An Iliad (13 page)

The Trojans realized that Hector had run from Ajax, and they looked at him in bewilderment. I remember that I heard Glaucus shouting, “You’re a coward, Hector, you didn’t challenge Ajax because he’s stronger than you, and now you have left him the body of Patroclus, which would have been a precious prize for us!” Then Hector did something that no one will forget. He ran to join his companions who were carrying Patro-clus’s armor into the city, a trophy. He stopped them, took off his own armor, and put on the immortal armor that Achilles had given to his friend to go into battle. He put it on and it became his, the immortal armor of Achilles. His body in that armor, he seemed born for that armor, and suddenly he shone with strength and vigor. Brilliant he strode before all his men in the gleaming armor that for years they had looked at with terror, and now it was he who showed it off before their eyes.

They looked in amazement, Glaucus, Medon, Thersilochus, Asteropaeus. They watched him pass, rapt—Deisenor, Hippo-thous, Phorcys, Chromius, Ennomus—and to them Hector cried, “Fight alongside me, allies of a thousand tribes. I tell you that whoever can bring the body of Patroclus among the Trojans, overpowering Ajax, will share it with me and the glory will be equal for me and for him.” And in a fury they charged toward the Achaeans.

Ajax saw them coming and realized that neither he nor Menelaus could stop them. So he called for help, and first Idomeneus, then Meriones and Oilean Ajax and other brave men heard him and rushed to his side. The Trojans charged in a mass, all behind Hector. Around Ajax the Achaeans were arrayed with a single heart, protected by the bronze shields. The first wave of Trojans pushed them back, forcing them to abandon the body. But Ajax led his men to the attack again, until they managed to seize it from the hands of the Trojans. It was a tremendous struggle, a fearful contest. Toil and sweat grimed the legs and knees, the feet and hands and eyes of those who were fighting for the body. From every direction men grabbed the body of Patroclus and pulled, and it was like the skin of an animal when it is stretched for drying. Patroclus …

Nor did Achilles yet know that his beloved friend was dead. His tent was far away, near the black ships, and Patroclus had gone to die at the walls of Troy. He couldn’t know. I imagined him there, in his tent, still thinking that soon Patroclus would return, after driving the Trojans away, and he would give back the armor, and they would feast together, and … and while he was thinking these things, at that very moment Patroclus was already a corpse, contested on every side, and around him men were killing one another, and sharp spears flashed, and bronze shields clashed in the din.
This we
should learn about suffering: it is the child of Zeus. And Zeus is the child of Cronus.

And the story of Xanthus and Balius? On the subject of suffering … they were Achilles’ immortal steeds, and had carried Patroclus into battle. Well, when Patroclus fell, Autome-don led them far from the fray, thinking to get them to safety by galloping to the ships. But when they reached the middle of the plain they stopped, suddenly, immobilized, because their hearts were broken by grief at the death of Patroclus. Autome-don tried to make them go, with the whip and with gentle entreaties, but they wouldn’t return to the ships. They stood motionless, like a marble monument on a man’s tomb, with their muzzles brushing the earth, and they wept, says the legend, their eyes wept burning tears. They were not born to suffer old age or death, they were immortal. But they had run beside man, and from him they had learned grief: because there is nothing on the face of the earth, nothing that breathes or walks, nothing so unhappy as man. Finally, abruptly, the two horses launched into a gallop, but in the direction of the fighting. Automedon tried to stop them, but there was nothing to do. They headed for the thick of it, as they would have done in any battle, you see? But Automedon, in the chariot, was alone, he had to hold the reins. He couldn’t take up his weapons, and so he could kill no one. They carried him among the warriors and into the tumult, but the truth is that he couldn’t fight, the truth is that it seemed a mad chariot, which passed through the battle like a wind without striking a blow, absurd and marvelous.

Then the Achaeans realized that they were about to lose that battle. Some, like Idomeneus, abandoned the field, giving up. The others thought of returning to the ships, but without ceasing to fight, and trying to carry off the body of Patroclus.

Someone said, too, that Achilles had to be told what had happened, and all agreed, except that they didn’t know whom to send. They needed the fighters there, and then maybe no one wanted to be the one to bring Achilles the news of Patroclus’s death. Finally they chose a boy whom Achilles was fond of and who, at that moment, was fighting far from the body of Patroclus. And I was that boy.

My name is Antilochus. I am one of Nestor’s sons. When my father left for the war in Troy I was too young to go with him. So I stayed home. But five years later, without saying anything to my father, I took a ship and landed on the beach at Troy. I introduced myself to Achilles and I told him the truth, that I had run away to fight beside him. My father will kill me, I said. Achilles admired my courage and my beauty. And so it was. I became one of them, and, with a boy’s folly, I fought beside them in that war,
until the day when, in the middle of the fighting, I saw Menelaus hurrying toward me, in fact he was searching for me, and when he got close he looked me in the eye and said, “Patroclus is dead, Antilochus. I would never have wanted to bring you such news, but the truth is that Patroclus is dead, killed by the Trojans.” I couldn’t say anything, only I began to cry, right there, in the middle of the battle. I heard the voice of Menelaus shouting at me, “You must run to the ships, to Achilles, and tell him that Patroclus is dead, and that he has to do something, because we’re trying to carry his body to safety, but the Trojans are on us and are too strong for us. Go, hurry.”

And I went. I took off my armor so that I would be lighter and ran across the plain, weeping all the way. When I reached the ships, I found Achilles standing and scanning the horizon, trying to see what was happening in the battle. I stopped in front of him. I don’t know where I looked when I began to
speak: “Achilles, son of brave Peleus, something happened that should never have happened, and I have to bring you the news. Patroclus is dead, and the Achaeans are fighting for his naked body, because Hector has taken his armor.”

A black cloud of grief enveloped the hero. He fell to the ground and with both hands began clawing at the dirt and pouring it on his head and his handsome face. From the tents the women made slaves by war came running and around him began wailing with grief, falling to their knees and beating their breasts. Achilles sobbed. I leaned over him and held his hands tight in mine, because I didn’t want him to kill himself with those hands and a sharp blade. He gave a tremendous cry and called on his mother.

“Mother! I asked for sorrow to come upon the Achaeans, to make them pay for their insult to me, but how can I be happy now? Now I have lost forever the one whom I honored above all my companions and whom I loved like myself! He died far from his homeland, and I wasn’t there to protect him. I was sitting in my tent, you see? I was sitting beside my ship, like a useless weight on the earth. While he was dying and so many were dying under Hector’s assault, I was here, I who am the best of the Achaeans in battle … Oh, if only anger would vanish forever from men’s hearts, which can make even the wisest into fools, slipping into their souls with the sweetness of honey, then rising like smoke into their minds. I must forget my bitterness. I must go away from here and find the man who killed my beloved companion. Then I, too, will die, I know, Mother, but first with my spear I want to crush the life of that man, and around me sow so much death that the women of Troy will long for the days when this war was fought without me.” These things he said, weeping, but still he lay there, in the dust.

Then I said to him, “Rise, Achilles, the Achaeans need you now. They are trying to defend the body of Patroclus from the Trojans, but the fight is brutal and many are dying. Hector is in a fury. He wants that corpse, he wants to cut off the head to stick on a pole and raise it aloft as a trophy. Don’t stay here, Achilles. What sort of dishonor will it be if you let Patroclus end as food for Trojan dogs?”

Achilles looked at me. “How can I return to battle?” he said. “My armor is in the hands of the Trojans, and I can’t fight with armor that isn’t worthy of me. What hero would? How can I?”

Then I said, “I know, your armor is in the hands of Hector, but even so, without your armor, rise up and let the Trojans see you. They’ll be terrified, and our men will at least be able to catch their breath.”

And so he rose. He walked toward the edge of the trench, toward the battle. He could see our men running back, carrying high in their arms the body of Patroclus, and Hector was pursuing them with his men, following without pity. It was like taking carrion away from a starving lion. They tried to keep him away, the two Ajaxes, and every time he came back, like a fire that suddenly flares up to attack a city. Achilles stopped on the higher edge of the trench. He had no armor on now, but he shone like a flame, like a golden cloud. He gazed at the battle and let out a loud cry, like the peal of a trumpet. The Trojans were petrified. The horses with their beautiful manes reared up, scenting the odor of death. Three times Achilles cried out, and three times terror descended into the hearts of the Trojans. We saw them turn their chariots and flee, leaving the battle, consumed by anguish.

When our men placed the body of Patroclus on a litter, in
safety, Achilles approached. He placed his hands on the chest of his beloved friend, gently, those hands that were used to killing. He placed them on his chest and began to sob without respite, like a lion whose cubs have been stolen by hunters out of the depths of the forest.

T
hey wept over the body all night. They had washed away the blood and dust and had anointed the wounds with the richest unguent. So that he would not lose his beauty, they had dripped nectar and ambrosia in his nostrils. Then they had placed the body on the funeral bed, wrapped in soft linen, and covered by a white robe.
Patroclus: he was only a boy. I’m not even sure he was a hero. Now they had made him a god.

Dawn rose over their laments,
and the day came that I would remember forever as the day of my end.
They brought Achilles armor that the most skilled Achaean artisans had made for him that night, working with divine inspiration. They placed it at his feet. He had embraced the body of Patroclus and was sobbing. He turned to look at the armor, and his eyes glittered with a sinister light. It was armor such as no one had ever seen or worn. It seemed made by a god for a god.
It was a temptation that Achilles never could have resisted.

So finally he rose and left the body and, shouting, and
striding among the ships, called the men to assemble. I realized that our war would be decided then and there when I saw even the ships’ pilots coming, and the kitchen stewards, men who never joined the assemblies. But that day they, too, were present, drawing close around the heroes and princes to know their fate. I waited until they were seated. I waited until Ajax arrived, until Odysseus took his place, in the first row. They were limping because of their wounds. Then, last of all, I entered the assembly.

Achilles stood up. Everyone was silent. “Agamemnon,” he said, “it wasn’t a good idea to quarrel, you and I, over a girl. If only she had died right away, as soon as she came to my ship, so many Achaeans wouldn’t have bitten the infinite earth while I sat far away, a prisoner of my rage. What’s done is done: it’s time to master our hearts and forget the past. Today I put aside my anger and return to the battle. You assemble the Achaeans and urge them to fight with me, so that the Trojans will never again sleep beside our ships.”

On every side the men rejoiced. In all that clamor I began to speak. I remained seated in my place and asked them to be silent. I, the king of kings, had to ask for silence. Then I said, “Many have reproached me because I took from Achilles his prize of honor that day. And now I know I was wrong. But even the gods make mistakes! Folly has light feet and she doesn’t touch the ground, but she walks in the heads of men, leading them to ruin: she seizes them, one by one, when it most pleases her. She seized me that day, took possession of my senses. Now I want to compensate for that mistake by offering you infinite gifts, Achilles.”

He listened to me. Then he said that he would accept my gifts, but not that day. That day it was urgent to go into battle without wasting any more time, because a great undertaking
awaited him. He was so madly eager for war that he was incapable of waiting even an hour.

Then Odysseus rose. “Achilles,” he said, “you can’t take an army into battle without first feeding it. All day the men will have to fight, until sunset, and only he who has eaten and drunk can sustain the fight with a firm heart and strong limbs. Listen to me: send the men to the ships to prepare a meal. And meanwhile we’ll have the gifts from Agamemnon brought here, to the assembly, so that we may all see and admire them. And then let Agamemnon solemnly swear before us that he did not unite with Briseis as men and women do. Your heart will be more serene when you go into battle. And you, Agamemnon, arrange a rich feast in your tent for Achilles, so that justice may be properly done. It’s a worthy thing for a king to ask forgiveness if he has offended someone.”

Thus he spoke. But Achilles wouldn’t listen. “The earth is covered with the dead that Hector sowed behind him, and you want to eat? We’ll eat at sunset. I want this army to fight famished. Patroclus lies dead and awaits his revenge: I tell you that neither food nor drink will pass my lips before I have had it. I don’t care about gifts and feasts now. I want blood, and slaughter, and sorrow.”

Thus he spoke.
But Odysseus was not the type to yield. Anyone else would have given in—I would have—but not he.
“Achilles, bravest of all the Achaeans, you are stronger than I am with the spear, certainly, but I am wiser than you, because I’m old and have seen many things. Accept my counsel. It will be a long battle, and a hard struggle awaits us before we win. It’s fitting to weep over our dead: but must we do it with our stomachs? Isn’t it also right to refresh ourselves when we’re weary, getting strength from food and wine? Let us bury our dead with a firm heart, and weep from dawn until sunset. But
then let’s think of ourselves, so that we may return and eagerly pursue the enemy without respite, without pause, in our bronze armor. So I order that no one shall go into battle before eating and drinking. Then we’ll attack the Trojans together and rouse the cruel battle again.”