The Song of Achilles(92)

“He will come, and Troy will fall. The city cannot be taken without him, the Fates say.” Her face glows.

Achilles stares. “You would bring him here?”

“He is the next Aristos Achaion.”

“I am not dead yet.”

“You may as well be.” The words are a lash. “Do you know what I have borne to make you great? And now you would destroy it for this?” She points at my festering body, her face tight with disgust. “I am done. There is no more I can do to save you.”

Her black eyes seem to contract, like dying stars. “I am glad that he is dead,” she says.

It is the last thing she will ever say to him.





Chapter Thirty-Two

IN THE DEEPEST REACHES OF NIGHT, WHEN EVEN THE WILD dogs drowse and the owls are quiet, an old man comes to our tent. He is filthy, his clothing torn, his hair smeared with ashes and dirt. His robes are wet from swimming the river. Yet his eyes, when he speaks, are clear. “I have come for my son,” he says.

The king of Troy moves across the room to kneel at Achilles’ feet. He bows his white head. “Will you hear a father’s prayer, mighty Prince of Phthia, Best of the Greeks?”

Achilles stares down at the man’s shoulders as if in a trance. They are trembling with age, stooped with the burdens of grief. This man bore fifty sons and has lost all but a handful.

“I will hear you,” he says.

“The blessings of the gods upon your kindness,” Priam says. His hands are cool on Achilles’ burning skin. “I have come far this night in hope.” A shudder, involuntary, passes through him; the night’s chill and the wet clothes. “I am sorry to appear so meanly before you.”

The words seem to wake Achilles a little. “Do not kneel,” he says. “Let me bring you food and drink.” He offers his hand, and helps the old king to his feet. He gives him a dry cloak and the soft cushions that Phoinix likes best, and pours wine. Beside Priam’s furrowed skin and slow steps he seems suddenly very young.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Priam says. His accent is strong, and he speaks slowly, but his Greek is good. “I have heard you are a noble man, and it is on your nobility that I throw myself. We are enemies, yet you have never been known as cruel. I beg you to return my son’s body for burial, so his soul does not wander lost.” As he speaks, he is careful not to let himself look at the shadow facedown in the corner.

Achilles is staring into the cupped darkness of his hands. “You show courage to come here alone,” he says. “How did you get into the camp?”

“I was guided by the grace of the gods.”

Achilles looks up at him. “How did you know I would not kill you?”

“I did not know,” says Priam.

There is silence. The food and wine sit before them, but neither eats, nor drinks. I can see Achilles’ ribs through his tunic.

Priam’s eyes find the other body, mine, lying on the bed. He hesitates a moment. “That is—your friend?”

“Philtatos,” Achilles says, sharply. Most beloved.“Best of men, and slaughtered by your son.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” Priam says. “And sorry that it was my son who took him from you. Yet I beg you to have mercy. In grief, men must help each other, though they are enemies.”

“What if I will not?” His words have gone stiff.

“Then you will not.”

There is silence a moment. “I could kill you still,” Achilles says.

Achilles.

“I know.” The king’s voice is quiet, unafraid. “But it is worth my life, if there is a chance my son’s soul may be at rest.”

Achilles’ eyes fill; he looks away so the old man will not see.

Priam’s voice is gentle. “It is right to seek peace for the dead. You and I both know there is no peace for those who live after.”

“No,” Achilles whispers.

Nothing moves in the tent; time does not seem to pass. Then Achilles stands. “It is close to dawn, and I do not want you to be in danger as you travel home. I will have my servants prepare your son’s body.”

WHEN THEY ARE GONE, he slumps next to me, his face against my belly. My skin grows slippery under the steady fall of his tears.

The next day he carries me to the pyre. Briseis and the Myrmidons watch as he places me on the wood and strikes the flint. The flames surround me, and I feel myself slipping further from life, thinning to only the faintest shiver in the air. I yearn for the darkness and silence of the underworld, where I can rest.

He collects my ashes himself, though this is a woman’s duty. He puts them in a golden urn, the finest in our camp, and turns to the watching Greeks.

“When I am dead, I charge you to mingle our ashes and bury us together.”

HECTOR AND SARPEDON are dead, but other heroes come to take their place. Anatolia is rich with allies and those making common cause against invaders. First is Memnon, the son of rosy-fingered dawn, king of Aethiopia. A large man, dark and crowned, striding forward with an army of soldiers as dark as he, a burnished black. He stands, grinning expectantly. He has come for one man, and one man alone.

That man comes to meet him armed with only a spear. His breastplate is carelessly buckled, his once-bright hair hangs lank and unwashed. Memnon laughs. This will be easy. When he crumples, folded around a long ashen shaft, the smile is shaken from his face. Wearily, Achilles retrieves his spear.