The War Nerd Iliad

by John Dolan

  Priam nods, sniffling.

  Akilles takes one huge paw and pats the old man’s back, nearly knocking Priam’s teeth out of his head: “Mourn as hard as you have to, sir, but don’t do it forever. You can’t bring back the dead. It’s bad luck even trying. I see that now.”

  Priam tries to stand up, moaning, “King Akilles, please don’t make me sit while my son is lying in the dirt. Please, just take the ransom I brought with me, let me see my boy, and then I’ll go home.”

  Akilles stands, looming over the old man, and growls, “Don’t provoke me, sir. I’m trying to behave properly.”

  Priam gapes in terror.

  Akilles pushes the old man back into his seat, growling, “I mean to give you Hektor’s body. The gods have already ordered me to. I’m not a fool, sir; I know you must have had the gods’ help to ride in here unmolested. Just don’t make me angry, or you’ll ruin everything. We are going to take meat and wine together, as is proper. You are going to sit and eat with me. You are my guest.”

  Priam nods, terrified.

  “And you will spend the night in my home, as is proper.”

  Priam nods again.

  Satisfied, Akilles jumps to the door, roaring to his servants, “Unload the wagon! Unyoke the horses and feed them!”

  He stomps out into the courtyard, yelling, “Wash that body, oil it! The finest oil in the house!”

  There’s the sound of a blow, and Akilles roaring, “Don’t bring it inside, fool! I don’t want the old man seeing the body till it’s cleaned up!” A slave’s voice whimpers and Akilles roars through the courtyard, seeing to everything, right down to the clothes to be put on Hektor’s corpse.

  Just as he’s about to go back in, he stops suddenly and groans, “Patroklas, don’t be angry! You ghosts love to gossip, I know; they’re probably telling you I gave Hektor’s body back, even though he killed you. It’s true, but his poor old father came to see me, all alone—the bravery of that old man! And I felt sorry for him. Besides, there’s a ransom, a good one. I’d share it with you if I could!”

  Then he ducks under the doorway to sit with Priam.

  He notices that the slaves have arranged their seats improperly. So he picks up Priam, chair and all, putting him at the right hand, the place of honor. Then he sits down and says solemnly, “King Priam, you are my guest. Your son has been laid on his bier, and you can take him away in the morning.”

  Priam stutters, “May I go now? Please, I’d like to start as soon—”

  Akilles pushes him into his chair: “We will dine. Weep for your son on the drive back to Troy. Now we dine.”

  He takes down a heavy one-bladed sword and goes out, muttering, “One moment; our meat! I’d forgotten.” Priam hears a heavy thud, then Akilles shouting, “Skin it, fools, roast it, and quick! We’re waiting in there!”

  Then he’s back, sheep-blood on his forearms. He clears his throat and says stiffly, “Yes, the storytellers say that Niobe herself had to eat at last, even after losing all twelve of her children.”

  He relaxes a little: “She offended Leto’s children, Apollo and Artemis. You know that bunch? Bad enemies to make! Not as bad as Hera, but bad enough. So they slaughtered her children. They say Niobe cried for nine days, but then she had to eat something!”

  Priam can only stare. There’s a long silence before the stewards bring in the steaming lamb, with rounds of bread. Akilles snarls, “About time! Leave it here, we’ll deal with it!” He passes Priam a plate of bread, then begins to eat, tearing huge chunks of meat off the steaming carcass.

  Priam gums his bread, mimes a few bites of meat, and finally stands up, saying stiffly, “A fine meal, sir, but now I would enjoy the boon of sleep. I’ve been lying in dung, you see, for days, mourning my son; now that we are agreed on the return of his body, I think I might be able to sleep.”

  Akilles, relieved to have this awkward dinner behind him, says, “Of course!” He claps his hands and the slave women bring thick red carpets for Priam to lie on. The old man starts to settle on the floor, but Akilles slaps his forehead and says, “No, what am I thinking? We can’t bed you down here; Agamemnon’s gold-sniffing nose would start twitching—he’s like a hound, that man! He’d nose you out, and you’d be a hostage!”

  He leads Priam to a small gatehouse. As the slaves arrange the rugs, he asks, “Now, how long do you want for a truce to bury Hektor properly?”

  Priam hems and haws: “Well, you know … firewood is hard to find, sir, and people are afraid to leave town to get it. For a good pyre, a proper pyre … nine days, I’d say. Nine to build the pyre, the tenth for his funeral, the eleventh to build a mound over the bones. And on the twelfth day, you can attack.”

  “You have my word. No fighting for eleven days.” And lifting Priam’s dry, bony wrist with his left hand, he puts his huge right hand over it, like a tree trunk fallen on a pile of twigs.

  Priam and his servant lie down, exhausted. They’re soon snoring, while Akilles goes to lie with Briseis—the first time he’s touched a woman since Patroklas died.

  The two worlds are asleep, are sleeping now. All but Hermes. As old Priam snores, Hermes floats in mid-air above him, then says, “Oh King Priam!”

  The old man wakes up, moaning in terror. Hermes, stifling a guffaw, puts one hand over Priam’s mouth, whispering, “My apologies, sir, but I think it might be best if we left early. If Agamemnon ever learns you’re here … well, you know those Atreus-sons, gougers to a man! Those rogues will take every copper you’ve got!”

  Priam nods with the god’s cold, huge hand over his mouth. He and his old servant dress silently while Hermes yokes the chariot and wagon. Silent, invisible, they trot out of the camp.

  By dawn, they reach the ford over the river Yellow. There Hermes takes his leave, vanishing with a bow before Priam can make a long speech of gratitude.

  In the light of dawn, Priam can see Hektor’s face. He weeps all the way back to Troy, turning back to look at his son’s body and weeping harder. His daughter Kassandra is on the walls, looking around for some bad news to disseminate. She sees the chariot and wagon far off across the plain and runs through the town, calling, “Come out, Trojans! Come out and mourn Hektor, who will never defend the city again!”

  Everyone in Troy, old and young, rich and poor, swarms the wagon, screaming their grief as Hektor’s body moves through the alleys to Priam’s palace, looking almost alive in the pink dawn light.

  Priam has no patience for this mummery. He knows his people. They’re making a show of grief, but not one had the courage to come with him to get the body back. He lashes out with his whip, shouting, “Weep when I’ve brought him home! Get out of the way!”

  They put Hektor’s body on a table and arrange musicians around it. Women are brought in to wail.

  Andromakhe takes Hektor’s head in both hands and sings, “Husband, you left me! You left me a widow, to live on while the Greeks smash our gates. I’ll live to see our little son sold to a farmer far away, to be beaten and starved! If he lives at all, if some Greek who lost a brother to your spear doesn’t buy the boy for the pleasure of tossing him off the walls, to watch his little body break on the sand!”

  The line of women rocks side to side, hair thrashing like a thousand whips.

  She sings, “And I’ll see it all from the auction block, sold to a Greek who’ll look at my teeth before he offers a price for me!”

  The women are chittering now, like the grief of swallows at dawn.

  She finishes, “You left without embracing me, you died out on the plain with no sweet words to give me to sweeten these tears!”

  Two women pull her from the body. It’s his mother’s turn. Hekuba grips her son’s temples and sings in a deeper, slower voice, “Hektor, Hektor, dearest son, dearer than all the rest! Akilles would sell the rest into slavery when he caught them on the plain, but you he killed outright, because you were too brave to leave alive! Alive, the gods loved you; dead, they have preserved you; you lie as handsome
as the day you left. Akilles tried to defile you, but you are as fresh as morning dew under my hands!”

  They pull her away, Helen takes his temples, singing, “Beloved brother-in-law, when I came here everyone cursed me in the streets, but you took my side, defending me! When the bodies came home women spat at me, saying I was the cause of their sons’ and husbands’ deaths; but you never reproached me or gave me those looks I see everywhere I go. You alone protected me, so these tears are for you and my wretched self too.”

  Priam steps in and calls, “Enough!” He waves the women away and gives orders to his servants, “Go find wood for the pyre. You’ll need to go a long way into the hills. I have Akilles’ word they’ll leave us alone.”

  For nine days the ox teams bring in heavy tree trunks, scoring deep ruts in the sandy soil. At dawn on the tenth day they light the pyre and Priam keeps his sons pacing around it all day, making sure every branch and bone is well burned. Next morning they come back with huge jars of wine and douse the embers. A smell of burnt wine, wood, and flesh spreads in a fog around the city. Then Hektor’s brothers gather up his clean white bones, wrap them in purple from Sidon, and put them in an urn. They put the urn in a tomb lined with huge flat stones and raise a mound over it.

  Then they go back inside the walls and hold one last feast in the doomed city.

  That was how they buried Hektor, the best of men.