A Song of War: a novel of Troy

by Kate Quinn

  The light faded from the Amazon’s eyes. As it went, it wrenched a wordless howl of anguish from Achilles’ throat. It was high and harsh, just like his laugh—almost womanish in its pitch and its passion. Before either Automedon or Philoctetes could stop him, he stooped and gathered the dead Amazon to his chest. He rocked her, smearing his breastplate with red, then bent and kissed her, painting his lips with her blood. He left his tears to run down her cheeks.

  “Gods!” Achilles screamed. “Why, gods! It was supposed to be me—me!”

  Automedon threw down the spear. “For fuck’s sake, Philoctetes! Get him out of here!”

  Philoctetes grabbed Achilles by the arm, trying to pull him up, to tear him away from the Amazon. But Achilles batted him as if he were a fly, and Philoctetes stumbled backward, crying out at the pain in his foot.

  He glanced up at the wall. Helen and the woman in black had both vanished, but Priam was there, still as a statue, watching.

  And Paris was beside him. Paris, too, looked down in perfect stillness for a moment. Then, as Achilles’ cries of sorrow rose again, Philoctetes could see the Trojan prince’s shoulders tremble, then bounce with the rhythm of his laughter.

  It was Automedon who convinced Achilles to relinquish the woman’s body, though how he managed it, Philoctetes never knew. When Achilles was on his feet again, Philoctetes wedged himself under one of his arms, supporting the warrior as if he were injured—though he had sustained no physical wounds that Philoctetes could see. With Automedon on the other side, they shouted and cursed until a way parted through the crowd of staring warriors, and they guided the grief-blinded hero back to the Myrmidon camp and his tent.

  Once there, Achilles broke away from his friends and staggered to his ivory chair. He sat, no longer wailing, the tears drying on his face.

  There was a cacophony of voices outside as the throng grew. Word would soon spread through the whole Achaean army, Philoctetes knew: vile talk that Achilles had shamed himself with this display of grief, and before the walls of Troy, too.

  What will Odysseus think when he hears? What will Agamemnon think?

  “I’m going out there,” Automedon said. “I’m going to shut those bloody shits up. Otherwise, the gods only know what kind of stories will fly around camp.” He cast a long, sympathetic gaze at Achilles, hunched silently on his throne. “Take care of him, Philoctetes.”

  How? he wanted to ask. But Automedon was already ducking through the tent’s door, already yelling for the nearest spearmen to bugger off, to remember their loyalty and their pride.

  Philoctetes limped across the bright rugs, passed the nine-stringed lyre on its stand. He stood before Achilles, and Achilles stared through him, seeing nothing but the horrors in his own mind.

  “Up, my friend,” Philoctetes said briskly. “Let me get you out of your armor.”

  There was a lengthy pause, filled with Automedon’s shouts as he drove men well away from Achilles’ tent. Philoctetes thought Achilles would refuse or simply go on staring until the war ended and Troy and Sparta and the whole damned world crumbled to dust. But then he pushed himself up from the ivory chair, slowly, silently. He held out his arms, and Philoctetes began to unbuckle the plates from his body. One by one, he laid the pieces aside. They would have to be cleaned of the woman’s blood before they could be stored again.

  “Did you see her?” Achilles asked quietly.

  Philoctetes did not hesitate in his work. “Of course I saw her.”

  “Did you truly see her? There was such a light in her eyes. Such sorrow. She was alive, Philoctetes. The battle was her dance—like Briseis, dancing.”

  Achilles fell silent. His arms were bare now, but he seemed not to notice; he held himself in the same position, arms stretched to the sides, eyes staring blindly.

  “I killed her,” he said softly. “I killed life. I killed beauty. She is dead—beauty is dead. Because of me.”

  Philoctetes pulled the last buckle apart and eased the breastplate from Achilles’ body. He turned it as he laid it on the carpets so Achilles would not be forced to look upon the Amazon’s blood.

  He could think of nothing to say to Achilles. He watched him in pained silence for a moment, then held out his arms to embrace him.

  With a high, broken sob, Achilles fell into Philoctetes’ arms. His great, strong body was heavy in his grief; Philoctetes’ leg throbbed as he strained against the weight, holding Achilles upright. He stroked his back, the skin still flushed with the heat of battle, slick with sweat.

  “It will be all right,” Philoctetes said.

  Achilles shook his head; his sharp chin dug into Philoctetes’ shoulder. “It won’t. It was supposed to be me; don’t you see that? It was my death the Fates foretold. But instead, I go on living. And I am tired, Philoctetes. Tired of war. Tired of life.”

  “You mustn’t speak that way. Please.” I couldn’t bear it if you died.

  “When will the gods end my misery?”

  “When they end this war,” Philoctetes said. “When it’s all over, you’ll come to Lemnos with me. And it will be like it was that summer. Hunting, laughing, singing by the fire. You remember. Don’t you?”

  Achilles pressed his eyes against Philoctetes’ neck. The tears were hot as they tracked down into the collar of his tunic.

  “But this war will never end,” Achilles whispered. “And neither will my pain.”

  In the heat of day, when Philoctetes was sure Achilles had fallen into an exhausted slumber, he limped out of the camp and up to the walls of Troy. He carried before him the forked tin staff, the token of peace, one just like Princess Cassandra’s herald had carried that gods-cursed morning when the warrior Aeneas brought her message. No plumed warrior escorted Philoctetes in his mission; he stood alone blinking up at the wall, wavering in the heat and under the onslaught of the snake bite’s pain. But a sentinel noticed him, paused—and Philoctetes held up the token and called, “I’m a messenger. I must speak with the king.”

  Again the Scaean Gate opened with its hellish scream. Philoctetes approached warily, limping over the hard-packed ground, skirting the stain of livid red that marked where the Amazon had fallen. At once, nearly a score of Trojan troops surrounded Philoctetes, hands on the hilts of their swords, eyeing him darkly as they escorted him to the citadel. Their pace was brisk, and it was all he could do to stay on his feet, to walk—in his poor, crippled way—without crying out from the pain.

  The soldiers conducted him through the limestone arches of the citadel gates, across a courtyard paved in smooth white marble that glared in the brightness of the sun. Philoctetes’ leg was screaming by the time he was ushered into the high palace of Priam. When two carved, gilded doors were opened to reveal the dark length of Priam’s megaron, Philoctetes sighed in relief. The soldiers parted, and he was allowed to continue at his own pace, albeit with a pair of armed Trojan scowlers for companions.

  Philoctetes moved slowly, heavily, holding the messenger’s staff before him. Priam sat in dignified silence on his throne, his white hair and beard almost luminous against the shadowed stillness of the room. Golden Paris stood to one side of the throne, fidgeting, smirking, nearly bouncing on the toes of his sandals like an untrained boy.

  “I remember you,” Paris said almost eagerly. His grin was wide with amusement. “The old mattress. The shaft-planter.”

  Philoctetes did not dignify Paris with a reply. He couldn’t help but recall the last time he’d seen the Trojan prince, at the wedding of Odysseus and Penelope. He remembered how Paris had taunted him at the archery contest—had tried to humiliate him, in fact, before the eyes of the whole celebration. The same mocking light glittered now in the prince’s eye.

  Priam’s mouth thinned, and his white brows rose when Philoctetes dipped his head in courtesy. “My king. I’ve come with a message.”

  “A message?” Age had graveled the king’s voice, but it was still thick with power. “From whom, I wonder? Agamemnon sends that smarmy herald Talthy
bius when he wishes to treat with me.” The old man’s eyes narrowed, glinting with amusement. “You stood with Achilles this morning, at his... display before the Scaean Gate.”

  “Yes, I—”

  Priam raised a hand, callused and broad despite the age spots that peppered his skin. “Perhaps your message is from Achilles, then.”

  “My king, I’m afraid the message is mine alone. I hope you will listen, although I am not a great man.”

  Paris snorted, ruffling his gleaming curls. “A great man like Achilles?”

  Philoctetes ignored him. “I am a prince of Meliboea, and over many years I’ve seen enough battles to sate any man’s thirst for blood. I know Troy must have long since grown weary of this war, as we all have.”

  Again Paris interjected. “When we heard there was a messenger outside our gates, we assumed you came from one of the commanders. But now you tell us you act on you own whims.” He turned to Priam. “This man is wasting our time, Father. Send him away. Better yet, send him back to Agamemnon with his head in a sack.”

  “The high king won’t much care if you kill me,” Philoctetes said. Which was not true; Agamemnon apparently believed in the power of Heracles’ bow. He wouldn’t like to see its owner—and the best archer in the army—divested of his head. But neither Paris nor his father needed to know the special store Agamemnon placed in Philoctetes and his bow.

  “I am a friend to Achilles,” Philoctetes went on. “He confided something important to me—something I believe you should hear, too.”

  Paris’ smirk slid from his face, and he stilled himself, his pale eyes watching Philoctetes with a sudden greedy intensity. No doubt the prince of Troy thought Philoctetes was about to turn traitor and spill out the great hero’s deepest secrets now that Achilles had made a spectacle of himself before the city’s walls.

  Priam gestured: Out with it.

  “Hector spoke to Achilles before their final battle,” Philoctetes said. “And he offered Achilles peace.”

  Priam leaned forward on his throne. “Peace?”

  “An end to the war, my lord.”

  “I am aware of what the word means, Prince of Meliboea. How exactly did Hector think to make this peace?”

  “By refusing to fight. He urged Achilles to walk away from the battle, and together, with their mutual refusal, they would bring an end to the conflict.”

  Paris and Priam both stared at Philoctetes in frank disbelief.

  “It is true,” he said. “And what’s more, I believe it was a good plan. I believe it would have worked if Achilles hadn’t been so distraught over the death of one who was close to him—a man whom Hector killed.”

  “Do you think,” Paris scoffed, “that wars end as simply as that? Do you think warriors merely agree to stop fighting, and that’s that—all slights forgotten, all bitterness turned sweet?”

  “No,” Philoctetes said. “But a refusal to fight any longer, a decision to spill no more blood on either side: that would be a start to the process. From there, we could—”

  “Tell it to Agamemnon,” Priam said. “Don’t tell it to me. Look around you: this is a city under siege. We have held for long years, but we are still besieged. Whenever we spill blood, it is in defense of our city, of ourselves. It’s you who are the aggressors. It’s you who make the cuts that spill the blood.”

  “Perhaps the high king will agree to—”

  The king laughed bitterly. “Agamemnon will agree to nothing. He will not give up until my city falls. His greed is too strong. You don’t think it’s his brother’s wife he fights for, do you? Helen was never anything to him but a convenient excuse. No, it’s the tin trade he wants to control and access to our strait and all the rest of the goods that flow though Troy. One haughty cunt like Helen isn’t worth all this fuss. No woman is, no matter how beautiful. But wealth, trade—that’s worth waging an endless war for. And Agamemnon will not stop until he controls it all.”

  Paris stepped forward, drawing closer to Philoctetes than the latter liked. The younger man’s smirk stirred a thrill of loathing in Philoctetes’ veins. The memory of the archery contest, and Paris’ disrespect, was closer to the surface than Philoctetes had thought.

  “But Agamemnon may have no choice but to turn tail and run now,” Paris said. “His greatest warrior is reduced to nothing, weeping like a woman over some Amazon bitch. Soon every Achaean out there on the plain will be weeping, too.”

  “Quiet,” Priam said. He raised his chin in Philoctetes’ direction—as much of a gesture of apology as a king ever gave. “My son is hot-tempered and has lived a soft life.” Paris’ cheeks flared red, but his father went on relentlessly. “For too long, he has gotten by on charm and left real men’s work to his brothers. But now the best of his brothers are dead. And it’s time for him to prove himself a worthy son of Priam.”

  Philoctetes could feel Paris’ rage, a simmering heat that made sweat bead on Philoctetes’ back. He would not look at the prince, hoping his refusal to see the younger man’s mortification was enough to stay Paris’ wrath.

  “Father,” Paris said in a strangled voice.

  Priam stayed his protest with another curt gesture of that powerful hand. “If you think Achilles is so reduced, so womanish, then go and kill him yourself, Paris.”

  Philoctetes swallowed hard and did not look at Paris, but the younger man’s stillness told him everything he needed to know. The charming prince whose charm had finally worn thin, the eternal favorite of his father finally swatted down in displeasure.

  “Hector didn’t fear to challenge Achilles,” Priam went on relentlessly. “Even that Amazon didn’t fear. Surely, you are brave enough to take on a broken hero. Surely, you are a son of Priam.”

  “My lord,” Philoctetes said quietly, “perhaps I should be dismissed before you discuss strategy—and the assignment you give your own son... ”

  “Do you think I’m a fool, Prince of Meliboea?” Priam’s mouth curved in an unexpected smile. “Do you think my mind has rotted with age? Paris has strutted about this palace from the day he returned from exile. If he thinks himself a hero worthy of immortal songs, then let him prove it. If he fails, then he’ll find himself on a funeral pyre. Just as Hector did. It is all one to me now. Troy has a surplus of princes, and even now, after ten long years of war, I do not lack for sons.”

  Paris stared goggle-eyed at his father. Then he turned to Philoctetes, and his look melted into hatred and rage. Without another word, the prince spun on his heel and stalked out of the room.

  Philoctetes relaxed a bit with the prince gone from the megaron. Paris was a braggart, and all braggarts were cowards. He would take himself off to sulk somewhere, for an hour or a day or a week. But he would never have the courage to challenge Achilles to a fight.

  “My son is a fool,” Priam said tiredly. “He still thinks this war is about him. But it never was.”

  “No, my king. Not truly.”

  “You’ve brought your message, Prince of Meliboea. I’ll consider what you said.” But the weariness in the king’s voice, and the way he drooped back in his carved chair, told Philoctetes he wouldn’t consider the proposal very far. Priam was too convinced that there could be no compromise with Agamemnon and Menelaus. He believed too strongly in the war’s perpetuity, in the hopelessness of his position. “Now go back to your camp.”

  It was late afternoon by the time Philoctetes made his way back to Achilles’ tent. Automedon was crouched over the small fire pit outside, roasting a duck on a spit. A tendril of greasy black smoke rose into the sky, and high above, black crows circled on the evening winds.

  “Where were you?” Automedon stood and offered Philoctetes a wineskin.

  He drank deeply, then passed it back to the young man. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  Automedon jerked his head toward the tent. “He has stayed inside all day, but he’s been asking for you.”

  Philoctetes reached up and scratched the place on his neck where Achille
s’ tears had run, leaving traces of salt on his skin. He could almost feel the wing-beats of the crows high above, but he refused to look at them again. “I’ll go see to him, then.”

  Philoctetes had hoped he might find Achilles’ spirit restored, some of his agony soothed away by the healing power of sleep. But Achilles sat on the edge of his bed, hands hanging limply between his knees, and staring blankly, as before, at nothing. Philoctetes glanced around the tent and saw that the armor was cleaned and stored. Automedon’s doing, no doubt.

  “Where were you?” Achilles asked dully.

  Philoctetes drew a deep breath and considered giving the same answer he’d given to the young man outside. But he remembered the weight of Achilles, sagging in his arms. There was something more than friendship between them now. Perhaps it was not enough for Philoctetes—not what he truly wished for. It was real, though, and he cherished it.

  “I went to the city,” he said. “I carried a message to King Priam.”

  Achilles looked up at him. The dullness fled from his eyes, and he held Philoctetes in place with the force of his stare. “What message?”

  “I brought him Hector’s offer—of peace, of a cessation of all fighting. I told him what Hector told you: that we could decide to end this fight if we simply chose not to fight any longer.”

  Achilles nodded, thoughtful and silent. Finally, he asked, “And what did Priam say?”

  “He found little hope in the plan. And Paris—”

  “You spoke to Paris, too?”

  “It was not my preference,” Philoctetes said wryly. “Paris is more boy than man, and more shit than boy.”

  “He’ll be one of the only heroes Troy has left now that Hector is dead.”

  “I don’t think Troy accounts Paris a hero, however highly he thinks of himself.”