Achilles was inconsolable. Why had he let his friend go into battle? He remembered the words his mother had said to him long, long ago: “One day you will lose the one you love most.” That day had come.
How to find solace? He remained lying on the ground, the women weeping all around him—except for Iphis, daughter of the King of Skyros. Achilles had conquered the island, killed all the men, and taken the prettiest girls, including Iphis. He had given her to Patroclus as a gift. Iphis did not weep. She had done her weeping. From princess to slave, somewhere along the way she had run out of tears. She served Patroclus, crept into his bed at night; the human soul is a mystery. She grew fond of him, she even came to love him. So Iphis did not weep. She bent over Achilles, brushed the ashes from his hair, and whispered in his ear, “On your feet, Achilles. Your friend is dead, but you can defend his body, make sure it doesn’t finish up in Troy, the city of the winds, where Hector will want to mount his head on a stake in the square. Do not let them mutilate him when he is on his way to the Underworld. You were the one who gave me to him. Now that he is dead, you must give him to me. I want to wash him, anoint his body with eucalyptus oil, I want to sing him all the laments I never had the chance to sing for my father, my mother, and my brothers, killed at your cruel hands.”
Achilles was too deeply absorbed in his own grief to listen.
“My time on this earth has served no purpose,” he wailed.
Meanwhile Hector fought on, filled with energy. Dressed in Achilles’s armor he drove back the Achaeans as a burning torch drives back the darkness. The men bearing Patroclus’s body could do no more. The Trojans attacked relentlessly with spears, swords, stones, arrows—anything that was capable of lacerating soft skin, splintering bone, crushing the skull. Three times Hector came close enough to grab the legs and try to drag the corpse away, but each time Ajax fought him off, even though he knew the final result was inevitable.
“On your feet, Achilles,” Iphis said again. “Only show yourself and fear will strike the hearts of the Trojans.”
But Achilles had no armor; Hector was wearing it.
“I can’t go naked into battle,” he said.
“That’s exactly what you can do,” Iphis insisted.
And Achilles stood up with tears in his eyes, ashes in his hair, and dirt all over his clothes. It was like watching the sun rise. There was a fierce glow about him that made the Trojans shade their eyes with their hands. At the same time he let out a grief-filled warlike roar that froze the blood in their veins. They saw him and they heard him, and that was more than enough. Chaos ensued as they desperately sought refuge, running from the battle like grazing sheep who have just heard the roar of a nearby lion.
This gave the Achaeans enough breathing space to carry Patroclus to safety and lay him on a bier. Comrades and friends gathered around him, deep in sorrow. Achilles joined them, weeping bitter tears once more when he saw his dearest friend lying there, brought down by a cruel spear. Patroclus’s beautiful face had stiffened into a mask of pain and horror, and Achilles cursed himself for sending him away with a chariot and horses, not for a moment suspecting that he would never have the opportunity to welcome him back.
Night fell, necessitating a break in the fighting. The Achaeans needed all the rest they could get, and the Trojans also withdrew quickly. The situation was different now that Achilles had shown himself. They were tired and hungry, but they weren’t thinking about rest or food. They had to decide on their strategy for the next phase of the battle.
Polydamas was almost like a brother to Hector. They were born on the same night and had grown up together. He was not as skilled with the spear, but he was much more adept with words.
“My friends, we must make a decision. Either we stay here, or we return to the city. If dawn finds us here, then we know what will happen now that Achilles is back at the head of the Achaeans. We don’t have a chance. He will pursue us all the way to the city walls, where we will be forced to defend our women and children. However, if we return to our beloved Troy, we can be prepared if he chooses to attack. There, protected by our beautiful walls, we can teach him a lesson that even his horses will remember.”
Hector couldn’t believe his ears.
“Polydamas, my friend, I don’t want to hear that kind of advice. Haven’t you had enough of being under siege? Our city used to be acclaimed for its golden treasures; now we have sold everything to greedy dealers because the war costs so much. At last we have the chance to settle the score with the Achaeans once and for all. We will stay here, and at first light we will take up the battle close to their ships—not close to our city. Right now we will post sentries and eat our meal. Let me take care of Achilles. I will face him man to man, and we will see who wins. That is the rule of war, and it applies to everyone: Kill or be killed.”
The Trojans cheered Hector’s words, then sat down to eat. The matter was resolved, and it was time to rest.
The Achaeans, by contrast, spent the whole night keeping vigil over Patroclus. They spoke quietly of his virtues, his kind heart. They comforted one another, but Achilles remained inconsolable. He held his friend in his arms, howling like a lioness whose cub has been taken by heartless hunters. He was filled with regret as he recalled the promise he had made to Patroclus’s father: that his son would return garlanded with glory after laying waste to the city of Troy. The gods had a different idea.
Achilles whispered into the dead man’s deaf ear: “I know that my blood too will stain this earth red. My parents will not welcome me home either. But I will not lay you in the grave until I have taken the life of Hector, the man who took yours. And before your funeral pyre I will slit the throats of twelve young Trojans, innocent or otherwise, from the city’s finest families. Meanwhile you shall lie by our ships where you can hear the sea, and your woman can go there and grieve for you.”
Then Iphis came, self-possessed and dignified. Her hands trembled slightly as she washed away the congealed blood, but that was all. She anointed the body with oil and covered the wounds with sweet-smelling unguents. She also dripped a secret balsam into the nostrils to keep flies and other insects away. She dressed him in his white robe, then Achilles lifted his friend onto a bed and draped a linen cloth over him.
The men took up their hesitant conversation once more.
Iphis returned to her tent, walking along the shore in the darkness. It was a calm night. No wind, no crashing waves.
Suddenly she lost control. She sank to her knees weeping, pounding the still-warm sand with her small fists.
________________
We sat motionless like flies stuck in honey. We wanted Miss to go on, we wanted to sit there in front of our Miss who had something decisive about her, but she was adamant.
“You must be patient—just like Homer. He didn’t rush to the conclusion. We will follow his path.”
That’s what she said, and we just had to put up with it.
As usual Dimitra and I set off together. The square was crowded once again. The atmosphere was tense, and the German captain was sitting at a table with the mayor, who looked distressed. For the first time in ages the German soldiers were heavily armed.
Had something happened?
You could say that.
The German major had been killed in an ambush not far from the village near a very old bridge across the stream. It was the ideal spot. The bridge was so narrow that the major’s open-topped car would have had to slow right down. He and his driver were killed instantly. His guards reacted with lightning speed; they had experienced this kind of thing before. They shot dead two resistance fighters, but the third managed to escape.
An investigation was now under way all over the area. It was the mayor’s onerous duty to gather everyone in the square and explain what was going on. Anyone who had any information about the incident was to speak to the captain. If the pe
rpetrator was caught during the course of the day, that would be the end of the matter. Otherwise, every twenty-four hours, three individuals selected at random from every village in the province would be executed.
People looked at one another. Did any of them know anything?
Miss was also there. She was just about the only woman in the village who, by virtue of her profession, could spend time among the men who were drinking ouzo and playing cards. She was sensible enough not to overuse this privilege; she would sit with the mayor and his sons on Sunday mornings, sipping cherry juice.
Dimitra was standing next to me, breathing faster and faster. I looked at her. There was panic in her eyes, and her mouth was half open as if she were trying to swallow air. I waved to Miss, and we took Dimitra to see Miss’s landlady.
“I need to be alone with her,” the old woman said. She took Dimitra to an inner room and closed the door.
Miss and I were on our own. My heart was pounding, while Miss seemed completely calm. She looked out of the window.
“The almond trees are in blossom,” she said.
I had thought she was calm, but her eyes were sad and her lower lip was trembling as if she were about to cry. It hurt me to see her like that. There was nothing I could do. I was young, I was stupid, I was “taken by the winds,” which was what people in our village said about someone who had ridiculous dreams. I was all of that, and for a moment I considered putting my arm around her, but I realized it would be the wrong thing to do. She would be surprised. She wouldn’t regard me as a man, for the very simple reason that I wasn’t one.
The door opened and the old woman came out.
“We can fix this,” she said. “She’s not sick, she’s just frightened.”
Dimitra was given something to drink, and fifteen minutes later she was herself again.
Miss and I stayed with her and talked reassuringly to her. Why was she so scared? Miss stroked her cheek and I stroked her hair. Then Miss allowed her hand to pass softly over mine, and almost distractedly she said, “Look after her.”
It sounded so important, as if she were calling upon me to be a man. Dimitra had already lost a brother, the last time the Germans decided to execute people at random. Now there was a risk that she might lose her father. I tried to cheer her up by saying that the Germans were bound to find the guilty party.
“The guilty party?” she said. “Is there anyone who’s not guilty?”
That night it was only babies who got any sleep in our village. You could see the lights on behind closed blinds. There was anguish in the air. I had no brothers to lose, I was my parents’ only child. My father was already in a German jail, but I knew that the Germans were in the habit of executing prisoners whenever they encountered a setback. Was my father alive, or had he already been killed?
I thought about him, about my mother, about Dimitra. Most of all I thought about Miss. Her hand on mine. “Look after her,” she had said about Dimitra. Slowly I understood that with these words she had been taking her leave of both of us. “It’s you two who belong together”—that was what she had meant, without actually spelling it out. I wasn’t an idiot. I knew that Miss would never be mine. And now it had been said.
It made me feel better.
MISS WASN’T STANDING at the door the next morning; she was sitting inside the classroom. She didn’t normally do that, not unless she was telling her story or teaching us something else. She had opened the window, and the room was filled with the scent of almond blossoms.
Had something happened? Had the Germans tracked down the third partisan?
“We will not sit here in silence waiting for the barbarians. We will continue as usual,” Miss said, and began.
________________
Dawn brought the light of day on her shoulders for both the gods and mortal men. Achilles had kept vigil over his dead friend and burned with the desire for revenge, but his armor was gone.
In the Achaean camp the rumor spread that he was ready to rejoin the fray, which lifted the men’s spirits. Even Agamemnon hastened to send him all the gifts he had promised to deliver: gold, women, and, above all, Briseis.
She didn’t go up to Achilles, she didn’t throw herself into his arms. Instead she dropped to her knees beside Patroclus’s body, tears pouring down her cheeks.
“My dearest friend! You were alive when I was forced to leave this tent, and now you lie dead. Misfortune follows me wherever I go. Achilles sacked my city, killed my family and the man who was to be my husband, but you comforted me. ‘Do not weep, Briseis,’ you said. You promised that Achilles would make me his wife, that he would take me home to his city and marry me in front of all his warriors.”
The other women wept too, more because of the fate that had befallen them than for Patroclus, but who can distinguish one sorrow from another? Who can distinguish tears from tears?
Achilles was done with weeping. He wanted to get out onto the battlefield right away, but the man who had killed his best friend was wearing his armor. How could he quickly find armor that was just as good?
It was Iphis who provided the solution. She hadn’t slept since returning to her tent, but had spent all night working on Patroclus’s armor. It might not have been as outstanding as the equipment Achilles had lost, but the shield was good, with images of a wedding between a goddess and a mortal man. The spear was long, with double barbs at the point. The breastplate was substantial, the sword sharp and heavy. She polished each item with sand and water until the luster of the metal came through, as when the sun breaks through the clouds.
When her task was done she went and lay down on Patroclus’s bed and curled up, just as she used to do when he was there. She could not rest. She had a plan. She heard Agamemnon’s messenger arrive, she left the tent and heard what Briseis had to say. It was time.
She went up to Achilles and spoke to him.
“There is no point in grieving. It is better to spare your friend’s soul the sound of your whining. Accept this armor, which only he has worn. He died in your armor. If the gods want you to die in his, then so be it. There can be no greater honor than to die for your friend.”
These words were too much even for a hardened warrior who burned cities and villages without a second thought, slaughtered young and old, abducted young girls and gifted them to his friends. He was rarely alone in these exploits; Patroclus was almost always at his side in this armor. Putting it on would have been an act of sacrilege under normal circumstances, but now things were different.
Now he was going to bring his friend back to life, in a way. He tried the spear; it rested in his hand as if it had been made for him. He put on the breastplate and greaves—also a perfect fit. He picked up the shield; it was lighter than his but beautifully decorated. Finally he put on the helmet. It chafed a little at the temples, but that was all. He took a few steps, made some violent attacking maneuvers. The armor didn’t impede his movement at all; quite the reverse. It felt as if it were part of him, like a sea eagle’s wings.
“The two of you could have been twins,” Iphis said.
“We were more than twins. We were one man. I trusted him more than I trust myself. If I died first he was going to take care of my son, my only son. All I want to do now is get started.”
The rest of the Achaeans had also regained their lust for battle, and emerged from their tents and ships with shining eyes.
Achilles told his charioteer to harness the horses, then went and spoke to them.
“Do not let me down, Xanthos and Balios,” he said. The horses looked at him with their big eyes, then lowered their heads.
Achilles climbed into his chariot and took his place at the head of the Achaean army.
The Trojans were also ready. Hector went from tent to tent, speaking to leaders and foot soldiers. The plan was to take the Achaeans by surprise early in the morning, which
was why the Trojans were sleeping close to the ships rather than returning to the city, even though that was what they all wanted. To see their wives and children, their elderly parents. To say goodbye. No one could be sure they would survive the impending attack, not even Hector, who longed to hold Andromache in his arms and hear the laughter of his little boy. But they all stayed where they were.
The people in the city kept them company, albeit from a distance. They had placed large burning torches all around the top of the well-built walls. Old King Priam was seated just inside the Gate of the Shadows along with the other elderly citizens and the women and children.
Only Helen stayed away. She sat alone in her room, cursing herself for the misfortune she had brought upon these people and her own family. She didn’t dare show herself in front of the women who were now widows, the children who had lost their fathers. Paris was the man who gave her pleasure, but he was not the one who made her proud. How could she love someone she despised? What was she doing here? She was a queen who had become a mistress.
These were the thoughts that kept her awake the night before the great battle. Toward morning she took a long bath, then dressed herself in a white ankle-length gown and gathered up her hair in a topknot, leaving her lily-white neck completely exposed. It was the first time she had done this, and there was an idea behind it, an idea she didn’t really want to think through. But she had no choice. This was “the executioner’s hairstyle”; the neck must be left clear when the head was chopped off. If the Achaeans won the war, that would be Helen’s fate, and she knew it. In which case it was best to find out what she looked like with her hair up.
One last glance in the mirror, then she went to join the people in the square. Weren’t they afraid? If the gods granted victory to the Achaeans, the men would be slain or sold into slavery, while the women would be raped in front of their children before being sold to traders from the islands, who would do whatever they wanted with them. All these people knew this, and yet she saw no fear in their eyes. Their hero was still alive, their Hector. The “shepherd of the people” was still alive.
The Siege of Troy Page 10