The twelve noble young Trojans he slew without mercy.
Iliad, Homer, Book XXIII
(Rouse’s translation)
After a long time I got to my feet slowly, like an old woman. When I reached our quarters, it was very dark, very quiet. Alone, I sat on my bed, shivering from a deep inner cold as I thought of Achilleus slaughtering those twelve men.
I tried to tell myself that it would be no different than if he had slain them in battle. I told myself it was not my business and I could do nothing. But it did no good. I lay down, too troubled to sleep. Something else occurred to me. What if one of the twelve was Akamas, the man whose wound I had tended and who had come to my aid in Troy? The thought of such a warm and kind soul waiting for death was unbearable.
I slept haunted by nightmares. Just before dawn I awoke and bolted up with a new horror. If the gods were angry with Achilleus, they might also kill his progeny: his living son far across the sea—and his unborn child. I put a hand on my belly. I could do nothing to shelter the tiny life within me from the wrath of the gods.
I must stop Achilleus.
I could not do it alone. The other women had returned, and my only friend Diomede slept in the next bed. I awakened her and told her about the terrible deed Achilleus planned. “He means to kill those men in cold blood at the pyre of Patroklos, Diomede. We can’t let him do it.”
She sat up. “Are you mad? There’s no one who can stop him. None of the Achaeans will even try.”
“But we can’t just stand by!”
“Don’t be a fool,” she said. “He’ll kill us if we try to interfere. Those twelve Trojans went to battle knowing they were risking death. Do you think they wouldn’t have killed Achilleus if they’d had the chance? Why waste your pity on the men? It’s we women who suffer the most.”
“The gods will strike him down for such an act,” I said.
Diomede lay down again. “I doubt the gods care.”
Only Patroklos might have had the influence to stop him. Then I remembered Automedon, who’d replaced Patroklos as second-in-command. I doubted he would concern himself with my worries, but I had to try. At first light after I helped the women with the most basic chores, I went to search for him.
Outside the courtyard men scurried to and fro, driving mule carts laden with wood. Down the shore, a huge pyre was rising. I set out for it and nearly bumped into a man carrying an armload of logs. “Out of my way!” he bellowed.
Another shouted, “Go back to your chores, woman! You’ve no business here.”
I hid behind one of the ships, watching for Automedon until at last I saw him. He was sitting on a timber for a moment’s rest. I rushed over and crouched on one knee before him. “Automedon, I beg you!” My mouth was so dry that my voice sounded strange to my own ears. “Can you stop Achilleus from killing the twelve Trojans tonight? It’s a terrible deed—”
He looked at me as if I had taken leave of my senses. “The lives of those Trojans are nothing—to him or anyone.” He spat on the ground.
“But surely it will offend the gods, particularly Apollo, the patron of Troy. Achilleus will be punished—accursed.”
He shook his head roughly. “Revenge is his duty—his right. The gods will not interfere. Stay out of this, woman. You understand nothing.” Getting abruptly to his feet, Automedon left me kneeling in the sand.
Why did no one but me see the obvious? The gods were capricious and needed far less reason to curse a man. They might send the Furies to pursue Achilleus, torment and punish him, and kill his offspring. Even if I was wrong, it was no comfort. Twelve helpless men would die. I looked up at the sky, deep blue with white clouds that scattered and re-formed into feathery shapes, lofty and distant. Zeus, I thought. Zeus had brought things to this pass. I lifted my arms. “Father of all the gods,” I prayed, “spare the life of Achilleus, but don’t let him do this evil. And don’t let Akamas be among the victims.” I listened deep within me for an answer but heard only the faraway shouts of the men as they prepared the funeral pyre and the indifferent wind, whipping across the sand. I dropped my arms in defeat.
At twilight hundreds of men from all over the encampment gathered around the huge pyre far down the shore. Achilleus appeared suddenly in our camp. His face was dirty, unshaven, his eyes sunk in hollows. His beautiful mane of bronze hair was gone. I was with Diomede and others near the gate. I shrank in fear, but he did not even see us.
“Diomede, he’s cut his hair!”
“It’s an Achaean custom to cut one’s hair in mourning.”
Achilleus shouted orders. A group of Myrmidons hitched their horses to their chariots. The body of Patroklos was lifted onto a chariot, and the men processed solemnly toward the funeral pyre. Silent and grim, Achilleus stood watching. Then Automedon brought his own chariot to him. Achilleus climbed in, and they followed the chariot bearing Patroklos.
I watched until they were out of sight. The moment had come. I couldn’t put my body between Achilleus’s victims and his sword blade, but I prayed I would somehow find a way to stop him. I prayed for courage. When Diomede and the others went to the hut to eat their meal, I set out along the shore.
Darkness had almost completely fallen. The sea glowed with an eerie, tenebrous light. Ahead of me, the dark mass of hundreds of men was grouped around the pyre. Etched against the sky, several men were carrying Patroklos on his bier to the top of the pyre.
It felt as if his death had taken all kindness and reason from the world. “Farewell, my friend!” I whispered.
At the bottom of the pyre stood a tall figure, withdrawn, solitary, the darkness around him somehow colder and deeper.
I steeled myself and crept closer. My gray shawl helped conceal me in the deepening twilight. Crouching behind a small shed, I searched for the Trojan captives in the dim light. My straining eyes landed on a group of bound men, indistinguishable shadows until someone planted a lit torch, and I saw clearly.
Frantic, I studied their outlines. One man was too stocky, one too short, one was balding, another had thin straight hair down his back. Only one had thick curly hair like Akamas. My heart dropped. Then I saw that he was far too tall. It was scant comfort, for here were sons, brothers, husbands, fathers. They ate and drank and laughed. They made love and held children on their knees. And now they waited to die.
An ominous mutter emerged from the silent crowd as Achilleus turned to the captives. No one moved.
Achilleus, don’t! It won’t lessen your pain. I felt as though I had shouted, but my throat was so dry I could not even whisper.
He pulled the first Trojan from the line of captives and lifted his sword. I leapt into a run but before I had gone five paces, he slit the man’s throat as if slaughtering a sheep. I froze. Blood spurted, black as the night. Achilleus heaved him onto the pyre.
A roar from the men drowned out my cry. My knees gave way and I fell to the ground, but somehow found the strength to rise and stagger forward again.
Someone small and hard grabbed me from behind, taking us both to the sand. “You fool!” Diomede hissed, holding me down. “What are you doing? He’ll kill you too!”
“Let him!” I cried. “Since he—”
“Hush! Listen!”
That roar again—the Achaeans cheering, shouting as Achilleus murdered the next captive and flung him onto the pyre. I pressed my hands over my ears as more men died and more roars came. Diomede seized my wrists. “Do you hear?” she demanded. “They’re all as hungry for blood as he. Come away!”
I shook and sobbed, feeling as soiled as if I had assisted in the slaughter.
“Get up!” She had a tight grip on my arm. “Quickly, before anybody sees us.”
She led me along the shore, pulling me so hard I was forced to run. When at last we stopped to catch our breath, she looked over her shoulder.
“No one will come after us,” I told her. “They only care about the bloodletting.”
Nearby, dogs barked, a hound bayed. The sky began to glow with lurid, pulsating streaks of red.
They had lit the pyre.
