After so many years even the fire of passion dies, and with it what was believed the light of the truth. Who of us is able to say now whether Hector or Achilles was right, Agamemnon or Priam, when they fought over the beauty of a woman who is now dust and ashes?

Fate always found its mark, one way or another.

Fate is the same for the man who holds back, the same if he fights hard.We are all held in a single honour, the brave with the weaklings.A man dies still if he has done nothing, as one who has done much.

She didn't know how she would survive when every breath stung, every tear burned, and every step took her further from the only man she'd ever loved.

Love is a poison,' her father responded. 'One you grow accustomed to, but does not kill you.

Honour to Agamemnon is a thing / That he can pick, pick up, put back, pick up again, / A somesuch you might find beneath your bed.

Let the dead have the immortality of fame, but the living the immortality of love.

Do all in Troy despise me?''That is a strong word, my sweet.'The young Queen of Sparta pulled away from her lover's arms. 'It is true then. I have exchanged one prison for another.'Paris gently brushed her cheek with his hand. 'If that is true, we are the most fortunate of prisoners. For we have each other and our love.

Helen looked up at Paris, her face wet with tears and blotchy with grief, and nodded her consent. 'Together we are chained on rocks before the beast of Poseidon. Naked and bare and helpless.''But we are more fortunate.''How so?' Helen asked.'We have each other as comfort in our misery.