The Song of Achilles(80)
Blood pours down his legs and puddles at his feet. It is mostly a surface wound, but the Greeks do not know that yet. They scream and rush the Trojan ranks, enraged at the betrayal. A bloody melee begins.
“But what happened to Paris?” I ask.
Phoinix shakes his head. “I do not know.”
THE TWO SIDES FOUGHT on through the afternoon until another trumpet blew. It was Hector, offering a second truce, a second duel to make right the dishonor of Paris’ disappearance and the shooting of the arrow. He presented himself in his brother’s place, to any man who dared answer. Menelaus, Phoinix says, would have stepped forward again, but Agamemnon prevented him. He did not want to see his brother die against the strongest of the Trojans.
The Greeks drew lots for who would fight with Hector. I imagine their tension, the silence before the helmet is shaken and the lot jumps out. Odysseus bends to the dusty earth to retrieve it. Ajax. There is collective relief: he is the only man who has a chance against the Trojan prince. The only man, that is, who fights today.
So Ajax and Hector fight, heaving stones at each other, and spears that shatter shields, until night falls and the heralds call an end. It is strangely civilized: the two armies part in peace, Hector and Ajax shaking hands as equals. The soldiers whisper—it would not have ended so if Achilles were here.
Discharged of his news, Phoinix gets wearily to his feet and limps on the arm of Automedon back to his tent. Achilles turns to me. He is breathing quickly, the tips of his ears pinking with excitement. He seizes my hand and crows to me of the day’s events, of how his name was on everyone’s lips, of the power of his absence, big as a Cyclops, walking heavily amongst the soldiers. The excitement of the day has flared through him, like flame in dry grass. For the first time, he dreams of killing: the stroke of glory, his inevitable spear through Hector’s heart. My skin prickles to hear him say so.
“Do you see?” he says. “It is the beginning!”
I cannot escape the feeling that, below the surface, something is breaking.
THERE IS A TRUMPET the next morning at dawn. We rise, and climb the hill to see an army of horsemen riding for Troy from the East. Their horses are large and move with unnatural speed, drawing light-wheeled chariots behind them. At their head sits a huge man, larger even than Ajax. He wears his black hair long, like the Spartans do, oiled and swinging down his back. He carries a standard in the shape of a horse’s head.
Phoinix has joined us. “The Lycians,” he says. They are Anatolians, long allies of Troy. It has been a source of much wonder that they have not yet come to join the war. But now, as if summoned by Zeus himself, they are here.
“Who is that?” Achilles points to the giant, their leader.
“Sarpedon. A son of Zeus.” The sun gleams off the man’s shoulders, sweat-slick from the ride; his skin is dark gold.
The gates open, and the Trojans pour out to meet their allies. Hector and Sarpedon clasp hands, then lead their troops into the field. The Lycian weapons are strange: saw-toothed javelins and things that look like giant fishhooks, for ripping into flesh. All that day we hear their battle cries and the pounding hooves of their cavalry. There is a steady stream of Greek wounded into Machaon’s tent.
Phoinix goes to the evening’s council, the only member of our camp not in disgrace. When he returns, he looks sharply at Achilles. “Idomeneus is wounded, and the Lycians broke the left flank. Sarpedon and Hector will crush us between them.”
Achilles does not notice Phoinix’s disapproval. He turns to me in triumph. “Do you hear that?”
“I hear it,” I say.
A day passes, and another. Rumors come thick as biting flies: tales of the Trojan army driving forward, unstoppable and bold in Achilles’ absence. Of frantic councils, where our kings argue over desperate strategy: night raids, spies, ambushes. And then more, Hector ablaze in battle, burning through Greeks like a brush fire, and every day more dead than the day before. Finally: panicked runners, bringing news of retreats and wounds among the kings.
Achilles fingers this gossip, turning it this way and that. “It will not be long now,” he says.
The funeral pyres burn through the night, their greasy smoke smeared across the moon. I try not to think how every one is a man I know. Knew.
ACHILLES IS PLAYING the lyre when they arrive. There are three of them—Phoinix first, and behind him Odysseus and Ajax.
I am sitting beside Achilles as they come; farther off is Automedon, carving the meat for supper. Achilles’ head is lifted as he sings, his voice clear and sweet. I straighten, and my hand leaves his foot where it has been resting.
The trio approach us and stand on the other side of the fire, waiting for Achilles to finish. He puts down his lyre and rises.
“Welcome. You will stay for dinner, I hope?” He clasps their hands warmly, smiling through their stiffness.
I know why they have come. “I must see to the meal,” I mumble. I feel Odysseus’ eyes on my back as I go.
The strips of lamb drip and sear on the brazier’s grill. Through the haze of smoke I watch them, seated around the fire as if they are friends. I cannot hear their words, but Achilles is smiling still, pushing past their grimness, pretending he does not see it. Then he calls for me, and I cannot stall any longer. Dutifully I bring the platters and take my seat beside him.
He is making desultory conversation of battles and helmets. While he talks he serves the meal, a fussing host who gives seconds to everyone and thirds to Ajax. They eat and let him talk. When they are finished, they wipe their mouths and put aside their plates. Everyone seems to know it is time. It is Odysseus, of course, who begins.