The Song of Achilles(67)

IT WAS ON ONE OF THESE NIGHTS that Achilles asked her what she knew of Hector.

She had been leaning back on her hands, the inner flush of her elbows warmed by the fire. But at his voice, she startled a little and sat up. He did not speak directly to her often, nor she to him. A remnant, perhaps, of what had happened in her village.

“I do not know much,” she said. “I have never seen him, nor any of Priam’s family.”

“But you have heard things.” Achilles was sitting forward now himself.

“A little. I know more of his wife.”

“Anything,” Achilles said.

She nodded, cleared her throat softly as she often did before a story. “Her name is Andromache, and she is the only daughter of King Eetion of Cilicia. Hector is said to love her above all things.

“He first saw her when he came to her father’s kingdom for tribute. She welcomed him, and entertained him at the feast that evening. At the night’s end, Hector asked her father for her hand.”

“She must have been very beautiful.”

“People say she is fair, but not the fairest girl Hector might have found. She is known for a sweet temper and gentle spirit. The country people love her because she often brings them food and clothes. She was pregnant, but I have not heard what became of the child.”

“Where is Cilicia?” I asked.

“It is to the south, along the coast, not far from here by horse.”

“Near Lesbos,” Achilles said. Briseis nodded.

Later, when all the rest had gone, he said, “We raided Cilicia. Did you know?”

“No.”

He nodded. “I remember that man, Eetion. He had eight sons. They tried to hold us off.”

I could tell by the quietness of his voice.

“You killed them.” An entire family, slaughtered.

He caught the look on my face though I tried to hide it. But he did not lie to me, ever.

“Yes.”

I knew he killed men every day; he came home wet with their blood, stains he scrubbed from his skin before dinner. But there were moments, like now, when that knowledge overwhelmed me. When I would think of all the tears that he had made fall, in all the years that had passed. And now Andromache, too, and Hector grieved because of him. He seemed to sit across the world from me then, though he was so close I could feel the warmth rising from his skin. His hands were in his lap, spear-callused but beautiful still. No hands had ever been so gentle, or so deadly.

Overhead, the stars were veiled. I could feel the air’s heaviness. There would be a storm tonight. The rain would be soaking, filling up the earth till she burst her seams. It would gush down from the mountaintops, gathering strength to sweep away what stood in its path: animals and houses and men.

He is such a flood, I thought.

His voice broke the silence of my thoughts. “I left one son alive,” he said. “The eighth son. So that their line would not die.”

Strange that such a small kindness felt like grace. And yet, what other warrior would have done as much? Killing a whole family was something to boast of, a glorious deed that proved you powerful enough to wipe a name from the earth. This surviving son would have children; he would give them his family’s name and tell their story. They would be preserved, in memory if not in life.

“I am glad,” I said, my heart full.

The logs in the fire grew white with ash. “It is strange,” he said. “I have always said that Hector’s done nothing to offend me. But he cannot say the same, now.”





Chapter Twenty-Four

YEARS PASSED AND A SOLDIER, ONE OF AJAX’S, BEGAN TO complain about the war’s length. At first he was ignored; the man was hideously ugly and known to be a scoundrel. But he grew eloquent. Four years, he said, and nothing to show for it. Where is the treasure? Where is the woman? When will we leave? Ajax clouted him on the head, but the man would not be silenced. See how they treat us?

Slowly, his discontent spread from one camp to the next. It had been a bad season, particularly wet, and miserable for fighting. Injuries abounded, rashes and mud-turned ankles and infections. The biting flies had settled so thickly over parts of the camp they looked like clouds of smoke.

Sullen and scratching, men began to loiter around the agora. At first they did nothing but collect in small groups, whispering. Then the soldier who had begun it joined them, and their voices grew louder.

Four years!

How do we know she’s even in there? Has anyone seen her?

Troy will never submit to us.

We should all just stop fighting.

When Agamemnon heard, he ordered them whipped. The next day there were twice as many; not a few were Mycenaeans.

Agamemnon sent an armed force to disperse them. The men slunk off, then returned when the force was gone. In answer, Agamemnon ordered a phalanx to guard the agora all day. But this was frustrating duty—in full sun, where the flies were most numerous. By the end of the day, the phalanx was ragged from desertion and the number of mutineers had swollen.

Agamemnon used spies to report on those who complained; these men were then seized and whipped. The next morning, several hundred men refused to fight. Some gave illness as an excuse, some gave no excuse at all. Word spread, and more men took suddenly ill. They threw their swords and shields onto the dais in a heap and blocked the agora. When Agamemnon tried to force his way through, they folded their arms and would not budge.