An Iliad (11 page)

I saw him coming, protected by his shield, at the forefront of his men, with the shining helmet quivering over his temples. Then I almost started running toward him. “Come on, madman, let’s go!” I shouted. “You want our ships, right? But we have arms with which to defend them, and with these arms we will annihilate you and your city. Start praying, Hector, because soon you’ll need the swiftest horses in order to flee and save your life!”

“What do you mean, Ajax,” cried Hector. “You’re just a lying show-off. This is the day of your ruin, believe me. You, too,
will die, along with all the others. Come and challenge my spear. It can’t wait to bite your white skin and leave you on the plain of Troy as a meal for dogs and birds!” And without delay he hurled his spear at Ajax.

He hit me right in the chest, but I wasn’t destined to die there. The bronze tip stopped just where the two thick straps of leather and silver meet, one for the shield, one for the sword— it stuck right there. So I bent over, took a sharp stone from the ground, and before Hector could hide among his men I threw it at him with all my might.

The stone whirled through the air like a top, passed over the shield, and hit him hard, right below the neck. We saw him topple to the ground, like an oak struck by a thunderbolt.

A cry went up, a great cry, and it was the cry of all the Achaeans, who rushed at him to carry him off, to tear him to pieces.

But no one could touch him. We were all there to shelter him—Polydamas, Agenor, Glaucus, and a thousand others who with their shields made an insuperable barrier around him. Finally I took him in my arms and carried him out of the
fray. I hurried back to the wall and then I crossed the trench, and didn’t stop until I reached his chariot. We loaded him on it and then away, at a gallop, back to the plain. Only when we reached the river did we stop. Hector moaned, weakened. We laid him on the ground and poured water over his head. He opened his eyes, struggled to his knees, and vomited black blood; then he fell to the ground again, backward, and a dark shadow descended over his eyes.

When I saw that they had taken him away, I knew it was the moment to attack. I went first, leading all behind me. It was a savage fight. Not so loud are the waves of the sea crashing against the cliffs when the north wind blows violently. Not so strong is the roar of a fire when it blazes up in the mountain valleys and consumes the forest, not so loud does the wind wail when it rages among the tall branches of the oaks—not so loud as the cry that exploded when Achaeans and Trojans charged. And first I killed Satnius, the son of Enops, goring him in the side; Polydamas killed Prothoënor, piercing him through the shoulder. I killed Archelochus with a blow that cut off his head; Acamas killed Promachus, and, to avenge Promachus, Peneleos assaulted Ilioneus, striking him under the eyebrow with his spear, so that the eye fell out and the point pierced the skull and emerged from the neck. Peneleos drew his sword and cut off the head, and then he raised his spear, with the head still attached to it, and waved it in the air, shouting, “Trojans, tell the parents of Ilioneus from me that they can begin to weep for him, because they will never again see the body of their beloved son!” It was something that terrified the Trojans. We saw them scatter, seeking an escape.

They felt the abyss of death opening before them. And suddenly they all began to run, and, fleeing, they abandoned the ships and reached the wall, but they didn’t stop there, they went on running and crossed the trench, and only when they were on the other side, next to their chariots, did they stop, pale with fear.

Frightened like deer pursued into the depths of the forest by hunters: with their loud bellowing, they wake a thick-maned lion, who springs from the obscurity of the woods and freezes every heart.

They thought I was dead. Suddenly they saw me before them, like a spirit escaped from the beyond, like a nightmare that wouldn’t leave them in peace, like a lion that had sunk its teeth into their flesh and wouldn’t let go. They fled, most of them, in retreat toward the ships. Only the bravest remained: Ajax, Idomeneus, Teucer, Meriones, Meges. With long strides I marched against them, leading the whole army behind me. One after another they fell under our attack. Stichius and Arcesilaus killed by me. Medon and Iasus killed by Aeneas. Mecisteus killed by Polydamas, Echius killed by Polites, Clo-nius killed by Agenor. Deiochus killed by Paris, struck in the back. While we stripped the bodies, they ran in every direction. Even the best, all of them. They retreated to the wall, but still fear gripped them, and they abandoned that, too, withdrawing toward the ships.

I shouted to my soldiers to leave the bodies and the
weapons and everything and jump in their chariots and launch into pursuit. The way was open; we could get to the ships without even fighting. Then I mounted my chariot and urged the horses to a gallop. We reached the trench, we crossed it, we headed for the wall, and everywhere overran it, and it crumbled like a sand castle under our assault.
I was at the very front and finally I saw, there, before me, the ships. The first black hulls, propped up on the land, and then, as far as the eye could see, ships, ships, ships down to the beach and the sea, thousands of masts and keels, prows pointing toward the sky as far as you could see. The ships. No one can understand what that war was for us Trojans without imagining the day we saw them arrive. There were more than a thousand, on that stretch of the sea that had been in our view since we were children, but we had never seen it touched by something that was not friendly, and small, and rare. Now it was obscured to the horizon by monsters come from far away to annihilate us. I understand what kind of war it was when I think back to that day, and see myself, my brothers—all the young men of Troy—outfitted in our glorious armor, as we came out of the city, marched across the plain, and, reaching the sea, tried to stop that terrifying fleet, by throwing stones. The stones on the beach. We threw them, do you understand? A thousand ships, and us with our stones.

Nine years later, I again have those ships before me. But they are imprisoned on land, and surrounded by terrified men who with arms raised pray to heaven not to die. Is it surprising if I forgot my wound, the blow from Ajax, weariness, and fear?
I unleashed my army, and it became for those ships a stormy sea, a swelling wave, and sparkling surf.

We scaled the keels, torches in hand, to set fire to the
ships. But the Achaeans made a strong defense. There was Ajax again, urging them on, directing them. He was on a ship, at the stern, and he was killing anyone who could get up or even get near. I headed straight for him and, when I was close enough, aimed and hurled my spear. The bronze tip flew high but missed the target and struck Lycophron, one of his men. I saw Ajax shudder, then glance at Teucer, without a pause in the fighting. Teucer was the best archer among the Achaeans. As if Ajax had given him an order, he took an arrow from the quiver, stretched the bowstring, and aimed straight at me. Instinctively I raised my shield, but what I saw was the bowstring break, and the arrow fall to earth, and Teucer, terrified, freeze. Truly it seemed a sign from the gods. Auspicious for me and unlucky for the Achaeans. I looked around. They had made a shield for the ships, fighting close beside one another: they were a wall of bronze that kept us back. I searched for a weak point, where I could break through, but couldn’t find one. And so I went where I saw the finest armor and attacked there, like a lion who attacks a flock that no shepherd can save. They looked at me with terror. I was foaming with rage, my temples were pounding under the shining helmet: they looked at me and fled, the wall of bronze opened. I saw them run toward the tents for a last stand, and I looked up and saw the ships, just above me, closer than I had ever seen them. Only Ajax remained, with a few men, jumping from one ship to the next, waving a pike, and his voice rose to the sky as with a terrible cry he called to the Achaeans to fight. I chose a ship with a blue prow. I attacked from the stern, climbing up to the deck. The Achaeans pressed around me. It was no longer the moment for spears or arrows. We fought hand to hand, a battle of swords, daggers, sharpened axes. I saw the blood run
in rivers down from the ship, down to the black earth. That was the battle I had always wished for: not in the open plain, not at the walls of Troy, but on the ships, the hated ships.

“Achaeans, soldiers, where did you leave your courage?” It was the voice of Ajax. There on the deck he fought and shouted. “Why are you fleeing? Do you think there is someplace behind you where you can take refuge? The sea is behind you; this is where we’ll be saved!” I saw him just above me. He was covered with sweat, panting. He could hardly breathe, and weariness weighed down his arms. I raised my sword and with a sharp blow broke his spear, just below the tip; he stood there with the shaft, of ash, truncated, in his hand. In all that din I could hear the sound of the bronze tip as it fell to the wood of the deck. And Ajax understood—that it was my day, and that the gods were with me. He retreated, finally, he did it, he retreated. And I went up onto that ship. And I set fire to it.

It’s amid those flames that you should remember me. Hector, the defeated, you should remember him standing on the stern of that ship, surrounded by fire. Hector, the dead man dragged by Achilles three times around the walls of his city, you should remember him alive, and victorious, and shining in his bronze and silver armor. I learned from a queen the words that are left to me now and that I would like to repeat to you: Remember me, remember me, and forget my fate.

T
hey were so young that to them I was an old man. A teacher, maybe a father. To see them die without being able to do anything, this was my war. As for the rest, who remembers it anymore?

What I remember is Patroclus rushing into Achilles’ tent, weeping. It was that day of fierce battle, and defeat. He made an impression, Patroclus, in tears like that. He wept the way a little girl weeps as she clutches her mother’s robe and asks to be picked up in her arms; and even when the mother’s arms pick her up, she can’t stop looking at her, looking at her and crying. He was a hero, and he seemed a little child, a baby. “What’s the matter?” Achilles asked him. “Have you heard news of someone dying in our homeland? Maybe your father has died, or mine? Or do you weep for the Achaeans, who because of their arrogance are dying beside the black ships?” He would not give up his anger, do you understand? But that
day Patroclus, amid his tears, asked him to listen, without rage, without anger, without malice. Only to listen.

“Today, Achilles, great suffering has come upon the Achaeans. Those who were the bravest and the strongest lie wounded on the ships. Diomedes, Odysseus, Agamemnon: the healers are struggling, trying to soothe their wounds with every sort of drug. And you, mighty warrior, sit here, closed up in your anger. So I want you to listen to mine, Achilles, my anger: my rage. You don’t want to fight. I do. Send me into battle with your Myrmidon warriors. Give me your armor. Let me put it on. The Trojans will take me for you, and they will flee. Give me your armor and we’ll drive them back, back to the walls of Troy.” He spoke in the voice of a suppliant: he couldn’t know that he was asking to die.

Achilles listened to him. It was clear that the words disturbed him. Finally he spoke, and what he said changed the war. “A tremendous sorrow strikes the heart when a powerful king, thanks to his power, steals from a man what is due him. And this is the sorrow I feel, that Agamemnon has inflicted on me. But it’s true, what’s been done can’t be changed. And maybe no heart can cultivate an unyielding anger forever. I said I wouldn’t move until I heard the din of battle resounding near my black ship. That moment has arrived. Take my armor, Patroclus, take my men. Go into battle and keep disaster from the ships. Drive the Trojans back before they take from us the hope of a sweet return. But listen carefully and do what I tell you, if you really want to restore my honor and glory to me: once you’ve driven the enemy back from the ships, stop— don’t pursue the Trojans onto the plain. Stop fighting and come back. Don’t deprive me of my share of honor and glory. Don’t get excited by the tumult of battle and the cries that will urge you on to fight and kill all the way to the walls of Troy.

Leave that to the others and return, Patroclus. Come back here.”

Then he rose, banishing all his sadness, and in a strong voice said, “Now hurry, put on the armor. Already I see the flames of deathly fire burning near my ship. Hurry up, I will assemble the men.”

Who was I to stop them? Can a teacher, a father, stop destiny?
Patroclus clothed himself in gleaming bronze. He put on the beautiful greaves with silver fastenings at the ankles. On his chest he placed Achilles’ breastplate: it sparkled like a star. He slung over his shoulders the sword adorned with silver and then the big, heavy shield. On his proud head he placed the well-made helmet: the horsehair crest fluttered fearfully. Finally he chose two spears. But he didn’t take the one belonging to Achilles. Only Achilles could lift it, the ash spear Chei-ron had given his father that he might bring death to heroes.

When he came out of the tent, the Myrmidons gathered close around him, ready for battle. They were like ravenous wolves whose spirits are bold. Fifty ships had brought Achilles to Troy. Five battalions of warriors, commanded by five heroes. Menesthius, Eudorus, Pisander, Alcimedon. The fifth was me. Phoenix, the old man. Achilles spoke to all of us, sternly. “Myrmidons, you have accused me of having a heart of stone and of keeping you on the ships, far from the battle, only to nurse my anger. Well, now you have the war you longed for. Fight with all the courage you possess.” At the echo of his voice, the ranks of fighters closed in, and, like stones in a wall, the men pressed together. Shield to shield, helmet to helmet, man to man, they were so tightly arrayed that at every movement the plumes in the crests of the shining helmets touched. At the head of them all Patroclus: in the chariot to which Automedon had yoked Xanthus and Balius, the two
immortal stallions, swift as the wind, and Pedasus, a mortal horse and handsome.