Genre Fiction
![Pat Barker - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_pat_barker.jpg)
The Women of Troy: A Novel
A daring and timely feminist retelling of The Iliad from the perspective of the women of Troy who endured it-an extraordinary follow up to The Silence of the Girls from the Booker Prize-winning author of The Regeneration Trilogy and "one of contemporary literature's most thoughtful and compelling writers" (The Washington Post).
Troy has fallen and the victorious Greeks are eager to return home with the spoils of an endless war-including the women of Troy themselves. They await a fair wind for the Aegean.
It does not come, because the gods are offended. The body of King Priam lies unburied and desecrated, and so the victors remain in suspension, camped in the shadows of the city they destroyed as the coalition that held them together begins to unravel. Old feuds resurface and new suspicions and rivalries begin to fester.
Largely unnoticed by her captors, the one time Trojan queen Briseis, formerly Achilles's slave, now belonging to his companion Alcimus, quietly takes in these developments. She forges alliances when she can, with Priam's aged wife the defiant Hecuba and with the disgraced soothsayer Calchas, all the while shrewdly seeking her path to revenge.
Troy has fallen and the victorious Greeks are eager to return home with the spoils of an endless war-including the women of Troy themselves. They await a fair wind for the Aegean.
It does not come, because the gods are offended. The body of King Priam lies unburied and desecrated, and so the victors remain in suspension, camped in the shadows of the city they destroyed as the coalition that held them together begins to unravel. Old feuds resurface and new suspicions and rivalries begin to fester.
Largely unnoticed by her captors, the one time Trojan queen Briseis, formerly Achilles's slave, now belonging to his companion Alcimus, quietly takes in these developments. She forges alliances when she can, with Priam's aged wife the defiant Hecuba and with the disgraced soothsayer Calchas, all the while shrewdly seeking her path to revenge.
Editorial Reviews
ONE OF THE GUARDIAN'S BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR
"Now the publication of The Women of Troy (Doubleday) brings the author back to the bloodied plains where the Greeks and the Trojans fought-here, once again, a staging ground for the battle between the sexes."-The New Yorker
"[Barker's] insight and compassion are on full display. As is her outrage."-The New York Times Book Review
"This continuation of the Trojan woman's story feels like another victory for every person who was silenced by history, their story stolen from them."-Refinery29
"Barker's prose has a plain force more powerful than fancy wordsmithing; she makes these long-ago events immediate … More work from one of contemporary literature's most thoughtful and compelling writers is always welcome."-The Washington Post
"Pat Barker is in the process of writing the Greek trilogy by which she always intended to crown a remarkable career."-The New York Review of Books
"Immersive and textured: full of smoke from the fires, and sand whipped up by the wind that's keeping the Greek army pinned to the shore."-NPR
"[T]he narrative is at its most absorbing when Briseis is on the page and observing the scheming and infighting among the Greek men and the resilience and bravery of the Trojan women. She is a wonderful creation. With luck, Barker is already planning her next move."-The Minneapolis Star Tribune
"Like its predecessor, The Women of Troy returns voice and agency to characters who were silenced in the original epic… Barker's writing is swift, detailed, and immersive… [The Women of Troy] succeeds at making us understand that what they felt-the grief of the Trojan women-cannot have been much different than our own."-Chicago Review of Books
"Barker's sequel to The Silence of the Girls (2018) continues the story of Queen Briseis, given as a war prize to Achilles… Through Briseis' eyes, readers experience the aftermath of the fall of Troy… Briseis is an engaging character, both pragmatic and...
"Now the publication of The Women of Troy (Doubleday) brings the author back to the bloodied plains where the Greeks and the Trojans fought-here, once again, a staging ground for the battle between the sexes."-The New Yorker
"[Barker's] insight and compassion are on full display. As is her outrage."-The New York Times Book Review
"This continuation of the Trojan woman's story feels like another victory for every person who was silenced by history, their story stolen from them."-Refinery29
"Barker's prose has a plain force more powerful than fancy wordsmithing; she makes these long-ago events immediate … More work from one of contemporary literature's most thoughtful and compelling writers is always welcome."-The Washington Post
"Pat Barker is in the process of writing the Greek trilogy by which she always intended to crown a remarkable career."-The New York Review of Books
"Immersive and textured: full of smoke from the fires, and sand whipped up by the wind that's keeping the Greek army pinned to the shore."-NPR
"[T]he narrative is at its most absorbing when Briseis is on the page and observing the scheming and infighting among the Greek men and the resilience and bravery of the Trojan women. She is a wonderful creation. With luck, Barker is already planning her next move."-The Minneapolis Star Tribune
"Like its predecessor, The Women of Troy returns voice and agency to characters who were silenced in the original epic… Barker's writing is swift, detailed, and immersive… [The Women of Troy] succeeds at making us understand that what they felt-the grief of the Trojan women-cannot have been much different than our own."-Chicago Review of Books
"Barker's sequel to The Silence of the Girls (2018) continues the story of Queen Briseis, given as a war prize to Achilles… Through Briseis' eyes, readers experience the aftermath of the fall of Troy… Briseis is an engaging character, both pragmatic and...
Readers Top Reviews
JenniferTJ. R. Bu
This book wasn't really what I was expecting. I think I've been spoilt by Madeline Millers take on Greek mythology and her way of telling stories in a newly imaginative way. For a book titled 'The Women of Troy" I was surprised by how much of the story is told from a man's perspective. The opening chapter begins from the perspective of Pyrrhus inside the Trojan horse. Although we follow the women of Troy post capture there is very little of story content and instead we meander through the time between the end of the battle and the sailing of the ships. There are a lot of characters in this and I would say there is a strong expectation that you have a basic grasp of the main players in the Trojan war otherwise the names have little context. I won't be reading the second book in the series.
David A GobeyJenn
This views the fall of Troy from a woman's perspective. Even though I am an old man with lingering chauvinist attitudes, I found this to be a wonderful read as indeed most books by Pat Barker are. I do recommend you read her previous book first though.
Mrs Sue EdwardsDa
I love everything by Pat Barker so had been looking forward to this book. I wasn’t disappointed because it’s an excellent read - faithful to the source materials but really inventive as well. The women do finally get their voices here. The first person narrative is intercut with third person narrative from Pyrrhus, whom I’ve hated since my schooldays for killing Priam! Still don’t like him much but it’s made me think … I recommend this whole-heartedly.
Richard SeltzerPh
Novelists, of course, can and should take liberties to fully develop their characters and advance their stories. Here and in her earlier work, The Silence of the Girls, Barker creates character and drama in the unexpressed wiggle room of legend. For instance, she has Briseis marry Alcimus while pregnant with Achilles' son, and Pyrrhus forbid the burial of Priam. But in this novel Barker drives no benefit from the dissonant changes. The Women of Troy often diverges from and contradicts traditional versions of the story. Inconsistencies and inaccuracies abound. The differences are disconcerting and annoying and add nothing. -- Briseis was friends with Hecuba and Andromache before the war and identifies herself as a Trojan. (p. 126 "I am a Trojan.") --Calchas, the priest, was a Trojan (p. 91 and 116). Legend had him presiding over the sacrifice of Iphigenia at Aulis before the war. (Barker even implies that Calchas and Hecuba may have been romantically involved in the past). -- Diomedes died in the Trojan War: "before Achilles intent on avenging Diomedes's death, had returned to the fighting" (p. 121): that should be Patroclus, not Diomedes. Probably just a typo but a whopper, since this author shows him very much alive competing in a chariot race after the war (p. 220). -- Agamemnon married Cassandra at Troy (p. 186). -- Helen is called "Helen of Argos" several times. She was from Sparta. In his translation of the Odyssey Fagles refers to her as "Helen of Argos" but the ancient Greek uses the adjective "Argive," meaning she is Greek.
Short Excerpt Teaser
1
Inside the horse's gut: heat, darkness, sweat, fear. They're crammed in, packed as tight as olives in a jar. He hates this contact with other bodies. Always has. Even clean, sweet-smelling human flesh makes him want to puke-and these men stink. It might be better if they kept still, but they don't. Each man shifts from side to side, trying to ease his shoulders into a little more space, all intertwined and wriggling like worms in a horse's shite.
Redworm.
The word sends him spiralling down; down, down, into the past, all the way back to his grandfather's house. As a boy-which is what some seem to think he still is-he used to go down to the stables every morning, running along the path between the tall hedges, breath curdling the air, every bare twig glinting in the reddish light. Turning the bend, he would see poor old Rufus standing by the gate of the first paddock-leaning on it, more like. He'd learnt to ride on Rufus; nearly everybody did, because Rufus was a quite exceptionally steady horse. The joke was, if you started to fall off, he'd stretch out a hoof and shove you back on. All his memories of learning to ride were happy, so he gave Rufus a good scratch, all the places he couldn't reach himself, then breathed into his nostrils, their breaths mingling to produce a snuffly, warm sound. The sound of safety.
God, he'd loved that horse-more than his mother, more even than his nurse, who, anyway, had been taken away from him as soon as he was seven. Rufus. Even the name had formed a bond: Rufus; Pyrrhus. Both names mean "red"-and there they were, the two of them, spectacularly red-haired, though admittedly in Rufus's case the colour was more chestnut than auburn. When he was a young horse, his coat used to gleam like the first conkers in autumn, but of course he was older now. And ill. As long ago as last winter, a groom had said, "He's looking a bit ribby." And every month since then, he'd lost weight; pelvic bones jutting out, sharp points to his shoulders-he was starting to look skeletal. Not even the lush grass of summer had put fat on his bones. One day, seeing a groom shovelling up a pile of loose droppings, Pyrrhus had asked, "Why's it like that?"
"Redworm," the man said. "Poor old sod's riddled with 'em."
Redworm.
And that one word delivers him back to hell.
------
At first, they're allowed rush lamps, though with the stern warning that these would have to be extinguished the minute the horse began to move. Frail, flickering lights, but yet without them the pelt of darkness and fear would have suffocated him. Oh, yes, fear. He'd deny it if he could, but it's here, unmistakably, in the dryness of his mouth and the loosening of his bowels. He tries to pray, but no god hears, and so he shuts his eyes and thinks: Father. The word feels awkward, like a new sword before your fingers grow accustomed to the hilt. Had he ever seen his father? If he had, he'd have been a baby at the time, too young to remember the most important meeting of his life. He tries Achilles instead-and it's actually easier, more comfortable, to use the name that any man in the army can.
He gazes along the row of men opposite, seeing each face lit from below, tiny flames dancing in their eyes. These men fought beside his father. There's Odysseus: dark, lean, ferret-like, the architect of this whole enterprise. He designed the horse, supervised its construction, captured and tortured a Trojan prince to get details of the city's defences-and finally concocted the story that's supposed to get them through the gates. If this fails, every leading fighter in the Greek army will die in a single night. How do you carry a responsibility like that? And yet Odysseus doesn't seem at all concerned. Without meaning to, Pyrrhus catches his eye and Odysseus smiles. Oh, yes, he smiles, he seems friendly, but what's he really thinking? Is he wishing Achilles were here, instead of that useless little runt, his son? Well, if he is, he's right, Achilles should be here. He wouldn't have been afraid.
Looking further along the row, he sees Alcimus and Automedon sitting side by side: once Achilles's chief aides, now his. Only it's not quite like that. They're in control, have been from the moment he arrived-propping up...
Inside the horse's gut: heat, darkness, sweat, fear. They're crammed in, packed as tight as olives in a jar. He hates this contact with other bodies. Always has. Even clean, sweet-smelling human flesh makes him want to puke-and these men stink. It might be better if they kept still, but they don't. Each man shifts from side to side, trying to ease his shoulders into a little more space, all intertwined and wriggling like worms in a horse's shite.
Redworm.
The word sends him spiralling down; down, down, into the past, all the way back to his grandfather's house. As a boy-which is what some seem to think he still is-he used to go down to the stables every morning, running along the path between the tall hedges, breath curdling the air, every bare twig glinting in the reddish light. Turning the bend, he would see poor old Rufus standing by the gate of the first paddock-leaning on it, more like. He'd learnt to ride on Rufus; nearly everybody did, because Rufus was a quite exceptionally steady horse. The joke was, if you started to fall off, he'd stretch out a hoof and shove you back on. All his memories of learning to ride were happy, so he gave Rufus a good scratch, all the places he couldn't reach himself, then breathed into his nostrils, their breaths mingling to produce a snuffly, warm sound. The sound of safety.
God, he'd loved that horse-more than his mother, more even than his nurse, who, anyway, had been taken away from him as soon as he was seven. Rufus. Even the name had formed a bond: Rufus; Pyrrhus. Both names mean "red"-and there they were, the two of them, spectacularly red-haired, though admittedly in Rufus's case the colour was more chestnut than auburn. When he was a young horse, his coat used to gleam like the first conkers in autumn, but of course he was older now. And ill. As long ago as last winter, a groom had said, "He's looking a bit ribby." And every month since then, he'd lost weight; pelvic bones jutting out, sharp points to his shoulders-he was starting to look skeletal. Not even the lush grass of summer had put fat on his bones. One day, seeing a groom shovelling up a pile of loose droppings, Pyrrhus had asked, "Why's it like that?"
"Redworm," the man said. "Poor old sod's riddled with 'em."
Redworm.
And that one word delivers him back to hell.
------
At first, they're allowed rush lamps, though with the stern warning that these would have to be extinguished the minute the horse began to move. Frail, flickering lights, but yet without them the pelt of darkness and fear would have suffocated him. Oh, yes, fear. He'd deny it if he could, but it's here, unmistakably, in the dryness of his mouth and the loosening of his bowels. He tries to pray, but no god hears, and so he shuts his eyes and thinks: Father. The word feels awkward, like a new sword before your fingers grow accustomed to the hilt. Had he ever seen his father? If he had, he'd have been a baby at the time, too young to remember the most important meeting of his life. He tries Achilles instead-and it's actually easier, more comfortable, to use the name that any man in the army can.
He gazes along the row of men opposite, seeing each face lit from below, tiny flames dancing in their eyes. These men fought beside his father. There's Odysseus: dark, lean, ferret-like, the architect of this whole enterprise. He designed the horse, supervised its construction, captured and tortured a Trojan prince to get details of the city's defences-and finally concocted the story that's supposed to get them through the gates. If this fails, every leading fighter in the Greek army will die in a single night. How do you carry a responsibility like that? And yet Odysseus doesn't seem at all concerned. Without meaning to, Pyrrhus catches his eye and Odysseus smiles. Oh, yes, he smiles, he seems friendly, but what's he really thinking? Is he wishing Achilles were here, instead of that useless little runt, his son? Well, if he is, he's right, Achilles should be here. He wouldn't have been afraid.
Looking further along the row, he sees Alcimus and Automedon sitting side by side: once Achilles's chief aides, now his. Only it's not quite like that. They're in control, have been from the moment he arrived-propping up...
