by Byrne Fone
But Achilles, strangely, agreed. How he could he have done this? What possessed him? What blindness overcame his reason? Was it love, Inability to refuse Patroclus anything even the prospect of death?
But then Achilles commanded Patroclus—commanded him! — to make no forays no charges, slay no men.
“Even” he said, “even if the gods offer you the chance of winning glory for yourself, you must not seize it. You must not fight. Turn back when you have saved the situation at the ships. And leave the rest to do the fighting on the plain.”
But Patroclus did not turn back.
An thus it was that Patroclus went to war, and thus it was on a quiet late afternoon, as I was mending clothes by the tent and Achilles was throwing javelins at a target fixed to a tree some distance away, I saw someone running along the beach and toward the camp, running as of he were pursued by a thousand furies. Achilles saw him too. He put down the javelin he was just about to throw. From where I sat I could see not see his face but I could see his shoulder muscles tense as he started off to meet the runner.
It was Antilochus, the son of Nestor and a boy of about eighteen summers who, it was said had come to the war because he had long loved Achilles and been mooning over him for some time ever since.
He ran towards Achilles, Achilles hurried toward him. I could hear no words, but this is what I saw. The boy dropped down to one knee, exhausted and breathing hard. Achilles knelt before him, took a scarf he had around his neck and wiped the sweat from his brow, waiting for him to catch his breath. Then the boy reached out both hand to Achilles in gesture almost of supplication. I saw that he was saying something, that he said what he had to say, and then his head dropped down as if he could not look at Achilles.
The was a static moment; neither moved. Then Achilles rose stood rocking back and forth, his hands before his face. Even from where I watched I saw his whole body shaking as if he had been taken with a sudden and horrific chill that shook him to the bone. Then he sank to the ground before Antilochus and wept. Achilles wept! And then he looked up to heaven and the sound was terrible, a long drawn-out terrifying cry like an animal in the direst pain. In the inchoate sound of grief I heard one word rise to the skies: “Patroclus.” Antilochus took the devastated man in his arms and together the two of them huddled on the cool grey sands as the ocean came roaring in. It is said that Thetis the sea goddess is the mother of Achilles and in the long drawn out mournful swell of the sea, perhaps she mourned too. I mourned as well, for it was clear what had happened. I fell upon my knees, and tore my cloths and wept for a man I had come to love even though the world said he was my enemy.
Why had it come to this? Was Patroclus headstrong, suicidal or helpless in the grip of fate? I do not know what daimon filled him, but he charged direct to his fatal rendezvous with Hector and the gods—and with death. Hector killed him, and hector despoiled his body, stripping off the fabled armor. How could Achilles not have known that Patroclus would do just that? How could he not have known that Patroclus would see this as a chance at last to equal or even surpass his lover in bravery, and that he would do that, for him, for them, for their legend? And most terrible of all, how could Achilles not know that it was his pride that had sent his lover to death? And the horror. Patroclus died alone, without his friend at his side, the friend who if he had been there might have saved him, or died gloriously with him. But at least Patroclus died with glory. It was for Achilles to live, knowing that all the blame was his.
What came after has already been taken up by the bards and turned into legend. Achilles marched from his camp and his ships, unto the battlefield and towards the plain where the battle still raged. It is likely that in his grief and rage he sprinted to where his lover lay dead. But the poets lend mystery and magic to the scene. They say that as he ran he began to grow in stature and the air around him became luminous, began to glow with a white-hot incandescence. Into the battle came Achilles, wreathed in fire and become a giant His figure cast a tremendous ray of light across the battling men and they one by one, group by group, company by company turned to stare. The astonishment and the spreading fear was palpable. It was an incredible spectacle. A thousand men who moments before had been engaged in the hysteria of slaughter turned and stared, Trojan and Achaean, at the blinding pillar of flame which enwrapped Achilles, slayer of men.
And then he raised his voice. It was a trumpet call. It was a summons to death and vengeance. It was a clarion sounding the crack of doom. There were no clear words, but the power of his voice and the sheer terrifying presence of this fiery apparition, enfolded, the priests later said, by the aegis of Pallas Athene Herself, so terrified the Trojans that they fled pell-mell, in panic and terror, leaving the body of Patroclus crumpled, pitiful and alone, lying on the field of war. It was clear then to the Achaeans who now miraculously had possession of the field, what to do. Achilles, separated from the world by the fire of divinity, watched while the Achaeans carried the body of Patroclus through a wide lane of his comrades. They carried it high on their shoulders, the poor, mutilated, bloody thing, in a procession of the living and bloodied, across the plain, to the ships, and placed it on a makeshift bier beside the sea. Praise the gods, the beautiful face, at least, was unscarred.
Achilles watched all this, immobile. The flaming aura which had enveloped him before faded, flickered, and was gone. He was a vengeful giant no longer, now a man again, weak with loss, weak with grief. He approached the bier, reached out and brushed the cold hand with his own. In all the repertoire of their passion, that gesture was the most achingly, intimately tender. Then the hot tears came. The evening deepened into dusk and then into purple shadows as if it was in mourning too. Achilles lay prostrate before the body of his friend. The sun, as if exhausted with grief, paused for a moment on the distant rim of the darkening sea, and then slipped below the horizon. The light had gone out and the world was dark.
All know the events of the next dreadful days. Already the bards are trying their skill at this story, singing their various versions around the camp fires, finding which gains most approval, which lines most essentially capture a scene, a battle, a tear. They tell already how Achilles mourned Patroclus, how he made his terrible vow that would send the souls of many heroes down to Hades, while their bodies lay as meat for the dogs and carrion birds. They sing how, for Patroclus, he vowed to slay Hector, bring his armor and his head as blood-price to the bier and shed the blood of twelve noble Trojan youths as recompense for those dear wounds. He said: "I will cut their throats and their blood will pay for yours."
Some of the bards tell how the body was washed and perfumed and laid out in fine linen upon a bier of fragrant wood. Others interpolate miracles: the body was saved from decay by the intervention of Achilles’ divine mother Thetis; an amazing set of armor for Achilles inexplicably appeared. Some describe the tense scene between Achilles and Agamemnon and their reconciliation. But all of them, as is their profession, sing of war, telling in gorgeous detail the hideous truth, the tale of Achilles' mighty slaughter, the men he killed as a vast and bloody sacrifice in the name of love. All their songs are about the horrible consequence of the wrath of Achilles, who killed for love.
Yes, it is true. In the dreadful battle that followed the return of Patroclus' body, Achilles, garbed in the shining, and by now in everyone's mind, divinely made armor, sallied thunderously forth to kill. Men claimed—and the bards eagerly seized upon these claims and the priests later wisely said they foresaw it and validated the tales—men claimed that they saw the gods themselves in full array, battling on the field in aid of their favorites, carrying out the inexorable law of fate.
In battle Achilles grimly calm, but to all eyes clearly insane, slaughtered the flower of men: Demoleon, Polydorus, Priam's youngest son, Lycoan, another son of Priam, Dryops, Mulios, Deucalion, Dardanos, Echelos, Khigmos, all, all dead. He drove a group of men into the river, leaping into the water after them, turning the water to life's-blood. A dozen of them he pulle
d out like weeds, bound them, and sent them back alive, with the grim assurance that they would die before the sun set, throats cut for Patroclus. It was only for Hector that he sought.
And of course there are a dozen versions of Hector's death as well. But there is truly only one, and it is grim and it is shameful. It is best told quickly, without the embroideries the poet's use. They met; they fought. The battle was cruel. Gods may have aided them, but it was Achilles' strength and his anger that gave him victory. One can go to any bard to hear the details, to hear the description of thrust and parry, of hacking blades and plunging spears. It is enough to say that carried before the inexorable power of wrath, Troy's great hero fell to Achilles’ raging sword and spear. Achilles bent over his fallen enemy, bent close as if to hear his final words. Then standing erect he dealt the deathblow. With that, in grim imitation of the past, he stripped the body. Then his men came and shameful to tell, each of them thrust their sword into the lifeless corpse. But most shameful of all, and an offense to every decency, Achilles pierced the sinews of Hector's ankles and tied the body behind his chariot. Then, whipping his horses to their greatest speed, he dragged the thing around the walls of Troy, his dreadful shouts of victory playing indecent counterpoint to the wailing lamentations that rose from the many towers of Ilium as the Trojans now foresaw their fate and the inevitable end. High on that tower reserved for kings ancient Priam, a King of Kings and now a shrunken old man, watched in horror. Next to him a feeble woman. All knew that this was Hecabe, mother of princes, now bereft of her most beloved son.
Chapter 35
Briseis
He has freed me, but freed me for what? Can I, a woman, find my way to Troy across the battlefield, find my way to that high gate and demand entrance because I am—what? A well-born Trojan woman, or just a slave freed by the Greeks? They guards at the gate will not know if I tell the truth, nor even believe me. Will they heed my entreaties to allow me to speak Hecabe, the queen who will know me? I have nothing, save what I wear. Nothing to prove who I am. They will think I am a spy, or mad. They no longer admit anyone to the city, even if I could find my way to the shadow of the walls. They may kill me, though most likely they will rape me first. My only hope for life, such as it may be, is to go back to the Greek camp.
The funeral done, Achilles now sits for hours at a time staring out to sea, seeking comfort, perhaps from Thetis, sea Goddess, who all say is his mother. Does he conjure up pictures of his Patroclus, remembering what had been, imagining with bitter sorrow what might have been if he had not let Patroclus go, alone, to war? Achilles only waits to die. There is nothing for him. Patroclus is gone and love is dead. Hector is dead and revenge is cold. “I will send you back to the king,” he said, and the cursed gold too. I do not want it.” He smiled a mirthless smile. I saw death in is eyes.
I go to him where he sits upon the rock where they both used to sit, singing to one another. I stand, waiting for him to notice me. He looks my way, but seems to barely see me. In his eyes I see death. Kneeling before him, I stretch out my hands as supplicants do. He seems to awake from his dream.
“Rise up, Briseis, you need not kneel to me”
“Lord, you have freed me, and bade me go. But where? I have no place to go. I have no home; that lies in ashes. I have no kin. They are all dead. Will Troy take me? Will you send men to take me there, or go you yourself to take me to the Trojan gates and intercede for me there? I am a woman, a slave. I am nothing. I am lost.”
Tonelessly, he answered.
“We are all lost, lady. All of us. You cannot stay here; there is no place for you. I go to war, and I will not come back. My men will die; I will die. This is prophecy. Nothing can change it. I will send you back to the king. Everything is his now, even the victory.”
Chapter 36
Briseis
It must seem to the Trojans that their defeat is now inevitable. It seems so to me, kept now in close confinement here in the camp of my enemies. Their–our--greatest hero, Hector, is dead, slain by Achilles in vengeance for the death of Patroclus. How the horror must have demoralized the Trojans as Achilles dragged Hector’s body three times around Troy’s high walls. How all the inhabitants of Troy—from the lowliest slave to Priam himself—must have seen the black specter of defeat settle upon them, filling their days with despair and their dreams with terror. What must surely most unnerve them is that Achilles has reconciled with the king. Not because he wants to make peace with Agamemnon, who he still hates, but because he wants to kill. Or be killed.
I live in fear too, for I am, after all Trojan already in the hands of my enemies, and a worthless woman who the king has already despoiled. When the Greeks overrun Troy will they kill me? When the king tires of me, will he kill me? When I am alone I lie awake, waiting to hear the clank of arms. Will it be a soldier come to kill me, or is it the king, drunk coming to take his pleasure on me—not with me, but on me. I lie rigid while he sweats and grunts above me, breathing hard, for wine impairs him, and of that I am glad, even though then he curses me and hits me hard across the face to punish me for his incapability. If he manage to achieve the release he came for, he rises, smirks, tosses of a goblet of wine, and leaves without a word, leaves me lying in the dusk of the tent, weak, bruised, ashamed. But I no longer cry.
Every day the troops go out to battle. Every day a priest makes a sacrifice, sprinkling the men with the blood from the kill as they march by, all of them saluting the king, Odysseus, and old Nestor on the dais. We slaves sometimes gather near the route of march from parade ground to the gate to see. The battles rage every day, soldiers march out everyday. Achilles wheels his men around before the king, gives him a salute, and off they go, Achilles and his killers, the Greek’s best hope. Nestor’s son Antilochus—with whom Achilles now consorts--is in the vanguard with about a hundred of his boys from Pylos. Nestor waved at him as he passed. From my distant vantage I saw a tear trickle down his cheek.
The king does not go near the battle. It is said that he believes he is too valuable a commodity—his phrase-- to risk losing him out there. Ever since the army marched out he had been drinking in the command tent—well the king was drinking—and waiting to hear some news from the front. Today I have been summoned to serve him at table. I supposed if he gets drunk enough he will…I will not think about it.
“Ah, yes, Briseis, Chryseis’ little slavy. Still pretty are you?” I stood with my head down. I did not answer. “Well hop to it, girl, bring me wine.”
I was relieved that he asked for nothing more. But there were others at the table, the priest Calchas, Nestor, his bother, Menelaus. I hoped that as the meal became more raucous I could slip away unnoticed.
The king was talking to—rather at—the others. “When our boys are finished with them, I’ll go out and mop them up,” he was saying, though his voice was now more and more slurred. “By the way, when its over” he said to Calchas, “ I’d better have a good oracle about our victory. There’s going to be some bloody action in that city when we take it and I want everyone—all the world—to know the gods are on our side and that whatever we do is justified.”
“My lord, the oracles come from the gods,” the priest replied in a pompously pious tone. “I do not control what their message”. “You old fraud,” the king said, “I’ve bought and sold better men than you, Calchas. You’d better get me my oracle and it had better be good.”
The king signed to me to bring him more wine. In the corner a beautiful boy, a Trojan captive from some southern town I think, played the lyre. Above the sound of the music we can hear the din from the battlefield; it is a distant sound and so it must be nearer to the gates of Troy. Ever since Achilles returned to the field, it’s been victory after victory. No wonder the king stays away. He knows he will be outshone by Achilles. “Girl, bring us another drink.”
Then, horses hooves, the rattling crunch of chariot wheels, the voice of the driver as he reined in. A figure nearly falls into tent. It is Diomedes. He is covered
from head to toe with grime and blood. He has sustained a wound to his temple and blood runs down his face, covering it like the red masks actors wear when they portray demons on the stage, and out of which their eyes glare balefully as did Diomedes’ eyes, wild, exhausted, and full of terror.
The king looked up and started at the sight, shocked out of the stupor into which he had begun to fall.
“What is it? Good news from the front?”
“Calamity. We are lost. Achilles is dead.
Should I not rejoice that Troy’s greatest enemy, who slew its greatest hero, is himself slain? Surely in their city the Trojans rejoice, seeing hope, seeing the intervention of the gods, seeing a miracle. Even as the smoke of Hector’s funeral pyre rises to heaven, so the hymns of thanks for Achilles’ death must rise with it. But I can sing no hymns. Among all the Greeks he was the kindest, asking nothing from me, giving me the most precious thing that women seek, perhaps even more than love: respect and honor.
And so as each day ends, followed by endless night, Trojans and Greeks each go to their confused and restless sleep-- and I to mine. In the scales of destiny on the one hand the Trojans can place dead Achilles and rejoice that he is gone. In the other they can weigh the loss of Hector without whom any certainty that they might triumph has been lost. In what scales will my life be weighed? All that is certain is that on Troy’s doorstep, crouching likes a hungry lion hoping for its prey to bolt, Agamemnon’s army waits.
Book Seven: The Tears of Women Water the Graves of Heroes
Agamemnon intoned a prayer: Mighty Zeus, grant that the sun may never set nor darkness fall until I bring down Priam’s golden palace, blackened with smoke, and send up his gates in flame, and all his men are fallen in the dust and bite the earth in death.”
