by John Dolan
Akilles sits up and reaches for Patroklas’ hand. The ghost says, “No. We’ll be together soon enough. All the dead say so; they’re waiting for you.”
Akilles cries out, “Why do you say that to me? Why does everyone tell me this over and over?”
Patroklas says, “Tell the men to bury me with you, when your time has come.”
Akilles tries to hug the ghost, but his arms touch nothing. Patroklas’ form trembles and dissolves.
Before dawn, he stumbles back, telling the sentries, “Patroklas came to me! He’s a ghost—less than a ghost. He can’t even get into Hades’ land.”
And he stumbles off again, to pace the shore until the pyre is ready.
At last dawn comes and they can burn the body.
Firewood is scarce after nine years of war. The ax-men have to go a long way to find the big logs they need for a good hot pyre. Mule teams drag the trunks back to the beach and slaves pile up a platform a hundred feet square.
Akilles has shaved his head, all but one blond lock.
He orders all his men to put on their armor and march with him to the pyre.
The men are uneasy; he’s strange this morning. He grabs the one lock left on his head and starts sawing it off with his sword blade, puts the lock in Patroklas’ hand and points to a stream, the Sperkyas, that flows near the camp, saying, “Little river, this last lock was supposed to be for you. My father said I should promise the river nearest our camp a big sacrifice to send me safe to the sea when the war was over. But you won’t help me; no one can help me. So I give this lock to Patroklas instead.”
He steps away from the bier and calls, “King Agamemnon, please begin the rites. I know our men want to eat. I’ll stay with the body. Patroklas’ friends can stay too if they like.”
Agamemnon dismisses the common soldiers, while the kings carry Patroklas’ body to the center of the woodpile and lay it down gently.
The butchers have saved big chunks of fat from all the slaughtered beasts. Akilles places them lovingly around the body to help it burn.
Then he brings all the things a dead man might want on his last journey. Two big jars of honey and ointment; Hades’ land is cold and dry. Then four horses. Akilles kills the horses himself, picking each one up and tossing it on the pyre near Patroklas. Then a pair of dogs, Patroklas’ favorites; he grabs each one, pricks its skull with the tip of his sword, and tosses it onto the pyre, one on each side of the corpse.
Then the Trojans, human sacrifices. Some of the others are uneasy about this. It’s a little old-fashioned, extreme. But no one feels like quarreling with Akilles at the moment. The twelve Trojans he took alive are fine boys—just boys; Troy, short on manpower, has been filling its ranks with children. The boys stare terrified at the giant who drags them, roped at the neck, to the pyre. He stabs each one in the heart, chops the rope that tied him to the coffle, and throws the body onto the edge of the woodpile. The boys die silently.
By the time he’s finished, twelve Trojans’ corpses are lying around the edge of the woodpile, with Patroklas at the very center, the dogs beside him, the horses around him. Everything is ready for the fire.
Akilles holds up a hand wet with blood and calls, “See, Patroklas? I’ve done all I could for you! Twelve Trojans will burn in your honor, while Hektor feeds the dogs!”
He points to Hektor’s body, lying in the dirt. He’s ordered a slave to drag two hungry dogs over to it, make them feed. But no matter how the slave pushes their snouts at the body, they won’t touch it. They whine and hunch away. And even after all this time, Hektor doesn’t stink. He still has friends among the gods.
This angers Akilles. He wanted everyone to see the dogs gulping gobbets of Hektor’s body. Worse, the fire won’t start. These are very bad signs, and some of the men are muttering that Akilles went too far, sacrificing those Trojans.
Odysseus strolls over and whispers, “Maybe if you pray to the winds …”
Akilles nods, calls to the slaves, “Wine, here! That gold goblet!”
When the wine is ready, he dashes it out of the cup so the winds can taste it, begging their help, promising them more drink if they’ll help the pyre kindle. Iris drags the two winds—Boreas, the cold northerly, and Zephyr, the sweet little breeze—back from a banquet and puts them to work.
You can see the two winds coming in from the sea. Boreas swoops down hard, lashing the waves, while Zephyr flutters the crests into foamy banners. The two converge near shore and come up the beach with a roar, hitting the pyre like all of Hefestos’ bellows at once.
The flames start low, running under the lattice of tree-trunks, skittering from the torch to the center of the pile and fanning out. Soon the air is choked with the smell of meat. Horse meat, dog meat, and the flesh of thirteen boys all burning at once. It’s like a second feast, but no one is eating.
Akilles guards the fire all day and all night, tossing wine from a cup on the flames so the gods can drink. As he paces, he begs Patroklas’ pardon, over and over, moaning and muttering.
It’s dawn again before the pyre has burnt all the meat off Patroklas’ bones and all the marrow out of them, cleaning him up for Hades. As the sun comes up, the flames go down. The winds go home, their job done.
At last Akilles can sleep. He lies on the hot sand near the pyre and dozes until the crunch of Agamemnon’s entourage wakes him. He stands and says, “Atreus-son and the rest of you, take Patroklas’ bones out when they’re cool enough. You’ll find them at the very center.”
They bow and nod. He goes on, “Put the bones in a good-size urn, and pack it with fat. Leave room, though, because I’ll be going in there with him soon. Don’t make Patroklas a big mound just yet. A small one for now. Build the big one when you can put both of us in it. It won’t be long.”
He gestures toward dozens of jars of wine he’s piled near the pyre: “Now douse the fire with wine.”
Slaves come running with shovels and poles to mark out the barrow around the pyre. Other slaves are pouring wine on the ashes. The smell of wet ash, burned meat, and boiled wine spreads over the camp.
Agamemnon’s herald brings Patroklas’ whitened bones from the center of the pyre. Women are waiting with an urn, ox fat, and linen strips. They massage fat onto the warm bones. When they’re well greased, the bones are eased into the jar, the skull last. Then the urn is wrapped in linen.
Akilles watches it all for any mistake, any sign of disrespect.
It’s done. Everyone turns to go, but he says, “Now we’ll have the funeral games.”
His slaves run out with prizes: iron cauldrons, burners, slave women, oxen and sheep.
Nobody expected this, but in a moment they go from weeping to excited squabbling, betting on the games, shouting at each other.
Akilles grabs the first prize and shows her to everyone: a slave woman who can embroider all sorts of fancy things. The fastest charioteer gets her, and a cauldron too, big enough to hold a stewed ox. Second prize in the chariot race is a mare in foal; third is a smaller cauldron.
He says, “You all know I’d win if my team was running. My horses are immortals. But they’re mourning Patroklas now—”
He points to the two god-horses weeping huge tears as they stare at the pyre—
“They’ve lost the man who loved to bathe them in the river; they don’t get over things as quickly as people do.”
He points to the prizes again, “But when a man is killed, his people have to show they’re still strong. So the rest of you, go out there and ride hard!”
THE CHARIOT RACE is soon underway. It’s a classic: broken axles, cheating, threats and recriminations.
Athena and Apollo duel with each other to hobble the chariots. The gods enjoy playing with humans; a chariot race isn’t much different from a war to them. Athena smashes Yumelos’ chariot to spite Apollo, while Ajax and Ideomenus, drinking wine as they watch the race, nearly come to blows over who’s in the lead. The rest of the fighters laugh till their ribs hurt, listeni
ng to Ideomenus and Ajax arguing about which cloud of dust is in the lead.
Antilokas beats Menelaos at the turn with a move he learned from his sly old father, Nestor. Menelaos comes running out shouting, ready to fight; but Antilokas, a smooth talker, calms him down. They exchange courtesies and it’s all forgotten.
Akilles gives a special prize to old Nestor, who’s been going on and on about what a great driver he used to be. And a great boxer too, and wrestler, and everything else. The old man is touched, and makes another long speech. Everyone’s happy to listen, sipping their wine, rejoicing in being alive, young, and strong.
Then it’s time for the boxing. A rough sport, not for the chiefs, but they enjoy watching the lower ranks knock some teeth out. The prize this time is only a mule. Two soldiers smash each other’s faces in with leather-wrapped fists for a few minutes. Yurilas, the boaster who swore he’d take that mule, gets hit hard enough to send him flying. The mule goes to his opponent, and Yurilas is dragged off, a bloody mess.
Now the wrestling. This is a sport worthy of the chieftains—more useful in a real fight and less likely to ruin a man’s face than boxing. So two of the greatest chiefs stand up to compete: Ajax, biggest and strongest in the army (except Akilles, of course) and Odysseus, two heads shorter but strong as a bull and smarter than anyone else.
It’s a great match. The two of them heave, grunt, and sweat while everyone looks on, drinking wine and screaming encouragement. Finally Ajax uses his size, lifting Odysseus right up off his feet, planning to body-slam him to the dust. But Odysseus always has a trick ready; he kicks Ajax right in the back of the knee. The big man’s leg buckles and he goes down with Odysseus on top of him.
All Odysseus has to do now is lift Ajax off the ground to win. But he can’t do it! Ajax is just too big, heavy as an ox. So Akilles pushes them apart and announces, “You both win. No more; someone will get really hurt. You both get a prize.” Everyone cheers; they’re both popular with the men.
The foot race is next, and Odysseus toes the line for this one too, still breathing hard from his wrestling match. He’s facing the other Ajax, Little Ajax, Ajax Oyleas-son. Antilokas is in this one too—he’s young, skinny and fast. He looks like a winner up against tiny Ajax Oyleas-son and short, thick Odysseus, who’s old enough to be his father.
But Athena’s watching, and it’s no secret she’s soft on Odysseus. He gasps out a prayer, mid-race: “Athena, beloved goddess, lift my feet!” She pulses new strength into his old legs, and he wins going away.
But Athena isn’t done with her pranks. She’s so offended with Ajax for daring to race against her dear Odysseus, that she trips him near the finish line. He falls face-first into a pile of cow guts left over from the sacrifices. The men fall over themselves laughing at the sight of him skidding through half-digested grass, popping gut-tubes and getting up spitting cow dung out of his mouth.
When he’s finally washed his mouth out with wine, Ajax himself joins the laughter, shouting, “Not as bad as some of the food around here!” He slaps Odysseus on the back, saying, “That Athena! She watches over you like you were her own child!”
Antilokas comes in third but wins everyone over with a smooth speech: “You see, the gods too respect the aged! Ajax is older than me, and as for Odysseus, he is from another time entirely—yet he’s carried off the prize. Only Akilles could outdistance him.”
Akilles slaps Antilokas on the back and says, “You can flatter with the best of them, my boy! Here’s another chunk of gold!”
They’re all a little drunk, and some of the contests have to be stopped early. Play-fighting with shield and spear, always a dangerous event, gets called early because Diomedes keeps aiming at big Ajax’s throat. The goal is to draw a little blood without hurting your opponent too badly, but Diomedes is playing too hard. So Akilles pushes them apart and divides the prize, calling it a draw.
Discus throwing comes next. Everybody’s relieved; you can’t kill anyone with a discus. In fact, half the competitors are too drunk to throw the thing in the right direction. Epeyas tosses it right at the spectators, who all fall flat and come up laughing, as Epeyas finishes off his big throw by spinning himself right into the ground.
There’s only one man in the army who’s really good at this event: tall, quiet Polypoetes. He takes the disk and sends it flying so far it’s lost in the tussocks. Everyone cheers and he gets the prize, enough iron to last a man five years.
Now the bowmen show what they can do. The Greeks don’t like facing archers in battle; it’s no way for a real man to fight, they think. Besides, it’s Apollo’s weapon, and he hates them. But they can appreciate a good bowman when his target is only a pigeon. Akilles holds up a pretty speckled bird, shows it to everyone, then points to a post a hundred paces away, saying, “I’m going to tie this pigeon to the post. If you hit the bird, you get the fine double-bladed axes; if you hit the string, you get the single-bladed ones.”
Teucer shoots first. But he forgot to pray to Apollo, who sends a breeze and the arrow goes low, hitting the string, not the bird. The bird flaps free. Meriones, next competitor, grabs the bow, makes a quick promise to Apollo, and shoots. The bird, hit on the wing, flaps wildly out of the sky and falls dead. So Meriones gets the double-bladed axes, and Teucer has to settle for the single-bladed ones.
Last event is the javelin throw. This one is tricky, the only event that Agamemnon has a chance of winning. He’s been sulking through the events so far. If he competes and loses, he might make more trouble.
So Akilles hands him the prizes immediately, with some outrageous flattery: “King Agamemnon, we all know you outstrip the rest of us in throwing the javelin! So please, spare us the trouble of sitting through an event whose outcome we all know and take first prize from me now.”
Agamemnon is pleased. The day ends well.
24
PITY
EVERYONE SLEEPS WELL except Akilles. He lies on his back, side, face, but he knows sleep will never come to him again. He lies awake, waiting for dawn.
When it comes at last he pushes the leather thongs through Hektor’s feet, and drags the corpse after his chariot around Patroklas’ burial mound. But there’s no comfort in it.
Some of the men see Akilles defiling Hektor’s body again and fear what will come of it. You don’t treat the dead like this. Someone will have to pay. But no one feels like scolding Akilles to his face.
Apollo has been shielding the corpse, lifting Hektor’s face from the tussocks and jagged rocks so that when Akilles gives up and un-yokes the chariot, the face is unbruised.
But Apollo is weary of this work. It’s beneath him. And it’s all Hera’s fault! She and her daughter, persecuting the Trojans just because the fool Paris said out loud what any man can see—that Afroditi is prettier than the two of them. Holding a grudge over a trifle like that! “How to Hold a Grudge”; that’s the first maternal lesson Hera taught little Athena when the girl gnawed her way out of her father’s aching head.
Apollo is in a mood for a showdown. He finds the gods at table, drinking as usual, and says, “You say you love the humans, but you let Akilles defile Hektor’s body like this. You should be ashamed! Hektor burned as many thigh-bones, spilled as much wine, in your honor as any Greek ever did, but you let Akilles drag his corpse over the tussocks!”
Hera sips her nectar, nudging her daughter.
Athena’s eyes begin to burn. She loves these face-offs with her male kin.
Apollo goes on, making the walls shake with that great gong of a voice, “What has Akilles lost, anyway? These mortals wade through death all their lives! Don’t we watch them weeping over their little babies? Just yesterday I floated over a plague-hit village by the Black Sea. I watched those humans sob till they choked as they laid their children in a row!”
Hera purrs, “And did you weep for the little dead humans, Lord Apollo?”
He seethes, his face melting to metal in his anger. “A stupid question! I don’t pretend to love these
creatures as you do. My point, stepmother, is that Akilles has only lost a vassal. Patroklas wasn’t even kin to him! Every animal that runs across the face of the Earth, whether on four legs or two, loses more than that. Every day, floating across the sky, I see people bury fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters—but even when they’ve lost their dearest kin, those people obey our rules. They don’t violate corpses like Akilles is doing!”
Hera says, “You seem to forget, stepson, that Akilles is more than half god. Hektor is just a human. He has only the vaguest fourth-generation sniff of god about him, whereas Akilles is like one of us, except—”
Ares yells from the end of the table, “Except he’s gonna die, hah!”
Hera ignores him and goes on, “Hektor is just another animal who sucked milk at its mother’s teat. But Akilles is a member of our circle. I attended his father’s wedding. Do you remember, daughter?”
Athena nods smugly.
Hera points around the table: “You were all at that wedding! Even you, Apollo, though as I recall you snuck off to drink and play the lyre with the local riffraff.”
She takes another sip of nectar, drawling, “And so, stepson, it comes down to this: Akilles can do whatever he wants, because he’s family.”
Ares, already drunk, shouts again, “Except he’s gonna die, an’ us gods don’t die!”
Ares laughs at his own joke, belches, and mutters, “Yup, Akilles is gonna die like a dog! Go down to Hades’ place! Thank gods I’m a god! Wouldn’t go down there for anything, not even a wedding feast!”
Zeus is disgusted, and leans over the table to growl, “Hera, why do you have to be so bitter? You’re a snob, that’s what it is!”
She shrugs, and Athena glares at her father. But Zeus has had enough. He holds up his hands, signaling he’s made his decision: “No one is saying that Hektor deserves equal honor with a half-god like Akilles. But I say now that he does deserve a little, as a decent human who never shortchanged us on the sacrifices.”
