An Iliad (15 page)

T
hey took refuge in the city like frightened fawns. Priam had had the Scaean gates opened, and they ran inside and ran up on the bastions, still covered with sweat, burning with thirst, and pressed against the parapets to look down onto the plain. Thousands found safety in the belly of the city. Only one remained outside the gates, nailed by his destiny. And it was the man I loved, and the father of my child.

From the distance Achilles arrived, leading his soldiers, swift as a victorious stallion, bright as a star, gleaming like an omen of death. Priam recognized him from the height of the tower and understood. He couldn’t restrain himself and began to weep, the old man, the great king, in front of everyone, beating his head with his hands and murmuring, “Hector, my son, flee that place. Achilles is too strong for you, don’t face him alone. Can’t you see, that man is killing my sons, one by one. Don’t you, too, be killed. Save your life and, alive, save the Trojans. I don’t want to die run through by a spear the day
our city is captured. I don’t want to see my sons killed, my daughters taken as slaves, marriage beds devastated, children hurled into the dust in the midst of the massacre. I don’t want to end up in the dirt and be torn to pieces by the dogs that, until the day before, I fed with scraps from my table. You, Hector, you’re young. The young are beautiful in death, in any death. You mustn’t be ashamed to die, but I … Think of an old man, and of those dogs standing over him and devouring his head, and tearing his sex from him, and drinking his blood. Think of the white hair, the pale skin. Think of the dogs who then, sated, go and lie down under the portico … I am too old, Hector, to die like that. Let me die in peace, my son.”

The great king wept. And Hecuba, queen and mother, wept. Her robe was open at the front, and, with her breast bared, she begged her son to remember the time when, a weeping child, he would run to that breast for consolation. Now she wanted him to come to her again, as he had long ago, instead of being killed there, outside the walls, by a cruel man who would have no pity. But Hector wouldn’t listen. He stood firm, leaning against the wall, and waited for Achilles, as a snake, swelled with poison, waits for the man in front of his own den. In his heart he mourned the many heroes who had died on that day of war, and knew that he himself had killed them when he refused to pull the army back at the return of Achilles. He had betrayed them, and now the only thing to do was to regain the love of his people by challenging that man. Maybe he thought for an instant of laying down his arms and putting an end to the war, giving back Helen and all her treasures, and others besides. But he knew that nothing now would stop Achilles, except revenge.

He saw him approach, running, radiant in his armor as the rising sun. He saw him stop, the spear raised above his
right shoulder, terrible as no man could appear, but only a god. And fear seized his heart. He began to flee, running beside the walls, as fast as he could. Like a falcon, Achilles charged after him, furious. Three times they circled Troy, like horses given their head in a race. But now, in this race, there was no gold, or slaves, or treasure: the prize was Hector’s life. And each time they passed the Scaean gates, Achilles went to the inside and cut off Hector’s path, pushing him toward the plain, to keep him from escaping into the city. It was like a dream in which we are following someone and can’t catch him, but he can’t escape, really, either, and it can last all night. It lasted until Deiphobus came out of the Scaean gates and ran swiftly along beside Hector, saying to him, “My brother, Achilles will wear you out. Stop and we’ll confront him together.”

Hector looked at him and opened his heart to him. “Deiphobus, beloved brother, you alone, seeing me, have had the courage to leave the protection of the walls and come to my aid.”

“Our father and mother didn’t want me to come,” said Deiphobus. “But I couldn’t stand it, the anguish was too great, and now I’m here, at your side. Let’s stop and fight together: fate will decide if we win, or Achilles.”

So that strange dream ended. Hector stopped fleeing. Achilles stopped. Slowly they went toward each other.

The first to speak was Hector. “I won’t try to run away from you any longer, Achilles. I’ve found the courage to face you. Only swear to me that if you win you’ll take my armor but not my body. I’ll do the same for you.”

Achilles looked at him with hatred. “Hector, I curse you. I will not make pacts with you. Men and lions, wolves and lambs don’t make pacts: their discord is forever. Think instead
about fighting. The moment has arrived to prove that you are really the warrior you think you are.”

Then he raised his spear, so that it quivered in the air, and hurled it with terrible force. Hector saw it coming and leaned quickly to one side, so that the bronze tip flew over his shoulder and planted itself in the ground. It was not true, then, that the gods had already decided everything, that the name of the victor was already written! Hector grasped his spear, raised it above his head, and hurled it. The bronze tip hit Achilles’ shield in the center, but it was a divine shield; nothing could break it. The bronze point went into the center but stopped there. Hector looked at it in confusion, and turned to ask Dei-phobus for another spear so that he could go on fighting. He turned, but Deiphobus was no longer there. He had escaped into the city; fear in the end had borne him away.

Then Hector knew that he had finally met his fate. And since he was a hero, he drew his sword, to die fighting, to die in such a way that all the future generations would tell of it forever. He charged forward, like an eagle greedy for its prey. Facing him, Achilles drew himself up in the splendor of his armor. They leaped on each other like two lions. The bronze tip of Achilles’ spear advanced as the evening star advances, shining in the night sky. He looked for an open place in Hector’s armor, the armor that had once been his own, and then Patro-clus’s. He examined the bronze for a crack so that he could get to flesh, and life. He found it at the point where the neck rests on the shoulders, the tender neck of my beloved: the spear pierced the throat and went all the way through.

Hector fell in the dust. He looked at Achilles and with his last breath of life said to him, “I beg you, do not abandon me to the dogs. Give this body to my father.”

But the heart of Achilles was hardened against all hope.

“Don’t plead with me, Hector. The evil you’ve done me is too great. It’s already something that I won’t cut you to pieces and smash you myself. Patroclus will have all the funeral honors that he deserves. You deserve to be eaten by the dogs and the birds, far from your bed, and from the tears of those who loved you.”

Hector closed his eyes, and death enveloped him. His soul flew away to Hades, mourning its fate, and lost youth and lost strength.

Achilles pulled his spear from Hector’s body. Then he bent down to strip off the armor. All the Achaeans came to watch, close up. For the first time they saw that body naked, without armor. They were amazed by its beauty, and yet not one resisted the temptation to strike him with the sword, with the spear. They laughed. “Hector is certainly a lot softer now than when he was setting fire to our ships.” They laughed and they struck him, until Achilles stopped them. He leaned over Hector and with a knife pierced his ankles, just under the anklebone. Through the hole he threaded leather thongs and tied them with strong knots to his chariot. He did it so that the body hung with its head in the dirt. Then he took Hector’s armor, his trophy, and mounted the chariot. He whipped the horses and they took off. Hector’s body, dragged along the ground, raised a black cloud of dust and blood.

Your face was so beautiful. And now it slides along the ground, with the beautiful hair flying ragged in the dust. We were born in distant places, you in Troy and I in Thebes, but a single fate awaited us. And it was an unhappy fate. Now you leave me a widow in your house, overwhelmed by my tremendous grief. The child we had together is still so young. You can’t help him anymore, nor he you. If he should even survive this war, pain and suffering will be his lot forever, because one
who has no father loses his friends and struggles to defend his possessions. His gaze lowered, his face lined with tears, he will tug on the cloaks of other fathers for protection, and maybe someone will glance at him with pity, but it will be like wetting the lips of one who is dying of thirst. The Trojans called him “lord of the city,” this child, because he was your son, and it was you who, alone, defended the city. Hector … Fate caused you to die apart from me, and that will forever be my greatest sorrow, because I didn’t have your last words for myself: I would have treasured them and remembered them all my life, every day and every night of my life. Beside the black ships now, you are preyed on by worms, and your naked body, which I so loved, is a meal for the dogs. Fine rich tunics, woven by women’s hands, awaited you here. I will go to the palace. I will take them and throw them in the fire. If this is the only pyre I can make in your honor, I will do it. For your glory, before all the men and women of Troy.

A
nd everyone saw the king rolling in the mud, mad with grief. He wandered from one to another, begging them to let him go to the ships of the Achaeans to recover the body of his son. They had to restrain him by force, the mad old man. For days he remained sitting among his sons, wrapped in his cloak, around him only grief and lamentation. Men and women wept, thinking of the lost heroes. The old man waited until the mud hardened on his hair and his pale skin. Then, one evening, he rose. He went to the bedchamber and called his wife, Hecuba. And when she appeared he said, “I must go. I will bring precious gifts that will soften Achilles’ heart. I must do it.”

Hecuba was in despair. “Gods, where is the wisdom you were famous for? You want to go to the ships, you, by yourself? You want to go to the man who has killed so many of your sons? That man has no pity—do you think he will have pity on you, respect for you? Stay here at home and mourn. For Hector we can do nothing. It was his fate to be devoured
by the dogs far away from us, the prey of that man whose liver I would tear out with my teeth.”

But the old king answered, “I must go. And you won’t stop me. If it is fated that I should die beside the ships of the Achaeans, well, I will die, but not before I hold my son in my arms and shed my tears over him.”

Thus he spoke, and he had all the most precious chests opened. He chose twelve of the finest robes, twelve cloaks, twelve blankets, twelve cloths of white linen, and twelve tunics. He weighed ten talents of gold and took two shining tripods, four urns, and a marvelous cup, a gift of the Thra-cians. Then he hurried out and began shouting furiously at all the people who were lamenting in his house, “Get out, all of you vile people. Don’t you have a house of your own where you can go and weep? Do you have to stay here and torment me? Isn’t it enough for you that Zeus has taken Hector, who of all my sons was the best, yes, the best? Did you hear me clearly, did you hear me, Paris, and you, Deiphobus, and you, Polites, and Agathon, and Helenus? Worthless, all of you. He was the best. Why didn’t you die in his place? Eh? I had brave sons, but I’ve lost them all, and the worst are left, the vain, the liars, good for dancing and stealing. What are you waiting for, you cowards, go, and get a chariot ready right away. I must go.”

They all trembled at the cries of the old king. And you should have seen them, how they ran off to prepare the chariot, and load it with the gifts, and then mules and horses, everything … There was no more discussion. When everything was ready, Hecuba came. She held in her right hand a cup of sweet wine. She came to the old king and offered it to him. “If you really want to go,” she said, “against my will, at least make an offering to Zeus first, and pray to him to let you return alive.”

The old king took the cup, and, since his wife asked him, he raised it to heaven and prayed to Zeus to have pity, and to let him find kindness and compassion where he was going. Then he mounted the chariot. All the gifts had been loaded into a second chariot, driven by Idaeus, the wise herald. The king and his faithful servant departed, without an escort, without warriors, alone, in the dark of the night.

When they reached the river they stopped to let the beasts drink. And there they saw a man approaching, emerging out of nowhere, out of the darkness.

“Let’s run away, my king,” Idaeus said right away, frightened. “Let’s go or he’ll kill us.”

But I couldn’t move. I was petrified with fear. I saw the man getting closer and closer, and I couldn’t do a thing. He came toward me, right toward me, and offered me his hand. He looked like a prince, young and handsome.

“Where are you going, old father?” he said. “Don’t you fear the fury of the Achaeans, your mortal enemies? If one of them sees you with all that treasure, what will you do? You’re no longer young, you two. How will you defend yourselves if someone attacks you? Let me protect you. I won’t hurt you: you remind me of my father.”

It seemed that a god had put himself in our path. He thought we were escaping from Ilium, that the city was in the grip of terror, and we two had escaped with all the riches we could carry. He knew about the death of Hector and thought the Trojans had fled. And when he spoke of Hector he said: He wasn’t inferior to any of the Achaeans in battle.

“Ah, young prince, but who are you, who speak like this of Hector?” And he said that he was a Myrmidon who had come to the war following Achilles and now was one of his attendants. He said that he had seen Hector fight numberless
times and remembered when he attacked the ships. And he said that he had come from the camp of the Achaeans, where all the warriors were waiting for dawn to attack Troy again.

“But if you come from there, then you must have seen Hector. Tell me the truth, is he still in Achilles’ tent, or have they thrown him out to the dogs?”

“Neither dogs nor birds have devoured him, old man,” he answered. “You can’t believe it, but his body seems untouched. Twelve days have passed since his death, and yet it’s as if he had just died. Every day, at dawn, Achilles pitilessly drags him around the tomb of Patroclus to humiliate him, and every day the body is intact, the wounds close up, the blood disappears. Some god watches over him, old man: even if he is dead, some god loves him.”