Ilium

by Dan Simmons

  My plan is to repeat parts of Phoenix’ long speech from memory, then veer away to insert my own suggestions. But I see Odysseus frowning at me from across the tent and know that I’m not going to get the chance.

  And what if I do? I’ve considered the fact that the gods will be monitoring this assembly—it’s one of the key elements of the Iliad, after all, although perhaps only Zeus knows that in advance. But even without advance knowledge, some of the gods and goddesses must be watching this meeting in their video pools and on their image-tabula. Zeus has ordered them not to intervene this day, and most are complying with his ultimatum, but that must make their curiosity about the embassy to Achilles even greater. If Achilles agrees to Agamemnon’s bribe price and the power of Odysseus’ persuasion this night, then Hector’s offensive and perhaps even the will of Zeus himself will be thwarted. Achilles is a one-man army.

  So if I suborn him to heresy this night as I’ve planned, if I try to rally Achilles to war against the gods, won’t Zeus intervene at once, blasting this tent and all its occupants? And even if Zeus holds back his wrath, I can imagine Athena or Hera or Apollo or one of the other interested parties swooping down to destroy this . . . “Phoenix” . . . for suggesting a course of action so inimical to their ends. I’ve imagined these things, of course, but trusted the QT medallion and the Hades Helmet to save me.

  But so what if I save myself by fleeing again, but these heroes end up killed or dissuaded by the wrath of the gods? The whole plan will have been for nothing and my existence revealed to all the gods. The Hades Helmet and QT medallion won’t help me then—they’ll track me to the ends of the earth, to prehistorical Indiana if need be. And that, as they say, will be that.

  Perhaps Odysseus has done me a service by not letting me speak.

  Then why am I here?

  When we’ve all feasted well, empty platters pushed aside and only crusts of bread remaining in the baskets, and are ready for our third cup of wine, I see Ajax nod ever so slightly to Odysseus.

  The great strategist takes the hint and lifts his cup in a toast to Achilles.

  “Your health, Achilles!”

  We all drink and the young hero bows his blond head in acknowledgment.

  “I see that we lack nothing for this feast,” continues Odysseus, his voice surprisingly low and soft, almost mellifluous. Of all the great Achaean captains, this bearded man is the softest spoken and the most devious. “We lack nothing either in Agamemnon’s camp nor here in the house of the son of Peleus. But it’s not the bounteous feast that’s on our minds this stormy night—no, it’s a terrible disaster, bred and willed by the gods, that we’re looking on and fearing tonight.”

  Odysseus goes on, slowly, smoothly, never rushing, rarely reaching for rhetorical effect. He describes the rout of the afternoon, the Trojans’ victory, the Achaeans’ panic and will to flee, and Zeus’s complicity.

  “These brazen Trojans and their boasting allies have pitched their tents within a stone’s throw of our ships, Achilles,” continues Odysseus, speaking as if Achilles has not already heard all of this from Patroclus, Automedan, and his other friends. Or simply watched it from the hill outside his tent.

  “Nothing can stop them now,” continues Odysseus. “That’s their boast, and thousands of their watchfires back that boast with threat tonight. They plan to bring those flames to our ships at first light, then hurl themselves at our blackened hulls, slaughtering the survivors. And Zeus, son of Kronos, sends them signs of encouragement, firebolts crashing on our left wing, all the while Hector rages on furiously, drunk on his strength. He fears nothing, Achilles, neither man nor god. Hector is like a rabid, frenzied dog this day, and the demons of katelepsis have him in their grip.”

  Odysseus pauses. Achilles says nothing. His face shows nothing. His friend Patroclus is watching Achilles’ face all this time, but the hero does not even glance his way. Achilles would make one hell of a poker player.

  “Hector is eager for the dawn,” Odysseus continues, voice even softer now, “since, at first light, he threatens to shear the horns from our ship sterns, light those ships with consuming fire, and—with all our comrades trapped against the burning hulls, rout and kill and cut down us Achaeans to the man. A nightmare, Achilles—I fear it with all my heart—I fear the gods will give Hector the means to carry out these threats and our destiny will be to die here on the plains of Ilium, far from the horse-pasturing hills of Argos.”

  Achilles says nothing when Odysseus pauses again. The dying embers crack. Somewhere several tents away, someone is playing a slow dirge on a lyre. From the opposite direction comes the drunken laugh of a soldier who obviously thinks himself doomed.

  “Up with you then, Achilles,” says Odysseus, voice rising at last. “Now, rise with us now, eleventh hour though it be, if you want to rescue the doomed sons of the Achaeans from Trojan slaughter.”

  And now Odysseus is asking Achilles to put aside his wrath and describes Agamemnon’s offer, using the same words Agamemnon had chosen to list his unfired tripods and dozen racehorses and so on, and so forth. I think he lingers a bit too long on the description of unbedded Briseis and the Trojan maidens waiting to be ravished and Agamemnon’s three beautiful daughters, but he ends with a passionate peroration, reminding Achilles of his own father’s advice, Peleus’ admonition to value friendship over quarrels.

  “But if the son of Atreus is too much hated in your heart for you to accept these gifts,” finishes Odysseus, “at least take pity on all the rest of us Achaeans. Join our fight and save us now and we will honor you like a god. Also, remember that if your wrath keeps you from fighting—if your disdain sends you home over the wine-dark sea before this war with Troy is finished—you’ll never know if you could have killed Hector. This is your chance for that aristeia, Achilles, since Hector’s murderous frenzy will bring him to close combat tomorrow after all these years of his aloofness behind the high walls of Ilium. Stay and fight with us, noble Achilles, and now, for the first time, you can meet Hector head-on in combat.”

  I have to admit, Odysseus’ speech has been one hell of a performance. I might be persuaded, if I were the young demigod lounging on the cushions six feet from me in the tent. We all sit silently until Achilles sets down his cup of wine and answers.

  “Noble son of Laertes, seed of Zeus, resourceful tactician, dear Odysseus—I have to tell you frankly and honestly how I feel and how all this will end, so you won’t keep crowding me, one embassy after another, coaxing and murmuring one after the other like a line of cooing doves.

  “As much as I detest the doorways of Death, Hades’ dark gates, so do I detest a man who says one thing with his mouth but hides another in his heart.”

  I blink at that. Is this a deep dig at Odysseus, “resourceful tactician,” known by all Achaeans as someone who will bend the truth when it serves his purposes? Perhaps, but Odysseus does not react in any way, so I keep Phoenix’s expression neutral.

  “I’ll say this clearly,” continues Achilles. “Will Agamemnon win me back, persuade me with all these . . . gifts?” The hero all but spits this last word. “No. Not for all the world. Nor could all the armies and captains of the Achaeans convince me to return, since their gratitude is too little and too late . . . Where was the gratitude of the Achaeans during my years upon years of warring against their enemies, battle after battle, year after year in harness, fighting every day with no end in sight?

  “Twelve cities I’ve stormed from my ships; eleven I’ve claimed by wetting the fertile loam of Ilium’s lands with Trojan blood. And from all these cities I dragged heaps of plunder, mountains of loot, great, crying herds of beautiful women, and always I gave the best of the lot to Agamemnon—that son of Atreus, safe in his racing black ships or skulking far behind the lines. And he would take it all . . . all and more.

  “Oh, yes . . . sometimes he’d hand out scraps to you and the other commanders, but always he kept the lion’s share for himself. To all of you, whose loyalty he needs to prop
up his regime, he gives—only from me does he take—including the slave girl who would have been my bride. Well, fuck it and fuck him and fuck her, my dear comrades. Let Agamemnon bed Briseis . . . to the hilt, if the old man is up to it.”

  With his grievances aired anew, Achilles goes on to question why his Myrmidons and the Achaeans and the Argives should even be fighting this war. “For Helen with her loose and lustrous hair?” he asks contemptuously, saying that Menelaus and his brother Agamemnon are not the only men here with missing wives, reminding Odysseus of his own wife, Penelope, left alone these ten long years.

  And I think of Helen sitting up in bed just these few nights ago, her loose and lustrous hair hanging over her shoulders, her pale breasts white in the starlight.

  It’s hard to pay attention to Achilles, even though this speech is as wonderful and surprising as Homer reported. In this short talk, Achilles undermines the very heroic code that makes him a superhero, the code of conduct that makes him a god in the eyes of his men and equals.

  Achilles says that he has no ambition to battle glorious Hector—neither will to kill him nor will to die by his hand.

  Achilles says that he is taking his men and sailing at dawn, leaving the Achaeans to their fates—leaving them to Hector’s mercy when the Trojan and his hordes cross the ditch and rampart tomorrow.

  Achilles says that Agamemnon is a dog armored in shamelessness and that he wouldn’t marry one of the old king’s daughters even if she somehow ended up with Aphrodite’s looks and Athena’s crafts.

  Then Achilles says something truly amazing—he confesses that his mother, the goddess Thetis, told him that two fates would bear him on to his day of death: one where he stays here, lays siege to Troy, kills Hector, but then dies himself within a few days. In that direction, his mother told him, lies eternal glory in the memories of men and gods alike. His other fate lies in flight—sailing home, losing his pride and glory, but living a long, happy life. The fates are his to choose, his mother told him years ago.

  And, Achilles tells us now, he chooses life. Here this . . . this . . . hero, this mass of muscle and testosterone, this living-legend demigod . . . he chooses life over glory. It’s enough to make Odysseus squint in disbelief and Ajax gape.

  “So Odysseus, Ajax, brothers both,” he says, “go back to the great commanders of Achaea. Report my answer. Let them figure out how to save the hollow ships and save the men who will be pressed back to these very ships’ burning hulls at this time tomorrow. As for silent Phoenix, here . . .”

  I jump three inches off the red cushion when he turns toward me. I’ve been so lost in preparing what I have to say and the moral implications of it that I’ve forgotten that we’re in a discussion here.

  “Phoenix,” says Achilles, smiling indulgently, “while Odysseus and Ajax here must report back to their master, you are free to spend the night here with Patroclus and me, and voyage home with us come the dawn. But only if Phoenix wishes . . . I would never force any man to go.”

  This is my chance to speak. Ignoring Odysseus’ scowl, I look around, stand awkwardly, clear my throat to begin Phoenix’ long speech. How does it start? All those years of teaching and studying it, of learning the nuance of every Greek word, and now my mind is a blank.

  Ajax stands. “While that old fool tries to decide whether to run away with you or not, Achilles, I’ll tell you that you’re as much of a fool as old Phoenix!”

  Achilles, the man-killer who will brook no insult to his person, the hero who will let all of his Achaean friends be murdered rather than suffer indignities over a slave girl from Agamemnon, merely smiles and cocks an eyebrow at Ajax’s direct insult.

  “Giving up glory and twenty beautiful women for one woman you can’t even have . . . bah!” cries Ajax and turns away. “Come, Odysseus, this golden boy has never drunk from the teat of human friendship. Let’s leave him to his wrath and deliver our dark message to the waiting Achaeans. Tomorrow’s sunrise is coming fast enough, and I for one need some sleep before the fight. If I’m going to die tomorrow, I don’t want to die sleepy.”

  Odysseus nods, stands, nods again in the direction of Achilles, and follows Big Ajax out of the tent.

  I’m still standing with my mouth agape, ready to deliver Phoenix’s long, three-part speech—that clever speech!—with my own clever amendments and hidden agendas.

  Patroclus and Achilles stand, stretch, and exchange glances. Obviously they’ve been expecting this embassy and both men knew Achilles’ shocking answer in advance.

  “Phoenix, old father, loved by the gods,” Achilles says warmly, “I don’t know what really brought you here this stormy night, but well I remember when I was a lad and you’d lift me and carry me off to bed after lessons. Stay here this night, Phoenix. Patroclus and Automedon will prepare a soft bed for you. In the morning, we’ll sail for home and you can come . . . or not.”

  He gestures and goes into his sleeping quarters in the back of the tent and I stand here like the fool I am, speechless in every sense, stunned at this wild veering away from the plotline of the Iliad.

  Achilles has to be persuaded to stay, even if he doesn’t join in the fighting, so the Iliad works itself out this way—the Trojans winning again and the Greeks in full retreat with all of their great commanders wounded—Odysseus, Agamemnon, Menelaus, Diomedes, all of them—then, feeling sympathy for his friends while knowing that Achilles will never join the fight, Patroclus will put on Achilles’ golden armor and rout the Trojans back until, in single combat with Hector, Patroclus is killed, his body violated and desecrated. That will bring Achilles out of his tent, filled with killing wrath, thus sealing the fate of Hector and Ilium and Andromache and Helen and all the rest of us.

  He’s really leaving? I can’t quite grasp this. Not only didn’t I find the fulcrum and change things, now the entire Iliad has run off the rails. More than nine years I’ve been a scholic here, watching and observing and reporting to the muse and never once has there been a deep rift between the events in this war and Homer’s reporting in the poem. Now . . . this. If Achilles leaves, which he shows every indication of doing come the dawn, the Achaeans will be defeated, their ships burned, Ilium saved, and Hector, not Achilles, will be the great hero of the epic. It seems unlikely that Odysseus’ Odyssey will ever happen . . . and certainly not the way it’s sung now. Everything has changed. Just because the real Phoenix wasn’t here to give his real speech? Or have the gods been tampering with this fulcrum before I had a chance to? I’ll never know. My chance to persuade Achilles and Odysseus in council, my clever plan, is lost forever.

  “Come, old Phoenix,” Patroclus says, taking my arm as if I’m a child, leading me to a side room in the great tent where my cushions and coverlets are laid out. “It’s time to go to bed. Tomorrow’s another day.”

  31

  Jerusalem

  “What is it?” asked Harman. He and Daeman were standing in the shadow of the Western Wall in Jerusalem, just a few steps behind Savi, and all three were staring up at the solid beam of blue light that stabbed vertically into the darkening sky.

  “I think it’s my friends,” said the old woman. “All nine thousand one hundred and thirteen of my friends—all the old-styles that were swept up in the final fax.”

  Daeman looked at Harman and realized that they were both doubtful about Savi’s mental condition.

  “Your friends?” said Daeman. “That’s a blue light.”

  Savi tore her gaze away from the beam—it was illuminating the top of the ancient buildings and walls around them now, bathing everything in blue glow as the daylight faded further—and she looked at them with what might have been a rueful smile. “Yes. That beam of blue light. My friends.” She gestured for them to follow and began leading them away from the courtyard, away from the wall back the way they came, away from the base of the shaft of blue light.

  “The posts told us that the final fax was a way of storing us while they cleaned up the world,” continued Savi, her voice
soft but still echoing in the narrow alleyways here. “The plan was, they explained, to reduce our codes—we were all fax codes to the post-humans, even then, my friends—reduce our codes and put us in a continuous neutrino loop for ten thousand years while they tidied up the planet.”

  “What does that mean?” said Harman. “Tidy up the planet?”

  They walked under a long archway and Daeman could just barely see Savi’s face as she smiled again. “Things got messy toward the end of the Lost Age,” she said. “Messier after the rubicon. Then came the Demented Times. Freelance ARNists were bringing back dinosaurs and Terror Birds and long-extinct botanic forms, screwing up the planet’s ecology even as the biosphere and datasphere were beginning to merge into the self-aware noosphere—the logosphere. The post-humans had already fled to their rings by then—the Earth’s sentient noosphere didn’t trust them any longer—and for good reason, the posts were experimenting with quantum teleportation, opening portals onto places they didn’t understand, opening doors they shouldn’t have opened.”

  Harman stopped as they came out onto a broader street. “Would you make sense, Savi? We don’t understand two-thirds of what you’re talking about.”

  “How could you?” asked Savi, looking at Harman with an expression of either pain or severe displeasure. “How could you understand anything? No history. No technology. No books.”

  “We have books,” said Harman, his voice defensive.

  Savi laughed.

  “What does all this talk of dinosaurs and noospheres have to do with the blue beam?” asked Daeman.

  Savi sat on a low wall. The breeze had come up and it whistled through broken tiles on the rooftops. The air was cooling quickly. “They needed to get us out of the way while they cleaned things up,” repeated Savi. “A torus of neutrinos, they said. No mass. No muss. No fuss. Ten thousand years for them to tidy up the earth. Less than a blink of an eye for us old-styles. So they said.”