To Not Be a Hero in Homer

I stand in my humble home, temples pounding. Our small shrine of Apollo stands in front of me, but he gives no respite. Why is this happening to me? Ten years ago the Trojan ambassador, Paris Alexander, returned from Sparta with that stolen beauty Helen under his arm and the fury of the Achaeans on his back. Damned boy, if he had a quarter of the wit of his father, or half the strength of his brother, my wife and daughter wouldn’t be begging Apollo for my safe return.

Early that morning, I wiped the sleep from my eyes as I opened the door. “All able-bodied men are compelled to serve. This is the direction of the king.” The soldier told me, fully clad in armor. A long, jagged scar across his eye distracted me from his words. “You have until sunrise to report to the barracks. I suggest you say your goodbyes.” He turned, beginning to march away. “And perhaps a prayer,” under his breath.

Dear gods, if I have ever done right by you, please grant me this wish, don’t let this be the last time I see the light of my life. I pull at the hair on my head. Those fickle gods! The whims of whom dictate my existence. What use is there in worship? Beautiful Aphrodite should not have tempted the prince with a bride who did not belong to him. And then I would not worry about the vicious Greeks.

My head begins to spin picturing those savage warriors. Godlike Achilles’ prowess was well known amongst my people, given the killings of our princess’ house. And then there’s the ferocious sons of Atreus, favorites of the hungry war god Ares.

No, I don’t belong on the battlefield with those monsters. The gods gifted me with a temperate demeanor, and that has served me thus far. I glance at my wife, holding my young daughter close, both with clouded eyes. But who else will defend them? The long haired Achaeans will no doubt be determined to raze our city to the ground, as they have done to the rest of the cities in our country. I can either cower in my home with the women, or I can grab a spear and put myself between my enemy and all that I hold dear. My mind is made, the choice simple.

I kiss my daughter on her forehead. “I love you, sweetheart. I will be back soon.”

My wife follows me to the door, her tears flowing like the floods of Poseidon. I whisper, “If you must, bury me beneath the olive tree on that hill where I asked you to be mine forever. Goodbye, my love.”