John Dolan - The War Nerd Iliad

The War Nerd Iliad Copyright 2017 John Dolan All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced without the author or publishers prior consent.

ISBN: 9781627310642

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Published by Feral House

1240 W Sims Way #124

Port Townsend WA 98368

Design by Jacob Covey Cover Art by C.M. Kosemen

Three people helped make this:

Jan Frel, who came up with the idea;

Katherine Dolan, who read it first;

and my mother, who taught me to read

and know proper behavior with

a childs version of The Iliad .

TABLE OF CONTENTS

I DIDN T WRITE THIS STORY . Im just delivering it. Every now and then it has to be repackaged and delivered. It comes from way back, from the gods. Youll meet them in here. Theyre not the gods you might be expecting, though. These are more like The Sopranos.

You may have heard of this story as something called The Iliad , found only on undergraduate syllabi. But this story was never meant as a textbook. This is a campfire story, the greatest of all tall tales. It moves easily from tone to tonefrom raw slapstick comedy, to ultraviolence that makes Clockwork Orange seem like a panto for Eton lads, to hard-earned pathos that will moisten your mucous membranes whether you like it or not.

Ive called it Rage because that was its name back when people listened to it around the hearth. My job as delivery guy is to give you this wonderful story as close to its raw, funny, weepy, haunted original as I can.

To do that, Ive ditched the poetic meter. Im delivering it to you in prose, because prose is what our culture reads. (Trust me, I started out as a poet and learned this the hard way.) What was the last book-length poem you read? Such things might get published occasionally, but they dont get read.

In our language, poetic effects work best in paragraphs. Besides, this was always more a story than a poem. Virgil, gods curse him, wrote poetry; Homer wrote a story.

I think it works. Read on and decide for yourself.

T HE CAPTIVE GIRL IS WAITING TO HEAR if shes going back home. She watches her old father, the priest, limp down the beach toward her masters tent.

Her fathers carrying a bag and a wreath. The wreath is a flag of truce from his god. Shes trying not to think about it. She needs to forget her old life. Back then she was from a good family; shed never even been out of the family compound without a slave to guard her. Until the day the Greeks ran up from the sea.

Her town was on the coast, allied with Troy. But the Trojans werent around on the day the Greeks swarmed off their long ships. There was nobody around who could call himself a warrior. Fishermen and traders, mostly. The Greeks splashed ashore at a run, not saying a word. They killed all the men without a sound. And even the little boys, to prevent future vengeance. Easier that way. They caught her favorite brother, still learning to talk. She remembers him, spitted on a spear, wriggling in the air. When the first Greek ship hit the beach, she had three brothers; an hour later, no brothers at all.

She lost a husband too that day, but you can always get another husband. Where will you get more brothers? They didnt kill her father. Hes a priest, and not just any little gods priest. He belongs to Apollo. The Greeks fear Apollo. He loves her country, the east coast of the Aegean. But you can never count on a god. Apollo, her fathers lord and master, did not exert himself to stop the Greeks that day. He must have been watching, but he did not lift one godly finger. Apollo prefers not to get involved.

Hes watching now, as his priest limps toward the Greek camp at Troy. Apollo is an old god, though a young man. Hes from the East, and he doesnt like Greeks. Loud, pushy, new people. Worse yet, theyre favorites of his little sister Athena, a new god.

Apollo prefers the old ways; he goes way back, to the dawn, the glow in the east. He speaks without words, with music in a good mood, with the glare of sunlight, and in his rougher moods, with his bow. He loves to teach lessons with the bow. Hes planning a great lesson for these Greeks.

Apollo sees how the priests visit will end: Agamemnon, the Greek commander, will shame him, make the old man cry. Which will give Apollo all the pretext he needs to punish these Greeks. Apollo feels a vague pity for his pawns, the girl and her father. Theyre loyal enough, good eastern folk. But people are to be used.

Once Agamemnon has talked loudly to them, as Greeks always dono respect, no mannersApollo will have a free hand. No god can kill without a nod from the Olympians, the whole squabbling family.

Hell have it now. He remembers the day the Greeks stormed ashore and insulted his priest. He was there, in low orbit, zeroing in, as the Greeks enjoyed themselves; they didnt lose a single man, burned everything they didnt kill, and took everything they didnt burn.

Apollo was floating in the sunlight, hoping theyd kill his priest, the girls father, and free his bow-hand for revenge. But the Greeks knew better than to kill Apollos priest. They settled for killing his sons, then kicking the old man around, telling him all the things theyd do to his wife and his daughters. Then they left him crying in the dust.

Apollo remembers that day very well. It is like a happy song in his heart, because now it will all be avenged. All these things work out, in the long run for the gods. He remembers leaning into the wind that day, keening with the simple blood joy of a falcon, watching the Greeks run through the alleys of the town. He knew it was all to his advantage.

The girl cant see that, of course. There are always casualties. Apollo turns his falcon eye to her for a moment, as she watches her father approach Agamemnons tent. Her sorrow interests him, as a musician. What happened to her interests him, as a tactician. Otherwisejust another weeping woman.

She catches Apollos thoughtgod thoughts are contagious, even when not meant to beand remembers her father sprawled in the dust, with a bloody face, the Greek warriors laughing as they tied her and the other decent-looking girls and women in a coffle and set them down on display on the shore. The Greek chiefs strolled along, checking a set of teeth here, feeling a buttock there, before they took their pick. She went first, to the commander, Agamemnon. Even now, the name makes her gag. But then she blanks it all out again.

When Agamemnon wants her, he grabs her arm and throws her down. He seems to hate her, but then he hates everyone, even his own people.

She feels shame for her father. Hes a fool to come here. He has no idea what the Greeks are like. Why is he coming? They should have killed the whole family, but Greeks are too cruel for that.

Hell beg Agamemnon to let him take her home. But Agamemnon will never let her go. Her father is a kindly old man, and Agamemnon will enjoy making him beg, hearing him weep. Agamemnon has always been cruel, but hes worse now, with the war going nowhere.

Nine years theyve been camped on this miserable beach, and the walls of Troy are intact. The Trojans still jeer from the walls, throwing anything they have at the Greeks, anything from pig shit to spears. The Greeks are always running shortwater, firewood, wheat. The tents are full of sand and fleas; half the best men are dead; and theres nothing to show for it, not one Trojan earring, not one Trojan woman to sell.

And its all Agamemnons fault. Its his war, him and his family. Everyone knows theyre cursed. He knows it too, and takes it out on everyone.