The Song of Achilles(30)

“Agamemnon and Mycenae appeal to the men of Hellas to sail to the kingdom of Priam for her rescue. Troy is rich and will be easily taken, they say. All who fight will come home wealthy and renowned.”

This was well worded. Wealth and reputation were the things our people had always killed for.

“They have asked me to send a delegation of men from Phthia, and I have agreed.” He waited for the murmuring to settle before adding, “Though I will not take any man who does not wish to go. And I will not lead the army myself.”

“Who will lead it?” someone shouted.

“That is not yet determined,” Peleus said. But I saw his eyes flicker to his son.

No, I thought. My hand tightened on the edge of the chair. Not yet. Across from me Thetis’ face was cool and still, her eyes distant. She knew this was coming, I realized. She wants him to go. Chiron and the rose cave seemed impossibly far away; a childish idyll. I understood, suddenly, the weight of Chiron’s words: war was what the world would say Achilles was born for. That his hands and swift feet were fashioned for this alone—the cracking of Troy’s mighty walls. They would throw him among thousands of Trojan spears and watch with triumph as he stained his fair hands red.

Peleus gestured to Phoinix, his oldest friend, at one of the first tables. “Lord Phoinix will note the names of all who wish to fight.”

There was a movement at the benches, as men started to rise. But Peleus held up his hand.

“There is more.” He lifted a piece of linen, dark with dense markings. “Before Helen’s betrothal to King Menelaus, she had many suitors. It seems these suitors swore an oath to protect her, whosoever might win her hand. Agamemnon and Menelaus now charge these men to fulfill their oath and bring her back to her rightful husband.” He handed the linen sheet to the herald.

I stared. An oath. In my mind, the sudden image of a brazier, and the spill of blood from a white goat. A rich hall, filled with towering men.

The herald lifted the list. The room seemed to tilt, and my eyes would not focus. He began to read.

Antenor.

Eurypylus.

Machaon.

I recognized many of the names; we all did. They were the heroes and kings of our time. But they were more to me than that. I had seen them, in a stone chamber heavy with fire-smoke.

Agamemnon. A memory of a thick black beard; a brooding man with narrowed, watchful eyes.

Odysseus. The scar that wrapped his calf, pink as gums.

Ajax. Twice as large as any man in the room, with his huge shield behind him.

Philoctetes, the bowman.

Menoitiades.

The herald paused a moment, and I heard the murmur: who? My father had not distinguished himself in the years since my exile. His fame had diminished; his name was forgotten. And those who did know him had never heard of a son. I sat frozen, afraid to move lest I give myself away. I am bound to this war.

The herald cleared his throat.

Idomeneus.

Diomedes.

“Is that you? You were there?” Achilles had turned back to face me. His voice was low, barely audible, but still I feared that someone might hear it.

I nodded. My throat was too dry for words. I had thought only of Achilles’ danger, of how I would try to keep him here, if I could. I had not even considered myself.

“Listen. It is not your name anymore. Say nothing. We will think what to do. We will ask Chiron.” Achilles never spoke like that, each word cutting off the next in haste. His urgency brought me back to myself, a little, and I took heart from his eyes on mine. I nodded again.

The names kept coming, and memories came with them. Three women on a dais, and one of them Helen. A pile of treasure, and my father’s frown. The stone beneath my knees. I had thought I dreamt it. I had not.

When the herald had finished, Peleus dismissed the men. They stood as one, benches scraping, eager to get to Phoinix to enlist. Peleus turned to us. “Come. I would speak further with you both.” I looked to Thetis, to see if she would come too, but she was gone.

WE SAT BY PELEUS’ FIRESIDE; he had offered us wine, barely watered. Achilles refused it. I took a cup, but did not drink. The king was in his old chair, the one closest to the fire, with its cushions and high back. His eyes rested on Achilles.

“I have called you home with the thought that you might wish to lead this army.”

It was spoken. The fire popped; its wood was green.

Achilles met his father’s gaze. “I have not finished yet with Chiron.”

“You have stayed on Pelion longer than I did, than any hero before.”

“That does not mean I must run to help the sons of Atreus every time they lose their wives.”

I thought Peleus might smile at that, but he did not. “I do not doubt that Menelaus rages at the loss of his wife, but the messenger came from Agamemnon. He has watched Troy grow rich and ripe for years, and now thinks to pluck her. The taking of Troy is a feat worthy of our greatest heroes. There may be much honor to be won from sailing with him.”

Achilles’ mouth tightened. “There will be other wars.”

Peleus did not nod, exactly. But I saw him register the truth of it. “What of Patroclus, then? He is called to serve.”

“He is no longer the son of Menoitius. He is not bound by the oath.”

Pious Peleus raised an eyebrow. “There is some shuffling there.”

“I do not think so.” Achilles lifted his chin. “The oath was undone when his father disowned him.”