A Song of War: a novel of Troy

by Kate Quinn

  Achilles hesitated, then asked, almost timidly, “Did Paris say anything about me?”

  Philoctetes didn’t want to answer that question.

  “I heard he was on the wall this morning,” Achilles said. “I heard he saw... saw everything.”

  “He was on the wall,” Philoctetes admitted.

  “And what did he say about me?”

  Philoctetes sank wearily into his chair. “Achilles—”

  “Tell me,” Achilles insisted. His sharp eyes narrowed, and with a note of triumph in his voice, he said, “If you love me, Philoctetes, then tell me what he said.”

  His heart pounded; his throat tightened so abruptly that he was sure he could never force the words out. But Achilles was watching, so at last he nodded. “He said you are broken. He said you... you wept like a woman.”

  Achilles rose slowly from the bed. He stalked to one of the lamps and stood before it, arms folded, staring into its flame. “Perhaps I did,” he said softly. “That Amazon would have wept for me, I think, had she killed me. She was a woman, but her tears would have been worth something. But you’re right, Philoctetes. Paris is more shit than man.” He drew a measured breath. “And he’s the last hope Troy has, isn’t he?”

  “I don’t know. That’s the honest truth.”

  Achilles stared at him; Philoctetes couldn’t look away and couldn’t hide the flicker in his eyes that said there was more—information he was holding back.

  “Tell me,” Achilles said.

  Philoctetes sighed.

  “Priam told Paris to fight you. One on one, as you did—”

  “With the Amazon.”

  “With Hector.”

  Achilles straightened, turned away from the lamp’s flame. “Well, then. Perhaps Priam is right. I should call Paris out in combat—I should face him. And let the gods do whatever they will.”

  “Paris is far too cowardly to face you.”

  “He will if I call for him. Priam will force him out of the gate. I’ll make the challenge at dawn.”

  Philoctetes shook his head, his body trembling with exhaustion. “No, Achilles. That’s not the way to win this. You need time to recover from what happened this morning—time to regroup. There’s no sense in risking yourself again; not until you’re in a better frame of mind. In the meantime, we can take Paris out from afar.”

  Achilles turned to him, one brow raised in cool amusement. “A bow shot? No, old friend. After all the grief he’s wrought, I want the satisfaction of looking into Paris’ eyes when he dies. I want to see the life leak out of him.”

  “You only feel that way because he insulted you. But what are words from a man like Paris? Nothing. Less than nothing. They’re mindless, harmless—like a breeze.”

  Achilles shook his head and returned to his brooding study of the lamp’s flame. “A bow shot doesn’t make the right death. Not the death Paris deserves.”

  Philoctetes held his tongue, but he was an old enough man to know what the young did not: that death is death. And a bow could do the job as well as a spear.

  Achilles reached for his sword belt with sudden energy. He buckled it around his waist.

  Philoctetes lurched to his feet. “What are you doing?”

  “Going out,” Achilles said. “I’ve been in this damned tent all day.”

  He made his way to the tent’s door, and Philoctetes hurried after him.

  Outside, Automedon rose from the fire pit. “Supper’s not ready yet, but—”

  Achilles waved him to silence. “Save it. I’m only going out for a stroll along the river. To clear my head. I’ll be back by the time it’s ready.” He narrowed his eyes at Automedon. “Don’t let anyone follow me. I don’t want to deal with any of those limp-cocks who saw me fight this morning.”

  “Understood,” Automedon said. He passed a wary glance to Philoctetes.

  High overhead, where the smoke from the fire dissipated on the gathering breeze, a crow called—and Philoctetes shivered.

  “I’m coming with you,” he said to Achilles.

  “No. I’m going alone. You’ll stay here, Philoctetes—that’s an order.”

  “But I—”

  “No.”

  Achilles strode away, heading toward the thin strip of trees that edged the Scamander. Night’s shadows were already beginning to pool between the trunks of trees, but the late sun was bright on Achilles’ back, and his back was straight and proud. He looked more confident, more whole than he had that morning. Philoctetes wanted to believe that the worst was beyond them now. But a cold stone sat in his gut, and the crows overhead were still calling.

  He turned back for the tent, found his bow where he’d left it beside the half-empty jug of wine. He strung it with a sure, practiced motion and secured his quiver across his back.

  “Philoctetes!” A shout from within the camp. Philoctetes turned to see Odysseus striding toward him. “Let us talk, friend,” Odysseus called. “I have a few ideas about that bow of yours.”

  “Blast!” Automedon looked ready to spit.

  “Odysseus can wait,” Philoctetes said. “I’ve something more important to attend to now. Make and excuse for me, Automedon.”

  Automedon nodded. “Stay as close to Achilles as you can.”

  “I’ll do my best. But this foot of mine—”

  “It doesn’t matter. You have your bow. Use it well if need be.”

  “Let us pray there’s no need.”

  The memory of Paris’ hate-filled stare burned in Philoctetes’ mind as he limped after Achilles. And even though Philoctetes was certain that Paris would make no move against Achilles, the gods alone knew who else might be out there, laughing into their hands over Achilles’ tears, his unmasked pain. Only the gods could say who might stumble across the Achaean hero and think him broken, an easy target.

  Beautiful, strong, and whole, Achilles left the Myrmidon camp behind and moved with ease through the thin lines of trees, gliding smoothly along the river while Philoctetes fell farther and farther behind.

  I should have sent Automedon to protect him, he thought, cursing himself bitterly, and stayed to handle Odysseus on my own. But even as he lashed himself, Philoctetes savored the sight of Achilles moving free and alone through the sparse woodland. The years fell away; it was Lemnos again, and summer, and the murmur of the river over rocks was the laughter of happy young men for whom the world could never be cruel or bruising. From somewhere—carrying faintly from the distant camp or from the walls of Troy, or perhaps singing in his own heart, he could hear the long, lingering notes of a lyre and a high, sweet male voice raised in song.

  The faster Achilles walked—the farther he went from Philoctetes—the lighter his step became. He was outrunning his sorrows, the feel of the Amazon woman dead in his arms, the grinding weight of the war. He was little more than a boy again, hunting rabbits in a field. Philoctetes’ breath burned in his chest as he struggled to maintain a safe distance between them—a bow-shot’s length. That distance would have to close as night came on and visibility was reduced. Never once as the shadows deepened did the broad, brilliant hero turn to look over his shoulder. He only pressed on, going aimlessly toward whatever relief he found in the twilight shadows, in the soft singing of the river.

  Achilles approached a great tree, fallen across the bank—the victim of some long-ago windstorm or perhaps a lightning strike. Philoctetes leaned against a nearby jut of stone and panted, trying to ignore the ache in his foot. He watched distant Achilles consider the tree, searching for the best way over or under.

  A steady movement on a narrow trail, well beyond the fallen tree, caught Philoctetes’ eye. He froze, every hair on his body standing on end, and stared. While Achilles still inspected the tree, the thing in the brush beyond wavered through shadow, bobbed, seemed to dissipate for a moment, then coalesced into the unmistakable shape of a man—one man, walking alone through the trees.

  Philoctetes held his breath. The man passed through a slanting beam of gold, t
he last vestiges of the sun’s fading light. The fallen tree’s root ball must have blocked the man from Achilles’ view, but to Philoctetes, the gleaming curls were unmistakable.

  Paris.

  Philoctetes squinted at Paris, trying to gauge the distance, trying to feel the wind’s direction. But his heart was pounding with such a desperate fear that he knew he couldn’t trust his own senses. He opened his mouth to call a warning to Achilles—and then snapped his teeth shut again. There might be more men following Paris—scouts, soldiers. And Achilles was unarmored, with only his short sword and Philoctetes to protect him.

  Philoctetes could see that both men stood with swords drawn, crouched forward, ready to fight. Paris was far better protected, with a reinforced vest and a short skirt of bronze scales protecting his thighs. He bore a bow and quiver as well as his sword.

  Achilles glanced down as Philoctetes burst out of the trees like a haggard old deer. “Get back, Philoctetes.”

  Paris spared no glance for Philoctetes, but his mouth tightened in a spiteful grimace. “The old messenger, the old post-hole. Stay and watch, graybeard. I’ll give you a message to carry back to camp.” He made an experimental lunge at Achilles, who knocked his blade back with offhanded ease.

  Paris edged back, shrugged his bow and quiver from his shoulder, let them fall to the ground. He crept toward Achilles again, sword raised.

  “Alone, Paris?” Philoctetes called. “Out to prove your heroism by yourself? Or did your father send real warriors with you to be your nursemaids?”

  Paris grinned humorlessly. “You’d like it if I told you, wouldn’t you?”

  Paris and Achilles circled, backs stiff, eyes blazing, like two dogs hackling before a thrashing, snarling fight. The moment Paris’ back was turned to Philoctetes, he slid his bow down from his shoulder and pulled an arrow from the quiver on his back. He nocked quickly and melted back against the tree, ready to draw in an instant, watching for his moment. He knew that when it came it would be fleeting and precious. He mustn’t waste the shot.

  “When I kill Achilles,” Paris taunted, “will you wail over him, old man? Just like a mourning girl—like Achilles himself cried over that Amazon?”

  “You know nothing,” Achilles grated. “Nothing of beauty, nothing of life.”

  “I know plenty of death.”

  Paris drove for Achilles then, and despite his evident softness, his habitual avoidance of battle, he was well trained, as any prince should be. His attacks were fast and relentless, his determination to strike Achilles down palpable and terrifying.

  But Achilles had earned his reputation and his songs. Even without armor, he threw himself fearlessly at his enemy. Their swords rang and rattled through the trees as loud as thunder.

  Philoctetes kept the bowstring taut, just on the point of a draw—but the combatants whirled and tangled too quickly, too close. He couldn’t be sure of a shot, couldn’t fire without the risk of striking Achilles.

  Paris surged in a flurry of fast blows; Achilles parried in a blur of bronze. Then Achilles struck fast and hard from above. Paris raised his sword just in time to keep his head in one piece.

  Achilles’ blade slid down Paris’ with a cold, slithering note; in the next moment, Paris screamed, reeling back as his sword fell to the earth. A red line tracked across the back of his sword hand, weeping blood. Achilles kicked the downed sword; it skittered across the bank and splashed into the river.

  Paris, clutching his wounded hand, grimaced at Achilles. He wavered on his legs, as weak and wobbly as Troy was now that Hector had fallen.

  “Yield,” Paris gasped.

  Achilles’ ripple of laughter filled the night. “No.”

  “My father will ransom me.”

  “What do I want with Trojan gold?”

  Achilles charged, his sword rising to deliver the killing blow. Paris staggered back with a wordless cry of fear. He tripped and sprawled backward, rolling as Achilles thundered past.

  With another easy laugh, Achilles turned and stalked back to his prey. Paris hunched on the ground, shivering, cowering...

  And as Achilles reached him, his hand flashed out like a viper’s strike. He pulled an arrow from his dropped quiver and drove it with desperate, savage force into the only part of Achilles’ body he could reach: the tendon just above his heel.

  Philoctetes grunted in disbelief at the sight. Even in the twilight, he could see how the arrow’s head slid through the tendon like a knife through soft cheese, severing it completely. Blood gouted, and Achilles’ foot dangled, utterly useless, as he jerked up his leg in shock.

  Then Achilles loosed a bellow of pain. His sword dropped beside Paris; he staggered across ground trampled by their fight, his movements grotesque and desperate, his foot dragging behind him. Then his leg gave out. He fell heavily to the ground.

  The breath left Philoctetes’ lungs in a painful rush. But he saw Paris rise and lunge for the dropped sword. He raised his bow and fired—and the arrow snicked past Paris’ shoulder as he dodged away.

  “Bastard!” Philoctetes roared, snatching another arrow from his quiver.

  He drew again, but Paris was already flinging himself at Achilles—wounded, unarmed, unprotected.

  Philoctetes leaped forward, his bow arm trained on Paris with a shot that would have been true and fatal. But his wounded foot gave way, and Philoctetes staggered, yelling in pain as another shot sailed past the Trojan prince’s body.

  The blade flashed in the fading light. Achilles’ body jerked as his own sword came down to slice cleanly across his throat. The hot-copper smell of blood assailed Philoctetes; this time when he cried out, it was with a different kind of pain, an agony a thousand times more searing than the snake’s bite.

  Paris stood slowly. Violent shivers racked his limbs, and the sword dropped from his hand. His armored vest was darkened, shining with Achilles’ blood. Droplets clung to his face and hair.

  “Leave,” Paris said hoarsely. “Go back to Agamemnon. Tell him Achilles is dead.”

  A hard force of grief surged in Philoctetes’ gut, nearly choking off his breath, but he did not leave. He stepped forward. He couldn’t look down, couldn’t bear to see the terrible stillness of Achilles’ strong, beautiful body. But he could look at Paris. He could see him clearly now. He did not give him the courtesy of looking away, as he’d done in Priam’s megaron.

  “Go,” Paris said, his voice rising. He fell back a step before the rage in Philoctetes’ eyes. “I have my honor now. It’s all I need. Don’t make me kill you, too.” He seemed to realize then that he’d dropped his sword; his eyes hunted for it.

  “Honor.” The word was barely more than a whisper, rasping from Philoctetes’ throat like a blade. Why did the Amazon’s dying whimper leap up so clear in his memory?

  Philoctetes slung his bow over his shoulder as he advanced on Paris. The Trojan shuffled backward, eyes flicking to his fallen sword several paces away. In that moment, as his eyes lowered, Philoctetes sprinted toward him.

  There was no pain in his foot now. He ran like a youth, fierce and strong. But he was not a young man. He had lived long enough, seen enough, to know that Paris was a man like any other. He was a man like Achilles, like Hector—mortal and soft inside his armor, and Paris’ face could be broken like any other man’s.

  Philoctetes fell upon him, roaring with fury. He smashed the golden prince’s face with his fists again and again. The strong, arched nose broke with a sickening crack, and blood gouted hot and fast; the lips that had so often smirked and grinned split until Paris’ teeth cut into Philoctetes’ knuckles. He beat his ears, his high cheekbones, the eyes that had watched Achilles in his grief and had seen only weakness instead of strength.

  Paris clawed and shouted and spat, and finally he wrenched out of Philoctetes’ reach. Philoctetes hunched, wrestling with the grief that stole his breath, tears stinging his eyes.

  Paris stared at him for a long, long moment. And then his bloody mouth curled in a mocking smi
le.

  “I see,” Paris said thickly. “I do.”

  Philoctetes shook his head.

  Cold eyes flicked to where Achilles lay. “Did he give it to you every night, or did you give it to him? A man like him, raised to be a woman, I would guess he’d be the one taking it, not giving it.”

  An icy calm took hold of Philoctetes. He pulled another arrow, nocked and raised his bow. “When we traded bow shots in a training yard in Sparta ten years ago, you told me you could plant a shaft anywhere. Would you like to find out where I can plant mine?”

  Paris’ broken lips twitched. He spat blood on the ground, then said slowly, “You came to my father with a message of peace. You said we could end this war if we only decided not to fight.”

  Philoctetes gave a startled laugh, pure disbelief. “You think to strike a peace now? After what you’ve just done?”

  “Let me go.” The boy was trembling now, his words all but pleading. “And I swear to you, I’ll convince my father to end this war.”

  “Hector was wrong, you know,” Philoctetes said. “And you were right. This war won’t end just because two men lay down arms.”

  “The war will end when I want it to,” Paris said. But his voice was half a sob. His breath rattled as he drew it in sharply. “I’ll give Helen back, I’ll—”

  “You are the maker of this war, Paris, the author of our suffering. But it won’t end when you decide. It won’t end with you giving up your stolen wife. It will only end when you are dead.”

  “When I die—and that day won’t be today, old man—at least I’ll die with honor. I claimed my honor today.” Paris drew himself up, mustering the courage to glare his defiance at Philoctetes, at the arrow aimed at his throat. But Philoctetes noted the rapid blink of his eyes, the trembling in his limbs. Behind the mask of blood and bravado, Paris wore his fear plain on his face.

  Fear—as all men feel. Even heroes.

  Philoctetes heard the Amazon’s cry again, faint in his mind. He heard her words, too. A life without honor isn’t worth living. If anyone had lived without honor, it was the Trojan who stood before him now.

  “Go back to Troy,” Philoctetes said. “Tell your father what has happened here.”