by John Dolan
Menelaos brightens up: “Yes, we’ll call for help!”
Ajax nods, “Yes, use that big voice of yours.”
Menelaos bellows, “Greeks! Over here! Hektor is charging us! Save Patroklas from the jackals!” Ajax adds, “And us too, if it’s convenient!”
A few Greeks hear and come running, standing shield to shield with Menelaos and Ajax over Patroklas’ body. But Hektor slams into them with a much stronger pack.
The Trojan shields push the Greek ones back, and expose the body. Hektor would have carried it off, but Zeus took pity on Patroklas, telling the dead man, “I never had any grudge against you, Patroklas. You had to die to bring Akilles back into the fight, but I won’t let the Trojans feed you to their dogs.”
Zeus fogs the Trojans’ minds and eyes. They can only see a few inches, like old men with milky cataracts. They’re easy pickings for Ajax. He sees a Trojan ally named Hippotoas trying to drag the body away on a rawhide strap.
With Hippotoas suddenly half-blind, stumbling awkwardly, Ajax has time for a perfect spear-thrust into the head. The spearhead punches through helmet, skull, and brain, so hard that Ajax’s spear hand slams into Hippotoas’ helmet.
Hippotoas’ parents never got any return on all the food they gave their boy. You can spend all that money raising a young man and then lose your profit in one moment to an enemy spear. There’s no riskier investment.
Hektor kills a Greek in revenge, but when the scrum is finished it’s the Greeks who have Patroklas’ body, their shields covering it like eagles defending a dead nestling with their wings.
The Greeks are ripping the armor off Hippotoas’ corpse, jeering at the Trojans. Apollo loses patience again; what does it take to put some fight in his Trojans? Again he takes human form, this time appearing to Aeneas as Perifas, an old slave of the family. Aeneas steps back as he sees this hunched figure blazing with light, radiating the heat of the sun. The old slave-shape speaks in a voice that has nothing to do with age or servility, a voice that crackles with rage: “Aeneas, why do you hang back? There are gods who wish you well. Fight harder!”
Aeneas shouts, “Trojans! A god is here, urging us to fight!”
He sets an example, impaling Leyokritus on his spear. But Ajax keeps his men safe, reminding them, “No stepping out from the shield wall! Keep it tight as turtles sunning on a rock! Hold your spears near the head, and stab as they come close!”
So the Trojans charge again and again but lose more men than the Greeks, because Ajax kept the wall tight, knowing the worst thing a man can do is be too brave and jump forward or too cowardly and step back.
All day they fight over Patroklas’ corpse, pulling at it like slaves stretching an ox hide. The Greeks keep their spirits up by calling to each other, “If we let them have the corpse, we can’t show our faces at the ships!” while the Trojans call out, “Grab the body, even if it kills us!”
The sky, bright and sunny everywhere else, is dark over Patroklas’ corpse.
Akilles is still expecting Patroklas to ride back to camp victorious. He paces, waiting. He’s beginning to realize something has gone wrong, and whispers, “Mother, can you tell me what’s happened to Patroklas?” But Thetis doesn’t answer. It’s beginning to sink in: his most loyal friend will not come home alive.
Hektor has been watching for Akilles’ god-horses. Now he sees them coming, with Otomedon and Alkemedon in the car. He calls to Aeneas, “See? The god-horses, and weak men driving them. We can take them now!” He grabs Aeneas, Aretus, and Kromias, and the three of them try to corral the chariot, kill the riders and grab the team. But Otomedon prays to Zeus for strength. Zeus grants his prayer; Hektor throws and misses, and Otomedon throws at Aretus. With Zeus’ help, the spear slips through Aretus’ shield and slices into his belly. Aretus jumps up like an ox that takes one last step after the ax splits its spine, and lies still.
The Trojans draw back in horror. Otomedon has time to jump down and grab Aretus’ armor. Then he drives off shouting, “That doesn’t make us even, Trojans! Patroklas was worth more than the man I just killed!”
Zeus agrees. His grief for Patroklas is building, and he tells Athena, “I’m giving you free rein, daughter. Go help the Greeks.”
She wastes no time with chariots or wings; she wills herself on the field, appearing among the Greeks as old Fenix, Akilles’ foster-father. In an old man’s voice, she sighs, “Menelaos, are you going to let Patroklas feed the stray dogs in a Trojan alley?”
He says wearily, “Hektor’s fighting like a god today! But still, I’ll stop them if Athena lends me her strength.”
Athena is pleased that he invoked her. She touches him on the knees and shoulders, giving him the strength of a fly. A fly is the bravest warrior of all. It will attack over and over, no matter how many times you swat it away. With a fly’s strength and speed Menelaos sees an opening and throws, bringing down Podas, a rich Trojan with fine armor.
Menelaos grabs his corpse and yanks it back behind the Greek shields.
Now Apollo must work as hard as his sister on the Trojan side. He takes human form again—as Fanops, a favorite of Hektor’s—and stands before him, crying, “Hektor, Agamemnon’s cuckold brother has killed your friend Podas and dragged away his corpse! Are you going to let a cuckold like Menelaos shame you?”
Hektor runs to fight Menelaos. Now Zeus decides he’s given the Greeks enough luck. In the end, today will go to the Trojans.
Zeus pours black clouds over the Greeks and sends lightning bolts into the ground at their feet. Then he takes Aegis in his hand and shakes it at them. They cringe in terror.
Hektor kills at will now. He stabs Leytas’ spear-arm. Leytas runs away, staring down at his ruined hand. He’ll never hold a spear again.
Hektor sprints after Leytas to finish him off, but Ideomenus leaps out at him, spearing Hektor in the chest. That should’ve been a lethal strike, but Zeus won’t let Hektor be hurt yet. The spearhead breaks off and the Trojans cheer, because they know the gods are on their side now.
Hektor throws at Ideomenus and misses. But the spear, flying high, brings down Koyranos, who galloped up in his chariot to help Ideomenus. Koyranos takes the spear right in the jaw. It shatters his teeth and cuts out his tongue.
Meriones grabs the reins and yells, “Ideomenus, get on, quickly! It’s the Trojans’ day, and there’s nothing we can do!”
Ideomenus scrambles into the chariot and whips the horses with all his strength, because now the terror streaming from Zeus’ aegis has spread to him, flowing across the Greek ranks like flood water.
Ajax and Menelaos are still fighting to protect Patroklas’ dead body, but they see the Greeks fleeing and start to fret, the first little streams of terror trickling around their feet.
Ajax leans toward Menelaos, holding his huge shield to cover them both, and says, “You see how Zeus sends the Trojans’ spears into our men every time?”
“Yes, even when a weak man is throwing!”
“And ours always fall short or long or off to the side?”
“He’s given today to them.”
“We need Akilles! Somebody should find him and tell him his friend is dead!”
Menelaos looks around, “But who? I can’t see anyone in this darkness.”
Ajax looks to the sky, calling, “Zeus, father, if we have to die, let us die with the sunlight on us!”
Instantly the sky is clear.
Ajax leans over Patroklas’ body and shouts to Menelaos, “Now go find Antilokas! He’s a fast runner and a fine talker too. He’s the one to tell Akilles his friend is dead.”
Menelaos is a slow, stubborn man; he doesn’t like to leave the body. But he knows Ajax is right, so he steps out from the shield-wall to find Antilokas. Trojan spears hit his shield, and he knocks them off with his own spear, backing away, calling to his friends, “Yes, I’ll go, but don’t let them have the body! Remember what a good man Patroklas was!”
Then he turns and runs hard, looking for Antilokas.
He catches up with him way out on the flank, pulls him out of the shield wall, and tells him, “Patroklas is dead.”
Antilokas can’t speak. His spear falls from his hand, his shield sags to the ground.
Menelaos goes on, “Zeus is helping the Trojans. We need Akilles. Find him, tell him to hurry out here to save Patroklas’ body.”
Antilokas says, “What happened to Akilles’ armor?”
“Hektor took it.”
Antilokas starts to sob. He goes on weeping as he takes off his armor so he can run faster. He gives the armor to a friend, and runs off toward the ships.
Menelaos trots back to Patroklas’ body. The Greeks can’t keep it safe much longer. More and more Trojans are joining the scrum, and every Greek shield is stuck full of Trojan spears, like teeth on a comb.
Menelaos falls in next to Ajax, shield to shield, saying, “I found Antilokas; he’s gone to the camp.”
“You’ve done well!”
“Yes, but Akilles can’t fight today! He has no armor, remember?”
Ajax groans.
“So we have to do something now before they have us surrounded.”
Ajax grunts, “All right, then. You and Meriones lift up the body, carry it back.”
Menelaos gestures toward the Trojans, “But they’ll be on us in a second.”
Ajax pulls his little namesake, Ajax Oyeleas-son, out of the wall and says, “No, the Ajaxes will hold them off. Big Ajax—” slapping his own breastplate, “—and Little Ajax,” tapping the small man’s helmet.
The strange funeral procession sets off. As soon as the Trojans see the Greeks lifting Patroklas’ corpse onto their shoulders, they’re furious, grabbing at the body. But the two Ajaxes, one huge and one small, face them like wild boars turning at bay, and the Trojans scatter like hounds.
Menelaos and Meriones stumble over corpses, duck Trojan spears, and drip sweat. But they never drop the body, even though Patroklas was a big, heavy man.
And as these two carry Patroklas home, the other pair—the two Ajaxes, big and little—protect the pallbearers, holding their shields high to catch the Trojans’ spears, keeping Hektor’s men at bay.
All the other Greeks have run off like deer. As the four heroes stumble toward the camp they have to step over shields, spears, and helmets dropped by fleeing Greeks.
18
SHIELD
AKILLES IS STANDING on the stern of his ship, looking out over the plain. A little while ago he saw dark clouds and lightning. Now he sees thousands of Greeks fleeing wildly toward the ships without armor or weapons.
He mutters, “What are they doing, running like rabbits? I sent Patroklas in my own armor! Oh, if he—” He stops, muttering, “My mother told me our bravest would die …”
Then he stops and clutches his head, moaning, “‘The bravest of us’ —She didn’t mean me!”
He kicks the gunwale, howling, “I told him not to follow Hektor onto the plain!”
But it’s no good trying to justify himself. He groans, “I sent him out there! I promised his father I’d bring him home safe!”
Antilokas runs in, climbs up beside Akilles, wipes the sweat from his face and intones, “Akilles, Peleus-son—”
Akilles knows very well what the news will be.
Antilokas blurts, “Patroklas is dead!”
Akilles stumbles to the gunwale and half-falls, half-jumps to the ground, landing on his hands and knees.
Antilokas calls down, “I wish it weren’t true!”
Akilles grabs two huge handfuls of dust and pours them onto his head. He smears the dust into his skin, over his clothes.
Antilokas calls down to him, “They’re fighting over his body out on the plain!”
Akilles’ mouth is open, but no sound comes out.
The slave girls have come out of the tents. Antilokas calls to them, “Patroklas is dead!”
They begin the mourning rite, beating their breasts, wailing, falling down in fits.
But they’re only doing what is expected of them. It’s different with Akilles. He’s in agony. He gets up off his hands and knees, falls face-first in the dust. His huge body hits the ground like a tree. Then he stands up, tearing out clumps of his yellow hair.
Antilokas clambers down off the ship and tries to restrain him for fear he’ll stab himself.
Akilles throws him off as easily as a handful of straw, takes a deep breath and howls.
That sound blasts every ear in the camp. They can even hear it in Troy. If the Trojans knew what it boded for them, they’d have died of fear the second they heard it.
Far out in the sea, Thetis is sitting beside Father Ocean. Her sisters are seated in ranks around her. They are holding court; all is respectful silence.
Then Akilles’ cry comes blasting down to them.
Thetis screams. Her scream rebounds through the ocean. Her maidens catch her grief and begin screaming too. Old man Ocean’s court vibrates with their cries.
As the rest of the ocean-daughters hear her grief, they pour into Ocean’s palace. Soon there are hundreds of them, beating their breasts, weaving from side to side, chanting their grief.
Now Thetis calls to them, “Sisters, listen! There is no grief like mine!”
They moan in rhythm as she sings, “My sorrow is my son; his grief is his greatness! The finest mortal ever born, he shot up like a sapling! I tended him like a loving gardener, till off he went, in fifty fine ships, to Troy, to fight!”
She chants, “But welcome him back I will not, I will never, welcome him back, he will die! Soon, so soon, he will die!”
They moan as one, weaving side to side among the seaweed.
She sings, “Only a little time he was given, less than most mortals, and even that life, that tiny sliver, even that life has been bitter, envenomed by envy! Bad it was then, but worse it is now! His best friend is dead, his little time left is nothing but grief, and then dead forever! Grief in his last days, darkness forever!”
She raises her head, her tears salting the sea, and sobs, “But I will see him—with what comfort? None, no comfort, but I must see him!”
As she finishes her song, she flows up from old Ocean’s palace and all her sisters follow, like dolphins in a fast ship’s wake.
She flows straight to the Greek ships and steps out of the waves, walking sadly to her son’s tents. Behind her stream her sisters in single file, all moaning as one.
Akilles is lying on his couch, tears streaming from his eyes.
Thetis flows to him and embraces him, murmuring, “Tell me your sorrows, my son!”
He only sobs in her arms.
She asks, “Did father Zeus not grant your prayer? I saw the Trojans burn a ship; wasn’t that the sign you asked? We in the deeps could see that flame!”
He sighs, “He granted my prayer, and Patroklas is dead. What’s a king-quarrel compared to a friend’s death? He’s dead, mother, dead—in my armor, in my stead!”
“Then where is your armor, my son?”
“Hektor has it! He stripped Patroklas’ body!”
“Zeus gave me that armor when he sent me to a mortal’s bed …”
“If only you’d never met that mortal, my father! Soon you’ll have eternity to grieve for your mortal son!”
“What will you do, dear son?” “Do? Spit Hektor on my spear, a funeral gift for Patroklas!”
“Then your end is not far off, my son. You know the story: When Hektor dies, you follow.”
“I know it, mother, you’ve told me often enough. It doesn’t matter. I’d die now if it would bring Patroklas back! I sent him out there and he’s dead—in my armor, in my stead!”
He chants, “Can’t save myself, couldn’t save my friend! What use am I? I can kill any man, but I let my vassal die. My hate was so sweet I let it distract me!”
He sighs, “At least I can end this stupid quarrel. I’ll make peace with that pig Agamemnon, for Patroklas’ sake. And then I’ll take the army out and make some compan
y for myself in Hades. Many a Trojan wife, Dardanian mother, Lycian sister, will learn to weep, weep for her men, with my help!”
Thetis whispered to her son, “Yes, but not just yet, son. Your armor is on Hektor’s shoulders; your own skin unguarded, soft as a molting crab.”
He’s outraged: “I’d fight naked! Patroklas is lying there, food for stray dogs! Let me bring home his body, grant me that!”
She shakes her head, “Not without armor. Let Hektor wear it, and bad luck seep from it. I promise you: he dies before you. But neither dies today. Wait till dawn, my poor son, when the sun comes up you’ll see what I bring you—god-armor, hot from the forge!”
She hugs him once more—how many more times will she have?—flows down to the beach and tells her hundred sisters, “Go tell my father Ocean I’ve gone to see the blacksmith.” They nod, flow into the waves, down to the old man’s palace. Thetis leaps into the sky on her bright metal feet.
Hektor is sweating into Akilles’ armor, attacking the Greeks again and again, trying to grab Patroklas’ corpse and take it back to Troy, a trophy.
The Greeks are carrying Patroklas on their shoulders, making their way back to camp slowly, with the two Ajaxes, big and little, fending off the Trojans. Hektor is as hungry for Patroklas’ cold flesh as a lion for the haunch of a sheep it can smell upwind. Three times he bashes through the Greeks’ shields and grabs the cold feet; three times they form up in a scrum and push him back.
The two Ajaxes are tired. They’ve been stumbling backward all day, fending off Trojans, sliding on blood and entrails. They’re wounded in a dozen places, stiff and sore from bending this way and that to duck Trojan spears. They can’t last much longer.
Akilles can hear the battle, far away as he is. His ears are finer than any mere mortal’s, and he knows what every sound means. He can hear the hoarse breaths of the two Ajaxes, the scraping sound a shield-wall makes when the men are too tired to hold the oxhide disks high any longer. He wants more than anything in the world to run onto the field and help bring back Patroklas’ body home, but he promised his mother he wouldn’t fight today.
