by John Dolan
There’s nodding and muttering from the lower end of the table. Hektor was well-liked among the gods.
Zeus feels the support and uses it to lay down the law: “So we’re going to do this right. Iris—” He snaps his fingers.
And the messenger is there at his side, as if she’d always been there.
“Girl, you go down in the sea and tell Thetis we’re going to have Hermes steal Hektor’s body and give it to Priam.”
Hermes, the god of theft, retail, and people who can’t sit still, insinuates his long, slim, plausible self at Zeus’ side. Hermes is smiling, as he always is. He loves his job. He says, “I can steal you the body easily enough, sir, but I do fear Akilles would try to recover it. And he’s got those god-horses, so he’d catch up. There’d be a fight. Noise, trouble, no end of fuss.”
Zeus groans, “Yes, you’re right. We’d never hear the end of it! Akilles is nothing but trouble!”
Athena suggests, “If the Trojans want Hektor’s body, they should pay for it. A compromise: Priam can ransom the body, but he’ll pay a big price for it.”
Hera is angry: “Athena! How dare you weaken like this! We agreed to ruin the Trojans utterly; why let them have Hektor’s body?”
Athena gestures to her mother that this is a matter of policy, peace within the family.
Zeus nods to Athena, “Good girl! You’re smarter than your mother. So that’s settled. Now, Iris—”
And the messenger, who vanished when Hermes appeared, is standing again by Zeus’ side.
“Iris, go tell Thetis that Akilles must let Priam ransom Hektor’s corpse. He can set his own terms—”
Ares mutters from the other end of the table, “’Cuz he’ll be dead soon too! Die like flies, those humans!”
Zeus sighs—working with these people! It’s simpler just to do things himself. So he tells Iris, “Just tell Thetis to come here. I’ll explain it myself.”
Iris bows, glows brighter, and falls through the sky, hitting the ocean like a hissing comet. She sizzles like phosphorus through the cold sea, coming to a stop at old man Ocean’s house on the sea bed.
She finds Thetis already mourning for her son. To the gods, what will happen has already happened. She has already tasted her son’s death; her heart is already broken. She rocks back and forth, moaning, weeping.
But Iris has no pity. She orders, “Rise, Thetis, wife of Peleus, mother of Akilles. You are summoned to father Zeus immediately.”
Thetis moans, “I’m in mourning, woman, don’t you see? I don’t want to wrangle with the gods!” But Iris won’t listen to any excuses, so Thetis wraps herself in her darkest shawl and swims up, in Iris’ burning wake, to Olympos.
Hera and her daughter treat Thetis with great courtesy. After all, she’s the mother of their champion Akilles. Athena gives Thetis her seat, and Hera herself offers Thetis a goblet of nectar.
As soon as Thetis takes a polite sip, Zeus gets down to business: “Listen, my lady, I know you’re mourning your son in advance, but we’re very unhappy with what he’s doing to Hektor’s body. In fact, we agreed to let Hermes—”
he gestures to the dimly-seen god behind him, who bows pleasantly—
“steal the corpse from your son’s camp. But in the interests of peace—”
And here he gestures toward Hera and her daughter.
“I’ve decided to give Akilles a chance to do the right thing, instead of just taking the body from him. Go to him, tell him we’re angry at him, dragging Hektor behind his chariot like a dead dog!”
The lesser gods nod and mutter angrily.
“And tell him that I’m the angriest of all! And then give him an out: tell him he has one chance to redeem himself by selling the corpse to Priam. We’ll send Iris to Priam to arrange the ransom; your son will give back the body, take the ransom; everything’ll be settled nicely. Now, go talk some sense into your son.”
She bows, draws the black shawl over her, and runs down the sky to Akilles’ tent.
He’s mourning as hard as ever. There’s something improper about such mourning, so long—and for a mere vassal! She says, “Son, instead of grieving, you should think of drinking good wine and caressing women. You don’t have long, you know.”
He says, “I know, mother. How could I forget when everyone reminds me? You have some news?”
“The gods are angry with you for dragging Hektor’s body in the dirt. It’s not proper. They want you to give the corpse to Priam. He’ll give you a fine ransom for it.”
He shrugs, “Fine, the old man can have his dead son if he brings the ransom. It doesn’t help, dragging that corpse around. It won’t even rot and the dogs won’t touch it.”
Iris goes to Troy, burning through the air to land in Priam’s courtyard. He and his surviving sons are sitting in the afternoon heat, mourning for Hektor. Priam is covered with horse-dung. He’s been rolling in the stable-filth.
The daughters and wives are wailing through the halls, while the sons and sons-in-law sit on their haunches around Priam, weeping.
Iris stands before the old man and says, gently enough: “Don’t be afraid, Priam Dardanus-son! I come from Lord Zeus. He’s sorry for your trouble and wants to help. You must get a fine ransom together, put it on a wagon, and bring it to the Greek camp. No one must go with the wagon except you and a driver. Don’t be afraid of robbers, because Zeus is sending Hermes himself to protect you. Akilles has been warned to treat you properly.”
Priam bows to the luminous messenger; she vanishes.
He tells his sons, “You trash—good for nothing, all of you—d’you think you could manage to get a mule-wagon ready for me? I’m going to ransom the corpse of your brother, who was worth more than the lot of you put together. I wish you’d all died instead of him!”
Hekuba comes hobbling out shrieking, “What? Have you gone dotard at last, husband?”
Priam smiles bleakly, “So you’re not so deaf when you don’t want to be, eh?”
She hobbles toward him, ranting, “You’ll go to that monster Akilles on your own? At your age?”
He gestures to the sky, “Iris herself gave me a promise—”
She screams, “What promise? Akilles doesn’t respect the gods or anyone! I wish I had his liver between my teeth!”
She shuffles up to him. He holds her while she finishes her rant, “You can mourn Hektor right here, where I fed him with these breasts! Mourn him here, and live a little longer at least!”
He sighs, “Now, now, Iris gave me Zeus’ word I’d be safe! Besides, even if Akilles kills me, I’ll get to put my arms around the boy one last time. Now let me go, wife, don’t make a coward of me in my last days.”
He goes to the store room and has the slaves take twelve of the best from the cedar caskets. Twelve of everything: cloaks, carpets, shirts, capes. Then the coins: ten gold, ten silver. Then metalware: four cauldrons, two burners, and a cup the Thracians gave him in the good old days. There’s no cup like this in all the world. After all, the Greeks will get everything in Troy soon enough; he’s giving them what will soon be theirs anyway, and in return he can have his beloved son’s body, to hold and honor one more time.
A crowd has gathered. They’ve heard stories about the treasures in there, and they skulk around trying to get a peek as Priam leads his slaves out with the ransom. He flails at the gawkers with his stick, shouting, “Don’t you have any sons of your own to mourn? You’ll have grief enough, don’t worry! Without Hektor to protect us, we’ll all have grief enough!” The crowd scatters. He calls, “You, my worthless sons! Since you’re not brave enough to die like your brother Hektor, make yourselves useful and get the wagon ready! It’s good practice for you, cowards! You’ll all be Greek slaves soon enough!”
As he’s inspecting the wagon, Hekuba comes back with a goblet of wine, saying, “Here, husband, make a drink-offering to Zeus for your journey. And one last favor, I beg you—ask Zeus for a sign! A black eagle on your right as you travel. If he won’t give you that s
ign, come back.”
He nods, “I’ll do it. I can ask him for that, at least.”
The slaves pour clean water over his hands and he offers the wine, calling, “Zeus, father of gods, I’m going on this journey as a father; give me a sign, a black eagle on my right side as I go.”
Instantly the eagle comes, swooping low over the city on Priam’s right. His wings are as wide as the door of a rich man’s house. The whole city sees the eagle gliding slowly over the roofs.
Priam is ready, standing in his chariot. He signals to Idaeus, the old servant driving the treasure-wagon. They trot through the gates just as the sun is going down, followed by a huge crowd. But as soon as the wagon and chariot are out on the plain, the crowd scurries back in, afraid of Greek raiding parties.
Now Priam and his old steward are alone on the plain, two weak old men. Zeus looks down and says, “Hermes, you see old Priam down there?”
Hermes bows, “I keep a close eye on all travelers.”
Zeus smiles wryly, “I know all about the eye you keep! Well, this time you’re going to watch over these two old men, as faithful as a sheepdog.”
Hermes bows suavely, “It will be my pleasure! May I … discourage … any Greek interference?”
“Well, no rough stuff; Hera wouldn’t stand for it. Just hide the chariot and wagon. I want them unseen and unheard until they’re inside Akilles’ compound.”
Hermes laughs, “Two clumsy old men and a creaking wagon? Ah well, I enjoy a challenge.”
He takes up his stick, which gives sight and takes it away, as he pleases. Then he slides down to Earth, like a man floating down a fast stream. He comes to Earth on the riverbank in Priam’s path, taking the form of a young, handsome fellow with a beard just beginning to sprout, and waits.
Soon the wagon and chariot plod into sight. Hermes chuckles at the two old men, squinting with their weak eyes to try to see the road ahead. Poor mortals! What a nightmare it must be to grow old! They get so slow and weak when their little lives are almost done. These two are easy prey for any party of Greek irregulars, and there are plenty of two-legged jackal packs prowling these plains. Over nine years of war, many soldiers have deserted; robbing and killing travelers is easier, safer, more profitable than battle.
Priam and his servant are terrified of meeting some of these brigands. So when old Idaeus, squinting ahead, cries out, “Lord Priam, there’s a man standing by the bank! Should we try to flee?” Priam feels his old heart pound like it’s about to come up out of his throat.
He can’t even answer, let alone slap the reins to run.
Hermes can barely hide his laughter as he watches the old men shiver and shake. He runs to them, asking in a well-bred young man’s voice, “O uncle, why are you driving a wagon full of loot through this wilderness prowled by brigands?”
Priam stands there in the darkness, holding back the horses. They want to get to the water, and they’re pulling the feeble old man toward the stream in spite of himself. His mouth is wide open with fear. Idaeus hides behind him like a shy toddler.
Hermes stifles his laughter and goes on in a self-righteous tone, “Poor uncle, I see you are well stricken in years—yes, very well stricken indeed! Do you not fear marauding Greeks? They may take your goods and abuse your, er, daughter standing there behind you—though I perceive that she too is, ah, well stricken in years!”
Priam can only groan in terror. Hermes pats the old king on the back, then puts one hand on his sword and striking a grand, heroic pose: “Have no fear, aged sir! I shall be your savior, for you remind me of my own dear father!”
That line was for Zeus, Hermes’ father. The god of trickery knows very well that papa is listening, and Zeus won’t like being compared to this poor old mortal slithering along on his last legs.
Priam finally realizes this fine young fellow only wants to help. He hugs Hermes, crying, “My boy, you must be part-god, so noble is your bearing!”
Hermes nods solemnly, “My ancestry has been the subject of speculation many times, sir, on Olympos and elsewhere.”
Priam says, “Oh, I am sure your lineage is of the noblest!”
Hermes cocks his pretty head and murmurs, “We are indeed a well-established family, on both sides of the bed.”
Priam dries his old eyes and takes a breath, reassured. Hermes can’t resist one more surprise for the old man, so he says innocently, “It must be hard for you now that your bravest son Hektor is dead.”
Priam jumps as high as his old legs can manage. Idaeus, still hiding behind him, gasps aloud. Priam stammers, “Young man, who are you, that you know so much about my family? Who are your parents?”
Hermes blushes modestly, and answers, “Oh, uncle, I have watched noble Hektor cutting down Greeks many a time! For I am the squire of great Akilles, you see. He would not let us enter the fight, for he was wroth with King Agamemnon, as you may have heard.”
Priam stammers, “You … you’re Akilles’ squire?”
Hermes bows politely, “At your service, aged sir!”
Priam sobs, “Then … may I ask you, have the dogs eaten my son’s body?”
Hermes suddenly pities the old man. Dropping his theatrical manner, he says in his true voice, “King Priam, I promise you that the dogs have not touched your son, nor has his corpse rotted. Instead, his wounds have all closed. Your son is beloved by the gods.”
Priam grips the young man’s wrist, saying, “Oh, my boy, you see how wise it is to offer sacrifice! The gods have paid me back for all the meat I burned in their honor!”
Hermes nods, “Yes, sir. The gods are helping you even now.”
Priam calls to his old slave, “That cup! Bring it!”
The servant rummages and trots up with the fine Thracian goblet. Priam pushes it at Hermes, begging him, “Young man, please take this!”
Hermes says haughtily, “Sir! You are taking advantage of my youth and callowness to bribe me!”
Then he says cheerily, “Still, I’ll take it—just to make you feel better, of course. And in return, I’ll get you to Akilles’ compound as easily as if you were a puff of wind.”
He jumps into the chariot, lifting Priam in beside him with one hand. Idaeus clambers up onto the wagon and they trot toward the Greek camp.
There are sentries posted at the gate, but Hermes waves at them, whispering, “Sleep,” and they start snoring with their eyes open. There’s a heavy wooden bar across the gates, but Hermes waves his hand again and the huge log draws back on its own. The chariot and wagon pass through, unseen and unheard.
They move undetected through the maze of tents and huts, coming at last to the log hall Akilles’ men built for him, roofed with tussock-grass, surrounded by a wooden wall. The gate is closed with a tree-trunk bar that three men can barely lift (though Akilles can lift it on his own). Hermes waves the bar open; with many a crunch it pulls back, and the little party rides in. He unloads the wagon with a single gesture, then turns to Priam, who’s staring at him in amazement.
Hermes assumes something of his true form—not too much; he doesn’t want to scare the old man any more than necessary—and says, “King Priam, I am Hermes, god of journey and chance, tasked by Zeus to escort you here. I wish you well in your interview with Akilles. Clasp his knees, remind him of his father and mother; he’s a moody one, and younger than he realizes. And so, sir, I bid you goodbye.”
Hermes disappears. Priam blinks, absorbing all that’s happened, then turns and walks into Akilles’ hall.
Akilles’ soldiers are sitting near the door, as far away as they can get from their lord. He’s down at the head of the hall, where two men are serving him dinner.
Priam goes up to him, kneels and grabs the Greek’s huge knees. Akilles stares at him, astonished. Priam begs, “Akilles, think of your father! Imagine how happy he would be to know you’re alive! Maybe the next town is making war on him, or his people are mutinous—, when he hears his dear son Akilles is alive, he’s happy in spite of everything! As I was
happy in my sons! Fifty sons I used to have! Most of them are dead, many by your spear—but it was Hektor I loved best! You killed him—”
Priam breaks down for a moment, catches his breath and goes on,
“And I’ve come to buy his corpse from you.”
Akilles can only stare at the old man kneeling at his feet. It’s been so long since he felt anything but bitterness.
Priam takes his silence for refusal. He falls to the floor crying and calls, “You should fear the gods, Akilles! If you won’t pity me, then fear them! They see what I’m doing now!”
Before he can pull his hand away, Priam takes Akilles’ hand and pulls it to his old, dry lips, kissing it. “There! I, a king, have kissed the hand of the man who killed my son!”
Akilles is stunned. He can’t move or speak for a moment. Then he lifts Priam up and embraces him. They’re both weeping now, Akilles’ huge groans overwhelming the old man’s dry sobs.
He picks Priam up and sits him down, saying, “Old man, it’s you who are the bravest of the Trojans. You came here alone? How did you get through the gates? I can’t believe it!”
He sits silent, wiping his tears away, patting old Priam on the shoulder, then says, “The gods don’t care about either of us, you know. It’s a game for them. But for mortal men … did you really have fifty sons?”
Priam nods.
Akilles shakes his head, “Fifty! My father, Peleus … you see, he was unlucky. No one saw it but me, me and my mother. Everyone else said, ‘That Peleus! What a lucky man! Rich, brave, handsome, and the gods gave him an immortal for a wife!’”
“But Peleus had only one son, not fifty. And I won’t live very long. I’ll never be able to take care of my father in his old age. He’ll be alone, with no one to protect him. My mother …”
He grimaces: “She’s a goddess, you know. These days, she doesn’t even like to look at him. He’s old and ugly; it disgusts her. She’s exactly as she was when they married and she can’t see why he’s decaying.”
He looks at Priam in awe: “But you … fifty sons! And one of them Hektor! He was a good fighter, I tell you! They say he was a good man too—a good father, a good son.”