They had believed me. We Greeks were known for such strategy. The Trojans stood no chance to win over us; we were destined for greatness. It was written in our walls; it was scattered in every word across the Mediterranean Sea that the small have risen to eat the large. It was almost blasphemous, and the thought tingled and splashed in my body. My blood was a series of crashing waves as I watched Troy choke and squeal.
There was nothing dignified about it—the way it choked. The city twisted and cocked its head, trying to escape the fumes—the deadly fumes they had brought upon themselves. How it hollowed and kicked at the emptiness. Perhaps they had already known defeat, tasted it when we spilled out of the guts of the wooden horse. Perhaps they had twisted, choked, and scarped with a strange knowing that life had ended.
The Trojans should have predicted their doom. Especially once Hector had floated away from their heroic, unattainable dreams. Perhaps they already knew that their children would become slaves within days, that their women would be the additionally pillows (but more useful than normal pillows) at our side. We were to be the victors.
And I had seized glory for us.
It was Odyssey's plan, but I was the one who carried out the deceit. It was I who brought the apple to their lips, urged them to taste the beauty of my words, to believe me (a Greek!), and so they gulped down their fate. They believed me; I was the one to seal their fate. I was an instrument of the gods.
But as I gazed down from the high mountain at Troy, I saw a woman being torn; her limps separated like paper by the hands of the Greeks. They greedily laughed and left, as if the condition they had left the Trojan woman was fit.
I observed a mother spreading her body over her son and then, once the Greeks had passed, ran. She ran. But they caught her—and her boy—by the hair and ripped them apart too. Her human wails reaching the peak of the mountain and quivering the world.
A man carried an elder on his shoulders and ran, his heart speeding before him, and his eyes always glancing back to catch sight of his wife. They took her, too, though, and chopped her up. The man made it out of the galloping fire and chaos, but then went back in—for her. His tears touching the heat of the fire, he ran. He ran for her.
A woman hid behind a tapestry, her eyes reflecting years of horror before her. She was accustomed to it, for there was no expression. No resolution to end the misery, for the misery had no effect on her. Pain had no power over her, but fear did, so she hid behind the tapestry, her eyes on the blood on her hands.
They tossed a child over the wall with a cackle. With a cackle, they threw Hector's boy and took his wife as loot. With a cackle and a grin.
A weeping mother held steadfast to the altar, her eyes on heaven not the blood, her heart already in a tomb. Her husband drew near, and he wept more than the gods had ever. He held on no more to the realm of man; he desired no more of it after nine years of exiting lives. But it was too late. The gods had swallowed by Laocoon; Agamemnon had taken Cassandra; and Hector was dead with Troy.
So there I stood, watching the death of humanity, and all that survived was continuous strife.
I had been an instrument in this deathless cycle of misery; I had played the games with gods to bring this on for the Trojans. As I looked on, my hands yearning to shield the orphan or guide the surviving, I wept for us.
That was one year ago—those ashes of Troy almost rising to scorch my face as well. The city is gone now. It is all drowned in rubble and dust, and there is no comfort for me. After all, these months I lay wake as I reimagine the way Priam smiled at me, told them to bring in the horse. And how I giggled in joy as the gates opened. How I was angry and nervous when Laocoon spoke, and how I rejoiced at the snakes rising to meet him. How victorious I felt.
And when I came back home, how the people overwhelmed me, crowning as a savior and hero. They say, "This is Sinon, the one who brought us victory at Troy. The one who sent Troy to ashes and—"
I would walk off then, in fear that the flames of Troy and its people would consume. I had been an instrument in destruction, puppeted and engineered for the downfall of a people, and I had rejoiced in my works.
Now, I stand amidst the rubble and weep. The other Greeks should have seen the Trojans run, the wail of the lost and later slaughtered babes, the women who clung to the altar, the beautiful Helen's tears, and the flames. They should have seen the flames.
Those flames now consume me as they did to Troy, for I stood and gazed on as the greatest nation and a people called to the gods and yet men could not save each other.