An Iliad

by Alessandro Baricco

  The great king wept. And Hecuba, queen and mother, wept. Her robe was open at the front, and, with her breast bared, she begged her son to remember the time when, a weeping child, he would run to that breast for consolation. Now she wanted him to come to her again, as he had long ago, instead of being killed there, outside the walls, by a cruel man who would have no pity. But Hector wouldn’t listen. He stood firm, leaning against the wall, and waited for Achilles, as a snake, swelled with poison, waits for the man in front of his own den. In his heart he mourned the many heroes who had died on that day of war, and knew that he himself had killed them when he refused to pull the army back at the return of Achilles. He had betrayed them, and now the only thing to do was to regain the love of his people by challenging that man. Maybe he thought for an instant of laying down his arms and putting an end to the war, giving back Helen and all her treasures, and others besides. But he knew that nothing now would stop Achilles, except revenge.

  He saw him approach, running, radiant in his armor as the rising sun. He saw him stop, the spear raised above his right shoulder, terrible as no man could appear, but only a god. And fear seized his heart. He began to flee, running beside the walls, as fast as he could. Like a falcon, Achilles charged after him, furious. Three times they circled Troy, like horses given their head in a race. But now, in this race, there was no gold, or slaves, or treasure: the prize was Hector’s life. And each time they passed the Scaean gates, Achilles went to the inside and cut off Hector’s path, pushing him toward the plain, to keep him from escaping into the city. It was like a dream in which we are following someone and can’t catch him, but he can’t escape, really, either, and it can last all night. It lasted until Deiphobus came out of the Scaean gates and ran swiftly along beside Hector, saying to him, “My brother, Achilles will wear you out. Stop and we’ll confront him together.”

  Hector looked at him and opened his heart to him. “Deiphobus, beloved brother, you alone, seeing me, have had the courage to leave the protection of the walls and come to my aid.”

  “Our father and mother didn’t want me to come,” said Deiphobus. “But I couldn’t stand it, the anguish was too great, and now I’m here, at your side. Let’s stop and fight together: fate will decide if we win, or Achilles.”

  So that strange dream ended. Hector stopped fleeing. Achilles stopped. Slowly they went toward each other.

  The first to speak was Hector. “I won’t try to run away from you any longer, Achilles. I’ve found the courage to face you. Only swear to me that if you win you’ll take my armor but not my body. I’ll do the same for you.”

  Achilles looked at him with hatred. “Hector, I curse you. I will not make pacts with you. Men and lions, wolves and lambs don’t make pacts: their discord is forever. Think instead about fighting. The moment has arrived to prove that you are really the warrior you think you are.”

  Then he raised his spear, so that it quivered in the air, and hurled it with terrible force. Hector saw it coming and leaned quickly to one side, so that the bronze tip flew over his shoulder and planted itself in the ground. It was not true, then, that the gods had already decided everything, that the name of the victor was already written! Hector grasped his spear, raised it above his head, and hurled it. The bronze tip hit Achilles’ shield in the center, but it was a divine shield; nothing could break it. The bronze point went into the center but stopped there. Hector looked at it in confusion, and turned to ask Dei-phobus for another spear so that he could go on fighting. He turned, but Deiphobus was no longer there. He had escaped into the city; fear in the end had borne him away.

  Then Hector knew that he had finally met his fate. And since he was a hero, he drew his sword, to die fighting, to die in such a way that all the future generations would tell of it forever. He charged forward, like an eagle greedy for its prey. Facing him, Achilles drew himself up in the splendor of his armor. They leaped on each other like two lions. The bronze tip of Achilles’ spear advanced as the evening star advances, shining in the night sky. He looked for an open place in Hector’s armor, the armor that had once been his own, and then Patro-clus’s. He examined the bronze for a crack so that he could get to flesh, and life. He found it at the point where the neck rests on the shoulders, the tender neck of my beloved: the spear pierced the throat and went all the way through.

  Hector fell in the dust. He looked at Achilles and with his last breath of life said to him, “I beg you, do not abandon me to the dogs. Give this body to my father.”

  But the heart of Achilles was hardened against all hope.

  “Don’t plead with me, Hector. The evil you’ve done me is too great. It’s already something that I won’t cut you to pieces and smash you myself. Patroclus will have all the funeral honors that he deserves. You deserve to be eaten by the dogs and the birds, far from your bed, and from the tears of those who loved you.”

  Hector closed his eyes, and death enveloped him. His soul flew away to Hades, mourning its fate, and lost youth and lost strength.

  Achilles pulled his spear from Hector’s body. Then he bent down to strip off the armor. All the Achaeans came to watch, close up. For the first time they saw that body naked, without armor. They were amazed by its beauty, and yet not one resisted the temptation to strike him with the sword, with the spear. They laughed. “Hector is certainly a lot softer now than when he was setting fire to our ships.” They laughed and they struck him, until Achilles stopped them. He leaned over Hector and with a knife pierced his ankles, just under the anklebone. Through the hole he threaded leather thongs and tied them with strong knots to his chariot. He did it so that the body hung with its head in the dirt. Then he took Hector’s armor, his trophy, and mounted the chariot. He whipped the horses and they took off. Hector’s body, dragged along the ground, raised a black cloud of dust and blood.

  Your face was so beautiful. And now it slides along the ground, with the beautiful hair flying ragged in the dust. We were born in distant places, you in Troy and I in Thebes, but a single fate awaited us. And it was an unhappy fate. Now you leave me a widow in your house, overwhelmed by my tremendous grief. The child we had together is still so young. You can’t help him anymore, nor he you. If he should even survive this war, pain and suffering will be his lot forever, because one who has no father loses his friends and struggles to defend his possessions. His gaze lowered, his face lined with tears, he will tug on the cloaks of other fathers for protection, and maybe someone will glance at him with pity, but it will be like wetting the lips of one who is dying of thirst. The Trojans called him “lord of the city,” this child, because he was your son, and it was you who, alone, defended the city. Hector … Fate caused you to die apart from me, and that will forever be my greatest sorrow, because I didn’t have your last words for myself: I would have treasured them and remembered them all my life, every day and every night of my life. Beside the black ships now, you are preyed on by worms, and your naked body, which I so loved, is a meal for the dogs. Fine rich tunics, woven by women’s hands, awaited you here. I will go to the palace. I will take them and throw them in the fire. If this is the only pyre I can make in your honor, I will do it. For your glory, before all the men and women of Troy.

  Priam

  And everyone saw the king rolling in the mud, mad with grief. He wandered from one to another, begging them to let him go to the ships of the Achaeans to recover the body of his son. They had to restrain him by force, the mad old man. For days he remained sitting among his sons, wrapped in his cloak, around him only grief and lamentation. Men and women wept, thinking of the lost heroes. The old man waited until the mud hardened on his hair and his pale skin. Then, one evening, he rose. He went to the bedchamber and called his wife, Hecuba. And when she appeared he said, “I must go. I will bring precious gifts that will soften Achilles’ heart. I must do it.”

  Hecuba was in despair. “Gods, where is the wisdom you were famous for? You want to go to the ships, you, by yourself? You want to go to the man who has killed
so many of your sons? That man has no pity—do you think he will have pity on you, respect for you? Stay here at home and mourn. For Hector we can do nothing. It was his fate to be devoured by the dogs far away from us, the prey of that man whose liver I would tear out with my teeth.”

  But the old king answered, “I must go. And you won’t stop me. If it is fated that I should die beside the ships of the Achaeans, well, I will die, but not before I hold my son in my arms and shed my tears over him.”

  Thus he spoke, and he had all the most precious chests opened. He chose twelve of the finest robes, twelve cloaks, twelve blankets, twelve cloths of white linen, and twelve tunics. He weighed ten talents of gold and took two shining tripods, four urns, and a marvelous cup, a gift of the Thra-cians. Then he hurried out and began shouting furiously at all the people who were lamenting in his house, “Get out, all of you vile people. Don’t you have a house of your own where you can go and weep? Do you have to stay here and torment me? Isn’t it enough for you that Zeus has taken Hector, who of all my sons was the best, yes, the best? Did you hear me clearly, did you hear me, Paris, and you, Deiphobus, and you, Polites, and Agathon, and Helenus? Worthless, all of you. He was the best. Why didn’t you die in his place? Eh? I had brave sons, but I’ve lost them all, and the worst are left, the vain, the liars, good for dancing and stealing. What are you waiting for, you cowards, go, and get a chariot ready right away. I must go.”

  They all trembled at the cries of the old king. And you should have seen them, how they ran off to prepare the chariot, and load it with the gifts, and then mules and horses, everything … There was no more discussion. When everything was ready, Hecuba came. She held in her right hand a cup of sweet wine. She came to the old king and offered it to him. “If you really want to go,” she said, “against my will, at least make an offering to Zeus first, and pray to him to let you return alive.”

  The old king took the cup, and, since his wife asked him, he raised it to heaven and prayed to Zeus to have pity, and to let him find kindness and compassion where he was going. Then he mounted the chariot. All the gifts had been loaded into a second chariot, driven by Idaeus, the wise herald. The king and his faithful servant departed, without an escort, without warriors, alone, in the dark of the night.

  When they reached the river they stopped to let the beasts drink. And there they saw a man approaching, emerging out of nowhere, out of the darkness.

  “Let’s run away, my king,” Idaeus said right away, frightened. “Let’s go or he’ll kill us.”

  But I couldn’t move. I was petrified with fear. I saw the man getting closer and closer, and I couldn’t do a thing. He came toward me, right toward me, and offered me his hand. He looked like a prince, young and handsome.

  “Where are you going, old father?” he said. “Don’t you fear the fury of the Achaeans, your mortal enemies? If one of them sees you with all that treasure, what will you do? You’re no longer young, you two. How will you defend yourselves if someone attacks you? Let me protect you. I won’t hurt you: you remind me of my father.”

  It seemed that a god had put himself in our path. He thought we were escaping from Ilium, that the city was in the grip of terror, and we two had escaped with all the riches we could carry. He knew about the death of Hector and thought the Trojans had fled. And when he spoke of Hector he said: He wasn’t inferior to any of the Achaeans in battle.

  “Ah, young prince, but who are you, who speak like this of Hector?” And he said that he was a Myrmidon who had come to the war following Achilles and now was one of his attendants. He said that he had seen Hector fight numberless times and remembered when he attacked the ships. And he said that he had come from the camp of the Achaeans, where all the warriors were waiting for dawn to attack Troy again.

  “But if you come from there, then you must have seen Hector. Tell me the truth, is he still in Achilles’ tent, or have they thrown him out to the dogs?”

  “Neither dogs nor birds have devoured him, old man,” he answered. “You can’t believe it, but his body seems untouched. Twelve days have passed since his death, and yet it’s as if he had just died. Every day, at dawn, Achilles pitilessly drags him around the tomb of Patroclus to humiliate him, and every day the body is intact, the wounds close up, the blood disappears. Some god watches over him, old man: even if he is dead, some god loves him.”

  Ah, I heard those words with joy in my heart … I offered him that cup, the cup I had brought for Achilles. I offered it to him and asked him if in exchange he could take us into the Achaean camp.

  “Old man, don’t test me,” he said. “I can’t accept gifts from you unbeknownst to Achilles. Anyone who steals something from that man is heading for disaster. But I’ll lead you to him without any reward. And you’ll see that with me no one will dare stop you.” Thus he spoke, and he mounted the chariot, taking the reins and spurring the horses. And when he reached the trench, and the wall, the sentinels said nothing to him. He passed through the open gates and swiftly guided us to Achilles’ tent. It was majestic, supported on posts of fir and surrounded by a great courtyard. The enormous door was of wood. The man opened it and told me to enter. “It’s as well if Achilles doesn’t see me, old man. But don’t be afraid, go and kneel before him. May you be able to move his hard heart.”

  Then the old king entered. He left Idaeus to watch the

  chariots. And he entered the tent of Achilles. Some men were busy around the table where they had just been eating. Achilles was sitting in a corner, alone. The old king approached him without anyone noticing. Perhaps he could have killed him. But instead he fell at his feet and embraced his knees. Achilles was startled, caught by surprise. Priam took his hands, the terrible hands that had killed so many of his sons, and brought them to his lips and kissed them. “Achilles, you see me, I am old now. Like your father, I have crossed the threshold of sorrowful old age. But he at least will be in his homeland hoping to see his son return one day from Troy. I, instead, have endured much suffering: fifty sons I had, to defend my land, and the war has taken away almost all of them. Only Hector remained, and you killed him, beside the walls of the city whose last, heroic defender he was. I have come here to bring him home, in exchange for splendid gifts. Have pity on me, Achilles, in memory of your father. If you have pity on him, have pity on me, who, unique among all fathers, was not ashamed to kiss the hand that killed my son.”

  Achilles’ eyes filled with tears. With a gesture he brushed Priam away, but gently. The two men wept, in the memory of a father, a beloved friend, a son. Tears, in the tent, in silence. Then Achilles rose from his chair, took the old king by the hand, and raised him up. He looked at his white hair, his white beard, and, moved, he said, “You unhappy man, who have endured so much heartbreaking sorrow. Where did you find the courage to come to the ships of the Achaeans and kneel before the man who killed so many brave sons? You have a bold spirit, Priam. Sit here, on my chair. Together let’s forget our sorrow, which weeping is no help for. It’s man’s fate to live in sorrow—only the gods live happy. Inscrutable destiny dis- penses good and evil. My father, Peleus, was a fortunate man, first among all men, king in his own land, husband of a woman who was a goddess, and yet fate gave him an only son, born to rule, and now that son, far from him, runs swiftly toward his destiny of death, sowing ruin among his enemies. And you, you were so happy once, king of a great land, father of many sons, lord of an immense fortune, and now you are forced every day to wake amid war and death. Be strong, old man, and do not torture yourself: weeping for your son will not bring him back to life.” And he gestured the old man to sit on his chair.

  But Priam didn’t want to. He said he wanted to see the body of his son with his own eyes, that was all he wanted. He didn’t want to sit, he wanted his son.

  Achilles looked at him in irritation. “Now don’t make me angry, old man. I will give you back your son, because if you arrived here alive, it means that it was a god who guided you, and I don’t want to displease the gods. But
don’t make me angry, because I am also capable of disobeying the gods.”

  The old king then trembled with fear, and sat as he had been ordered. Achilles went out of the tent with his men. He went to get the precious gifts that Priam had chosen for him. And he left two linen cloths and one tunic in the chariot, in which to wrap the body of Hector when it was ready to be carried home. Then he called his servants and ordered them to wash and anoint the body of the hero, and to do all this elsewhere, so that the eyes of Priam wouldn’t see and wouldn’t suffer. And when the body was ready, Achilles himself took it in his arms, lifted it up, and laid it on the funeral bed. Then he returned to the tent and sat down opposite Priam.

  “Your son has been given back to you, old man, as you wanted. At dawn you will see him, and take him away. And now I order you to eat with me.”

  They prepared a sort of funeral banquet, and when the meal was over we sat there, facing each other, talking, in the night. I couldn’t help admiring his beauty. He was like a god. And he listened to me, in silence, rapt by my words. Incredible as it might seem, we spent the time in admiration of each other, so that at the end, forgetting where I was, and why I was there, I asked for a bed, because it was days since, afflicted by grief, I had slept. And they prepared one for me, with rich carpets and coverings of purple, in a corner, so that none of the other Achaeans should see me. When everything was ready, Achilles came and said to me, “We’ll stop the war to give you time to honor your son, old king.” And then he took my hand and held it, and I was no longer afraid.

  I woke in the middle of the night, when all around me were sleeping. I must have been mad to think of waiting there until dawn. I rose, in silence, and went to the chariots. I woke Idaeus, we hitched the horses, and, without anyone seeing us, we left. We crossed the plain in the darkness. And when golden Aurora slipped over the earth, we arrived at the walls of Troy. From the city the women saw us and began to cry that King Priam had returned, and with him his son Hector, and they streamed out of the gates, running toward us. They all wanted to touch the beautiful head of the dead man, weeping with muted laments. With difficulty the old king managed to drive the chariots inside the walls, and then to the palace. They took Hector and placed him on an inlaid bed. Around him rose the funeral lament. And the women, one by one, went up to him, and holding his head in their hands said farewell.