We were the first to reach the rampart. Eumelus tied his horses to one of the palisade trunks, without removing their yoke, and we both went up to the sentry walk. The plain stretched out before us littered with lifeless bodies; already the stray dogs were creeping close. Other warriors, wounded or crippled, were struggling to make their way back to the camp. The sun was on our left, already descending towards the sea. The great black clouds crowning Mount Ida were rent by lightning bolts. The dying sun cast bloody stains on their wind-tattered edges.
All at once, the thunder hushed, the lightning ceased, even the voice of the sea vanished. In the utter silence we heard a cry, muffled by the distance. A cry of despair and delirium that rose like a dart into the impassive sky and finally died there in a long, agonizing lament.
‘Hector is dead,’ I said. Then we saw the army split and draw back into two wings to allow the passage of . . . the chariot of Achilles, which crossed the plain and then the ditch and then the rampart. Dragging behind it, in the dust, the broken body of Hector, stripped of his arms: the Trojan prince, untiring defender of sacred Troy.
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ACHILLES PROCLAIMED SOLEMN funeral games in Patroclus’ honour, so that his friend’s shade might find peace. It was said that Patroclus had appeared to his friend in a dream, to ask for the sacred rites to be held as soon as possible. All the kings and princes were to participate.
In the meantime, Merion, the shield-bearer of wanax Idomeneus, had led a party of men armed with axes to cut down a great number of oaks on Mount Ida. The logs were dragged back by mules, trimmed using hatchets and piled up to build a funeral pyre. When the pyre had been completed the funeral procession moved out. In front were the war chariots with heroes and drivers decked in their best armour. Then a great number of warriors on foot. At the centre was the bier, borne by six men, with Achilles at its end cradling the dead man’s head in his hands. As the procession passed, the Myrmidons cut off locks of their hair and let them fall onto the corpse. Last of all, Achilles sheared off the long plait he always wore because he had vowed to the god of the Spercheios river that he would loosen it only upon his return home. But there would be no return, and his hair would honour his fallen friend instead. The squared-off pile of wood, one hundred feet long on every side, was ready and Patroclus’ body was laid on top with his sword at his side.
Then the games began. A part of the camp had been cleared for the races, which Achilles himself would judge. In addition to the chariot race, there were contests in archery, wrestling, running and sword duels. I took part in them as well, and I won the running race, but only because Ajax Oileus slipped on the dung of the sacrificed bulls. And I wrestled honourably with Great Ajax; whoever would have believed it! Ajax also took part in a sword duel against Diomedes; the king of Argus was first to wound his opponent, only grazing Ajax’s skin, but Achilles stopped the fight immediately, assigning the victory to both in equal measure.
The time came for the final honours over the hero’s body: first fire, then blood.
All the kings and princes were present in the front row: the two Atreides, Agamemnon and Menelaus, at the centre; to their right Diomedes, Thoas, Sthenelus, Nestor and Antilochus; to their left Great Ajax, myself, Ajax Oileus, Idomeneus, Makahon and Menestheus of Athens. Behind us the whole army thronged, each man dressed in his best armour. Four Myrmidons of the honour guard set fire to the four corners of the enormous pyre.
The flames were whipped up by the wind coming from the sea. They rose high, seething and roaring and turned from red to white as the entire pile of timber sizzled and burned. Even the sea seemed to take flame as the reflections of the blaze spread out. Then blood. The Trojan prisoners were dragged to the site of the funeral rite, their hands tied behind their backs with willow shoots. Like beasts to be sacrificed, they were pushed to their knees and slain with a single sword’s blow between the shoulder blade and collarbone. When the tip sank into the heart, a fountain of blood spurted upwards and the victim collapsed as life fled.
One after another, the bodies of the sacrificed Trojans were thrown onto the pyre, offered to the lord of Hades, so they could serve the dead man in the afterlife.
I had long become accustomed to any and all atrocities in so many years of war and I realized that such a brutal act did not touch me. My heart was not horrified. But it was this very lack of horror that wounded me as if an arrow had been plunged into my chest.
The name of the dead man was shouted out ten times by the Myrmidons lined up in formal order, and then by the kings and by the whole army, who beat their spears against their shields with a thunderous roar.
When the pyre was consumed, the priests gathered the bones of the dead man and bent the incandescent sword with pincers so that it could be buried with his urn. Achilles looked like a man gone insane. His eyes were dry, and he stood straight and motionless in front of the blaze that sent off its last sparks. I think he could see himself reduced to ashes in the crumbling firebrands of the pyre. They had burned his shadow and now the ministers of Death were gathering, howling like starving dogs, around him. Outside his tent lay Hector’s body unburied, his spirit still hovering restless over the muddy banks of the Acheron, futilely seeking a place on the boat of hell’s own ferryman. Patroclus’ ghost would pass him by at a run, sprinting to cross the black waters.
I looked at Hector’s body for a moment. Swollen, bruised, covered with clotted blood, unrecognizable. Nothing remained of the glorious warrior, splendid as a star, who had attacked our vacillating defences with his fierce battle cry. For an instant I thought I saw my own body abandoned on a deserted beach in a remote, unknown land. I saw myself, someone, No One. There’s no escaping fate. Would I suffer the same destiny?
I waited until everyone had gone, waiting in the shadows until the moon set. I had a premonition. The Great Bear had descended towards the mountains, at the lowest point of the sky, when a hooded figure appeared out of nowhere and entered Achilles’ tent furtively. He made no noise at all, almost as if he were not touching the ground. The guards did not move – were they sleeping? Was it perhaps a god moving in the dark, in human guise? I didn’t take a single step, but remained where I was, hidden in the shadows. After a short time, the hooded man left Achilles’ tent, and a cart appeared pulled by a horse. Four Myrmidon warriors lifted the corpse of Hector and placed it upon it. The hooded figure, whoever it was, covered the body with a black cloth, got into the cart, took the reins and moved off slowly without making a sound.
A voice at my right: ‘Achilles showed pity.’
My knees trembled. Only a god could have known so much. ‘Who are you?’ I asked.
‘Ideus, the king’s herald.’
‘Priam? He came here?’
‘Yes. Someone more powerful than we are guided us through the darkness. Priam knelt at Achilles’ feet and kissed the hand of the man who killed his son. He begged him. An old man humbled by his grief. He touched Achilles’ heart. Hector will be honoured by tears . . . those of his mother, of his grief-stricken wife, of his comrades, of the entire city. This is true glory, wanax Odysseus: the tears of those we love when we leave this world. Who will cry for Achilles?’
‘Who? His father, so far away. And Priam will cry for him, because he took pity on his suffering. And because when war is rampant, a single man’s sorrow is every man’s sorrow; every father is the father of every son, every son is the son of every father.’
I turned my back to him and walked back to my own ship.
In the days that followed nothing happened. It seemed that the two armies, and the two peoples, had been devastated by grief and prostrated by exhaustion. Now that Patroclus was dead, and Hector dead, Achilles had nothing to dedicate his life to, if not combat for combat’s sake: the pursuit of a glorious death. And when the war flared up again, he began to challenge and strike out at the two Trojan warriors who had taken Hector’s place after his death: Deiphobus and Aeneas. We all imagined that fate would now be on our side. After all, A
chilles was back in the fight, while they had lost their mightiest warrior. But the tide of war didn’t turn as we expected: the Trojans became more cautious and they lined up all their best warriors against our champion. More than once, Achilles succeeded in overwhelming them and routing them, and they were once again forced to seek shelter behind the walls of their city, but those walls were unbreachable.
Then one day at the beginning of the autumn, it finally seemed that the Trojans had been put to flight. Achilles turned to his men and was urging them to follow him and block the doors of the gate before they could be closed, when a poisoned arrow soared through the air and pierced Achilles in the leg, near his heel. He stopped and tried to pull out the arrow in his fury to continue the assault, but his vehemence suddenly faltered and he collapsed to the ground before the cursed, unconquerable Skaian Gate.
Paris’ hoot of triumph, as he raised his bow in his right hand so all could see, made us realize that it was he who claimed victory over the greatest warrior who had ever set foot upon the earth. What a cruel twist of fate! But his exultation was short-lived. I had been at the rear lines, close to the wild fig tree, because every now and then my wound would make itself felt and I’d have to break off fighting to catch my breath. But from where I was I could see Paris distinctly. I nocked an arrow to my bowstring. I could not shoot directly because there were too many obstacles between us so I aimed slightly upwards; a curved shot, very difficult if not wholly impossible. But my goddess had to heed my prayer this time. ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘no one will ever know where this arrow came from. You can dedicate the victory to Hercules, because it is he who I am thinking of in this moment.’ For an instant Damastes took shape next to me and I could hear his voice in my heart: ‘Keep in mind the wind!’ The heavy, well-balanced arrow followed its arched path, soaring up and then gaining force and speed as it began to descend. It struck the target fully, plunging into Paris’ throat. He died instantly. All those around him were astonished, as if the fatal shaft had been cast from the top of Mount Ida, or from Olympus itself.
A fierce battle immediately erupted over the corpse of Achilles, and I pushed my way through the crowded warriors to lend a hand. The Trojans wanted the body of the man who had tied their beloved Hector to his chariot and dragged him through the dust. Their prince, so generous as to give his very life for his city, begged for revenge. We knew we had to prevent this at any cost because losing the body of Achilles to the enemy would have meant our definitive defeat. And so many of our best warriors, in the bloom of youth, lost their lives that day to gain possession of a dead body. I had become accustomed, after so many years of war without quarter, to any sight, even the most horrendous, the most macabre, but seeing the corpse of Achilles, which just moments before had been bursting with invincible vitality, now reduced to an inanimate thing, dragged, yanked, trodden upon by those who until now would not have dared to look him in the eye, left me with a sense of infinite bitterness and despair.
And fury.
I fought shouting, weeping, howling like a wolf. The only remedy for such desolation was to fight, to pour out energy, sweat, fiery passion. I watched as Great Ajax’s arm came down like a maul on his enemies, as Diomedes’ spear sprang to life in his hand, and I understood that killing, at that moment, was the only way we could feel alive.
The brutal brawl lasted until nightfall. I had taken position between Menelaus, who had drawn incredible energy out of Paris’ death, and the two Ajaxes, who fought like a pair of lions. In the end, we were joined by Diomedes with his deadly spear and we managed to get the better of the Trojans. Great Ajax heaved Achilles’ body over his shoulder and made his way out of the melee after throwing his huge shield onto his back as protection.
When evening fell, Achilles’ body was laid on the bier that had borne Patroclus only four months earlier. We were all oppressed by the blackest humour, even though all the prophecies had always predicted that this would happen. But our sorrows were not over. I felt inside that an even more bitter and harrowing misfortune was in store for us.
Achilles’ funeral rites were celebrated three days later, at dusk. Thousands and thousands of torches illuminated the clearing on the beach, where an enormous pyre of pine and oak trunks had been erected. Our warriors had donned their brightest, most precious armour and high horsehair-crested helmets, and were drawn up kingdom by kingdom, city by city, with their princes, kings and commanders. The sea was rough and the big foam-tipped waves crashed deafeningly against the cliffs at the edges of the bay. A storm was coming in. Big black clouds raced across the livid sky as thunder rumbled in the distance. The whole world, sky, sea and earth, was readying to give its last farewell to the divine and wild warrior: Achilles, son of Peleus, prince of Phthia.
One thousand Myrmidon warriors escorted the bier, followed by the hero’s empty chariot, pulled by Balius and Xanthus, who strode forward matching their step to the sound of the flutes and horns.
Four Myrmidons hoisted the bier with Achilles’ body, wrapped in a rich purple cloth, to their shoulders. They carried it up the ramp that led to the top of the pyre and laid him on a wooden platform covered with gold leaf. He was not dressed in his armour and his sword was not resting next to his left thigh. They were hanging from two crossed spears standing in front of the pyre and, even empty as they were, they inspired fear. Someone -I was never to know who – had decided that they must be preserved. Too great was their value to burn them. And perhaps they were still imbued with the force of the man who had worn them: his heart had vibrated behind the breastplate only a few short days before, his hand had fastened the sword’s sheathe to his side. Everyone remembered how the suit of armour had appeared just when Achilles needed it, although no one in the camp, as far as we knew, had crafted it. I had been the first to see it after Achilles himself.
The moment had arrived. The four Myrmidons who had carried Achilles’ body to the top of the pyre set fire to the four corners. The greatest warrior who had ever been born on our earth would soon become ash, would leave the living and enter forever more into the world of legend. Alive only in the songs and laments of the poets. Briseis huddled in a dark corner, half-hidden, weeping for her lover and her master, the flames that were devouring his body now and then reddening her cheeks. I never heard what happened to her and I never saw her in the camp again. I still wonder about her and what fate befell her.
There were some who said that a sigh was heard coming from the depths of the sea as the flames licked the hero’s body, but that night a great many sounds, cries and laments were borne on the wind.
When the corpse of Achilles had received the funeral honours due him and other Trojan prisoners had been sacrificed to his restless shade, the camp was plunged into silence. Agamemnon approached me. ‘You will look after Achilles’ arms,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘Because I trust you. Until we decide what must be done with them.’
‘It would have been best to burn them on the pyre with Achilles. Now they can only lead to discord.’
Agamemnon looked at me for a few moments in silence as if weighing my words, and then said: ‘I believe we’ll have much more difficult matters to face tomorrow than who might deserve Achilles’ armour. The Trojans will have taken heart. They killed the best of us and, on the same day, they lost the worst of their own.’
I said nothing.
Two men collected Achilles’ armour and weapons, wrapped them in coarse woollen cloth and loaded them onto a horse-drawn cart. They were taken to my tent and mounted on a hanger. I was reminded of the armour I’d seen displayed in Mycenae, in the armoury, when I had visited as a boy. They’d looked to me like the ghosts of fallen warriors. I fell asleep late, under the empty gaze of Achilles’ helmet, and woke up early. There was someone in my tent.
‘Ajax!’
‘I’ve come to take what is mine, Odysseus.’
I turned my head towards the armour. ‘That?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Achilles was my cous
in and his armour is rightfully mine as his next of kin. And now that he is dead I am the strongest warrior in this army, the only one who can wear his armour. What’s more, I earned this honour on the battlefield. It was I who carried him back to the ships, on my shoulders!’
‘Wanax Agamemnon turned them over to me and here they will remain until a decision is taken as to what is to be done with them.’
‘Don’t get mixed up in this. You are my friend and I respect you, but I won’t let anyone take what is mine.’
‘And if I say no, what will you do? Kill me?’
The look in Ajax’s eyes was strange. I thought perhaps it was the uncertain light of the early morning that had created the expression on his face, but I was wrong. The madness that shone in the eyes of the gentle giant was real.
And it froze my heart.
‘Don’t interfere. Don’t take sides with Agamemnon or I’ll have to resort to physical force. Now you step aside and let me take that armour.’
I unsheathed my sword. ‘Now you’ll draw yours and soon one of us will be dead,’ I said.
‘You,’ he replied, as he unsheathed his own, which Hector had bequeathed him.
The words that Penelope had said the day we met came into my mind: ‘Do you know how big Ajax, the son of Telamon, is?’ And I had to smile, even though his expression was so menacing.
‘And if it were me? Does that really seem like such a good thing?’ I challenged him. ‘Killing a friend who has fought by your side for years? And who’s to say you’ll succeed? I won our wrestling match, didn’t I?’
‘By tricking me.’
‘No, not by trickery. By skill. I think before I act. That’s only one of the reasons I don’t deserve your scorn.’ He was letting me talk. Maybe I could still stem the violence in him. ‘Listen to me. Achilles’ armour will almost certainly fall to you. Who could have a better claim to it? No one. Each of us knows how valuable you’ve been, how many feats of bravery and strength you’ve accomplished. Many of us owe you our lives. And so, if Achilles’ armour is designated for one of the princes or kings, it will certainly be you. Why take it by force and dishonour yourself? All of us swore to a pact many years ago and you’ve fulfilled your obligations with constancy and with great generosity. If you respect those who command the army you’ll have the honour you deserve.’
Odysseus: The Oath Page 33
