In the seventh year of the siege and a traveler comes up from the south, a refugee of sorts, fleeing sorrow. “They came out of the desert,” he says, and then has to stop and explain more about what he means. Children of a green land, they have seen the sea, the winedark sea, and they have heard of Egypt, of course, and the spreading sands, but after seven years the geography of everything except the area around Wilusa has gotten fuzzy. But he’s a good speaker, so there’s not a fire that isn’t happy to share a meal with him and listen to his story at the end of another day’s fighting.

“They came out of the desert,” says he, “and crossed the river. The city’s gates were closed against them—” a bitter laugh from the crowd— “but they tramped around the city—” another laugh, this one even more edged— “for seven days and nights. The music they played! A wild thing, all ram’s horns and reed flutes, the pounding of their feet keeping time. Like a voice speaking out of a whirlwind. Time seemed to slow, then stand still, then run backward. The sun blazed motionless in the sky, one day, two, three, and the walls quaked and fell and they came in among the houses with fire and sword. Men they killed, and women, and children; blood for blood, they said. We ran, from the river to the sea, we ran, and along the coast toward stranger lands. What can you do when the gods have shut their eyes to your suffering?”

The bitterest laugh of all.