The Song of Achilles(94)

“That’s the last thing we want. Tripping over it every day,” Diomedes says.

“On the hill, I think. The ridge by their camp,” Odysseus says.

Wherever, wherever, wherever.

“I have come to take my father’s place.” The clear voice cuts across the room.

The heads of the kings twist towards the tent flap. A boy stands framed in the tent’s doorway. His hair is bright red, the color of the fire’s crust; he is beautiful, but coldly so, a winter’s morning. Only the dullest would not know which father he means. It is stamped on every line of his face, so close it tears at me. Just his chin is different, angling sharply down to a point as his mother’s did.

“I am the son of Achilles,” he announces.

The kings are staring. Most did not even know Achilles had a child. Only Odysseus has the wits to speak. “May we know the name of Achilles’ son?”

“My name is Neoptolemus. Called Pyrrhus.” Fire. But there is nothing of flame about him, beyond his hair. “Where is my father’s seat?”

Idomeneus has taken it. He rises. “Here.”

Pyrrhus’ eyes rake over the Cretan king. “I pardon your presumption. You did not know I was coming.” He sits. “Lord of Mycenae, Lord of Sparta.” The slightest incline of his head. “I offer myself to your army.”

Agamemnon’s face is caught between disbelief and displeasure. He had thought he was done with Achilles. And the boy’s affect is strange, unnerving.

“You do not seem old enough.”

Twelve. He is twelve.

“I have lived with the gods beneath the sea,” he says. “I have drunk their nectar and feasted on ambrosia. I come now to win the war for you. The Fates have said that Troy will not fall without me.”

“What?” Agamemnon is aghast.

“If it is so, we are indeed glad to have you,” Menelaus says. “We were talking of your father’s tomb, and where to build it.”

“On the hill,” Odysseus says.

Menelaus nods. “A fitting place for them.”

“Them?”

There is a slight pause. “Your father and his companion. Patroclus.”

“And why should this man be buried beside Aristos Achaion?”

The air is thick. They are all waiting to hear Menelaus’ answer.

“It was your father’s wish, Prince Neoptolemus, that their ashes be placed together. We cannot bury one without the other.”

Pyrrhus lifts his sharp chin. “A slave has no place in his master’s tomb. If the ashes are together, it cannot be undone, but I will not allow my father’s fame to be diminished. The monument is for him, alone.”

Do not let it be so. Do not leave me here without him.

The kings exchange glances.

“Very well,” Agamemnon says. “It shall be as you say.”

I am air and thought and can do nothing.

THE GREATER THE MONUMENT, the greater the man. The stone the Greeks quarry for his grave is huge and white, stretching up to the sky. ACHILLES, it reads. It will stand for him, and speak to all who pass: he lived and died, and lives again in memory.

PYRRHUS’ BANNERS bear the emblem of Scyros, his mother’s land, not Phthia. His soldiers, too, are from Scyros. Dutifully, Automedon lines up the Myrmidons and the women in welcome. They watch him make his way up the shore, his gleaming, new-minted troops, his red-gold hair like a flame against the blue of the sky.

“I am the son of Achilles,” he tells them. “I claim you as my inheritance and birthright. Your loyalty is mine now.” His eyes fix upon a woman who stands, eyes down, her hands folded. He goes to her and lifts her chin in his hand.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Briseis.”

“I’ve heard of you,” he says. “You were the reason my father stopped fighting.”

That night he sends his guards for her. They hold her arms as they walk her to the tent. Her head is bowed in submission, and she does not struggle.

The tent flap opens, and she is pushed through. Pyrrhus lounges in a chair, one leg dangling carelessly off the side. Achilles might have sat that way once. But his eyes were never like that, empty as the endless depths of black ocean, filled with nothing but the bloodless bodies of fish.

She kneels. “My lord.”

“My father broke with the army for you. You must have been a good bed-slave.”

Briseis’ eyes are at their darkest and most veiled. “You honor me, my lord, to say so. But I do not believe it was for me he refused to fight.”

“Why then? In your slave’s opinion?” A precise eyebrow lifts. It is terrifying to watch him speak to her. He is like a snake; you do not know where he will strike.

“I was a war prize, and Agamemnon dishonored him in taking me. That is all.”

“Were you not his bed-slave?”

“No, my lord.”

“Enough.” His voice is sharp. “Do not lie to me again. You are the best woman in the camp. You were his.”

Her shoulders have crept up a little. “I would not have you think better of me than I deserve. I was never so fortunate.”

“Why? What is wrong with you?”

She hesitates. “My lord, have you heard of the man who is buried with your father?”