“Shields and spears. We’re attacking the city.”

A Mycenean hung his head and loudly exclaimed, “Fuck. Again? We’ve attacked that damned city once a week for the last three years. With the way things are going we might still be here next year.”

Amphides spun.

“Less complaining, Eruthros. We’re here to avenge the honor of our king. Don’t forget that you are a farmer not a general. And don’t forget who I am.”

More carefully this time, Eruthros said “Fucking Ologoi.” Nevertheless, he grabbed his shield, strapped a sword to his side, and grabbed his spear out of the ground. 

In short order, they were formed up. Eruthros—surely due to random chance—was placed at the front of the formation. They marched forward, approaching the thick walls of Troy. It stood three times the height of any man in their army. Well maybe that wasn’t true of Achilles or Ajax. Everyone knew they were eight feet tall and could leap thirty feet in the air. He rolled his eyes at that thought.

Luckily, they weren’t that close to the walls. Every time they approached closer than a plethron they were hit by arrows and rocks from Trojan slingers. Sure, their armor meant they weren’t likely to be seriously hurt, but would you want to be hit by a rock? Even if it didn’t hurt?

They stopped and corrected the formation. Distantly Eruthros could hear someone shouting what was assuredly a speech. It was probably Agamemnon or Achilles, some hero whose name would be remembered for the next few decades as Eruthros was forgotten by everyone except his grandchildren. He wasn’t so sure why he felt so bitter today. He suspected it was the rock he used as his pillow and the knowledge that his son would be the one planting his field in the coming weeks. That child never did listen properly. Eruthros might have been better off leaving the job with his goats. They’d be better conversation too. 

The sudden sounding of horns and beating of drums broke Eruthros from his self-loathing introspection. They were being ordered to . . . no that can’t be right. They were being ordered to fall back.

“Damned generals. Waking us up, walking us towards the well, and then changing their minds. I guess this is what happens when your leaders are people who snookered some daft fools into following them in exchange for protection. If this goes on much longer we won’t be able to dislodge them for a thousand years.”

He trudged back with his armor weighing on his shoulders, his shield pulling down his arm, and his spear dragging through the dirt. He just wanted to be home where his wife could make him a good meal and his idiot son could get some wine from the cellar. Hell, he wasn’t even opposed to tracking a goat through the countryside. At least at the end of that task he’d have a payday. With this siege the only chance for a payday would be if he participated in the mad dash that was the sacking of the city. Further, that would only come if they could defeat the Trojans. Given the activities of the morning that didn’t seem likely. 

Maybe he should join the Trojans. They must have some use for a goat herder. This seems like goat country. The people are stubborn enough. Or maybe he could open a little shop. 

“Eh who am I kidding. I can barely avoid being taken by the merchants at home, much less in such a well-to-do city. 

After shedding his armor and performing a few hours of menial work, Eruthros returned to boredom and his comfy rock pillow. 

“Cock-a-doodle-doo”

Eruthros awoke, slamming his head against his pillow. 

“Damn. I need a softer rock. I should sleep wearing my helmet. It can’t be worse, can it?”

Before long, his idyllic morning was shattered by the shout of Amphides. He carefully donned his armor. Just as he put on his helmet, he heard a ringing as of a bell. But it wasn’t a bell. Amphides had rapped his helmet with his spear to gain his attention. 

“Front line, simpleton. No whining from you.”

“Simpleton? Look who’s talking” Eruthros muttered under her breath before promptly tripping over a rock. If clumsiness were valuable, Erurthros would be King Midas. Of course, it isn’t and he wasn’t. 

“I should’ve been an oarsman. Dad always wanted me to be an oarsman. Or I could’ve taken care of animals. But no. I had to have my own farm and join the militia. I just wanted a few hours away from my kids. I didn’t want to go to Troy and have arrows shot at me and have trojans trying to lop off my head with a makhaira or stab me through the gut with a spear. I’m a mental patient.”

He trudged up to the front line, letting his spear drag on the ground and took his position next to Amphides. 

“Forward!” 

They marched. The walls loomed closer and closer, like mountains rising above them. Again, they got far too close. This time, he could see the archers approaching the rampart. 

“This isn’t a good idea.”

“Shut up and keep marching. We’re playing our part.”

“Our part? What does that…”

Thwick

He looked down and there was an arrow standing out of his gut. It didn’t hurt. He just felt cold. But He kept walking forward, dragging his spear behind him. He lost his grip on his spear, but he just kept walking. 

For some reason he looked to his right and saw a ram approaching the gates. 

“Those bastards. They used us as bait. They just wanted the archers down here on the corner instead of massed at the gate. I’m gonna die because I was a decoy. This is just typical. It would happen to me.”

With a sudden crash of bronze, he hit the ground. He stared up at the bright, Trojan sky but only briefly. He lost consciousness before he could think about anything else. 

He pried his eyes open and saw a beautiful figure clothed in white and lit from behind.

“Are you an angel?”

“What? No, Eruthros. It’s Xenippos. I’m patching you back up. You made it, you lucky bastard.”

His vision cleared, and he saw that Xenippos was right. He was still here. How lovely. Dying could’ve been the one thing that might’ve improved my day.

“Sorry, Xenippos. I didn’t expect to wake up until I came to Styx.”

“You’ll be waiting on that for a bit thanks to me.”

“Don’t expect a tip. I’m not getting paid here.”

“Miserable bastard,” Xenippos laughed as he walked off. 

“I guess I might as well sleep. At least I don’t have a rock for a pillow now.”

He closed his eyes at peace for the first time in months.

And he woke feeling like he was being roasted. But that seemed wrong. They were Greeks not Hittites. They didn’t eat people. 

“Wait, why aren’t my eyes working right. Someone help!” 

“What is it, Eruthros?”

“I can’t see. And you set me on fire.”

Xenippos touched his forehead. 

“You aren’t on fire. You have a fever. It must be messing with your eyes. I’ll get you some cool water. That should help you ride it out.”

As Xenippos walked to the other end of the tent, Eruthros heard a cough next to him. He looked over and saw a woman. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Or at least that he remembered. It had been three years after all.

But why was a woman here? There weren’t women in the camp. And why did she seem to glow. Was it just his eyes?

“Who are you?”

“Athena. I thought you might appreciate some divine intervention.”

“I would. I would!”

“You have a severe fever. It’s caused by bacteria. Unfortunately, the gut is one of the worst places to be wounded. So many bacteria down there. They get into the wound and cause severe infections.

You can’t really control it unless you use antibiotics. It’s really just your body trying to fight the bacteria. The body heats up and it kills the bacteria, hopefully faster than it kills you.”

“Bacteria? Antibiotics? What are you talking about? And how can my body raise the temperature?”

“Stop asking stupid questions. I’m the goddess of wisdom. I know things. Including this: if you don’t get antibiotics you will die. You’re simply too sick. Your body can’t take much more. But I’m the only person in this time who knows how to make them. It involves fungi believe it or not.”

“Thank you, Goddess. I don’t want to die. I don’t like my kids much, but this isn’t worth saving that aggravation. Thank you!”

“Oh, I said I was the only one that knew how to make it. I didn’t say I would. I don’t like to interfere with temporal forces. Captain Kirk fucked that up often enough for me to know the consequences. I suppose that doesn’t make much sense to you either.

Well anyway, it would be irresponsible to bring a future invention here.”

“Then what the hell were you talking about? You said I’d appreciate your divine intervention.”

“This is my intervention. Talking to you, explaining to you. I just thought you’d like a chat before meeting Hades. He’s such a bore. And a sad-sack. What a prick. Anyway. It’s your time now so I should be going. I don’t like hanging out here for too long. And I have to go help Achilles. I don’t really have the time for you.”

“Thanks for nothing, goddess. I don’t need you.”

He did need her. Without antibiotics he died a few minutes later, shouting in a fever-induced delirium. He’s survived by his wife and children even though he resented them. 

His name died out quickly. He wasn’t an Achilles or an Agamemnon. Just a no-name farmer who died at the beginning of a long war. His own grandchildren barely remembered his name. By the next generation, it was forgotten. I’ve forgotten it now. 

The only reason you’re reading this is because Athena doesn’t protect her diary very well and Apollo is an ass. 

Anyway, that’s beside the point. That’s the end of his story. No glory. No fame. No riches. He was a middling person in an unjust world ruled by selfish aristocrats. And then he died from an infection which would easily be handled by a doctor in 2021. 

Was his life meaningless? I wouldn’t say so. It’s so blindingly obvious it would feel insulting to my readers to say it out loud.