by John Dolan
But they won’t let him go before he says what everyone knows. If he talks, Agamemnon will kill him; if he doesn’t, the other men will.
So Kalkys turns to the one man everyone fears, Akilles. He turns to Akilles and stutters: “Listen, before I say a word, I want you to swear, Akilles, right here in front of everybody—I want you to swear you’ll protect me.”
Akilles is half-god. Thetis, a sea goddess, is his mother. A real goddess: lives in the depths, never dies, parties with the Sky Gods on their mountaintop.
You can tell when someone has a god in the family tree. They’re bigger, better-looking, cleaner somehow. And Akilles got all the genetic luck his goddess mom could provide. He’s twice as big as anyone else, standing like a redwood in a row of brush. He kills where he pleases, with anything that comes to hand. Sword, spear, his bare hands.
Yet, he’s never happy. His name means grief. Because the one thing he didn’t get from his mother, kind of a major omission, was immortality. Everybody knows Akilles is doomed to die young. He knows it himself, mostly because EVERYBODY KEEPS REMINDING HIM OF IT. So there’s something impatient, offended, and gloomy about Akilles. Killing is all he’s good at, and what good does it do him? He could kill the whole army if he felt like it, but it wouldn’t add a day to his life.
It’s a sad story, and it follows Akilles around. As soon as he’s safely out of sight, somebody’s sure to whisper, “See his heel? That’s where he’s going to get it. His mother dipped him in the Styx when he was a baby but she held him by the heel and it never went under the water. Nothing can touch him … except at the heel. That’s where he’s gonna get it.”
They don’t say it to Akilles’ face, obviously. They just grovel and hunch when he passes by, then stare after him, quietly enjoying the sight of his heel, taking a coward’s revenge for their fear of him.
It would sour anyone’s temper. Akilles is not a bad man, under the circumstances. He doesn’t kill people just for fun, as a rule. Lets most of the Trojans he takes on raids pay a ransom and go home, or at worst sells them into slavery. He’s moody, touchy, very young … but not mean at heart like Agamemnon.
So now Akilles stares at poor old Kalkys, sees the little dweeb’s fear, and takes pity on him. Besides, Akilles hates Agamemnon—it’s mutual—and he knows the shaman is about to blame Agamemnon. He doesn’t want to miss that. So it pleases Akilles to offer Kalkys his protection. Noblesse oblige.
Akilles holds up a shovel-sized hand and says grimly: “I swear to you, Kalkys, in front of everyone, that I’ll protect you, no matter who you tell us is causing this plague—even if it turns out to be Agamemnon himself, here.”
Which it will, of course. Which everybody already knows. But they have to hear it officially.
Kalkys, reassured, takes a nervous gulp and blurts: “The real reason that Apollo’s shooting us down is that Agamemnon insulted his priest! The old man came to ask for his daughter Chryseis back. He asked nice and politely, in the name of the god, which he’s entitled to do as a priest! Brought the proper ransom, and a wreath!”
All the men grunt and nod. They knew it!
Kalkys feels their approval and goes on, more loudly and accusingly: “But Agamemnon purposely insulted him! Threatened him! Laughed at the poor old man! Wouldn’t give his daughter back even though he asked politely!”
Everyone nods and tells each other, “I told you that was it! That damn Agamemnon! Gonna get us all killed!”
Kalkys concludes, “So we have to give her back! To her father, the priest! Or Apollo will kill all of us! And not ask any ransom for her or anything!”
More nodding and grunting from the crowd. They knew it’d come to this.
Kalkys pushes his luck now, brave like nerds are when the crowd’s egging them on: “And we have to send a sacrifice with her! Treasure, and gold, and calves and sheep, ones with no spots or scars! Perfect specimens, the kind Apollo likes!”
More grunts and nods. Kalkys is drunk on public approval now, delighted with his own courage—and then he turns and sees Agamemnon and sits down very suddenly.
Agamemnon stands up, with the hate pouring from him like heat from a rock on a hearth. The crowd goes quiet. It’s odd, how they fear Agamemnon. He isn’t all that tough in battle. And he’s nowhere near as big as Akilles, or as strong as Ajax, or clever like Odysseus. Doesn’t even fight in the front rank most of the time. But he is hands down the meanest man in the army, maybe the world. He never forgives, never forgets the tiniest slight to himself or his precious relatives.
Him and his relatives! That’s what this whole army is doing here, avenging Agamemnon’s useless brother Menelaos, who married a woman way too beautiful for him—half goddess, in fact—and got dumped for a younger, hotter man. Who happened to be a Trojan prince.
That’s why they’ve all been camping out here for nine slow, deadly years: Defending the nonexistent honor of Agamemnon’s blank of a brother, the fool Menelaos, Menelaos the cuckold.
And now Kalkys has blurted out the one thing they’re all thinking: It’s Agamemnon’s fault we’re here! It’s his fault we’re dying under the magic virus arrows! And we didn’t even get any booty out of it!
Agamemnon stands, sneering, letting the crowd vent a while, then drags out the silence so they can feel his hate. That’s where Agamemnon really shines—the best hater in a world where hate is much respected.
When he’s made them all flinch away from his stare, he turns to poor old Kalkys: “You, Mister Science! You just love giving bad news, don’t you? You little coward, egghead. Did those entrails you claim to interpret ever once, even once, tell you anything good about me? Did those dead goat guts of yours ever tell, even one time, that I, your king, had made a good decision? No! No, because you only want to tell me what I’ve done wrong! Because you’re a cowardly little whiner!!”
Kalkys groans and hides in the crowd.
Then Agamemnon turns on the rest of them. He may be a bad king and a bad man, but he’s not afraid of anybody, especially the mob of killers squatting around him. He gives the circle of dirty, smoky faces a long hard look and says slow and quiet: “All right, then. Have it your way. We’ll give the girl back. Take a ship, get a good crew, fill it full of goats and calves, and send it to the old man, along with his daughter, even though she’s my rightful property.”
They relax. Maybe Agamemnon will be reasonable for once.
Then he goes on: “But I’ll tell you one thing: I’m not letting you cheat me. That girl’s worth a lot! Beautiful! And smart too, good singer, embroiderer, as good quality as my own wife!”
He stops for a second, wishing he could kill every man in the circle with a word. But he can’t. He has to bargain with these treacherous bastards, his troops. So he waits a second for the grumbles to bubble down, then goes on:
“So if you’re going to take her away, then you’re going to give me another one just as good.”
The men are muttering, “Where’re we going to get a girl like that? No plunder till we take Troy!”
Akilles, looking for a way to provoke Agamemnon, says in a syrupy, fake-reasonable tone,
“O noble, kingly Agamemnon … noble and, let’s face it, kind of greedy … noble and greedy Agamemnon, please, can’t you think of the cause for a moment? We’re all in this together, O noble king! One for all? All for one? Don’t worry, we’ll give you all the Trojan girls you want, once we’ve taken the city! Be patient, dear greedy old pal, Agamemnon!”
It’s not difficult to drive Agamemnon into a rage, and Akilles is better at it than anyone. He’s playing Agamemnon like a rage-harp.
For a moment, Akilles is treated to the sight of Agamemnon’s ruddy, flat face turning purple with rage. But Agamemnon suddenly smiles; he’s thought of the perfect solution.
Agamemnon answers quietly, calmly, “All right, then …”
Uh-oh! It’s very bad news when Agamemnon talks calmly. He’s thought of something mean to do. A mean king is worse than all the demons
ever invented.
“All right, Akilles. I’ll send back my slave girl. But you’re not as smart as you think, big man. Because I’ve thought of proper compensation. And it doesn’t have to wait for us to take Troy. No, I want my replacement girl right now … from you, my boy. Yes, that’s right! In return for giving Chryseis back, I’m taking your favorite girl, Bryseis.”
Akilles is stunned. He’s just a boy, really, didn’t think of this. And he actually likes his captive girl. Everyone knows he’s soft that way, sentimental about people.
Agamemnon goes on: “Yes, that’s right, O mighty warrior, you’re going to find out that I’m in charge here. I’m going to send my people to your tent and grab your prize girl by the arm and drag her to my bed, and there’s not a thing you can do but watch me.”
Agamemnon finishes, mockingly, “Come on now, Akilles, think of the common good! Isn’t that what you told me, ‘Think of the cause’?”
Akilles roars, “You dirty little thief!”
Akilles’ voice, at full power, shakes the dust. The men cower, some holding their ears, as he goes on in a voice bigger than any mere human’s: “What am I doing here, fighting for your useless brother Menelaos?”
Akilles’ first rage subsides, but he goes on, still furious: “Why should I die for your Atreus clan, when everyone knows the whole bunch is accursed? And why am I killing Trojans? They never hurt me or mine, but I’ve been slaughtering them just so your cuckold brother can get his wife back!”
Agamemnon just sneers. The insults are nothing new. He knows what they think of him. What matters is that he has the power to take the girl—and most of all, he can see how much it’s hurting Akilles.
Akilles chokes back a sob, clenches his huge fists, and groans, “Well then, I quit. You won’t see me fighting for your worthless kin again! I’ll stay in my quarters. You can go and fight the Trojans without me!”
The thought of losing Akilles horrifies the fighters. Just having him on your side makes the enemy start thinking about throwing down their shields and hiding in a gully.
But Agamemnon doesn’t care about the war at the moment. He’s possessed by hatred, and all that matters to him is seeing Akilles suffer.
So Agamemnon shrugs, “Go ahead, quit! Take your spear and go sulk. We have plenty of warriors. You need to realize something, Akilles my boy: the gods made you a perfect warrior, but those were just gifts handed out at birth. You didn’t earn them. You need to learn a little humility. So I’m taking your girl. I’m in command here, and you’re nothing.”
This is too much. Akilles has killed so many men who were stronger, braver, quicker than Agamemnon. To kill him now would be as easy as swiping off a thistle’s head with a stick.
They all know what’s going to happen. No one can stop it. Akilles stands up and grabs the hilt of his sword. Every man in that room considers Agamemnon already dead.
And then everything stops. Akilles is alone, in a different light, hard, metallic. There’s a figure standing in front of him, twice human size. A woman? Seemingly. She carries a spear. Somehow she has made everything stop, so that only she and Akilles are still alive and awake.
Akilles knows a goddess when he sees one. And this is one of the great goddesses, not a minor deity like his mother. This is Athena, Zeus’ daughter, so strong she chewed her way out of Zeus’ skull to be born. Smarter than any shaman, stronger than any warrior, and more powerful than any god except her father—and even Father Zeus prefers not to upset her.
She pushes Akilles’ sword back in its scabbard and says, “Not now.”
It’s a voice like a chorus of a thousand voices, most of them women. You obey this voice; it’s not even possible to imagine disobeying it.
Akilles drops his head, still fuming, “Did you hear what he said, Goddess?”
She repeats, “Not now, Akilles. Be patient. My mother and I love you, and we swear you’ll be rewarded later, but you can’t kill Agamemnon. We need him to lead the army.”
Akilles feels like crying. He’s very young, and he isn’t going to live very long. All he has is this ability to kill anyone who crosses him, and now they’re taking that away?
The goddess consoles him in that vast thousand-voice chorus: “You can curse him, little cousin, to your heart’s content, but you must not kill him; he holds the Greeks together.”
Akilles can’t look at her anymore; it’s like looking at the sun. Compared to this goddess, his goddess-mother is like a campfire at noon, a tiny flame lost in a vast light.
He sighs, chokes back a sob: “I have to obey you, Goddess, you and your mother, but …”—he brightens up a little—“you said I can curse him all I want?”
Athena nods, a huge nod like the world tilting, and somehow the nod absorbs her. She vanishes up into the dark and glaring world of the gods, all black and gold.
Akilles is back in the crowded room, staring at Agamemnon, who still has that unbearable smirk. Akilles starts his curse with Agamemnon’s face: “Hey, Atreus-son, did you know you have a face like a hound?” Akilles pulls his jowls down to look like a saggy old dog, and the chuckles increase. “And the heart of a frightened deer to go with it?” He mimes a deer’s bounding gait with his fingers, and the chuckles become open laughter.
The barons have been waiting a long time for someone to say all this to Agamemnon. Akilles plays to the crowd, asking: “When did this worthless excuse for a king ever fight in the front rank in open battle? Hands up if you’ve ever seen him go out at night on a raid. I knew it! Never! You all know as well as I do he’s a coward! He stays in his tent drinking wine, and then he pisses it out as vinegar through his filthy mouth!”
The giggles die away. This is too far. One or the other has to die now.
The barons are watching, wondering which side to take. That’s the key to being what these people called a “king,” a local chieftain with a long genealogy and a few dozen spears following you: knowing when to jump ship, change sides. Someone’s going to die now, and they’re trying to figure out which one it’s going to be.
Then Nestor, the oldest baron in the whole assembly, stands up. Everyone knows what he’s going to say. He’s the voice of dull old reason. He’s the human fire extinguisher. Boring, and that’s his secret weapon. In a world where everyone is big, crazy, and armed, it helps to have a boring, feeble, longwinded old man around to keep the tribe from slaughtering itself.
Nestor starts with the “aid and comfort to the enemy” argument: “O, Akilles, and you, King Agamemnon, how happy the Trojans would be to see you quarreling!” Then he preaches peace, which is his job—to ramble till everyone’s bored enough to calm down: “I knew your fathers, both of you, and I tell you, young Akilles, you shouldn’t put yourself up against our proper king, Agamemnon! Have some respect, now!” Akilles whines, “Did you hear what he said to me, Father Nestor?”
Nestor nods, turns to Agamemnon, “Yes, yes, you have a point, my boy! Agamemnon, you are older than Akilles here and you should be restrained, not offend him needlessly, because he’s our best warrior.”
They both start yelling, the same old he said/he said—but at least no swords will be drawn.
Akilles gets sick of this pointless yelling and stands up to leave. On his way out, he curses Agamemnon and the army one last time: “You can have the girl, but I swear you won’t see me in battle again. I’ll watch you all die, sipping wine in my tent, and believe me, the day’ll come when you beg me to come back!”
Akilles stomps out—everyone giving him a nice, wide berth—and goes back to his own compound, just in time to see a couple of Agamemnon’s terrified slave men pulling the girl Briseis away. She’s crying and she looks toward him for help. He can’t do a thing.
But there is one card Akilles can play. It’s handy sometimes to have a goddess for a mother, even a little goddess like Thetis. He goes to the beach to call her. She spends most of her time out there in the Mediterranean, about fifty fathoms down, but she can be on the spot very quickly whe
n her only son needs her. They have a connection; when he cries she can hear it, no matter how deep in the sea she is. And Akilles cries a lot. The greatest who ever lived, and doomed, doomed, doomed.
He weeps for a second by the sea, head in his hands, hearing only the little waves … and then the wave sound stops, all sounds stop. She’s here. Thetis is only a little god, so she can’t bend space-time like Athena does, but she makes a warm bubble of foam with only herself and her dead, doomed son inside. He’s crying like a big baby, as she’s seen him do so many times before.
He whimpers, as he has so many times, “Why’d you have me, mother?”
There’s no answer. That’s just how it is. They both know that.
She lets him weep and complain a while longer.
He mutters, “I’m going to die, everybody’s always telling me I’m going to die soon, and that’s supposed to be all right because I’m the greatest man alive, while I live. But what’s the point, when Agamemnon—who I could tear apart with one hand—gets to take my favorite slave girl away?”
She strokes him with a hand like the waves.
He repeats, holding out one huge hand, “Seriously, I could kill him with my off hand, my left. Easily.”
She strokes his head as he calms down. Finally he tells her what hurts: “They came to my tent and just dragged her out! Two of them, you could see they were scared to death, but I didn’t hurt them, mother—you know I’m not a bully, I don’t kill slaves—I didn’t hurt them, I let them take her … she was crying, she didn’t want to go … she really liked me … they took her anyway …”
They’re both weeping now, in their bubble. It is a deep grief and shame to the whole lineage, this episode. He can hear something else in the sound-bubble around her now, a furious hissing. She is angry on his behalf.
Thetis does not speak. She doesn’t need to. He knows she’ll go to Zeus, the Godfather, and get a promise from him. Revenge. That’s the only reward this world can offer: seeing some of your enemies die horribly. She’ll see to it. They have a connection; he understands, and stops crying. He wouldn’t like to be seen like this.