A Horse of a Different Kind

From time to time I get the urge to read the classics. In the spring of 2019, in a matter of weeks, I read the Iliad, the Odyssey, and the Aeneid, all for the first time. I should note that I read the Odyssey first. I’m glad I did. The Iliad is tedious beyond all reason. If I had to do a 5th grade book report on it in less than 100 words, it would go something like this:

A guy steals the beautiful wife of a king and takes her home to a big fort. The woman’s husband rounds up a huge army. They sail across the sea and attack a big fort. The war lasts 10 years. Lots of people get killed. The biggest hero of the attackers refuses to fight for years until his best friend puts on his armor as a disguise. But the friend gets killed. Then the biggest hero gets upset and finally decides to fight, killing most of the other bad guys. Book ends.

Notice I didn’t mention the famous Trojan Horse. I read the Iliad eagerly anticipating the most famous of all large wooden horses. It never showed up. I was not happy. Where the hell is the horse, I said to a deaf universe.

The answer would come in the Aeneid, Virgil’s ode to Roman Glory. Virgil’s book begins with the Trojan Horse, the downfall of Troy, and the continuation of the war back in what is now Italy. Like the two Greek epics, the Aeneid is a lengthy paeon filled with skirmishes, battles, and lists of those who meet their tragic but glorious end. However, the end of the book is beyond odd. On the very last page, Aeneas finally kills Turnus. As soon as the latter hits the dried turf with a thud, the book ends. Just like that. Done. Finito.

For the record, I like the Odyssey the best by far. Odysseus’s 10-year journey home from the Trojan war with his men is filled with adventure, excitement, and the hero having sex with a goddess for seven years. The longest stop on the lengthy homeward journey is those seven years spent on the island of Ogygia. There the goddess Calypso repeatedly attempts to make Odysseus her husband by singing enchanting songs while she shakes her immortal thing and weaves on a golden loom. Then they have wild sex every night in her cave. How does Odysseus respond? By spending the days on the beach weeping piteously for fair Penelope, his wife left behind so many years before. Talk about pathetic.

Throughout the three books the gods are portrayed as fickle and dangerous entities. Practically all, even the mighty Zeus, take sides in the Trojan war with some changing allegiances on the fly just for the hades of it. The same holds true for the goddesses who are even more spiteful, petty, and vindictive than their counterparts. They may be gorgeous, but they will also fry your ass in a heartbeat if you look at them the wrong way. Or maybe change you into a tree—or a donkey, if you’re lucky.

Back to the Iliad. Achilles is supposedly the hero of heroes. I think Achilles was nothing more than a whiny-ass--the biggest whiny-ass in ancient history. While men on his side are being slaughtered by the dozens, Achilles sits in his tent on the beach sulking for the better part of a decade. Not sure about you, the but the sulking bit should have gotten old in short order.

But that’s not what the great odes are about. These remarkable—and remarkably long—epic tales are about the deeds of gods and men. About legendary wars pitting great foes against each other for stupid and pointless reasons, just like modern history but without the nuclear option. One might ask why, in the case of the Iliad, couldn’t the powers that be figure out the obvious? How did the fair Helen feel about being kidnapped and taken away? Did she like the new man and stylish digs? If not, return her. Otherwise, Menelaus, her rightful husband, should just sue for divorce and then get a pile of cash and real estate in the settlement. Then he could get remarried and life would go on. Is it really that hard?

A thought occurred to me the other night as Carla and I were finishing up dinner. What if the Trojan horse was not what it seemed and the end of the war not as written. Picture this: The war rages on. Achilles is still sulking in is tent like a miffed cheerleader. Meanwhile, several supply ships from home arrive. One of them is filled with amphorae of the latest vintage. The Greek troops, whatever is left of them, rejoice. That night they have a riotous party on the beach. Everyone gets completely hammered. From atop the walls of Troy, the sentries observe with great curiosity and but also alarm. They suspect the Greeks are up to some kind of new shenanigans.

Soon the fracas on the beach, as Homer will come to call it, dies down and there is silence. The first light of dawn reveals the much anticipated (by me) giant wooden horse just outside the city’s main gates. After consulting with the higher ups, it is decided to send a small group of the best Trojan warriors (I almost put a condom joke here but refrained) to inspect the giant wooden horse. They poke and prod (more condom jokes) the enormous wooden structure (cue Beavis and Butt-Head laughter) before finally being satisfied that is safe. Then they report back to the higher ups that the horse is a gift from the Greeks who must have finally thrown in the towel, given up the war, and are currently sailing back home sans Helen.

The higher ups are pleased and the wooden horse is brought into the gates. At this point, at least in the Aeneid, the Greeks inside wait until nightfall and then quietly exit the horse and slaughter most of the inhabitants of the city. Those more fortunate escape. As they look back at the now burning walls of their once great city, they curse the Greeks and vow vengeance. After all, that’s what you did in ancient times.

But what if the great horse-capade didn’t actually happen that way? What if the true story was entirely different. What if one of the Trojan soldiers found the secret escape hatch on the underside of the great wooden beast and opened it. Would bloody pitched fighting and mayhem ensued? No. Instead, the soldier would have discovered a band of history’s most hungover men. He (the soldier) and his mates would have watched in stunned silence as Achilles and his fellow Greeks stumbled out of the horse, so hungover they could barely walk.

At this point you might think the Trojans would have slaughtered all the Greeks and paraded through the city with Achilles’s head on a pike. But in fact they had had it with the war too. In no time, Paris, the great leader of the Trojans, and he who kidnapped the fair Helena, is brought down. He is consternated, to say the least.

Paris turns to Achilles, who has the worst hangover of all, and says “what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be out there. It’s sunrise and we’re supposed to start fighting in 30 minutes!”

Achilles is so hungover that he can barely stand much less talk. “Listen, we need a break. Supply ships came in yesterday and my men and I had way too much wine last night. Could you cut us some slack? And you’re talking way too loud. Keep it down.”

Now comes the tipping point, as they say in all the self-help books. Paris suddenly realizes that the whole war thing is beyond old. There’s no point to it. He then orders jugs of water tinged with lavender to be brought to the Greeks. He also orders several pigs to be slaughtered and roasted. After all, there’s nothing better for a hangover than vitamin “P.”

Once functional, Achilles, sits down with Paris and peace is quickly brokered. Helen will stay in Troy and Menelaus will get an undisclosed huge sum of gold and a vast tract of land in what is now Western Turkey. The matter is sealed and a celebration is planned for that evening.

At this point, you’re probably wondering how the all gods and goddesses feel about the sudden turn of events. Turns out they are seriously pissed off. Zeus immediately goes to destroy the city with his mighty thunderbolts. Poseidon quickly starts to swell the ocean tides to overwhelm the lands. But the goddesses, in a moment of surprising clarity and reason, stop them. Hera, Zeus’s wife, puts her foot down. “Enough,” she says. “The war is over. Helen is happy. Menelaus is happy. Let’s join the celebration.”

So the gods and goddesses join in the revelry that night. The rest of the wine from the Greeks’ supply ship is brought into the city. The celebration lasts for days. It goes without saying that a lot of tomfoolery and cross-mojination happen. Months later, nine months to be precise, many babies are born. Some are a bit strange (a few satyrs caught wind of the goings on) while others have a lustrous café latte complexion. All will forever be known as the blessed offspring of the great Trojan event. Thus ends my ends my version of the Iliad. For the record, I like it better.