It is the ninth year of the siege of Troy, and dawn hasn't broken yet. Briseis is lighting the household altar in the satellite town of Lyrnessus when the first scream comes from the wall. The man who walks through her door is Achilles. He kills her husband, spares her three-year-old son, and says, to no one in particular, 'I am tired of this.' By morning she belongs to the Greek camp.
What follows moves through the last movement of the Trojan War as a chamber drama rather than a battle epic: the quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon that costs Achilles his prize and his pride; the quiet farewell between Hector and his wife Andromache before he returns to the field; the death of Achilles's closest companion, Patroclus, wearing armor that was never his; the duel at the gates of Troy and the body dragged behind a chariot; and an old king, Priam, crossing into enemy territory alone to kneel before the man who killed his son and ask for his body back. The gods are felt throughout — in plague, in dream, in the decisions men make and then blame on fate — but never seen. The wooden horse, when it comes, is not staged as the trick that wins the war; the fall of Troy is slower and stranger than that, built from famine, treachery, and a city that has simply run out of time.
Troy asks what all of this — the rage, the glory, the years — was actually worth, and to whom. It ends where it began: on Briseis, walking inland alone while the city burns behind her, carrying nothing of the war except what it took from her.