Fall of Troy, c. 1184 BCE
Participant: unnamed Greek infantryman, selected for the Horse
I do not know which god decided I would end my days inside a wooden animal.
When they called for volunteers, it was not framed as glory. There was no speech. Odysseus simply looked at us, one by one, as if weighing grain. His eyes lingered on men who had survived too much to still believe in luck. I suppose that is how I was chosen.
They hollowed the Horse over weeks. From the outside it smelled of fresh pine and pitch. From the inside it smelled of sap, sweat, and fear. We climbed in just before dusk, folding ourselves into positions no body was meant to hold. Knees to chests. Shields wedged sideways. Spears wrapped in cloth so they would not scrape wood. I remember thinking: if this works, history will call it clever; if it fails, no one will ever know how we died.
The hatch sealed. Darkness followed immediately — thick, absolute. The kind that presses against the eyes. Someone near me whispered a prayer. Someone else was already breathing too fast.
Time stopped being useful.
Outside, Troy reacted exactly as Odysseus predicted. Laughter. Shouting. The scraping of ropes as they dragged us toward the gates. At one point the Horse tipped and my shoulder slammed into the wall. I bit my tongue hard enough to taste blood. I did not cry out. None of us did. That felt important, like the last test.
Then came the woman’s voice.
They later told me her name was Cassandra. At the time, she was just sound — sharp, desperate, too close. She struck the Horse with something heavy. Each blow vibrated through the frame and into my bones. A man opposite me squeezed his eyes shut so tightly his face twitched. I remember thinking: this is how we die — beaten to death from the outside like insects in a jar.
She screamed that we were inside. She screamed that Troy would burn.
No one listened.
Wine arrived. I could smell it through the seams. The air inside grew warmer as the night deepened, thick with breath and panic. My leg went numb. I tried shifting my weight and nearly knocked my helmet loose. I froze, heart hammering. Somewhere above us, a child laughed.
Hours passed. Or minutes. It is impossible to say.
At some point, a warm shame spread beneath one of the men. No one acknowledged it. Fear makes its own rules.
Then silence.
Not the silence of sleep — the silence of abandonment. The kind that follows celebration, when the crowd disperses and leaves only embers behind. I realised then how small Troy felt without its voices. A city emptying itself, unaware.
Odysseus gave the signal. It was barely a sound — more a breath shaped into command.
We moved.
The hatch opened and cool night air rushed in like mercy. One by one we slipped out, stiff, shaking, half-blind. The city lay before us, immense and undefended. I had imagined this moment for years — the charge, the clash, the honour. Instead, there was only quiet work.
We opened the gates.
That is the part the poets will dress in fire and screams. But what I remember most is a house we passed on the way. A lamp still burned inside. A cup lay on its side by the door, wine darkening the earth. Someone had risen quickly and not returned.
By dawn, Troy was smoke.
I survived. I will return home, if the sea allows it. Men will sing of Odysseus’ cunning, of kings and heroes and fate. They will carve the Horse into story and forget the splinters beneath our nails, the cramp, the terror of waiting while truth was shouted and ignored.
History will say Troy fell because of brilliance.
It did not.
Troy fell because, for one night, enough ordinary men stayed silent in the dark and followed an order they did not fully understand.
I do not know whether the gods favoured us.
I only know that when the Horse cracked open, the war had already ended — Troy just hadn’t realised it yet.