The Song of Achilles(43)
I stood helpless as the faces of Lycomedes’ court registered Odysseus’ words, turned towards Achilles, stared. For a moment Achilles did not move. Then, slowly, he lowered the weapons.
“Lord Odysseus,” he said. His voice was remarkably calm. “Lord Diomedes.” He inclined his head politely, one prince to another. “I am honored to be the subject of so much effort.” It was a good answer, full of dignity and the slightest twist of mockery. It would be harder for them to humiliate him now.
“I assume you wish to speak with me? Just a moment, and I will join you.” He placed the sword and spear carefully on the table. With steady fingers he untied the kerchief, drew it off. His hair, revealed, gleamed like polished bronze. The men and women of Lycomedes’ court whispered to one another in muted scandal; their eyes clung to his figure.
“Perhaps this will help?” Odysseus had claimed a tunic from some bag or box. He tossed it to Achilles, who caught it.
“Thank you,” Achilles said. The court watched, hypnotized, as he unfolded it, stripped to the waist, and drew it over himself.
Odysseus turned to the front of the room. “Lycomedes, may we borrow a room of state, please? We have much to discuss with the prince of Phthia.”
Lycomedes’ face was a frozen mask. I knew he was thinking of Thetis, and punishment. He did not answer.
“Lycomedes.” Diomedes’ voice was sharp, cracking like a blow.
“Yes,” Lycomedes croaked. I pitied him. I pitied all of us. “Yes. Just through there.” He pointed.
Odysseus nodded. “Thank you.” He moved towards the door, confidently, as if never doubting but that Achilles would follow.
“After you,” Diomedes smirked. Achilles hesitated, and his eyes went to me, just the barest glance.
“Oh yes,” Odysseus called over his shoulder. “You’re welcome to bring Patroclus along, if you like. We have business with him, as well.”
Chapter Fifteen
THE ROOM HAD A FEW THREADBARE TAPESTRIES AND four chairs. I forced myself to sit straight against the stiff wood back, as a prince should. Achilles’ face was tight with emotion, and his neck flushed.
“It was a trick,” he accused.
Odysseus was unperturbed. “You were clever in hiding yourself; we had to be cleverer still in finding you.”
Achilles lifted an eyebrow in princely hauteur. “Well? You’ve found me. What do you want?”
“We want you to come to Troy,” Odysseus said.
“And if I do not want to come?”
“Then we make this known.” Diomedes lifted Achilles’ discarded dress.
Achilles flushed as if he’d been struck. It was one thing to wear a dress out of necessity, another thing for the world to know of it. Our people reserved their ugliest names for men who acted like women; lives were lost over such insults.
Odysseus held up a restraining hand. “We are all noble men here and it should not have to come to such measures. I hope we can offer you happier reasons to agree. Fame, for instance. You will win much of it, if you fight for us.”
“There will be other wars.”
“Not like this one,” said Diomedes. “This will be the greatest war of our people, remembered in legend and song for generations. You are a fool not to see it.”
“I see nothing but a cuckolded husband and Agamemnon’s greed.”
“Then you are blind. What is more heroic than to fight for the honor of the most beautiful woman in the world, against the mightiest city of the East? Perseus cannot say he did so much, nor Jason. Heracles would kill his wife again for a chance to come along. We will master Anatolia all the way to Araby. We will carve ourselves into stories for ages to come.”
“I thought you said it would be an easy campaign, home by next fall,” I managed. I had to do something to stop the relentless roll of their words.
“I lied.” Odysseus shrugged. “I have no idea how long it will be. Faster if we have you.” He looked at Achilles. His dark eyes pulled like the tide, however you swam against it. “The sons of Troy are known for their skill in battle, and their deaths will lift your name to the stars. If you miss it, you will miss your chance at immortality. You will stay behind, unknown. You will grow old, and older in obscurity.”
Achilles frowned. “You cannot know that.”
“Actually, I can.” He leaned back in his chair. “I am fortunate to have some knowledge of the gods.” He smiled as if at a memory of some divine mischief. “And the gods have seen fit to share with me a prophecy about you.”
I should have known that Odysseus would not come with tawdry blackmail as his only coin. The stories named him polutropos, the man of many turnings. Fear stirred in me like ash.
“What prophecy?” Achilles asked, slowly.
“That if you do not come to Troy, your godhead will wither in you, unused. Your strength will diminish. At best, you will be like Lycomedes here, moldering on a forgotten island with only daughters to succeed him. Scyros will be conquered soon by a nearby state; you know this as well as I. They will not kill him; why should they? He can live out his years in some corner eating the bread they soften for him, senile and alone. When he dies, people will say, who?”
The words filled the room, thinning the air until we could not breathe. Such a life was a horror.