Odysseos nodded his approval.
“I was his tutor when Achilles was a lad,” Phoenix said, in a frail voice that quavered slightly. “He was proud and touchy even then.”
Ajax shrugged his massive shoulders. Odysseos said, “Well, let us try to convince mighty Achilles to rejoin the army.”
We started off for the far end of the camp, where Achilles’ Myrmidones had beached their boats. Half a dozen armed Ithacans trailed the three nobles and I fell in with them. The wind was blowing in off the water, cold and sharp as a knife. The sky above was clouding over. Perhaps it will rain tomorrow, I thought. Perhaps there will be no battle, after all.
Once we entered the Myrmidones’ portion of the camp we passed several sentries on duty, fully armed and armored, with helmets strapped on tightly, heavy shields and long spears in their hands. They wore cloaks, which the wind plucked at and whipped around their gleaming suits of bronze. They recognized giant Ajax and the squat King of Ithaca, and allowed the rest of us to pass unchallenged.
Finally we were stopped by a pair of guards whose armor glittered in the light of a big bonfire, just before a large cabin built of planks.
“We are a deputation from the High King,” said Odysseos, his voice deep and grave with formality, “sent to see Achilles, prince of the Myrmidones.”
The guard saluted by clasping his fist to his heart and answered, “Prince Achilles has been expecting you and bids you welcome.”
He stepped aside and gestured them to the open door of the cabin. Odysseos turned and beckoned me to accompany him, Ajax and Phoenix. The other Ithacan troops remained outside.
Mighty warrior that he was, Achilles apparently enjoyed his creature comforts. His cabin’s interior was draped with rich tapestries and the floor was covered with carpets. Couches and pillows were scattered across the spacious room. In one corner a hearth fire smoldered red, keeping out the cold and damp. I could hear the wind moaning through the smoke hole in the roof, but inside the cabin it was reasonably snug and warm.
Three women sat by the fire, staring at us with great dark eyes. They were slim and young, dressed modestly in sleeveless gray chemises. Iron and copper pots stood on tripods at the hearth, faint wisps of steam rising from them. I smelled spiced meat and garlic.
Achilles himself sat on a wide couch against the far wall of the cabin, his back to a magnificent arras that depicted a gory battle scene. The couch was atop a dais, raised above the carpeted floor of the cabin like a king’s throne.
My first sight of the fabled warrior was a surprise. He was not a mighty-thewed giant, like Ajax. His body was not broad and powerful, as Odysseos’. He seemed small, almost boyish, his bare arms and legs slim and virtually hairless. His chin was shaved clean and the ringlets of his long black hair were tied up in a silver chain. He wore a splendid white silk tunic, bordered with a purple key design, cinched at the waist with a belt of interlocking gold crescents. He wore no weapons, but behind him a half-dozen long spears rested against the arras, within easy reach.
His face was the greatest shock. Ugly, almost to the point of being grotesque. Narrow beady eyes, lips curled in a perpetual snarl, a sharp hook of a nose, skin pocked and cratered. In his right hand he gripped a jeweled wine cup; from the bleary look in his eyes it seemed to me that he had already drained it more than once.
At his feet sat a young man who was absolutely beautiful, gazing not at the four of us but up at Achilles. His tightly curled hair was reddish brown, rather than the usual darker tones of these Achaians. I wondered if it was his natural color. Like Achilles, he was beardless. But he seemed young enough not to need to shave. A golden pitcher of wine stood on the carpet beside him.
I looked at Achilles again and thought that I understood the demons that drove him. A small ugly boy born to be a king. A boy destined to rule, but always the object of taunts and derisive laughter behind his back. A young man possessed with fire to silence the laughter, to stifle the taunting. His slim arms and legs were iron-hard, knotted with muscle. His dark eyes were absolutely humorless. There was no doubt in my mind that he could outfight Odysseos or even powerful Ajax on sheer willpower alone.
“Greetings, Odysseos the Ever-Daring,” he said in a calm, clear tenor voice that was close to mocking. “And to you, mighty Ajax, King of Salamis and champion of the Achaian host.” Then his voice softened, “And to you, Phoenix, my well-loved tutor.”
I glanced at the old man. He bowed to Achilles but his eyes were on the beautiful young man at Achilles’ feet.
“You bring a stranger with you,” Achilles said, his cold eyes inspecting me.
“A Hittite,” Odysseos replied, “who has joined my house hold, together with his squad of men. They will make a fine addition to our forces.”
“Indeed,” Achilles said thinly.
Odysseos got down to the subject at hand. “We bring you greetings, Prince Achilles, from Agamemnon the High King.”
“Agamemnon the bargain-breaker, you mean,” Achilles snapped. “Agamemnon the gift-snatcher.”
“He is our High King,” Odysseos said, in a tone that suggested they were all stuck with Agamemnon and the best they could do was to try to work with him.
“So he is,” admitted Achilles. “And well-beloved by Father Zeus, I’m sure.” The sarcasm in his voice dripped like acid.
It was going to be a difficult parley, I could see.
“Perhaps our guests are hungry,” suggested the young man in a soft voice.
Achilles tousled his curly mop of hair. “Always the thoughtful one, Patrokles. Always thoughtful.”
He bade us sit and ordered the serving women to feed us and bring wine cups. Odysseos, Ajax and Phoenix took couches arranged near Achilles’ dais. I stepped back, as befitted a common soldier. Patrokles got to his feet and filled all their cups from his pitcher of gold. The women passed trays of broiled lamb with onions among the noblemen. No one paid the slightest attention to me.
After a round of toasts and polite banter, Achilles said, “I thought I heard mighty Agamemnon bawling like a frightened woman earlier today. He breaks into tears quite easily, doesn’t he?”
Odysseos frowned slightly. “Our High King was wounded this morning. A cowardly Trojan archer hit him in the right shoulder.”
“Too bad,” said Achilles. “I see that you did not escape the day’s fighting without a wound. Did it bring you to tears?”
Ajax burst out, “Achilles, if Agamemnon cries it’s not from pain or fear. It’s from shame! Shame that the Trojans have penned us up in our camp. Shame that our best fighter sits here on a soft couch while his comrades are being slaughtered by Hector and his Trojans.”
“Shame is what he
And so it went, for nearly an hour. Achilles was furious with Agamemnon for taking back a prize he had been awarded, some captive woman. He claimed that he did all the fighting while Agamemnon was a coward, but after the battle the High King parceled out the spoils to suit himself and even then reneged on what Achilles felt was due him.
“I have sacked more towns and brought the Achaians more captives and loot than any man here, and none of you can say that I haven’t,” he insisted hotly. “Yet that fat lard-ass can steal my rightful rewards away from me, and you—all of you!—allow him to do it. Did any of you stick up for me in the council? Do you think I owe you anything? Why should I fight for you when you won’t even raise your voices on my behalf ?”
Patrokles tried to soothe him, without much success. “Achilles, these men are not your enemies. They come to you on a mission of reconciliation. It isn’t fitting for a host to bellow at his guests so.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Achilles replied, almost smiling down at the young man. Turning to Odysseos and the others, he said, “It’s not your fault. I’m not angry at you. But I’ll see myself in Hades before I help Agamemnon again. He’s not trustworthy. You should be thinking about appointing a new leader among yourselves.”
Odysseos tried tact, praising Achilles’ prowess in battle, downplaying Agamemnon’s failures and shortcomings. Ajax, blunt and straightforward as a shovel, flatly told Achilles that he was helping the Trojans to slay the Achaians. Old Phoenix appealed to his former student’s sense of honor and recited childhood homilies to
