Authors: Colleen McCullough
I leaned over the rail and looked down on a sea of purple Trojan plumes.
‘Give me a torch!’
Someone tossed one upwards. I caught it, walked down to the empty mast amid its shrouds and let the fire lick lovingly about those worn ropes, the cracked dry wood. From the next ship Ajax watched me, arms hanging limply by his sides, tears rolling down his face. The flames kindled; a sheet of fire ran up the mast to the crosstrees, the deck began to weep trickles of smoke from other torches thrown below through the rowing ports. I ran back to the prow, mounted it.
‘Victory is ours!’ I shouted. ‘The ships are aflame!’
My men took up the cry, surging to meet the Greeks as they clustered in front of the ships resting in line behind the lonely Protesilaos talisman.
NARRATED BY
Achilles
I spent most of my time standing on the roof of the tallest Myrmidon barracks, looking from its height across our wall to the plain. When the army broke and fled, I saw it; when Sarpedon breached our wall, I saw it; when Hektor’s men poured in among the houses, I saw it. But no more. Listening to Odysseus outline his plan was one thing. To see the plan’s outcome was unbearable. I plodded back to my house.
Patrokles sat on a bench outside its door, his face wet with tears. Seeing me, he turned away.
‘Go and find Nestor,’ I said. ‘I saw him bring Machaon in a while ago. Ask him what news there is from Agamemnon.’
All futile. What the news would be was obvious. But at least I wouldn’t have to look at Patrokles, or hear him beg me to change my mind. The noise of the conflict raging on the other side of the stockade fence which shut my Thessalian people off was a little distant; it was the Simois end of the camp most beset. I sat on the bench and waited until Patrokles returned.
‘What does Nestor say?’
His face was ugly with contempt. ‘Our cause is lost. After ten long years of work and pain, our cause – is – lost! Through no one’s fault save yours! Eurypylos was with Nestor and Machaon. The fatalities are shocking and Hektor runs amok. Even Ajax is powerless to curb his advance. The ships must burn.’
He drew a breath. ‘If you hadn’t quarrelled with Agamemnon none of this could have happened! You sacrificed Greece to feed your passion for an insignificant woman!’
‘Patrokles, why won’t you believe in me?’ I asked. ‘Why have you turned against me? Is it jealousy over Brise?’
‘No. It’s disillusionment, Achilles. You’re just not the man I thought you were. This isn’t about love. It’s about pride.’
I didn’t say whatever I thought I might because a great shout went up. We both ran to the stockade wall and mounted the steps to see above it. A column of smoke rose into the sky; the Protesilaos ship was burning. All had come to pass. I could move. But how could I tell Patrokles that he, not I, must lead out the men of Thessalia? The Myrmidons?
When we came down Patrokles went on his knees in the dust.
‘Achilles, the ships must burn! If you won’t, then let
me
lead our troops out! Surely you’ve seen how much they hate sitting here while the rest of Greece dies! Do you want the throne of Mykenai, is that it? Do you want to return to a land in no fit condition to resist your conquering forces?’
My face felt tight, but I answered levelly. ‘I have no designs on Agamemnon’s throne.’
‘Then let me lead our men out now! Let me take them down to the ships before Hektor burns them!’
I allowed myself to nod stiffly. ‘Very well, then, take them. I see your point, Patrokles. Receive the command.’
Even as I said that, I saw how the scheme might be made to work better, and lifted Patrokles to his feet. ‘But on one condition. That you wear my armour and make the Trojans think it’s Achilles come among them.’
‘Put it on yourself and come with us!’
‘That I can’t do,’ I said.
So I took him to the armoury and dressed him in the golden suit my father had given me from the chest of King Minos. It was too big by far, but I did my best to make it fit by overlapping the front and back plates of the cuirass, padding the helmet. The greaves came up his thighs, which would afford him more protection than greaves usually did. And yes, provided no one got too close, he would pass for Achilles. Would Odysseus see that as my breaking the oath? Would Agamemnon? Well, too bad if they did. I would do what I could to shield my oldest friend – my lover – from harm.
The horns had sounded; the Myrmidons and other Thessalians were waiting in so short a space of time that it was obvious they had been ready to leap into the fray. I walked with Patrokles to the assembly area while Automedon ran to harness up my car; though it would be of little use inside the camp, it was necessary that everyone see Achilles arrive to throw the Trojans out. In the gold armour I had rarely worn, everyone would know Achilles.
But how was this? The men cheered me deafeningly, looked at me with the same love they had always shown me. How
was
this, when even Patrokles had turned against me? I shaded my eyes and glanced up at the sun, to find it not so far above the horizon. Good. The deception need not last long. Patrokles would be all right.
Automedon was ready. Patrokles mounted the car.
‘Dearest cousin,’ I said, my hand on his arm, ‘content yourself with driving Hektor from the camp. Whatever you do, do
not
pursue him onto the plain. Is that order clear?’
‘Perfectly,’ he said, shrugging me off.
Automedon clicked his tongue at the team and moved off to the gate between our stockade and the main body of the camp, while I ascended to the barracks rooftop to watch.
The fighting now raged in front of the first row of ships, with Hektor looking invincible. A situation which changed in an instant when fifteen thousand fresh troops came at the Trojans from the Skamander side, led by a figure wearing golden armour in a golden chariot drawn by three white horses.
‘Achilles! Achilles!’
I could hear both sides crying my name, a sensation as odd as it was uncomfortable. But it was enough. The moment the Trojan soldiers glimpsed the figure in the chariot and heard the name, they were transformed from victors into defeated. They ran. My Myrmidons were out for blood and fell on the stragglers tooth and nail, cutting them down without mercy, while ‘I’ screamed my war cry and urged them on.
Hektor’s army poured out across the Simois causeway. Never again, I vowed, would a Trojan set foot inside our camp. Not the most cunning wile Odysseus could think of would persuade me. I found that I was weeping, and knew not for whom – myself, Patrokles, all those dead Greek soldiers. Odysseus had succeeded in luring Hektor out, but the price was ghastly. I could only pray that Hektor had lost at least as many men.
Ai, ai! Patrokles chased the Trojans out onto the plain. When I saw what he was about, I felt my heart sink. Inside the camp the crush had prevented anyone’s getting close enough to him to see the deception, but out there on the plain – oh, anything was possible! Hektor would rally, and Aineas was still in the fight. Aineas knew me. Knew
me,
not my armour.
Suddenly it seemed better not to know. I left the roof and sat on the bench outside my house door, waiting for someone to come. The sun was about to set, hostilities would cease. Yes, he would be all right. He would survive. He had to survive.
Footsteps sounded: Nestor’s youngest, Antilochos. He was weeping and wringing his hands together – telltale, telltale. I tried to speak and found my tongue clove to the top of my mouth; I had to struggle to produce the question.
‘Is Patrokles dead?’
Antilochos sobbed aloud. ‘Achilles, his poor naked body lies out there among a host of Trojans – Hektor wears your armour and flaunts it in our faces! The Myrmidons are heartbroken, but they won’t let Hektor near the body, though he shouted a vow that Patrokles would feed the dogs of Troy.’
As I got to my feet my knees went; down I went into the dust where Patrokles had knelt to beg. Unreal, unreal. Yet it had to be real. I had known it was going to happen. For a moment I felt the power of my mother in me and heard the lap and swell of the sea. I cried her name once, hating her.
Antilochos pillowed my head in his lap, his warm tears falling on my arm, his fingers chafing the back of my neck.
‘He wouldn’t understand,’ I mumbled. ‘He refused to understand. That never occurred to me. He, of all people, to think I would desert my own? They had my oath on it. He died deeming me prouder than Zeus. He died despising me. And now I can never explain. Odysseus, Odysseus!’
Antilochos stopped weeping. ‘What has Odysseus got to do with all this, Achilles?’
I remembered then, shook my head and climbed to my feet. Together we walked towards the gate in the stockade wall.
‘Did you think I might kill myself?’ I asked him.
‘Not for very long.’
‘Who did it? Hektor?’
‘Hektor wears his armour, but there’s some doubt as to who actually killed him. When the Trojans turned to face us on the plain, Patrokles got down from his car. Then he tripped.’
‘The armour killed him. It was too big.’
‘We’ll never know that. He was attacked by three men. Hektor dealt the last stroke, but he may already have been dead. Not unblooded. He killed Sarpedon. When Aineas came to help, he was recognised for an impostor. The Trojans were furious at the trick, and rallied well after the news spread. Then Patrokles killed Kebriones, Hektor’s driver. Soon after that he got down and tripped. They set on him like jackals before he could get up – he had no chance to defend himself. Hektor stripped away his armour, but before he could get the body the Myrmidons had come up. Ajax and Menelaos are still fighting to keep him safe.’
‘I must go and help.’
‘Achilles, you can’t! The sun’s going down. By the time you got there, it would be over.’
‘I have to help!’
‘Leave it to Ajax and Menelaos.’ He put his hand on my arm. ‘I must beg your forgiveness.’
‘Why?’
‘I doubted you. I should have known it was Odysseus.’
I cursed my loose tongue. Even in the midst of the Spell I was bound by my oath. ‘You’re to speak of it to no one, Antilochos, do you hear?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
We ascended to the rooftop and looked to where the plain was filled with men. I made Ajax out easily, and saw that he was holding the fresh Thessalian troops firmly in place while Menelaos and another I fancied was Meriones bore a naked body shoulder high on a shield away from the battle. They were bringing Patrokles in. The dogs of Troy wouldn’t feast on him.
‘Patrokles!’ I screamed. ‘Patrokles!’
Some of them heard, looked my way and pointed. I shouted his name again and again. The whole host stood silent. Then the horn of darkness wound its long, braying call across the field. Hektor, my golden armour flashing redly in the dying sunset, turned to lead his army back to Troy.
They laid Patrokles on a makeshift bier in the middle of the great assembly space in front of Agamemnon’s house. Menelaos and Meriones, covered in gore and filth, were so exhausted that they could hardly stand. Then Ajax stumbled up. When his helm dropped from nerveless fingers he had not the strength to bend and pick it up. So I did that, gave it to Antilochos and took my cousin into my arms, a way of holding him up with honour, for he was done.
The Kings gathered around to form a circle and gaze down on dead Patrokles. His wounds were the thrusts of curs, one beneath his arm where the cuirass had gaped, one in the back and another in the belly, where the spear had plunged so deeply that his bowels were hanging out. I knew this was Hektor’s blow, but thought that whoever had got him in the back had killed him.
One of his hands dangled off the edge of the bier. I took it in mine and sank down beside him on the ground.
‘Achilles, come away,’ said Automedon.
‘No, my place is here. Take care of Ajax for me, and send for the women to come and bathe Patrokles, dress him in a shroud. He’ll remain here until I kill Hektor. And this I vow: that I will lay the bodies of Hektor and twelve noble Trojan youths at his feet in the tomb. Their blood will pay the Keeper of the River when Patrokles asks to cross.’
Some time later the women came to cleanse Patrokles of his dirt. They washed his tangled hair, closed the wounds with balms and sweet-smelling unguents, tenderly sponged away the reddened tear marks from around his fast-stuck eyes. For that much I could be thankful; his lids were already down when they brought him in.
All through the night marches I remained holding his hand, my only conscious emotion the despair of a man whose last memory of a loved one was filled with hate. Two shades now thirsted for my blood: Iphigenia and Patrokles.
Odysseus came with the rising sun, bearing two cups of watered wine and a plate of barley bread.
‘Eat and drink, Achilles.’
‘Not until I’ve fulfilled my vow to Patrokles.’
‘He neither knows nor cares what you do. If you’ve vowed to kill Hektor, you’ll need all your strength.’
‘I’ll last.’ I stared about, blinking, only then realising that there were no signs of activity anywhere. ‘What’s the matter? Why is everyone still asleep?’
‘Hektor had a hard day yesterday too. A herald came at dawn from Troy and asked for a day of truce to mourn and bury the dead. Battle won’t be resumed until tomorrow.’
‘If then!’ I snapped. ‘Hektor’s back inside the city – he will never come out again.’
‘You’re wrong,’ said Odysseus, eyes flashing. ‘I’m right. Hektor thinks he has us now, and Priam won’t believe that you mean to take the field again. The ruse with Patrokles worked. So Hektor and his army are still on the plain, not inside Troy.’
‘Then tomorrow I can kill him.’
‘Tomorrow.’ He looked down at me curiously. ‘Agamemnon has called a council for noon. The troops are too tired to care what sort of relationship you and Agamemnon enjoy, so will you come?’
I closed my fingers over the cold hand. ‘Yes.’
Automedon took my place with Patrokles while I went to the council, still clad in my old leather kilt, still in all my dirt. I sat down beside Nestor, glancing at him with a mute question; Antilochos was present. So was Meriones.