The Trojan Hoarse

The minute that Horace woke up on the shore of Troy, he had a bad feeling. Ten years later and he woke up every morning feeling exactly the same. The sand got everywhere; blisters upon blisters, nooks and crannies that your mother never talked about, and worse, in your food and out the other end.

He hated being a Greek.

Bloody gods interfering, to boot! Only the other day, some woman with an owl had landed on his favorite helmet, leaving a ruddy great dent in it. Not to mention all the officers going a bit mental every now and then - oh, and a talking horse, or something.

Horace's Commanding Officer was mental without the gods interfering. Aenus Voidstotle was a magistrate, turned leader when one of the big wigs bit the bullet. The power had gone to his head, and, unfortunately for him, so had the sand. Homer, one of Horace's regimental pals, said he suffered from 'Short, Angry Arsehole, Syndrome' - this explained why he shouted a lot.

Aenus had been shouting so much recently, and stood so close to the ground, that he had ended up with blisters in his mouth. This seemed to make him even angrier, and as the blisters spread into one big boil, a wall-eyed insanity seemed to creep into his soul.

It was therefore, with some trepidation, that Horace and Homer reported to his shore-berthed ship for 'special ops'.

"Gonna let you men taste the sweet nectar of glory, see?" he barked over the swollen lump of his jaw line. "The gods came to see me and gave me a plan to end this war and overthrow the Trojans."

Horace noted the cracked lines of red that streaked across his eyeballs - apart from them, there was far too much white showing for him to be considered sane.

"Yes, sir. Gods, sir. Plan, sir?"

"It's called 'The Trojan Hoarse' and will make our names echo throughout eternity."

What could they say to that? That having their names echo through a homely Taverna, with someone else paying, seemed much more admirable? Not to Aenus. They cunningly adopted the soldiers favorite defensive posture - silence.

"Well, let's move out, then!"

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"Is he for real, lads?" the Trojan on the ramparts called down, as he looked upon Horace and Homer.

"Oh, Stavros! You wouldn't credit it, would you?" Horace replied.

He'd known Stavros Phithopilililodupos for ten years now - they joined in each other's poker games when they could sneak about on moonlit nights. Occasionally, one of the more mentally endowed members of Command, usually that Odysseus bloke, would question how the Trojans weren't all starved to death and still had oils, candles, spices and fabrics. But most of them put it down to the other gods taking sides, instead of soldiers doing some of the things they did best; steal from the stores and lose it all at No Limit Athens Hold 'em.

Homer and Horace shrugged apologetically while Stavros felt compelled to threaten Aenus, "If you don't stop that racket, you'll wake up the Toff's and they won't like that!"

Still, purple of face and swollen of gums, Aenus continued to rant, rage, scream and shout insensibilities.

"I'm giving you a final warning, mister! If you don't put a pie in it, I shall boil the olive oil."

Aenus carried on shouting.

"Is he daft? Have them gods addled his brains, or something?" Stavros asked over the racket. After realising Aenus was not a man to question his own voice, Stavros felt compelled to light a little fire and warm up a couple of quarts of extra virgin.

"It's all part of our clever plan, Stavros," Horace replied. "It's called the Trojan Hoarse. We're supposed to shout at you until you get so fed up with us demanding that you open the door, that you actually do open the door! Is it working?"

"No. And this oil's piping hot, so stand back lads."

Horace and Homer stood a few paces away from their raw-voiced Commander, and watched with awe, as the golden liquid poured down his throat, killing him with strangled gurgles, and an explosion of puss from the blister in his mouth.

"...MMMMmmmmmmmwwwoohhaaagggrrrrrr.....rrroooosososswwwwwgggggmmmMMMM..."

"Horace, what's he going on about?"

"Dunno, mate. It's all Greek to me..."

"Bloody Hell, Stavros!" Homer exclaimed. "How much olive oil did you use?"

"A two quart Amphora. Why?"

"I reckon the Commander Aenus has just answered one of the most philosophical questions of all time!"

All three watched the crack and sizzle of the cooling oil bubbling in the dead man's gaping maw.

"What's that then?"

"How much oil can a gum-boil boil, if a gum-boil could boil oil?"