He bowed down laboriously before Achilles, embraced his knees and kissed his hands. A deathly silence fell. All those around the table were astonished at this intrusion—none more so than Achilles.
“Think about your father, Achilles, when you look at me. He is as old as I am, and just as weak. Perhaps he is also under threat from enemy tribes, and will face them alone and without help if a war should break out. His only joy comes from hearing that you are alive, and every day he hopes that you will return home.
“My sadness is boundless. I had fifty sons when the Achaeans arrived, nineteen of them with my two wives and the others with women in my city. Most have died in the war, and I have held their lifeless bodies in my arms. Hector was my only support, and he is dead. It is for his sake that I am here—to take his body home. I will give you what you want; out there is a cart piled high with costly gifts. Show mercy, Achilles! I have just done what no mortal man has done before: I kissed your hands, the same hands that slew my son.”
Priam’s words struck Achilles to the heart. He loved his father, and although the old man kneeling before him was a king and an enemy, above all he was a grieving father. He softened. He helped the weeping Priam to his feet and embraced him, and the two men stood there for a long time, overwhelmed by the memory of what they had lost—one his beloved son, the other his beloved friend. Grief has no homeland and no borders. Everyone in that tent had lost someone.
That was the harvest of war.
The silence seemed to last for an eternity, until Achilles spoke to Priam.
“You poor man, how can your heart bear everything you have had to endure?”
He admired the old king’s courage in entering the wolf’s lair with nothing to protect him apart from his white hair. Moreover, Priam’s manner and posture reminded Achilles of his own father; both men had a dignity that could not be broken down by misfortune and suffering.
He would give Priam his son, but first he would obey the ancient laws of hospitality. The table was laid afresh, and Priam’s servant was also invited in.
Priam did not want to eat and drink with his son’s executioner, but he liked Achilles, whose manner and posture reminded him of Hector. They both had a power that quite simply always leads to an early death.
Meanwhile Briseis and some of the serving girls took care of Hector. They washed him, anointed him with oil, dressed him in a well-stitched cloak, and laid him on a bier. When Achilles came out to make sure that everything was as it should be, Iphis—Patroclus’s woman—appeared.
“How can you so easily forget the promise you made to your friend? You said you would not return Hector to the Trojans! Were Priam’s gifts so seductive?”
She was beside herself, partly because of what she regarded as Achilles’s betrayal of Patroclus but also because she was afraid of him. How dare she speak to him in that way? Everyone knew how close love and anger were within him, how the hand that caressed could also strike, swiftly and to lethal effect.
Achilles did not strike her, but remained silent for a long time before he answered.
“You are right. I have gone back on my word. Not because of the gifts—you will receive half of them—but because the gods require us to show respect for the dead, even if they happen to be our enemies. That’s what Patroclus would have wanted too. Now go and help Briseis and the others.”
With those words he went back into the tent. Priam had eaten and drunk, and was weary.
“Tomorrow morning you can take your son home,” Achilles said.
“I would like to leave right away, but I don’t have the strength. Ever since Hector met his fate I haven’t slept a wink. I have wallowed in my grief like a pig in his sty. Now you have given me food to eat and wine to drink. Give me a bed to lie in—that’s all I need,” Priam said.
Torches in hand, Achilles’s servants went off in search of warm furs and red blankets, along with fine woolen cloaks. They made up two beds in the portico; the other Achaeans might easily get the wrong idea if it became known that Achilles was accommodating Priam inside his tent.
When everything was ready, Achilles had a question.
“Tell me, King Priam, how many days do you need for the funeral rites? I will keep a truce here, and restrain the army.”
Priam was so moved that he had to swallow hard several times before he could respond.
“You know we are under siege. We have to fetch wood from the mountains, and we need safe passage to do so. We will mourn Hector for nine days. On the tenth day we will bury him and hold the funeral feast. On the eleventh we will raise his barrow. On the twelfth—if necessary—we can resume the battle.”
Achilles clasped the old man’s wrist and assured him that everything would be as he wished.
Priam soon fell asleep, as did Achilles in his comfortable bed, with Briseis by his side. But Briseis remained awake.
She waited until the night had deepened and the whole camp was silent. Then she crept out and woke Priam.
“The danger is not over yet. If Agamemnon finds out that you’re here, no gifts in the world will be enough to get you away alive,” she said.
Priam had been thinking along the same lines. He roused his servant, who harnessed the mules to the cart laden with Hector’s bier, and the horses to Priam’s chariot. Briseis swiftly led them out of the camp, then equally swiftly returned to Achilles’s bed.
One thing she knew for sure.
Heroes always sleep deeply.
________________
Miss sat down, trying to conceal a yawn.
“That’s enough for today. I too would like to enjoy a really deep sleep at some point,” she said.
She was wearing an olive-green blouse and a long black skirt. She had stopped dressing entirely in black. I don’t know how many people had noticed, but I had. Wasn’t she grieving? Or had she found something that made her happy? A bead of sweat trickled slowly down her white throat.
I was seized by panic. I could hardly breathe.
What would it be like to live without seeing her?
Dimitra jabbed her elbow into my ribs.
“Thanks,” I said.
“You’re staring at her like a dog stares at a meaty bone,” she said.
We headed home in silence.
We sat for a while in the cool shade of the mulberry tree. Dimitra took my hand.
“Don’t be sad. You’re not the only one who suffers from unrequited love. I’m in the same position, and I haven’t died of it yet.”
“What are you talking about? Can a person die of unrequited love?”
“It’s the most common cause of death,” she informed me.
She was making fun of me. She was making fun of herself. We were young and powerless, but Dimitra had discovered irony.
The fact that life smiles at us with tears in its eyes.
I glanced around. It was siesta time. People were sleeping. There was no sign of anyone, which didn’t necessarily mean that no one could see us. But I didn’t care.
I leaned forward and pressed my lips to hers, like a stamp. I didn’t want to die without ever having kissed a girl. At the same time I was afraid she would get mad. She didn’t. Instead she pressed her lips to mine, equally briefly, and said, “Everybody will be talking about us tonight.”
NOBODY WAS TALKING about us the next morning, because everybody was talking about the Germans, who had apparently been ordered to relocate. They were running back and forth packing guns, ammunition, and various necessities into their vehicles. The captain and the mayor were seen shaking hands—God knows why. Some of the local warlords who had positioned themselves on the side of the Germans were also getting ready to follow them.
The resistance movement had grown strong. It was rumored that a division of ELAS—the acronym for the Greek People’s Liberation Army—was on its
way to our area.
“Many mothers will weep,” said my grandfather.
We didn’t dare show any sign of rejoicing. We went to school as usual. Miss looked both happy and strained, but she continued with her story.
________________
The rosy dawn swept across the plain like the faint blush on a young girl’s cheeks. Priam and his servant were approaching Troy; they could already see the Gate of the Shadows. They stopped for a while with their heads bowed by the tall fig tree where Hector had fallen.
A number of men and slender-waisted women were already waiting by the wall. They saw the two men approaching but didn’t recognize them. Only Priam’s daughter Cassandra, who had been given the blessing and the curse of seeing what no one else could see—only Cassandra immediately realized who they were and what burden they were carrying home.
An agonizing pain sliced through her body as if she had been struck by lightning, making her cry out so loudly that her voice was heard right across the city.
“Men and women of Troy, come and greet Hector as you greeted him in the past, when he returned from his battles as the victor, bringing joy to your hearts.”
The Trojans left whatever they were doing and ran to the gate. One or two of the women were carrying their babies. They wept, they cursed fate, they tore at their hair and tried to get close to the dead man to clasp his head in their hands. Andromache, Hector’s wife, led the way along with Hecuba, his mother, and everyone made room for them with tears in their eyes.
They could have stood there at the gate all day, but Priam wanted to take his son home. The wheels of the cart began to turn, and the people stepped aside. Priam needed to be alone with Hector, if only for a little while.
The old king was exhausted. His servant helped him to lay the bier on a bed, then withdrew. Priam was afraid to lift the sheet covering his son. What did he look like beneath the shroud? Would his face and body be familiar, or did he resemble a lump of meat?
With his heart in his mouth he moved the sheet aside and stared in astonishment. There lay his son, his firstborn, beautiful and magnificent, not a scratch to be seen. No vultures, no dogs had touched him. Even the fatal wound in his neck had healed.
“You are as beautiful in death as you were in life. You will be an adornment in the world of the shadows, whither we are all bound,” Priam said. He kissed his son on the lips, then called the people in.
Andromache with the coal-black hair and the lily-white arms placed her hand on the body and raised her voice.
“My husband, you have died too young and left me alone with our son. He is only a little boy, who may not grow up to be my solace. Our city will be laid waste now you are no longer here to defend it and us, its people. Men, women, and children will be hustled onto the Achaeans’ hollow ships, I among them. Our son will be enslaved, unless some hotheaded Achaean hurls him from the tower in revenge because you, his father, killed so many of them. You showed no mercy in this dreadful war. Now the people mourn your death, and your parents are crushed with grief. But the bitterest sorrow is mine. I have been left alone, I was not there when you died—I did not see you reach out to me from your deathbed, you never said those last words that would carry me through the days and nights for the rest of my life.”
Thus she spoke, then made way for Hecuba. It was her turn to bid farewell to Hector. The women all around lamented quietly.
Hecuba was old, but the years had not bowed her back. Instead they carried her, giving her strength and stature.
“My son, you have always occupied the dearest place in my heart, and the gods too have cared for you, not only when you were alive but also in death. Achilles has robbed me of several of my other children and sold them into slavery on the islands of Samos, Imbros, and inaccessible Lemnos. He slew you, as you had slain his friend. He dragged your body along the ground around the funeral mound, but Patroclus did not rise from the dead. You, however, lie here with your cheeks as rosy as if you had died in your sleep.”
She was unable to continue, but was overcome by helpless sobbing. The women gently led her away and sat down with her to share her pain.
Helen hesitated. Did she have the right to speak, she who was the cause of all this misery? Andromache understood, and whispered to her, “You have as much right to take your leave of him as everyone else.”
Helen stepped forward. She and the dead man were the most attractive individuals in the room.
“Hector, you were the closest to me of all the Trojans, even if it was Paris who brought me here and made me his wife. Would that I had died before this happened! More than ten years have passed since I abandoned my country, and you have never uttered a harsh word to me. You even stopped the others if they started to criticize me. You always had a kind phrase on your lips and a gentle smile in your eyes when we met. Now I weep over you and my wretched fate in despair. No one in this city with its wide streets will forgive me. Only you. No one else.”
Thus spoke Helen, and the women in the room lowered their heads and wept with her.
Then it was time for the men to head off into the mountains to gather wood for the pyre. They were worried that the Achaeans might be lying in wait, but Priam assured them that Achilles would not let anything happen to them.
For nine days the Trojans transported newly felled oaks, cedars, and birch trees. On the tenth day, just before dawn, they carried the dead man out and laid him on the pyre.
The old king, whose hands trembled like the flames of the torches, lit the fire with tears in his eyes.
Later that day the people of Troy gathered and doused the embers with wine. Hector’s brothers and friends collected his ashes and placed them in a golden urn, which they covered with soft, glowing red cloths. They lowered the urn into the grave and piled large stones on top of it to create a barrow worthy of the dead man, which would be guarded by selected warriors.
Only then did they return to Priam’s palace for a feast that no one would ever forget.
Such were the funeral rites of Hector, tamer of horses.
________________
Miss sat down and wiped her eyes.
“That’s it. That’s the end of the story,” she said.
“Oh no!” the whole class shouted out as one.
She shrugged, as if to say that she couldn’t help it.
“What happened next? You can’t stop there!” Dimitra said.
“It’s not my decision, it’s Homer’s, and that’s where he stopped.”
“But why?”
“No one knows. Maybe he was in a hurry to start on his next story.”
“We want to hear that one too, Miss Marina,” I blurted out.
How I had longed to say her name! I felt as if I had plucked my heart from my breast and exposed it for everyone to see.
Fortunately my classmates didn’t care about my heart. They were more interested in Homer’s tale.
“We want more, we want more!” they chanted.
Miss let us carry on making a fuss for a little while, then she said, with a smile that laid the sky at our feet—well, at mine at least, “That’s the first time anyone in the class has said my name. I know you call me the Witch.”
We were a little embarrassed. It was true. We did call her the Witch, because the village’s bad-tempered, cowering dogs would stop barking as soon as she appeared.
She turned to me.
“Would you please say it again, so I can enjoy it?”
I didn’t take much persuading, and nor did the rest of the class. We shouted “Marina, Marina” as if she were a football team. But she refused to give in as far as the story was concerned. I had the feeling that she was in a hurry to be somewhere else.
“Tomorrow is another day,” she said as she waved us off.
Dimitra walked along beside me, but without hopping on one leg fro
m time to time as she usually did.
“Are you upset?” I asked.
“No.”
“So what’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
I thought for a moment.
“Is it because of what happened yesterday?” I ventured.
“Maybe.” After a little while she added: “You’ll never love me.”
I didn’t protest. I couldn’t. It was true. She was the loveliest girl in the world, but I couldn’t love her. Because I loved someone else, who didn’t love me.
“It was worse for the Trojans,” I said, and we both burst out laughing.
“Yes, what would we do without Homer?” Dimitra replied, and we parted as the best of friends.
THE NEXT DAY Miss Marina was like a different person. She was wearing an open-necked dress patterned with great big sunflowers. Her thick black hair was held in place by a golden ribbon, and her eyes shone.
It was one of those heartrendingly beautiful mornings, the kind that makes you want to embrace the whole of creation: the mountain above the village, the lush valley, the olive groves, the vines with their acidic scent.
We opened all the windows in the classroom and Miss took center stage once more. We got to hear the end of the story.
________________
Troy did not fall after Hector’s death. New heroes emerged, including Paris the womanizer, whose skill with the bow made him a nightmare for the Achaeans. Then reinforcements arrived from distant allies, including Ethiopia. The Amazons came all the way from Thrace, led by Penthesilea, their fierce young queen, and were even more of a nightmare. They were consummate warriors who appeared as suddenly as a storm and rode away with the wind after mowing down their heavy-footed opponents.
Penthesilea and Achilles eventually faced each other man to man, so to speak, and he killed her. However, he died at the hands of Paris, who shot an arrow into his heel—the only part of his body that was vulnerable.
The war did not end, and Briseis buried him, in spite of the fact that he had already left her before his death.
The Siege of Troy Page 14