by John Dolan
Keep looking at the shield-face and the scene changes. Now it’s a mountain pasture where nothing is moving but a few sheep.
Then the meadow comes alive with fine boys and beautiful girls dancing and courting, unashamed. The boys are wearing oiled linen robes so you can see every muscle. The girls have made flower garlands for their hair, and they wear only light linen dresses. When the sun shines through the linen, you can see their sweet curves. Sometimes boys and girls dance separately, sometimes together. No one minds, no one scolds them; the whole village watches happily and a minstrel plays for the dancers.
Now your eye has wandered to the edge of the shield, and you’re in Ocean again, among the waves that circle and enclose this metal world.
Hefestos made other things for Akilles, of course: a fine breastplate that no spear could pierce, a helmet that shapes itself to the wearer’s head as soon as he pulls it on; light, strong greaves to protect the shins.
But it was into that marvelous, ever-changing shield that the lame god poured all his skill, and all his love for Akilles’ mother. When it was finished and all the armor he made had cooled, he hobbled into the room where Thetis waited with his wife.
He lays the miraculous shield before her like a platter, with the armor piled on it. She stares at his marvelous works, and then—too moved to speak her thanks—she bows in gratitude, takes up his gifts, and steps into the air, falling to the plain of Troy to give her son his last, best armor.
19
RECONCILED
THETIS FALLS GENTLY through the dawn, bringing her son his armor. She finds him kneeling by Patroklas’ body. He’s been there all night.
She touches his shoulder, whispering, “Leave him in peace, son. Put on the armor Hefestos has made for you.”
She shows him the shield, then the helmet, breastplate, and greaves.
The shield frightens the captive women. They hide their faces with their veils. After trying to stare boldly at the moving images on it, Akilles’ men look away too. No man can look at that shield-face for long.
No one except Akilles. He stares at the blacksmith’s gifts like a starving man stares at a table piled with food. Then he goes over, caressing each piece. He looks long and fondly into the shield-face, then slips it onto his shoulder.
“Mother, these gifts are a miracle! I’ll test them on the Trojans. Let me get ready now.”
Then he stops and runs back to the body, moaning, “No, I can’t go! If I leave him alone like this—”
She hugs him, murmuring, “He’s dead, my son; what can happen to him?”
He moans, “The flies! If I don’t keep them off, they’ll lay their eggs in him!”
“Leave that to me. Just watch.”
She takes a tiny bottle from her robes and pours a single drop on Patroklas. Suddenly the smell of decaying meat is gone; everyone inhales deeply for the first time in hours. He looks like a sleeping man, not a dead one.
She turns back to Akilles: “You see? He’ll stay fresh for a year if need be.”
He nods, wiping his eyes. She says, “Now call an assembly and take back what you said to Agamemnon.”
He nods. For Patroklas’ sake, he’ll do it.
He goes to the beach and calls the men. Everyone knows that giant voice and comes running. Even the sailors who’ve spent the whole war just lounging on the decks climb down off their ships to hear what Akilles has to say.
The fighters come too, though many move slowly, limping, pale with infected wounds that won’t heal. Odysseus and Diomedes are both moving a little slowly, wincing in pain. Agamemnon is the last to arrive. It’s not his wound slowing him down, though; he’s wary, not sure what to expect.
Akilles has decided to get it over with quickly, pride be damned. He says, “King Agamemnon, I wish the girl Briseis had died the day we took her city. What sense does it make, the two of us fighting over a girl? Many of our best men have tasted this dust because of our feud. It was good for Hektor and the Trojans, a disaster for us.”
He holds up one huge hand and shouts, “So I say now, in front of everyone, I’m putting away my anger forever.”
There; that’s the worst of it, done. He goes on eagerly, “So, if you’ll give the order to arm, my lord Agamemnon, you’ll soon see Akilles killing Trojans once again!”
The men cheer wildly; the chiefs nod and smile at him. Odysseus gives him a comradely wink; he knows it wasn’t easy for the boy.
The only man who isn’t satisfied is Agamemnon. All he needs to do is embrace Akilles and say something conciliatory. That’s what a good king would do, but this is Agamemnon, who never drops a grudge. He stands, arranging himself for a long speech. Instead of smiling and ordering wine for all, he starts solemnly:
“Fighters, Craftsmen of Ares, I have always believed in letting a man speak his piece. No good comes of interruptions, so though it will take me a while to explain things, I hope I’ll have your full attention.”
They settle in, a few of the men rolling their eyes and muttering. Not again! But Agamemnon begins.
“Some of you—” and he stares hard at Odysseus—“have been scolding me about this, ah … this matter between me and Akilles. And I grant that I was wrong to insult our best man, weakening the army. But why did I do such a foolish thing, I who have always shown good judgment?”
Odysseus has to bite his tongue. He bows his head so Agamemnon won’t see his scowl.
Agamemnon doesn’t notice; he’s been rehearsing his speech all day. He assumes a thoughtful look and says, “I have thought long and hard about my lapse in judgment, and I think I know what happened: The Furies must have possessed me! What else could it be? I was possessed by Folly, and you all know that Folly is Zeus’ firstborn daughter! She’s older and stronger than any man!”
He tells a long, long story, longer than any he’s ever inflicted on the army, about how Folly, aided by Hera, once fooled Zeus himself. They all listen politely.
Finally he gets to the point: “And just as Zeus grieved that day, so I grieved when I saw Hektor killing Greeks at the ships—and all because Folly blinded me!”
He spreads his arms wide for the dramatic ending: “And so, noble Akilles, I offer you now all the prizes Odysseus offered you in your tent, to which I’ll add some of my own treasure.”
Everyone cheers. This is more like it. But Agamemnon has to ruin the moment by saying spitefully, “So, Akilles, why don’t you send your battalions into battle—or would you rather spend today checking on me, overseeing the deliveries just to be sure you haven’t been cheated?”
The men grumble. That’s an insult, a foolish one. But Akilles grits his teeth and waves it off.
“Presents? My dear lord Agamemnon, you are free to give me any presents you like, or none at all.”
Everyone cheers. This is how a man should act. Akilles turns away from Agamemnon and addresses the men directly: “Remember, all of you, that Akilles is fighting with you today. I’ll deal with Hektor, but I expect every man to stay up with me! No hanging back!”
They shout themselves hoarse, clanging spear and sword against their shield-bosses.
Agamemnon is not pleased. His big speech was barely noticed. Odysseus sees Agamemnon’s spite building. The truce could crumble unless he acts now. So he stands up and shouts, “Akilles, have mercy on us mortals! You’re half god, you don’t need to eat like us poor critters do. If you send us all out now, with empty stomachs, we’ll be too weak to hold up our shields by afternoon. Let us get some food in our bellies! And then—I speak for every man here, don’t I, boys?—with lunch inside us, we’ll stand with you all day long!”
More cheering.
But Akilles is scandalized: “Eat, while the flies are buzzing around Patroklas’ body? I don’t understand you people. Agamemnon talks to me about prizes, and you talk about food, Odysseus? It’s not right!”
Odysseus can see Akilles’ anger rising, so he moves to another topic: “And in the meantime, King Agamemnon will have his slaves
bring all the gifts here, so we can all see Akilles has been treated properly.”
Akilles shrugs. Prizes, lunch … a lot of shameful distractions.
Odysseus goes on, “And King Agamemnon will also swear, in front of us all, that he’s never bedded the girl Briseis.”
The mention of Briseis makes Akilles angrier than ever, so Odysseus goes on, “And let this be a lesson for you, Agamemnon! Treat your fellow kings with some respect!”
Then he turns to Akilles, holding out both hands, “And you, Akilles, show yourself the better man; let Agamemnon give you a feast in his tent.”
Akilles starts to object, then stops and nods. It has to be done.
Agamemnon likes this part. Akilles, his guest! He’ll enjoy that. So he answers, “Odysseus, you always know what to say! I’ll swear that oath and have my men bring the prizes and sacrifice a fat boar to Zeus.”
Akilles grumbles, “We’re wasting time talking about trifles. Patroklas’ body is lying in my tent, all hacked and torn up, while we talk about feasts, and food, and oratory.”
He’s getting angrier by the second: “And while you’re blathering, all I can hear—” His voice is rising, a bad sign.
“—is Patroklas’ death rattle! And I wasn’t there to help him!”
He starts to shake; soon he’ll be out of control. Odysseus hugs him hard, pushes him back down on his seat: “Akilles, listen now. You know I’m your friend.”
Akilles stares at the fierce broad face, the fire-red beard, the sharp fox eyes. Friend? Finally he nods.
Odysseus goes on, “And we both know you’re better than me in battle. And by no small margin, either. But I’m a little older than you, and I see things more clearly than you do. We’re just mortals, Akilles; we can’t fast forever in Patroklas’ honor. We’d starve if we tried to honor the dead that way, because people die every day.”
He stares hard at Akilles, whispering, “People die every day. Not just Patroklas, and—” leaning in close, he whispers more quietly, “—not just you, either. All of us will die.”
Then he leans back and laughs, patting his tummy, playing the glutton. “So grief or no grief, a man has to eat! The trouble with you, Akilles, isn’t just the god half; it’s that the half that isn’t god is pure hero! There’s no mere mortal about you, on either side of the family!”
Akilles smiles bashfully, amused in spite of himself.
Odysseus pooches out his own belly and slaps it, puffs out his cheeks like a fat man and says, “But the rest of us, we’re mere flesh and blood, and we’d like to eat some other flesh and blood from an ox or sheep today!”
He taps Akilles’ magic shield and says, “You could hold that new three-layer shield of yours all day, but we mortals get tired holding up our ox-hide shields and big spears! So let us eat a little and we won’t let you down out there!”
Akilles feels as grim as ever, but he has to work with these men. He waves a hand, submitting.
“Good! I knew you’d be reasonable. Now we’ll look over your gifts, make the sacrifice, and have a good meal. Just be patient!”
The gifts from Agamemnon are laid out for inspection: seven tripods, twenty big metal cauldrons, twelve horses, and seven slave women, guaranteed to be good with a needle. And Briseis, making eight women in all.
Odysseus makes a big show of weighing out the gold, then gives the signal; the slaves pick everything up and take it away. It’s time for the sacrifice.
Agamemnon presides over the ceremony. His herald Talthibyas, a pompous fat man with a loud, clear voice, drags a huge boar in front of the men, intoning, “Lord King Agamemnon offers this fine boar in sacrifice, that Lord King Zeus may look kindly on our fight!”
He ties the boar to a stake. Agamemnon steps up, draws his dagger and slices off some of the bristles on the boar’s back. It grunts, puzzled, then goes back to snuffling for scraps.
Agamemnon looks up to the sky, holding the dagger in one hand and the bristles in the other. He calls, “Zeus, you are my witness! Earth, you are my witness! Sun, you are my witness! You Furies, who take revenge on liars, you are my witnesses! I swear before all of you that I never so much as touched the girl Briseis! May all my witnesses punish me if I’m lying!”
And as he says “I’m lying,” he cuts the boar’s throat. It squeals, jumps a little, then falls dead, its thick blood pooling around Agamemnon’s feet.
He calls his herald over, points toward the sea. Talbithyas slings the boar over his shoulders and trots down to the beach. He spins three times like a discus thrower and flings the pig into the surf to feed the fish.
Akilles has to say something now. All he can manage is, “Zeus, you made us humans fools. Why else would my fellow king—” he gestures toward Agamemnon—“have stolen that girl when he knew it would make me angry? So much harm came of it! Good men died. Patroklas …” Agamemnon gestures; the meeting is over. Men disperse to eat before battle.
Akilles walks back to his compound, Briseis following warily a few paces back. When she sees Patroklas’ body, she throws herself on it, keening, “Patroklas! My only friend! When I left you were alive; I come back to find you dead!”
She tears at her hair, scratches her face, goes on in that high voice, “Sorrow, sorrow, one follows another! My husband spitted on a spear, I saw it! My three brothers killed, I watched! Sorrow, sorrow, nothing but sorrow! My one comfort was you, Patroklas! I sorrowed, sorrowed, but you comforted me!”
She turns slyly toward Akilles and keens, “Patroklas, you comforted me! You said you’d make my lord Akilles marry me! You said we’d have a wedding feast in Phthia! You said, ‘Don’t weep, dear girl; Akilles will marry you, and you’ll reign in Peleus’ house!’”
Akilles ignores her. He is very weary of humans. The men want lunch, the girl wants marriage, Agamemnon wants to make speeches. He wishes he were among wolves or lions, beasts with more fang than tongue.
She throws herself on the corpse again, shaking her hair from side to side, tearing her nails on Patroklas’ cold flesh. The other slave women join in at the top of their voices. They pretend to be weeping for Patroklas, but Akilles knows it doesn’t take much to make a slave woman weep. They’re weeping for themselves. Their whole lives are grief.
The men wander in and out, stuffing their faces as they watch the women play at grief. They all want Akilles to have a bite with them. It’s all these spearmen can do, eat and talk—and then talk about eating. “My Lord Akilles, have some of this flank-steak! You need to feed up for the battle!”
Finally he lashes out: “Will you stop this talk about eating? Everyone out!”
Only a few have the courage to stay: Odysseus, Nestor, Ideomenus, and old Fenix.
He kneels beside the corpse again and tells Patroklas, “You were the one man who always made sure I had a good meal before I went into battle. So I’ll fast for you today.”
He strokes Patroklas’ cold arm. “I didn’t know there was pain like this, Patroklas. If they told me that my father was dead, or even my son, I could bear it. But I can’t bear your death. I can’t bear that you died in my armor, in my stead, in this dust, fighting for Agamemnon’s cuckold brother, that wretched Atreus-son clan …”
He strokes the dead man’s arm, muttering, “Remember when you promised that when I die here, you’d bring back all my treasure and show it to my son so he could be proud of his father?”
He sighs, “But you died before me. In my armor, in my stead. Now who’ll tell my poor old father about my death? Because I’ll be joining you soon, my friend. That’s the only comfort I can offer; wait a little while, and we’ll be together in the dust.”
Odysseus has begun to cry. Even Zeus, staring down at the scene, feels a catch in his throat. He snarls at Athena, “You’ve got your mother’s hard heart, girl! Your champion Akilles is weeping his heart out down there and you don’t even watch! At least drop some ambrosia on his skin so he won’t get hungry!”
Athena obeys. Becoming a falcon, she dives onto the
plain and swerves toward Akilles, brushing a drop of ambrosia on his neck as he bends over the corpse. He feels a rush of air, then a surge of strength. In fact, he feels so good it shames him. Is he no better than the rest of them, feeling good when he should be grieving? At last the others have finished stuffing themselves and put on their armor. A forest of spears, a boulder-stream of shields, they form up and march out of the camp. The army has never been so strong and united. The sunlight bounces off the soldiers as if their bronze armor has defeated it. Their steps are like Poseidon shaking the earth.
Akilles rushes back to his quarters to put on his new armor. But as he takes up Hefestos’ gifts, he realizes what things of beauty and power the blacksmith has made for him. Forgetting Patroklas for a moment, he runs a hand down the greaves, then feels the curves of the helmet. What marvels! They move with his hand, eager to cover and protect him. So light, but so strong! Every inch swarms with living metal, too beautiful to be mere armor but too effective to be mere jewelry.
He puts the armor on as reverently as a priest arranging his vestments. First the greaves. A good pair of these is a true gift from the gods. These are the best Akilles has ever seen, molded precisely to his legs—how did the blacksmith know?—and fitted with strong clasps across the ankles.
Then the breastplate. A slave holds it up to him, ties it in the back. It feels as comfortable as a second skin.
