Trojan horse

For ten long years the Greeks had camped on the plain before Troy, and for ten long years the great walls of the city had held. Spears had shattered against them, heroes had died beneath them, and still the gates stood shut. The Greeks were tired, and Troy would not fall to strength alone.

So the cunning Odysseus thought of a trick. The Greek carpenters felled tall pines and built a horse of wood — vast, hollow, taller than the huts around it — and into its dark belly climbed the bravest of the soldiers, swords drawn, holding their breath in the gloom.

At dawn the Trojans woke to an empty shore. The Greek ships were gone, the camp was ash, and there on the sand stood the great horse, gleaming, an offering to the gods. The people threw open their gates and dragged the wonder inside their own walls, singing, garlanded, certain the long war was won.

That night, while Troy slept off its feasting, the belly of the horse swung open. The hidden men climbed down, threw wide the gates to the fleet that had only pretended to sail away, and the city that ten years of war could not break fell in a single night of fire.

We speak of a Trojan horse whenever something is welcomed in as a gift or a friend, only to loose the very danger it was hiding all along.