The Song of Achilles(91)

Scamander will not die. But he must limp away now, weakened and weary, to the mountains and the source of his waters, to stanch the wound and regain his strength. He sinks into his river and is gone.

Achilles’ face is sweat-streaked, his breaths harsh. But he does not pause. “Hector!” he screams. And the hunt begins again.

Somewhere, the gods whisper:

He has beaten one of us.

What will happen if he attacks the city?

Troy is not meant to fall yet.

And I think: do not fear for Troy. It is only Hector that he wants. Hector, and Hector alone. When Hector is dead, he will stop.

THERE IS A GROVE at the base of Troy’s high walls, home to a sacred, twisting laurel. It is there that Hector, at last, stops running. Beneath its branches, the two men face each other. One of them is dark, his feet like roots driving deep into soil. He wears a golden breastplate and helmet, burnished greaves. It fit me well enough, but he is bigger than I, broader. At his throat the metal gapes away from his skin.

The other man’s face is twisted almost beyond recognition. His clothes are still damp from his fight in the river. He lifts his ashen spear.

No, I beg him. It is his own death he holds, his own blood that will spill. He does not hear me.

Hector’s eyes are wide, but he will run no longer. He says, “Grant me this. Give my body to my family, when you have killed me.”

Achilles makes a sound like choking. “There are no bargains between lions and men. I will kill you and eat you raw.” His spearpoint flies in a dark whirlwind, bright as the evening-star, to catch the hollow at Hector’s throat.

ACHILLES RETURNS to the tent, where my body waits. He is red and red and rust-red, up to his elbows, his knees, his neck, as if he has swum in the vast dark chambers of a heart and emerged, just now, still dripping. He is dragging Hector’s body behind him, pierced through its heels with a leather thong. The neat beard is matted with dirt, the face black with bloody dust. He has been pulling it behind his chariot as the horses run.

The kings of Greece are waiting for him.

“You have triumphed today, Achilles,” Agamemnon says. “Bathe and rest yourself, and then we shall feast in your honor.”

“I will have no feast.” He pushes through them, dragging Hector after.

“HOKUMOROS,” HIS MOTHER CALLS him in her softest voice. Swift-fated. “Will you not eat?”

“You know I will not.”

She touches her hand to his cheek, as if to wipe away blood.

He flinches. “Stop,” he says.

Her face goes blank for a second, so quickly he does not see. When she speaks, her voice is hard.

“It is time to return Hector’s body to his family for burial. You have killed him and taken your vengeance. It is enough.”

“It will never be enough,” he says.

FOR THE FIRST TIME since my death, he falls into a fitful, trembling sleep.

Achilles. I cannot bear to see you grieving.

His limbs twitch and shudder.

Give us both peace. Burn me and bury me. I will wait for you among the shades. I will—

But already he is waking. “Patroclus! Wait! I am here!”

He shakes the body beside him. When I do not answer, he weeps again.

HE RISES AT DAWN to drag Hector’s body around the walls of the city for all of Troy to see. He does it again at midday, and again at evening. He does not see the Greeks begin to avert their eyes from him. He does not see the lips thinning in disapproval as he passes. How long can this go on?

Thetis is waiting for him in the tent, tall and straight as a flame.

“What do you want?” He drops Hector’s body by the door.

Her cheeks have spots of color, like blood spilled on marble. “You must stop this. Apollo is angry. He seeks vengeance upon you.”

“Let him.” He kneels, smooths back the hair on my forehead. I am wrapped in blankets, to muffle the smell.

“Achilles.” She strides to him, seizes his chin. “Listen to me. You go too far in this. I will not be able to protect you from him.”

He jerks his head from her and bares his teeth. “I do not need you to.”

Her skin is whiter than I have ever seen it. “Do not be a fool. It is only my power that—”

“What does it matter?” He cuts her off, snarling. “He is dead. Can your power bring him back?”

“No,” she says. “Nothing can.”

He stands. “Do you think I cannot see your rejoicing? I know how you hated him. You have always hated him! If you had not gone to Zeus, he would be alive!”

“He is a mortal,” she says. “And mortals die.”

“I am a mortal!” he screams. “What good is godhead, if it cannot do this? What good are you?”

“I know you are mortal,” she says. She places each cold word as a tile in a mosaic. “I know it better than anyone. I left you too long on Pelion. It has ruined you.” She gestures, a flick, at his torn clothing, his tear-stained face. “This is not my son.”

His chest heaves. “Then who is it, Mother? Am I not famous enough? I killed Hector. And who else? Send them before me. I will kill them all!”

Her face twists. “You act like a child. At twelve Pyrrhus is more of a man than you.”

“Pyrrhus.” The word is a gasp.