.

Paris
If thou be sign, then I will miss the road,
And lose me in thy meaning. Let them rage;
What is a city, if our breath be torn?

Helen (half-fierce, half-broken)
A city is a thousand mothers’ milk,
A hundred wells that sing, a roof for songs.
I hear them crack whenever thou dost kiss.
O would that Aphrodite took her bribe
In ugliness, and left me free to walk
Unhunted as a shadow at noon’s edge.

Paris
Then blame the gods that lease us to their games;
Do not indict the heart that shelters thee.

Helen (after a silence, yielding a little)
I blame the sea that brought me, not the shore.
Hold me, yet hold the weight that clings to me—
My name, my shame, the ruin in my hair.

He gathers her. Below, a patrol of spears goes by like a moving hedge; their torches flicker like far-off warning flowers.

Paris
Let day be deaf. To-night I hear but thee.

Helen (softly)
Then kiss me once for every house that burns—
And count them as they come.

Scene III — The Council of Division

The council chamber. Priam upon the throne, thin with sleeplessness. Lords stand in murmuring knots. Hector in armor; Deiphobus and Antenor at odds. The Fool idles near a pillar, spoon flashing like a cheap medal.

Priam
My bones remember peace the way old wounds
Recall the weather. Children, speak me sense.

Hector
Sense is a spear that points at present need.
The Greek sea bristles like a winter field;
Their iron harvest waits our hesitating.
Arm Troy. Let duty take the saddle up.

Antenor
Duty may ride; yet prudence holds the reins.
We starve our bellies to feed battle’s pride.
Sue terms—buy time—grow bread and sons again.

Deiphobus
Buy chains, thou mean accountant of thy skin?
Peace is a hood the wolf wears to the fold.

Hector (to Antenor)
Thy caution is a candle in a gale—
It shows thy fear and helps the wind to find thee.

Antenor
And thy boldness is tinder near a forge.
Let passion set the city’s beard alight?

Fool (leaping to a chair)
Settle it with chairs! Whoever sits
Closest to wine commands the eastern gate;
Who waits the longest for the roast sues peace;
Who eats the bones alone shall fight alone!

Uneasy laughter. Priam raises a hand; the room quiets.

Priam
I have outlived too many trumpetings
To trust the one that calls me now to cheer.
Yet hunger’s cheek is hollow in the streets,
And rumor fattens even while men thin.
My sons—my lords—
shall age lay down its fear
And let young iron try? Or clutch at hope
Like beggars clench a crust too small to share?

Hector (kneeling, then rising)
Father, if I must die, let me die fed
With purpose, not with rumor. Give me leave.

Priam (touching his head)
Leave I must give, or lose thee to contempt.
Go—be the wall the people think they touch.

Hector bows to depart. Cassandra appears at the doorway, hair wild, breath quick.

Cassandra
You measure with a broken merchant’s scale.
The weight you seek is death. The coin you pay
Is Hector—Hector—reckon up the loss!

Deiphobus (aside)
The wind grows shriller when the bells are cracked.

Priam (to Cassandra, aching)
Child, if the gods would send us kinder news—
But all thy tidings bite.

Cassandra (lifting a hand as if to bless and strike at once)
’Tis mercy to be bitten ere one’s throat
Is sweet for knives. I see a wooden smile—
It grins with planks and hides an army’s teeth.
Swear, father, here—thou wilt not drag it home.

Priam (shaken, then weary)
I swear to weigh what mercy bids me weigh.

Fool (aside, low)
He swears to scales that lean where hope is piled.

Trumpets without. Hector exits for muster. Cassandra stares after him as if trying to hold him with her gaze and failing. She turns and goes. Priam’s hand trembles on the arm of the throne.

Scene IV — The Fool’s Banquet Jest

Night. A long hall lit by torches; dancers and servants, a table where nobles crowd too close. Priam presides with the gravity of someone far away. The Fool climbs upon a trestle, lute in hand; the bent spoon gleams at his belt. Cassandra lurks near a pillar.

Fool (singing lightly at first)
Glory wears a laurel crown,
Laurel dries and tumbles down;
Kings drink deep and call it right,
Morning learns the name of night.

Laughter, cups knocking. He flourishes the spoon like a marshal’s baton.

Fool (quicker, sprightlier)
Beat the kettledrums with bones,
Let the baker grind the stones;
Feed the forge with father’s chairs,
Heat the steel with mother’s prayers!

The nobles roar. He hops down, dances a step, then stills—voice lowering, tune souring.

Fool (darker)
Sharpen, sharpen, honest blade,
Bless it, priest, parade it, maid;
When the song has had its fill,
Steel will sing what singers will.

A hush. A Lord forces a laugh too loudly to break it. The Fool bows to Priam; Priam attempts a smile that never forms. Cassandra steps out of shadow, eyes burning.

Cassandra
You clap for prophecy in motley told,
Yet gag the same when naked truth appears.
I smell to-morrow baking in your bread—
It tastes of cinders. Spit it out while still
Your tongues remember water.

Antenor (tossing a crumb)
Sweet saint of ash, eat with us or depart.

Cassandra (laughs once, a hard bright sound)
Eat? I have eaten smoke since I could speak.
My teeth are gray with it.

She rushes toward Priam, stops short, pleading and dreadful.

Cassandra
Father, bind thy hope. Make fast thy mercy.
When strangers lay a smile before thy gate,
Do not call courtesy what hides a knife.
Swear—swear thou wilt not crown our ruin, swaddled
In timbers, ribbons, hymns and holy lies.

Priam (breaking, almost to himself)
O gods, if any god still keeps a hearth,
Send me a dream that does not die at dawn.

He cannot answer her. She sees it, recoils as if struck, then turns a blazing gaze upon the hall.

Cassandra
Dance. Drink. Unstop the wines.
You cannot drown a city with your throats—
The sea will do it for you.

She goes. Murmurs coil and break. The Fool watches her vanish, then looks upon the nobles who nervously refill their cups.

Fool (soft, to himself and the audience together)
I am her echo wearing bells for ears.
I gild the blade with rhyme and call it safe.
Take heed, my trade will murder me anon.

He lifts the lute. The tune he begins is bright and foolish; the words he chooses are daggers wrapped in silk. The hall, not listening closely, laughs in the wrong places. Priam does not laugh. He stares at the dark between two torches, where a shape like a wooden head seems for a breath to form, and be gone. He rises, trembling, and speaks aside into the dim.

Priam (soliloquy)
Age, thou art winter that would bargain spring.
I lay my hands upon a City’s pulse
And feel it racing, sick with rumor’s fever.
If I pour water, warriors call it tears;
If I pour wine, the widows choke on it.
Hope is a crust the hungry snatch from kings,
And I, a father, hold it out—
though ants of doubt bite up along my arm.
What shall I do? Deny my folk a dawn
Because the prophet says it hides a fire?
Or grant them this small dream to sleep upon,
And wake to what God wills?
O hearth-gods, clay and paint,
If you have ever kept a kettle’s lid
From rattling with dread, keep now my hand
From signing Troy to ash.
Yet if our end be written, make me wise—
To spend my last small coin on gentleness.

He sinks back. The Fool’s song ends in a flourish; cheers shake the rafters that also tremble with a faint, far hammering—somewhere beyond the wall, like hooves beneath the earth. Torches bow and gutter, then steady.

Fool (under his breath, touching the spoon)
A toy that apes an axe. Remember, hand.

Blackout.

Act II — The Rising Flame

Scene I — The Clash of Champions

Before the Scaean Gate. Trumpets. Hector emerges in armor, face stern, while Ajax lumbers forward from the Greek line, massive and sweating. Trojans gather on the walls; the Fool dangles from a ladder, watching like a crow on a branch.

Ajax
Clear way, clear way! A mountain comes to fight.
I’ll mash thee into porridge for my slaves.

Hector
Then bring a bowl, for I am steel and fire.
If mountain falls, it falls with echo proud.

They clash—Ajax’s heavy swings against Hector’s swift deflections. Ajax stumbles, regains, charges. The Fool mimics his blunders with grotesque gestures, making the crowd laugh nervously.

Fool (calling)
O noble peak, beware the molehill’s wit!
Thou’lt trip thyself and call it Hector’s hand.

Hector thrusts, forcing Ajax back. Finally Hector’s spear is at Ajax’s throat. He spares him with a bow.

Hector
Yield, giant. Live to boast thou saw’st me stand.

Ajax (panting)
I yield not honor, only weary breath.
But know—thy mercy cuts me deeper still.

Ajax slinks away. The Trojans cheer. The Fool plucks a single comic fanfare, then lets the note sour into discord. Cassandra is seen in the background, shaking her head, muttering “Not victory, only delay.”

Scene II — The Beauty’s Curse

Helen’s chamber. A loom half-woven. Moonlight glows across the floor. She pauses, thread trembling in her hands.

Helen
This face—this prison—feeds the butcher’s song.
I am no woman, but a flag of war,
A flame that men call holy while they burn.
Would I were plain! O gods, had ugliness
Been mine, the world might still have roofs for bread.

Paris enters, flushed with the news of Hector’s triumph.

Paris
Beloved, hear! Our Hector shamed the Greeks,
And Ajax flees like oxen spooked by fire.

Helen (coldly)
And yet tomorrow, widows will not eat
Such tales. Thy brother’s sweat is bought with blood—
And who pays, Paris? Always mothers, wives.

Paris (taking her hands)
Not thou. Not now. To me thou art a shrine.

Helen (snatching back her hands)
A shrine? Nay—an altar where men bleed.
Wouldst thou adore me, call me woman, not sign.
I am more curse than kiss, more wound than wife.

She tears at her hair. Cassandra appears faintly in the doorway, whispering “Ash, ash, ash.” Helen stares at her loom, then drops the thread and sinks to her knees, weeping.

Scene III — A King’s Hubris

The Greek camp. Torches crackle. Agamemnon stands before a map, chest swollen; Odysseus beside him, calm and sharp.

Agamemnon
I am the axle of the turning world!
The heavens bow when Agamemnon walks.
What gods? I am a god to mine own name.
A ladder of skulls shall bear me up to stars,
And men unborn shall mouth me like a prayer!

Odysseus (dryly)
Aye, prayer—but whispered through their teeth with hate.
Let pride strut loud, but cunning holds the knife.
This war is not for thunder, but for guile.
We’ll feed them gifts until their stomachs burst.

Agamemnon
Gifts? Speak plain.

Odysseus
A horse, colossal, wombed with steel.
They’ll drag their killers through their very gate.

Agamemnon (roaring with laughter)
A coffin that they crown! O sweetest trick!
Let Troy proclaim it mercy from the gods.
And I—Agamemnon—shall thank Olympus
For wisdom borrowed cheap from mortal wit.

Odysseus (aside)
Borrowed? Nay—stolen, like their wives.
Let him boast; I will count the corpses.

Scene IV — The Cloak for the Child

Within Troy. Andromache sits folding her son’s cloak, fingers trembling. Hector enters, helm under his arm.

Andromache
Thy boots are dark—clay or blood, I know not.
Hector, each step of thine makes widows more.
Stay—be my husband first, my warrior last.

Hector
If I stay, the walls will march upon thee,
And smoke shall be thy suitor in my stead.
Love drags my feet, but duty drags them more.

Andromache (holding up the cloak)
See—his cloak. Too small for grief to wear,
Too tender for the weight of war’s return.
Take it. Remember when thy spear is raised.

Hector (binding the cloth at his wrist)
If ever I forget, may this rag burn
Into my skin until I weep his name.

Andromache (softly)
Remember laughter, Hector.
For when thy helm is shut, the child shall not.

They embrace. Offstage Cassandra cries faintly, “Hector, Hector—his fall is written.” They hold tighter, refusing the sound.

Scene V — The Song of Spears

Marketplace. Soldiers sharpen blades; citizens gather. The Fool climbs atop a cart, cracked lute in hand. He begins a jaunty tune, mocking.

Fool (singing)
Spears are stalks in harvest fields,
Cut the grain, the body yields.
March, ye farmers, sow the plain,
Reap thy brothers down again!

The crowd laughs uneasily. He shifts, voice darker, rhythm slower.

Fool
Spears are songs the children sing,
Pointed lullabies to spring.
Lay them in their cradles deep,
Rock the babes till none shall weep.

Laughter falters. A soldier lowers his whetstone. The Fool plucks one discordant note.

Fool (grim)
Spears are graves that walk upright,
Graves that travel in the night.
Sing, my masters—sing your fill,
Spears shall sing when men are still.

The crowd grows silent. Cassandra appears, muttering “The Horse! The fire!” but is drowned by nervous murmurs. The Fool bows mockingly, but his smile fades as he looks at the smoldering torches around him.

Fool (to himself)
I jest with graves, and graves will have their turn.

The hammering of forges echoes offstage, like hoofbeats in the dark. Lights dim.

Act III — The Shattering Blow

Scene I — Visions of Ash

A high tower before dawn. The horizon is a bruise of iron. A single torch gutters, making the stones breathe firelight. Cassandra grips the parapet as if the city hangs from her fingers. Below, the plain lies still, like a sleeping beast.

Cassandra
The dark puts out its tongue to taste the wind.
I smell our names cooking in to-morrow.
O city, city—how your roofs will fold
Like weary wings that never learned the sky.
He comes to die who kept thee from the sea—
The wall that walked, the hand that held thy breath.
Hector—already iron writes thy name
Upon the page that closes over men.

She laughs once, a knife-quick sound, then almost prays.

Cassandra
O gods that carve a joke upon a womb,
Make one more jest—deceive your prophecy.
Take back the horse that grins with wooden teeth,
And let me be a liar for one day.

The Fool appears on the stair, bare-headed, his cracked lute at his side. He pauses, hearing the last line.

Fool (softly)
Wouldst thou be mortal wrong just once, sweet fire?

Cassandra (without turning)
I would be wrong enough to save a child.
(then, turning)
But truth has me by the hair.
Keep silence, Fool.
This hour has too much sound.

Fool (bowing his head)
I’ll stop my bell.
(aside)
Jest sleeps, and grief wakes hungry.

Distant horns. The first light reveals ranks moving. Cassandra shivers, then lifts her hand as if to bless the city that will not listen.

Cassandra
Farewell, good walls. Keep one last echo warm.
I go to shout against a storm’s own mouth.

They descend separately. The torch blows out.

Scene II — The Duel of Titans

The plain before the Scaean Gate. The earth is scored with old fights. Trojans and Greeks form a ring. On the walls, Priam, Hecuba, Andromache with their child, Paris, Helen, the Chorus. Cassandra stands visible upon a lower tower, hair like a black flag. A drumbeat like a heart—single, expectant. Enter Hector, steady, and Achilles, blazing.

Achilles
Thou art the city’s breath in walking brass—
I come to learn how hard a breath may break.

Hector
Thou art the storm that dreams itself a god—
I come to teach the field what harvest means.

Achilles (circling, smiling)
Teach, teach—then die.
Men love a teacher best who ends his text in blood.

Hector
Men love their sons.
I fight that boys may laugh at noon again.

Cassandra (from the tower, chanting low)
Blood for bread, and ash for laughter,
The warrior’s name goes on ahead—
The mother walks behind it.

Achilles (glancing up, amused)
Thy mad bird sings.

Hector
It sings the weather.
Strike, if thy fame be hungry.

They clash. Blow for blow, a dance of iron. Between surges, they speak, breath hinged with rage and clarity.

Achilles
I am a rumor writing flesh to flame.
The gods have whispered: I shall die too young—
So let me buy a larger name with thine.

Hector
The gods may whisper smaller than a wife.
Her tears instruct me louder than thy bronze.
I owe a child a morning without drums.

Steel screams. Achilles drives; Hector yields and counters. Gasps from the walls. Cassandra’s chant grows louder, braided with images.

Cassandra
See how the plow goes singing in the dust,
How furrow drinks the seed with iron mouth—
Now wheat is red, and harvest has a helm.

Achilles (wounded on the shield-hand, laughs)
Good! Pain is music kings can understand.
Come, wall—collapse into my appetite!

Hector (rallies, strikes)
I am not wall, but man; men bury kings.
Remember that when silence eats thy praise.

They bind. Achilles wrenches free with a brutal twist. Hector staggers.

Hector (calling to the gate, voice breaking toward tenderness)
Andromache—
if I must go before our son can read,
Teach him my name from bread, not from the bards.

Cassandra (crying out now, no chant, a human cry)
Hold! O gods, make time a net! Hold him!

Achilles (seizing the opening)
Sleep, music of the town.

He strikes. Hector falls, a slow kneeling, a man offering breath to earth. A roar—Greek triumph like a cliff collapsing; Trojan wail like something ripped from root. On the wall, Andromache’s scream tears the air; Priam gropes for stone; Hecuba lifts her arms against heaven.

Achilles (standing over Hector, panting, exultant)
Now sing me, world. I am the throat of fame—
And iron is my song.

He sets a foot on Hector’s shield. In the stunned hush, a single baby’s thin cry carries from the wall. Achilles’ smile falters just a moment; he tears his gaze away and raises his spear to claim the field.

Cassandra (hoarse, to the city)
Begin your mourning, Troy—
The gate stands open where a man once stood.

Scene III — The Grief of Priam

Inside the gate. The bier passes, Hector shrouded. Bells sound off, uneven, as if drunk on sorrow. Priam walks beside, one hand lifted toward a heaven that does not reach back. Hecuba is a figure of iron grief. Andromache follows, emptied, the child asleep from screaming. The Fool trails, hat in his hands.

Priam
Do not call this a son; call it a wall.
The northern wind hath learned our open seam.
My beard was mortar once—I held the bricks.
Salt runs from me, and all the stones grow slick.
O household gods, cheap furniture of faith,
What hearth you kept, you did not keep this fire.

Hecuba
Pour dust on crowns; the neck learns better grace.
Break bread on altars; let the priests eat ash.
If there be gods, they listen through a door
They never mean to open.

Chorus (women of Troy)
The nurse has lost her measure;
The cradle can’t remember sleep.
What lullaby shall bind a breath
That left its mother’s mouth?

Andromache (coming forward; she touches the shroud with the child’s cloak)
I laid thy armor out like afternoon—
Neat as a supper cloth, small as a hope.
Now take this rag—our son’s forgotten noon—
Bind it about the cold that learns thy name.
I knew the shape of thee with just my hands;
Let me remember one more time, by cloth.

She lays the cloak, then sways; attendants steady her. The child wakes, whimpers, tucks into her throat.

Priam (to the little household god he carries)
Poor painted stone—
thou kept’st the soup from sputtering in fear.
Keep now my breath a little, till I learn
How not to call for him.

Fool (broken, to Priam)
Would jests could patch a rent like this, my king.
I am a needle made of rusted air.

Priam (placing a trembling hand on the Fool’s shoulder)
Keep thy bells, friend; ring them at a grave.
Sometimes the dead need music more than kings.

The bier moves on. Hecuba follows like a moving curse. The Fool stands alone a heartbeat, then scrapes his sleeve across his eyes and stumbles after.

Scene IV — The Guilt of Paris

A balcony at twilight. Smoke colors the sky. Below, torch lines wander like lost stars. Helen sits by the abandoned loom; Paris stands apart, hands clenched on the rail.

Paris
I stole a candle for a private night,
And burned a city to enjoy its light.
O theft that cost the sky—
I cannot lift the bill.

Helen (quiet, but pulsing with truth)
Do not make me the altar for thy sins.
I am the hunted thing—yet hunter too.
They load my face with myth and call it cause,
While men who longed for war rehearse their lines.
The stage was built before my name was born.

Paris (turning, broken)
Still I brought tinder, and I kissed it flame.
Forgive me, Helen, if forgiveness live
Where ruin builds its house.

Helen
Forgiveness lives where truth can breathe.
Breathe truly, then: we loved, and men were glad
To find a banner for their appetite.
(looking outward)
I am so tired of being more than flesh—
A mirror where they see what hunger wants.

Paris (sudden, fierce)
Then let me feed them something they can choke.
I’ll hunt Achilles—buy with my own blood
A small receipt against this great account.

Helen (catching his arm)
Hunt thunder? It has no heart to pierce.
Stay—mourn—be human. Leave the gods their play.

Paris (pulling free, tears hot)
I cannot be a statue next to grief.
If I must die, let it be standing near
The hole I helped to dig.

Helen (after him, not loud, but it stops him a breath)
If thou must die, die looking into me—
Not into fame.
(soft)
Come back if breath allows.

Paris hesitates, then goes. Helen stands a long moment, then sets her hands to the loom. The thread slips. She stares, then begins again—one, two motions—and stops, shaking. She folds empty hands into her lap.

The Fool appears below, in shadow, and draws one spare line from the cracked lute: a note so thin it seems to cut the air rather than fill it.

Helen (hearing it, not turning)
That sound—
the city learning what it is.

Blackout gently, like a hand over a lamp.

Act IV — The Treachery of the Horse

Scene I — The Stratagem Conceived

The Greek camp at dawn. The half-built Wooden Horse looms skeletal, its ribs bright with morning. Greek soldiers hammer; the sound is like hooves. Odysseus supervises; Agamemnon strides in, pride swelling.

Agamemnon
Look, fox! Already timber bows to me.
That frame shall be my monument of gods.
Men yet unborn shall whisper Agamemnon—
And temples ring my name.

Odysseus
Temples? Nay—
call it a trap. Guile is no shrine, my lord.
This horse is nothing but a carpenter’s jest,
And men inside who hunger for the gate.

Agamemnon (roaring)
A jest that kills a city is a hymn!
I’ll let them sing it loud and call it mine.

Odysseus (aside)
He thinks the world a mirror for his roar.
I’ll count the corpses, let him count the songs.

The Horse rises; soldiers cheer. Drums echo, as if Troy’s death is already marching.

Scene II — The Debate of Folly

Council chamber of Troy. Priam on his throne, hands trembling though he smiles faintly. Nobles gathered; Deiphobus, Antenor, and others bicker. Cassandra bursts in, wild. The Fool slouches near the steps, spoon gleaming.

Deiphobus
The Greeks have gone; the shore lies bare of sails.
The horse they left must be a sign of peace.

Antenor
A sign, indeed—a trophy to proclaim
Our triumph. Bring it in, and crown the streets.

Cassandra (screaming)
No! Fools! It is a coffin on four hooves!
A womb for daggers! Burn it! Break it!
Cast it to the sea before it births fire!

Priam (gentle, tired)
Daughter, thy words grow weary with despair.
Yet hope—thin bread though it is—feeds more than smoke.
Perhaps the gods have softened at our grief.

Cassandra (laughing bitterly)
Gods? They are deaf as stone.
It is men who hide within that wood.
Priam—father—bind thy hand, or bind our graves.

The Fool leaps to his feet, spoon raised like a sword, addressing not the court but the audience beyond.

Fool
Good friends, what say you?
Would you trust a gift so grand,
A horse with belly fat as barns?
Do you call it feast—or funeral?
(laughs harshly)
Laugh now! The jest is richest at the start.

Nobles chuckle uneasily. Cassandra rages, tearing at her hair. Priam bows his head, unable to decide.

Scene III — The Procession of Vanity

Before Troy’s gates. The massive Horse stands outside, gleaming with carved eyes. Nobles gather in pomp, arguing over who will walk nearest. Cassandra clutches her hair; the Fool capers with cruel mimicry.

Antenor (puffing his chest)
I shall walk first, nearest the godly gift!

Deiphobus (shoving past)
Nay, I! My house is eldest, my voice loudest!

Fool (mocking, prancing)
Nay, I! My belly fattest, my purse emptiest!
Make way for Master Folly’s pride!

The crowd roars with laughter. Priam is carried in a litter, weary but smiling faintly. Cassandra falls to her knees before him.

Cassandra
Father, swear! Swear by Hector’s blood!
Drag not this coffin through our only gate.
You will crown your ruin with laurel!

Priam (voice breaking, yet soft)
Child—my people hunger for a joy.
Shall I deny them hope’s small bread,
Though it be baked of lies?

Cassandra (sobbing, clutching his robe)
Better no bread than ash! Better famine
Than a feast of knives!

Priam (gently removing her hands)
I am too old to banish hope.
Let them have this dream a little longer.

He signals. Trumpets. Ropes tighten; the Horse creaks forward. Cassandra shrieks and claws the ground. The Fool dances beside the ropes, spoon aloft like a marshal’s staff.

Fool (singing mockingly)
Drag it in, O sons of Troy,
Drag thy coffin home with joy!

Scene IV — The Night of Illusions

That night. A great feast within Troy. Music, laughter, drunken nobles. Torches flare. Priam sits silent, food untouched. Helen sits at her loom, hands trembling. Cassandra crouches in shadow. The Fool wanders with his lute, plucking half-songs.

Priam (aside, to himself)
The bread is stone, the wine is ash.
What banquet feeds a king whose dreams are smoke?
O gods—send me one sleep that does not break.

Helen (at her loom, whispering)
Needle, needle—why tremble so?
Weave me a shroud; I’ll wear it soon.

Cassandra (rocking, whispering)
They laugh, they drink, they sleep—
and death sharpens his teeth in wood.
Soon, soon.

Fool (to no one, strumming one discordant note)
Hush, city.
The jest is almost told.

The torches gutter. The music grows strange, hollow. Shadows swell. Outside, the Horse looms like a mountain of silence. Curtain falls on uneasy laughter dissolving into dark.

Act V — The Ashes of the City

Scene I — The Iron Unleashed

Midnight. Troy asleep. The Wooden Horse hulks against the stars. A hinge groans; hidden bolts let go. Planks yawn like a mouth. Greek warriors spill from the belly, soft-footed, blades wrapped in cloth. Elsewhere, low horns answer; watchfires gasp and die as throats are cut. A bell tolls once, wrong, and shatters into panic.

First Greek
To the gate-chain—quick! Wind it down like necks!

Second Greek
Torches—granaries first. Let famine run before us.

Windows burst; cries shear the dark. The Fool stumbles in, bareheaded, his cracked lute under one arm as if it were a child.

Fool (to himself)
Out of a toy, men hatch—eggs with knives.
Where are my rhymes? Melted in their shells.

He plucks one thin note, winces, plucks again. It is a nerve more than a tune. Trojans rush past him in night-shirts; a woman drags a child; a man fights with a stool and loses.

First citizen
We are breached in our lungs! The Greeks are breathing us!

Second citizen
To arms—O God—where are the arms?

Greek captain (off)
Open! Split the city like a nut!

The great chain drops; a portcullis shrieks upward. A stream of helms glitters like a river of cold stars. Fires take rafters. The Fool backs into a doorway and keeps plucking the one stubborn string, as if breath itself had to remember its pitch.

Fool (upward, desperate)
Cassandra—lend me one true cry!
Mine makes only straw.
(Then, to the city)
Troy—
the jest is ended. Now begins the bill.

Blackout to smoke and red roar.

Scene II — The Silence of Beauty

A small courtyard. Rubble, a toppled statue, an old stone bench. Firelight trembles at the edges as if the city itself were a brazier. Helen enters slowly, hair unbound, soot on her cheeks. She sits upon the stone. Soldiers’ feet thunder by, then eddy away in shameful hush at her presence.

First soldier (whispering)
Is it she?

Second soldier
Aye. The star men blamed for night.

First soldier
What speak we to a mirror of our hunger?

Second soldier
Nothing. Mirrors do not change the face.

They go. Helen remains. The Fool appears at the far arch, sees her, stops. He does not approach. He draws a half-breath and lays his fingertip upon the cracked lute’s loneliest string, coaxing a hesitant figure of notes, bare as bones.

Fool (from a distance)
Wouldst hear a comfort? I have none.
Wouldst hear a truth?
(He repeats the spare figure; it wobbles, then settles.)
I laughed at what thou art made to carry.
I gilded warnings till they looked like toys.
(soft)
Forgive me—for being men.

Helen stares ahead, not turning. Her hands on the stone open, close, like gills trying to breathe smoke. She inhales; the breath breaks once; she sets it back inside her chest and holds it there.

Helen (barely)
This is the sound a city makes.

The Fool bows—awkward, honest—and withdraws. Helen sets both palms flat upon the bench, as if to keep the world from tilting. She does not speak again. A far temple bell cracks like bone.

Scene III — The Mother’s Curse

A narrow street strung with smoke like wet cloth. Andromache runs in with her child clutched to her breast; the boy coughs, blinks, buries his face at her throat. Two Greek soldiers and a Captain block the way—helmets ash-dulled, eyes too awake.

Captain
Halt, lady. By conqueror’s decree—
the seed of Hector must not live.

Andromache (turning her body to hide the child)
Then hack the sun from out the day and call it lawful.
Thy words are knives that ask for wrists to shake.

First Greek (uneasy)
Captain—

Captain (to Andromache, gentler than his task)
Make it swift. Some mercies still obey.
Give me the boy.

Andromache (rocking him, voice a low song)
Hush, little lion, roof of my house,
Close thy bright eyes and find the garden.
Hear mother’s steps—they are a brook;
Hear mother’s heart—it is a drum for spring.
This is the night that turns to bread;
This is the wind that kisses sleep—
(her voice frays)
Look not at men. Look into me.

Captain (reaching)
Madam—

She wheels, placing her body like a wall between his gauntlet and the child.

Andromache
Touch him and learn what women say to gods!
O Heaven—coward architect of fates!
Thou bargainest children for the pride of kings
And call’st it justice when the prices meet!
If throne there be above this broth of smoke,
I spit upon its steps and name it ash!

Captain (to his men, pained)
Hold her.

They seize her arms. The child wails, reaching for her mouth as if to crawl back inside the word “mother.” The Fool staggers in at the lane’s end, freezes; his hand finds the lute but cannot lift it.

Andromache (to the boy, fierce whisper)
Remember me as warmth—
as bread—
as hands that fixed thy cloak.
Remember not this hour.
I forbid it, do you hear? I forbid it!

Captain (low, to a soldier)
Take him—do not let him feel the drop.

The soldier lifts the child, whose hands remain open toward Andromache as if still full of her. A dull thud off; the lane inhales and forgets how to let breath go. Andromache does not scream; sound deserts her. She folds in upon the place where sound should be, like a tent the wind withdrew from.

The soldiers back away; the Captain stares at his own hands as if they had acted without him.

Captain (to no one)
We win and cannot lift it.

They go. The Fool kneels, not touching Andromache; he sets the cracked lute beside her on the stones, a vigil without music.

Fool (hoarse)
I have no jest for widows made of air.
If grief would take a tune, I’d play my blood.

He bows his head to hers as to an altar that burned itself.

Scene IV — The Altar Profaned

The inner temple. Priam kneels at the main step, a small household god in his hands—a clay figure worn smooth by years of being believed. Hecuba stands over him, hair loosened into a thundercloud. Priests cower. Doors blaze at the edges; embers fall like red moths. A Greek Captain enters with men: not cruel, only obedient and exhausted.

Priam
Sanctuary—
this word was once a wall.
Good sir, I am an old and emptied king.
Let altar right outweigh a soldier’s hunger.
Take ransom—take my rings—
(he lifts the tiny god)
or take this guardian of the soup—
the one that kept the pot from spitting fear.
I’ll pay with faith—if coin be wanted still.

Captain (voice rough, respectful despite himself)
Right has no measure here. The law we breathe
Is built of orders. I am made of them.
Forgive me—or withhold. My step is sworn.

Hecuba (stepping before Priam)
Strike me first if thy courage loves a fight.
I am a woman with a lion’s mouth—
I’ll bite thy name from out the tale that tells it.

Captain (to his men, shaken)
Stand firm—
(to Priam)
If prayer could bind my hand, it would be thine.
It cannot.

Priam (kissing the small god, offering it up)
Little hearth-keeper—
go buy me one more hour of being father.
Buy me the breath to call old names once more.

Captain (to a soldier, low)
Take it—
(because he cannot bear the sight)
—no, break it.

The soldier, clumsy with shame, knocks the clay from Priam’s fingers. It shatters—
a small sound that reads as louder than the fires. Priam flinches as if the blow had touched his ribs.

Priam (a child’s voice in a king’s mouth)
Ah.

Hecuba (rising to the roof with her wrath)
Ye painted heavens—peel your eyes like scabs!
Look! and be mortal long enough to blush!
Or else confess—
ye are but ceilings, nothing more.

Captain (voice shaking)
Forgive me.

He signals. A sword descends. Priam folds at the altar, as if kneeling deeper into the prayer he had begun. Hecuba does not cry; grief has taken language hostage.

Hecuba (terrible, low)
What altar stands, when altars eat their kin?
Go—reap the harvest you have sown in skulls;
Your sickles will not blunt on kings alone.

The Captain falters, then retreats like a man leaving his own corpse behind. Embers drift; a priest lifts a shard of the broken god and hides it in his robe as if to save a memory from fire.

Scene V — The Fool’s Ashen Epilogue

Dawn thinning within smoke. The city is a mouth missing teeth: walls gnawed to stubs, beams like black bones. The Chorus of Troy gathers veiled in gray. The Fool steps to center, soot on his face, holding the cracked lute and the bent spoon.

Fool (to the audience)
Good people—
I kept a booth of bells within this town.
I sold you laughter sweetened with a lie,
And wrapped Cassandra’s knives in sugared words.
Here is my reckoning.
(He lays the spoon down.)
This for our vanity—
a toy that aped an axe.
(He lays the lute beside it.)
This for our music—
a box that could not mourn.

Chorus (women and men of Troy)
We were a city made of waking bread,
Of roofs that cooled the noon, of wells that sang.
Now bread is ash, and roofs remember flame,
And wells hold up the sky like reddened glass.

Fool
I mocked the kings. I mocked the gods.
Worst—
I mocked the mouth that warned me most.
I was her echo, bells for ears—
and jest is guilt in motley clothes.
Hear then what truth remains in ember’s breath:
Men laugh at warnings till the smoke takes breath;
They crown their pride with wood and call it gift;
They drag it home with hymns;
They teach their children how to clap for knives.

Chorus
Cassandra cried; we bound her with our mirth.
We tied our doubt in ribbons for a feast.
We marched a coffin through our only gate
And named it mercy from a wooden smile.

Fool (looking outward, gentler now)
If any city listens in its sleep,
Wake somewhere else and learn the harder art:
To doubt the gift that flatters most;
To trust the voice that spoils the song;
To spare a mother’s arms;
To leave a king his breath.
Remember us not as a lesson carved,
But as a breath that failed—
and therefore teaches breath.

He takes up the spoon and lute again, weighs them as if testing small souls, then lays them side by side once more—carefully, like twins made of loss. He steps back.

Chorus (soft, final)
Crowns break—
but if men kindle courage, courage endures.

At the far rear, Helen crosses and sits again upon her stone, a figure cut from silence. Andromache passes with empty arms, a shadow that keeps its shape. Hecuba moves like a slow bell. The Fool stands as last witness of laughter. One bell-note. Darkness.

[End of Act V]

Dramatis Personae: 

Priam

King of Troy. An old monarch, heavy with years and grief. Torn between mercy and survival, hope and despair. His gentleness blinds him at the moment of ruin.

Hecuba

Queen of Troy, wife to Priam. Fierce, sharp, and unyielding. Her wrath burns hotter than her tears, and in her curses even the gods seem mortal.

Hector

Prince of Troy, son of Priam and Hecuba. The city’s shield, noble and steadfast. Husband to Andromache, father of a young child. His death is the turning of Troy’s fate.

Andromache

Wife to Hector, mother to his son. Tender and devoted, yet filled with a lioness’s fury. Her lullabies are elegies; her final curse sears the stage.

Paris

Prince of Troy, brother to Hector. Lover of Helen, both guilty and passionate. Romantic and impulsive, his choices feed the city’s destruction.

Helen

Queen once of Sparta, now wife of Paris. The face that launched a thousand ships, weary of being a symbol. Beautiful, fatal, yet human in her grief. Her silence weighs more than words.

Cassandra

Daughter of Priam and Hecuba, prophetess cursed to be disbelieved. Her visions are fire, her cries both terrifying and ignored. Mad to the eyes of men, yet clearest of all.

The Fool

A ragged jester, companion to the court. Carries a cracked lute and bent spoon. His wit mocks kings and gods, his humor veils dread. In the end, he admits his guilt as the city’s conscience.

Deiphobus

Another son of Priam. Proud and quarrelsome, eager for war. Rival of Antenor in council.

Antenor

An elder statesman of Troy, urging caution and peace. His voice of prudence is smothered in the din of folly.

Chorus of Troy

Citizens, mothers, attendants, soldiers, and priests. Their laughter dismisses Cassandra, their wails accompany Troy’s fall. They embody the voice of the city.

Agamemnon

High King of Greece. Swollen with hubris, convinced of his godlike destiny. Loves victory and glory more than justice.

Menelaus

King of Sparta, brother to Agamemnon, husband betrayed by Helen. Less thunderous than his brother, but equally hungry for vengeance.

Achilles

Champion of Greece. A storm in flesh, proud and swift. Seeks eternal fame, though haunted by prophecy of his own early death. Slayer of Hector.

Ajax

A giant among the Greeks. Strong, blundering, and proud. Defeated in single combat with Hector.

Odysseus

King of Ithaca. Subtle, cunning, architect of the Wooden Horse. Pragmatic where Agamemnon is proud. His guile secures Troy’s fall.

Greek Captains and Soldiers

Agents of conquest. Some grim, some ashamed, but all instruments of fate.