An Iliad Read online

  He listened to me. Then he said that he would accept my gifts, but not that day. That day it was urgent to go into battle without wasting any more time, because a great undertaking awaited him. He was so madly eager for war that he was incapable of waiting even an hour.

  Then Odysseus rose. “Achilles,” he said, “you can’t take an army into battle without first feeding it. All day the men will have to fight, until sunset, and only he who has eaten and drunk can sustain the fight with a firm heart and strong limbs. Listen to me: send the men to the ships to prepare a meal. And meanwhile we’ll have the gifts from Agamemnon brought here, to the assembly, so that we may all see and admire them. And then let Agamemnon solemnly swear before us that he did not unite with Briseis as men and women do. Your heart will be more serene when you go into battle. And you, Agamemnon, arrange a rich feast in your tent for Achilles, so that justice may be properly done. It’s a worthy thing for a king to ask forgiveness if he has offended someone.”

  Thus he spoke. But Achilles wouldn’t listen. “The earth is covered with the dead that Hector sowed behind him, and you want to eat? We’ll eat at sunset. I want this army to fight famished. Patroclus lies dead and awaits his revenge: I tell you that neither food nor drink will pass my lips before I have had it. I don’t care about gifts and feasts now. I want blood, and slaughter, and sorrow.”

  Thus he spoke. But Odysseus was not the type to yield. Anyone else would have given in—I would have—but not he. “Achilles, bravest of all the Achaeans, you are stronger than I am with the spear, certainly, but I am wiser than you, because I’m old and have seen many things. Accept my counsel. It will be a long battle, and a hard struggle awaits us before we win. It’s fitting to weep over our dead: but must we do it with our stomachs? Isn’t it also right to refresh ourselves when we’re weary, getting strength from food and wine? Let us bury our dead with a firm heart, and weep from dawn until sunset. But then let’s think of ourselves, so that we may return and eagerly pursue the enemy without respite, without pause, in our bronze armor. So I order that no one shall go into battle before eating and drinking. Then we’ll attack the Trojans together and rouse the cruel battle again.”

  Thus he spoke, and they obeyed. Achilles, too, obeyed. Odysseus took some young men and went to my tent. He brought out, one by one, the gifts I had promised, tripods, horses, women, gold. And Briseis. He brought everything to the middle of the assembled crowd and then he looked at me. I rose. I was mad with pain from the wound in my arm, but I stood up. I, the king of kings, raised my arms to heaven and before them all I repeated these words: “I swear before Zeus and the Earth and the Sun and the Erinyes that I never touched this girl who is called Briseis, nor did I ever share my bed with her. In my tent she remained, and now I give her back untouched. May the gods inflict harsh punishments on me if this is not the truth.”

  I wasn’t lying. I had taken that girl, but not her heart. I saw her weeping over the body of Patroclus and heard her speak as I had never before heard her. “Patroclus, you who were so dear to my heart! I left you living, and now I find you dead. There is no end to my misfortune. I saw my husband die, ravaged by Achilles’ spear, and I saw all my brothers die beside the walls of my city. And when I grieved for them you comforted me and sweetly told me that you would take me to Phthia and that there Achilles would take me as his wife, and all together we would celebrate the wedding, joyfully. That sweetness I mourn today as I mourn you, Patroclus.” And she embraced the body, sobbing, amid the laments of the other women.

  Achilles waited for the army to take its meal. He wouldn’t touch food or wine. When the men began to stream out of the tents and the ships, ready for battle, he put on his new armor. The beautiful greaves with clasps of silver at the ankles; the breastplate over his chest; the sword slung over his shoulders; the helmet on his head, glittering like a star. And the spear, the famous spear that his father had given him, to bring death to heroes. Last of all he took the shield: it was huge and strong, it glowed like the moon. The entire cosmos was carved into it: the earth and the waters, men and stars, the living and the dead. We fought with weapons in our hands: that man was going into battle holding the world.

  I saw him, radiant as the sun, get into his chariot and call to his immortal horses to carry him to revenge. He was angry with them because they hadn’t been able to save Patroclus from death. So he shouted and insulted them. And the legend says that in response they lowered their muzzles and, pulling on the reins, answered with a human voice, and they said to him: We will run swift as the wind, Achilles, but swifter than us runs your fate, toward death.

  The River

  Ihad seen years of war, because a river does not run blindly among men. And for years I had heard their groans, because a river does not run deaf where men are dying. Always impassively I had carried to the sea the discharge of that ferocious conflict. But that day the blood was too much, and the savagery, and the hatred. On the day of Achilles’ glory I rebelled, in horror. If you’re not afraid of fables, listen to this one.

  It was dawn, and the two immense armies were arrayed, facing each other, at the Achaeans’ wall. I saw the bronze armor flash in the light of the early sun. There stood Achilles before his men in the new armor, imposing, godlike. And in the front line, at the head of the Trojans, Aeneas, the son of Anchises. He advanced, tossing his head in the heavy helmet and waving his bronze-tipped spear. Achilles expected no less. He bounded forth from the ranks of his men, planting himself right in front of Aeneas: he was foaming with rage like a wounded lion and like a wounded lion was hungry for revenge and for blood. He began to shout. “Aeneas, what do you have in mind—maybe you want to challenge me? Do you think that if you win, Priam will give you his crown? He has Hector, and so many other sons—you don’t think he’ll give his power to you? Go while you still have time. We’ve already met once, the two of us, and you remember how it went: you stayed only long enough to flee. Flee again, this time, right now: turn and run. And don’t come back.”

  “Do you really think you can frighten me?” answered Aeneas. “I’m not a child, I’m a hero. There is noble blood and divine blood in my veins, as in yours. And I have no wish to stand here exchanging insults with you, as if we were gossipy old women quarreling in the street, rather than two heroes in the midst of combat and slaughter. Stop talking, Achilles, and fight.”

  He gripped the spear in his hand and hurled it. The bronze tip resounded against Achilles’ enormous shining shield. It had been fashioned with immeasurable skill. Two layers of bronze on the outside, two layers of tin inside. And in the middle a layer of gold. Aeneas’s spear pierced the bronze but not the gold.

  Then Achilles raised his spear. Aeneas extended the arm that held the shield. The bronze tip flew swiftly through the air, tore the shield, passed over Aeneas’s head by a hair, and stuck in the ground behind him. Aeneas stood petrified with fear. The throw had just missed him. Achilles drew his sword. With a terrible cry he rushed forward. Aeneas felt that he was lost. He picked up a large rock that was lying nearby. He raised it to defend himself. And I saw Achilles suddenly, as if blinded, lose his momentum, as if something had happened in his head, until he stopped, dazed, staring, as if searching for something he had lost. Aeneas didn’t pause to think about it.

  He turned and ran until he disappeared among the Trojans. So Achilles, when he came to himself, looked around and no longer saw him. There was the spear that had missed him by a hair sticking in the ground, but he wasn’t there. “It’s magic,” Achilles murmured. “Aeneas must be dear to some god, to be able to disappear like that. But let him go to the dogs! He’s not the one who concerns me. It’s time to enter the battle.” So he spoke, and attacked the Trojans.

  First he killed Iphition, struck him in the head. His head split in two, the hero fell with a crash, and the wheels of the Achaean chariots rolled over him. Then he killed Demoleon, striking him in the temple. The bronze helmet couldn’t withstand the blow and the point of the spear made pulp of
his brains. Darkness descended over the hero’s eyes. Then he killed Hippodamas as he was trying to flee, terrified. Hit in the back, he fell to the ground, gasping like an animal. The soul left the hero’s body. Then he killed Polydorus, the youngest of Priam’s sons, and the most beloved. Achilles struck him in the back; the spear went through his body and emerged from his chest. The hero fell to his knees with a cry, and a cloud enveloped him darkly.

  When Hector saw his young brother on his knees, with his guts in his hands, he was filled with rage and forgot all caution. He knew that he shouldn’t go out into the open, that he should wait for Achilles in the midst of the throng, where he was well protected by his companions. But when he saw his brother dying like that, he forgot everything and rushed forward toward Achilles, shouting.

  Achilles saw him and in his eyes flashed a gleam of triumph. “Come on, Hector, come closer,” he cried. “Approach your death!”

  “You don’t scare me, Achilles,” he answered. “I know you’re stronger than I am, but my spear, like yours, can kill. And fate will decide who dies.”

  Then he hurled his weapon, but the bronze point hit the ground not far from Achilles. Achilles thought he had him in his power. With a tremendous cry he charged forward, brandishing his spear. But again his sight was clouded, and his mind wandered. Three times he charged forward, but as if blindly, as if he were enveloped in a thick fog. When he returned to himself, Hector was no longer there: he had disappeared amid the Trojans. Furious, Achilles attacked whoever came near. He killed Dryops, striking him in the neck. And Demuchus, hitting him first in the knee and then the belly. Laogonus he killed with the spear, and Dardanus with the sword. Tros, in terror, fell to his knees, asking for mercy. He was only a boy, young as Achilles. Achilles pierced his liver with a thrust of the sword; the liver spurted out, and black blood gushed from the hero’s body. He killed Mulius with a blow to the ear; the bronze point went through his head and came out under the other ear. With his sword he killed Echeclus, ripping open his skull. With his spear he hit Deucalion’s elbow, and then with the sword cut off his head. The marrow burst from his vertebrae; the hero’s body fell to the ground. With his spear he gored Rhigmus in the stomach and killed his attendant Areithous with a blow to the back. He was like a fire that burns a vast forest, driven by a raging wind. The blood flowed over the black earth. And, eager for glory, his hands fouled with mud and death, he wouldn’t stop.

  Terrorized, the Trojans fled into the fields. And when they saw me, in the middle of the plain, like animals fleeing a conflagration they jumped into my waters in search of safety. Achilles reached the bank, laid his spear on the ground, and, unsheathing his sword, leaped in after them. He started killing whoever came within range. I heard moans and suffering everywhere, while my waters turned red with blood. I saw Achilles take twelve Trojan youths, one by one, and, instead of murdering them, carry them to the shore, to make them prisoners and sacrifice them before the body of Patroclus: one by one he dragged them out of the water, like startled fawns, to kill them beside the black ships. Then he turned to go back into the throng, to continue the slaughter. He was still on the shore when Lycaon appeared before him: he was a boy, and his father, Priam, had ransomed him from captivity. He had just returned to the battle. Now there he was, without armor, without weapons. He had thrown everything off so he could cross the river, and there he was, naked and afraid.

  “What do my eyes see?” said Achilles. “I met you in battle once already and I took you alive, to sell you as a slave in Lem-nos. And now I find you here again. Next, the Trojans I’ve sent to Hades will start reappearing. But this time you won’t be back, Lycaon.” He raised his spear and was about to strike him, but Lycaon dropped to his knees and the spear grazed his back and stuck in the ground.

  “Have pity.” Lycaon began to weep. “I’ve just returned to the battle and I meet you again—why do the gods hate me so? Have pity. You’ve already killed my brother Polydorus, spare me: among Priam’s sons it’s Hector you want.”

  But Achilles looked at him fiercely. “Foolish boy, how can you speak to me of pity? Before you killed Patroclus, I had pity, and spared many Trojans. But now … No one will leave my hands alive. Stop whining. A man like Patroclus is dead, who was worth much more than you—why shouldn’t you die? Look at me, how strong and handsome I am, and yet I will die. A dawn or sunset or noon will come, and that day will see me die. And you weep for your death?”

  Lycaon lowered his head. He reached his arms forward in a final entreaty. Achilles plunged the sword up to the hilt into his body, from top to bottom, entering right under the clavicle. Lycaon crumpled. Achilles took him by the feet and dragged him into my waters. “Your mother will not mourn you on your funeral bed,” he said. “But this river will carry you to the sea to be eaten by the fish.” Then he started shouting. “You’re all going to die! The river won’t save you. I’ll pursue you to the walls of Troy. You’ll die an evil death and pay for what you did to Patroclus.” And again he entered the water and began to kill: Asteropaeus, and Thersilochus, and Mydon, and Astypylus, and Mnesus, and Thrasius, and Aenius, and Ophe-lestes. It was a massacre.

  And then I cried, “Get away from me, Achilles, get away if you want to keep killing. Stop piling up corpses in my beautiful waters. I won’t have the strength to carry them all to the sea. I am repelled by you, Achilles. Stop or get out.”

  And Achilles answered me, “I’ll go when I’ve killed them all, River.”

  Then I stirred up a giant, frightening wave that rose into the air and curled over his shield and plunged down upon him. I saw him looking for something to hold on to. There was an elm on the bank, large and leafy, and he clung to its branches, but the wave carried away the tree, roots and all. It fell headlong into the water, toppling him, too. Then Achilles, with a superhuman effort, stood up and got out of the current and gained the bank, and then he fled toward the plain. And I followed him there. Overflowing my banks, with my waters I followed him, flooding the fields. He fled and the great wave that I had become drove him on; and when he stopped, and turned, I surged over him, and again he found the earth beneath his feet and again began to run, until finally I heard him crying, godlike Achilles, “Mother! Mother! Will no one save me? Why did you tell me I would die beside the walls of Troy? If only Hector, who among them all is the bravest, had killed me. I am a hero, and a hero should kill me. And instead it is fate that I should die a miserable death, overpowered by the river like some poor swineherd!”

  He rushed into the water, with corpses and armor floating and swirling all around him. With godlike strength he ran, but I knew that it wouldn’t save him, his strength, or his beauty, or his shining armor, that he would end up at the bottom of my swamp, covered with mud, and I would pour cascades of sand and rocks upon him, and forever, forever, I would be his impenetrable tomb. I rose up into the air in a last enormous wave that, churning with foam, and bodies, and blood, would carry him off. Then I saw the fire. From the plain, inexplicable, magic, the fire. A wall of fire moving toward me. The elms, the willows, the tamarisks burned; the lotus and the reeds and the grasses burned; the corpses and the armor and the men burned. I stopped. The fire reached me. What no one had ever seen, everyone saw that day: a river in flames. The water boiling, the fish darting terrified among the glowing pools. So, many nights later, I would see the Trojans flee the burning inferno of their city.

  From my bed, having returned, defeated, to my normal currents, I saw Achilles pursue the Trojans to the walls of Ilium. From the height of a tower, Priam observed the defeat. He had the gates thrown open so that his army could take refuge in the city, and he ordered them to be closed again as soon as the last of the soldiers had passed through. But the last was the bravest, the firstborn son, the hero who through that gate would not enter again.

  Andromache

  They took refuge in the city like frightened fawns. Priam had had the Scaean gates opened, and they ran inside and ran up on the bastions, still covered with sweat
, burning with thirst, and pressed against the parapets to look down onto the plain. Thousands found safety in the belly of the city. Only one remained outside the gates, nailed by his destiny. And it was the man I loved, and the father of my child.

  From the distance Achilles arrived, leading his soldiers, swift as a victorious stallion, bright as a star, gleaming like an omen of death. Priam recognized him from the height of the tower and understood. He couldn’t restrain himself and began to weep, the old man, the great king, in front of everyone, beating his head with his hands and murmuring, “Hector, my son, flee that place. Achilles is too strong for you, don’t face him alone. Can’t you see, that man is killing my sons, one by one. Don’t you, too, be killed. Save your life and, alive, save the Trojans. I don’t want to die run through by a spear the day our city is captured. I don’t want to see my sons killed, my daughters taken as slaves, marriage beds devastated, children hurled into the dust in the midst of the massacre. I don’t want to end up in the dirt and be torn to pieces by the dogs that, until the day before, I fed with scraps from my table. You, Hector, you’re young. The young are beautiful in death, in any death. You mustn’t be ashamed to die, but I … Think of an old man, and of those dogs standing over him and devouring his head, and tearing his sex from him, and drinking his blood. Think of the white hair, the pale skin. Think of the dogs who then, sated, go and lie down under the portico … I am too old, Hector, to die like that. Let me die in peace, my son.”