We went out across the causeways with light hearts to face an army almost crippled out of existence. Achilles was unusually quiet beside me, but I didn’t think to question the significance of his mood. He stood like a beacon in his golden armour, the fine gold plumes of the helm flying in the wind and bouncing around his shoulders as we lurched over the uneven terrain. Expecting his habitual comradely smile, I turned sideways to grin at him, but that day he forgot our little ritual. He looked straight ahead, at what I didn’t know. A stern and controlled peace had settled upon that stormy face; suddenly I felt as if I drove a stranger. Not once did he speak to me during our drive to the battle place, nor did he give me any kind of smile. Which should have cast me down, yet inexplicably did not. Rather, I felt buoyed up, as if something in him was rubbing off on me.
He fought better than in all his life, seeming bent on concentrating all his massive glory into the space of a single day. Though instead of working himself into his usual killing furore, he took pains to see that the Myrmidons were prospering. He used his sword, not his axe, and used it in complete silence, as the King does when he makes the annual great sacrifice to the God. That thought gave birth to another; all at once I knew what the difference in him was. He had always been the Prince, he had never been the King. That day he was the King. I wondered if he had some premonition that Peleus was dead.
As I manoeuvred the chariot around the field I took an occasional glance at the sky, misliking the weather. Even at dawn it had been dull and drear, with the promise not of cold but of tempests. Now the vault was a peculiar copper hue, and to the east and south great black thunderheads were gathering, lightning flickering. Over Ida, where we were sure the Gods congregated to watch the fray.
It was a complete rout. The Trojans couldn’t hold us, not when every leader of our army seemed possessed by a lesser form of the grandeur which sat upon Achilles like the rays around the head of Helios. It is reflecting off him, I thought; he has become the highest of all kings.
Not long into the day the Trojans broke and fled. I looked for Aineas, wondering why he was making no effort to hold them together. But he must have been suffering an unlucky day, for there was no sign of him anywhere. Later on I learned that he kept to himself and wouldn’t send his men where they were needed as reinforcements. We had heard that there was a new Heir, we had heard his name: Troilos. Then I remembered that Achilles had told me Priam insulted Aineas at the time he had made Troilos the new Heir. Well, today Aineas had demonstrated that it was a foolish old King of Troy who insulted a Dardanian prince, also an Heir.
We had seen Troilos on the field before, when Penthesileia fought, and when Memnon fought. He had been fortunate, never coming up against Achilles or Ajax, but that changed today. Achilles pursued him relentlessly, following whichever way he turned, drawing closer and closer. When Troilos realised the inevitable he called for aid, his men hard pressed. I saw him direct the messenger to go to Aineas, who was nearby. I saw the man speak to Aineas, who leaned down from his car with what appeared to be interest. I saw the messenger remove himself. But I didn’t see Aineas lift one finger to help. Instead he wheeled his car and took himself – and his men – elsewhere.
Troilos was game enough. He was a full brother to Hektor and might, with a few more years added, have made another Hektor. At his age, he hadn’t a chance. While I came closer he raised his spear, the driver holding his vehicle steady for the cast, the only one he would loose before we got too close. I felt Achilles’s arm brush mine, and knew he was lifting Old Pelion. That great spear left on a superb throw, winging its way as straight as a shaft from the hand of Apollo. Its iron barb bit deeply into the lad’s throat, felling him voiceless, and above the heads of the despairing Trojan troops I saw Aineas watching with a bitter face. We got Troilos’s armour and the team as well, and cut what were left of his men to ribbons.
After Troilos died Aineas came to life. He shook off his apathy and threw the remainder of the Trojan army in our teeth, everywhere among the soldiers, but careful never to get within a spear-cast of Achilles. A wily one, the Dardanian. He wanted very desperately to live; I wondered what passions drove the man, for he was no coward.
The sun had gone, the storm was gathering fast. So massive was the latent power we could feel stored in the sky that the troops began to mutter loudly of omens. The clouds dropped lower and lower, the lightning flashed closer, we could hear the thunder above the roar of battle. I had never seen such a sky before, nor felt the Sky Father prickle and ripple up and down my backbone. The light had grown dim, had an eerie sulphurous glow, and the clouds were as black as the beard of Hades, curling like smoke from a huge oil fire, lit to vivid blue by the lightning. I heard the Myrmidons behind us saying that Father Zeus was sending us an omen of complete victory, and from the way they behaved I fancied that the Trojans took it as a complete Greek victory too.
There was a scorching flash of white fire right in front of us. The team reared and I had to cover my eyes for fear of being blinded. When the afterdazzle faded I looked at Achilles.
‘Let’s dismount,’ I said. ‘It’s safer on the ground.’
For the first time that day his eyes met mine. Dumbfounded, I stared. It was as if the bolts played around his head; his yellow eyes were alight with joy and he laughed at my fears.
‘See it, Automedon? See it? My great-grandfather prepares to mourn me! He holds me a fit descendant of his seed!’
I gaped. ‘Mourn? Achilles, what do you mean?’
In answer he gripped both my wrists hard. ‘I’m called. Today I die, Automedon. The Myrmidons are yours until you can send for my son. Father Zeus prepares for my death.’
I couldn’t believe it. I wouldn’t believe it! Like a man caught in a nightmare I whipped the team onward. When my shock evaporated a little I sought for the best thing to do, and as unobtrusively as possible I began to edge the car nearer and nearer to Ajax and Odysseus, whose men fought side by side.
If Achilles noticed what I was doing he dismissed it as quite irrelevant. I looked up at the sky and prayed, begged the Father to take my life and spare his; but the God only roared his derision and set me shaking. The Trojans made a sudden dash for their walls, we followed pellmell to head them off. Ajax was closer now; I kept edging the chariot up until I could get the message to him that Achilles fancied himself called. If any man could avert it, that man was Ajax.
We were within the shadow of the Western Curtain, too near the Skaian Gate to permit of Priam’s opening it. Achilles, Ajax and Odysseus penned Aineas against the gate in a last ditch stand. Achilles was determined to have Aineas; I could feel it in his silence even as I prayed that he wouldn’t get the chance to come at this most dangerous of all the Trojan leaders left alive.
I heard him give a grunt of content and saw the Dardanian within range, too beset to take a full account of those ranged against him. He was a perfect target. Achilles raised Old Pelion, the muscles in his arm bulging as he gathered power for the cast, his naked armpit covered in fine golden hair. My eyes followed the line of the spear to Aineas in fascination, knowing that life was over for the Dardanian, that the last great threat was no more.
It all seemed to happen in the same instant, though I swear that it wasn’t the chariot made Achilles lose his balance. He went over on his right ankle, even though it looked firmly braced in the stirrup, and his right arm flew even higher as he fought to keep his stance. I heard a thud, saw the arrow stuck almost to its bright blue flights in that naked armpit. Old Pelion fell uncast to the ground as Achilles reared up like some titan, then shrieked out Chiron’s war cry in a voice brazen with triumph, as if he conquered mortality itself. His arm fell and drove the arrow in to its hilt, deeper than shame or death. I held onto the team with both hands, Xanthos plunging in terror, Balios hanging his head, Podargos beating a tattoo with his hooves. But Patrokles wasn’t there to speak for them, to give their grief and horror human words.
All who heard the war cry turned to look; Ajax screamed as if he too had been hit. The blood gushed from that lipless mouth and from both nostrils, cascading over the golden armour in great rivers. Odysseus was right behind Ajax; he gave a shout of rage and futility, his hand outstretched, pointing. Safe near a rock, Paris stood with his bow in his hand, smiling.
It could not have been long that Achilles hung upright, before he toppled over the chariot’s rail into Ajax’s arms and bore him to the ground with a clang of armour that echoed in our hearts and would not fade away. I was beside Ajax as he knelt with his cousin in his arms, as Ajax took off the helmet and stared dumbly into the scarlet, running face. Achilles saw who held him, but the vision of death was much bigger, much closer. He tried vainly to speak, the words drowned; for a moment the farewell was there in his eyes. Then the pupils dilated, the yellow irises were driven away by featureless, transparent black. Three frightful jerks which taxed Ajax’s strength, and it was over. He was dead. Achilles was dead. We looked into the lucent vacant windows of his eyes and saw nothing behind. Ajax put out a huge, clumsy hand to brush the lids down shut, then put the helm on again and strapped it tightly, his tears falling faster and faster, his mouth all awry.
He was dead. Achilles was dead. How could we ever bear it?
Shock must have held both armies immobile; suddenly the Trojans fell on us like hounds licking the blood of men. They were after the body and the armour. Odysseus leaped to his feet, careless that he wept. The Myrmidons were standing silent, the impossible a reality at their feet. Bending, Odysseus picked up Old Pelion and brandished it in their faces.
‘Are you going to let them take him?’ he yelled, spitting. ‘You saw what a cur’s trick it took to kill him! Are you just going to stand there and let them take his body from you? In the name of Achilles himself, stand by him now!’
They shook off their shock and rallied; no Trojan would get near Achilles while one of them lived. Forming in front of us, they took the charge in savage and sullen grief. Odysseus helped the weeping Ajax to his feet, helped him swing the limp and very heavy form into his arms.
‘Carry him back beyond the lines, Ajax. I’ll make sure they don’t break through.’
As if it were an afterthought, he shoved Old Pelion into Ajax’s right hand and pushed him on his way. I had always had my reservations about Odysseus, but he was a king. Sword in his hand, he swung round and planted his feet widely on the earth still steaming with Achilles’s blood. We took the Trojan charge and beat it off, Aineas howling like a jackal when he saw Ajax trudging away. I looked at Odysseus.
‘Ajax is strong, but not strong enough to walk far carrying Achilles. Let me catch him up, put Achilles with me.’
He nodded.
So I turned the team in pursuit of Ajax, who had emerged from the back of our lines and still plodded towards the beach. At which moment, while I was still too far away to help, a chariot flew past me, its driver aiming to head Ajax off: one of Priam’s sons was in it, for he wore the purple insignia of the House of Dardanos on his cuirass. Trying to put some heart into my team, I yelled a warning to Ajax. But he didn’t seem to hear.
The Trojan prince saundered down from his perch, sword in hand, smiling. Which indicated that he didn’t know Ajax, who never faltered as he walked on. He lifted Achilles higher in his arms and spitted the Trojan on Old Pelion, the afterthought Odysseus had placed in his hand.
‘Ajax, lie Achilles in the car,’ I said, drawing level.
‘I’ll carry him home.’
‘It’s too far, you’ll kill yourself.’
‘I’ll carry him!’
‘Then at least,’ I said desperately, ‘let us take the armour off him, put that in the car. It would be more fitting.’
‘And I’d feel his body, not its casing. Yes, we can do that.’
The moment Achilles was freed from that awful weight Ajax walked on, cuddling his cousin, kissing his ruined face, talking to him, crooning.
The army was following us slowly, coming across the plain; I kept the chariot just behind Ajax, his great legs toiling as if he could have walked a hundred leagues holding Achilles.
The God had contained his grief long enough. He let it loose upon our heads, and all the vault of the heavens broke into white bolts of fire. The team shivered and stopped, pinned by fear; even Ajax came to a halt, standing while the thunder cracked and rolled overhead and the lightning played a fantastic lacework in the clouds. The rain began to fall at last, huge heavy drops coming stiffly and sparsely, as if the God was too moved to weep easily. The tempo of the rain increased, we floundered in a sea of mud. The army drew level with us, all conflict abandoned before the might of the Thunderer, and together we brought Achilles in across the Skamander causeway, Ajax leading and the King behind him. In the pouring rain we laid him on a bier, while the Father washed his blood away with sky tears.
I went with Odysseus to the house to find Brise. She was by the doorpost, it seemed expecting us.
‘Achilles is dead,’ said Odysseus.
‘Where is he?’ she asked, voice steady.
‘Before Agamemnon’s house.’ Odysseus still wept.
Brise stroked his arm and smiled. ‘There’s no need to grieve, Odysseus. He will be immortal.’
They had rigged up a canopy over the bier to keep off the rain; Brise ducked under its edge and stood looking down at the ruins of that magnificent man, water and blood matting his bright hair, his face drained and still. I wondered if she saw what I did: that the lipless mouth looked right in death, though it never had in life. Owning it, his was the face of the quintessential warrior.
But what she thought, she did not say, then or ever. With perfect tenderness she leaned over and kissed his eyelids, took his hands and folded them on his chest, tucked and patted at the shift until it suited her idea of rightness.
He was dead. Achilles was dead. How could we ever bear it?
We mourned him for seven full days. On the last evening as the sun was setting we laid his body on the golden death car and ferried him across Skamander to the tomb in the cliff. Brise went with us, for no one had the heart to banish her; she walked at the end of the long cortege with her hands folded and her head bent. Ajax was the chief mourner, held the head of Achilles in the palm of one hand as they carried him into the chamber. He was clad in gold, but not in the golden armour. That Agamemnon had taken into custody.
After the priests had said the words, fitted the golden mask over his face and poured out the libations, we filed slowly out of the tomb he shared with Patrokles, Perithesileia and twelve noble Trojan youths. Strangest of all those many strange events and portents was the atmosphere inside the tomb; sweet, pure, ineffable. The blood of the twelve youths in the golden chalice was still liquid, still richly coloured crimson.
I turned back to make sure Brise was following, to find that she knelt by the death car. Though I had no hope of reaching her, I ran into the tomb, Nestor by my side. We couldn’t speak as she laid the knife down with the last of her strength and sank upon the ground. Yes, that was proper! How could any of us face the light of a day that knew no Achilles? I half bent to pick up the knife, but Nestor stopped me.
‘Come away, Automedon. They want no others here.’
The funeral feast was held the following day, but there were no games. Agamemnon explained.
‘I doubt anyone has the heart to compete. But that isn’t why. The why lies in the fact that Achilles didn’t want to be buried in the armour his mother – a Goddess! – commissioned from Hephaistos Fire. He wanted it awarded as a prize to the best man left alive before Troy. Instead of funeral games.’
I didn’t disbelieve him, exactly, but Achilles hadn’t mentioned this to me. ‘How, sire, can you possibly decide that? By feats of arms? But sometimes they’re not indicative of genuine greatness.’
‘Precisely,’ said the High King. ‘For that reason, I’m going to make it a contest of words. Any man who thinks that he’s the best man left alive before Troy, step out and tell me why.’
Two contenders only stepped out. Ajax and Odysseus. How odd! They represented the two poles of greatness: the warrior and the – what did one call him, the man who worked through mind?
‘Yes, fitting,’ said Agamemnon. ‘Ajax, you brought his body in. Odysseus, you made it possible to bring the body in. Ajax, speak first and tell me why you think you deserve the armour.’
We all sat on chairs to either side of Agamemnon, I with King Nestor and the rest because I led the Myrmidons now. There were no others present.
Ajax seemed to be as troubled as he was wordless; he stood there, the biggest man I have ever seen, without a thing to say. Nor did he look well; there was something wrong with his right side from face to leg. When he had walked forward he had dragged that leg, nor did the right arm move in a natural way. A little stroke, I thought. He’s had a little stroke. Carrying his cousin so far has strained the weakest part of him, his mind. And when finally he did speak, he kept pausing painfully to search for a word.
‘Imperial High King, fellow Kings and Princes… I am the first cousin of Achilles. His father, Peleus, and my father, Telamon, were full brothers. Their father, Aiakos, was a son of Zeus. Ours is a great lineage. Ours is a great name. I claim the armour for myself because I bear that name, come from that line. I can’t let it be awarded to a man who is the bastard of a common thief.’
The row of twenty men stirred, frowned. What was Ajax doing, to slander Odysseus? Not that Odysseus protested; apparently deaf, he looked at the ground.
‘I came to Troy voluntarily, as did Achilles. No oath bound either of us. I didn’t have to be unmasked when I feigned madness, but Odysseus did. Only two men in this great host fought Hektor in hand to hand combat – Achilles and I. I need no Diomedes to do my dirty work for me. What use would the armour be to Odysseus? His weak left hand couldn’t hope to cast Old Pelion. His red head would sink beneath the weight of that helmet. If you doubt my right to my cousin’s property, then throw it into the middle of a pack of Trojans, and see which one of the two of us pulls it out!’
He limped to his chair and sat down heavily.
Agamemnon looked embarrassed, but it was plain that most of us agreed with what Ajax said. Puzzled, I studied Odysseus. Why did he lay claim to the armour at all?
He moved forwards and stood loosely with his feet apart, the redness of his hair pronounced in the light. Red-haired and left-handed. No divine blood there, for sure.
‘It’s true that I tried to get out of coming to Troy,’ said Odysseus. ‘I knew how long this war would last. Oath notwithstanding, how many of you would voluntarily have joined this expedition if you’d had any idea how long you’d be away?
‘As for Achilles, I’m the sole reason why he came to Troy – I and none other saw through the plot to keep him in Skyros. Ajax was there, but he didn’t see. Ask Nestor, he’ll confirm it.
‘As for ancestry, I ignore Ajax’s vile insinuation. I too am a great-grandson of almighty Zeus.
‘As for physical courage, do any of you doubt mine? I don’t have a better body than anyone else to bolster my valour, but I do very well in battle. If you doubt that, count my scars. King Diomedes is my friend and lover, not my minion.’
He paused, as much at ease with words as Ajax was ill at ease. ‘I’ve laid claim to the armour for one reason only – because I want to see it disposed of as Achilles himself wished.
‘If I cannot wear it, can Ajax? If it’s too large for me, it’s certainly too small for him. Give it to me. I deserve it.’
He threw his arms wide as if to say that there was no contest at all, then returned to his chair. Many wavered now, but that couldn’t matter. Agamemnon would decide.
The High King looked at Nestor. ‘What do you think?’
Nestor sighed. ‘That Odysseus deserves the armour.’
‘Then so be it. Odysseus, take your prize.’
Ajax screamed. His sword was out, but whatever he intended to do with it was not done. Even as he sprang out of his chair, he pitched full length on the ground and lay there. Nothing we did could rouse him. In the end Agamemnon ordered a stretcher brought, and eight soldiers bore him away. Odysseus put the armour in a hand cart while the Kings dispersed, saddened and dispirited. I went looking for wine to take the sourness out of my mouth. By the time that Odysseus had finished speaking we had known what he intended to do with his prize – give it to Neoptolemos. Maybe in Troy that would have been possible as a direct gift, but armour belonging to a dead man in our part of the world was either buried with him or put up as a prize at his funeral games. A pity. Yes, as things turned out, a great pity.
Night had long fallen when I gave up trying to get drunk. I walked the deserted streets between the tall houses seeking a light, any place which might offer me comfort. And there it was at last, a flame! Burning inside Odysseus’s house. The curtain was still drawn back from the doorway, so I staggered in.
He was sitting with Diomedes, sitting watching the dying embers of a fire and brooding. His arm was thrown about the Argive, his fingers slowly caressing the Argive’s bare shoulder. An outsider looking at their solidarity, a masterless dog, I knew a fresh surge of loneliness. Achilles was dead. I led the Myrmidons, I who had not been born to that command. Terrifying. I came into the circle of light and sat down wearily.
‘Do I intrude?’ I asked then, a little tardily.
Odysseus smiled. ‘No. Have some wine.’
My stomach turned over. ‘No, thank you. I’ve been trying to get drunk all night without success.’
‘So alone, Automedon?’ Diomedes asked.
‘More alone than I ever wanted to be. How can I take his place? I’m not Achilles!’
‘Rest easy,’ Odysseus whispered. ‘I sent for Neoptolemos ten days ago, when I saw the shadow of death darken his face. If the winds and Gods are kind, Neoptolemos should be here soon.’
The relief was so enormous I almost kissed him. ‘Odysseus, for that I thank you with all my heart! The Myrmidons must be led by the blood of Peleus.’
‘Don’t thank me for doing the sensible thing.’
We sat talking desultorily while the night passed away, each drawing comfort from the others. Once I fancied I heard a commotion in the distance, but when it died down quickly I turned my attention back to what Diomedes was saying. Then came a great shout; this time all three of us heard. Diomedes got up, pantherish, reaching for his sword, while Odysseus sat uncertainly, his head cocked. The noise grew; we went outside and moved in its direction.
It drew us down towards Skamander and finally to its bank, where we kept a pen of consecrated animals for the altars, each one individually chosen, blessed, and marked with a sacred symbol. Some of the other Kings were ahead of us, and a guard had already been posted to keep the merely curious away. Of course we were let through immediately, and joined Agamemnon and Menelaos as they stood by the fence around the pen peering at some object looming in the darkness. We listened to insane laughter, to a gibbering voice rising higher and higher, shouting names up at the stars, shrieking its rage and derision.
‘Take that, Odysseus, you spawn of thieves! Die, Menelaos, you crawling sycophant!’
On and on it went while we probed the night fruitlessly. Then someone handed a torch to Agamemnon, who raised it above his head and sent its light out in a widening pool. I gasped in horror. The wine and the empty belly I hadn’t wanted to fill revolted; I turned aside and spewed. As far as the light of the torch could reach was blood. Sheep and cattle and goats lay in lakes of it, their eyes glazed and fixed, their limbs lopped off, their throats cut, their hides showing sometimes dozens of wounds. In the background Ajax capered with a bloody sword in his hand. His mouth was open in that chilling laughter when it was not screaming abuse. A terrified little calf dangled from his hand, beating its hooves against his unyielding bulk while he hacked at it. Each time he struck he called the calf Agamemnon, then went into another peal of laughter.
‘To see him come to this!’ Odysseus whispered.
I managed to control my heaving. ‘What is it?’ I gasped.
‘Madness, Automedon. The outcome of different things. Too many blows to the head over the years – too much grief – perhaps a stroke. But to come to this! I pray he never recovers enough to understand what he’s done.’
‘We have to stop him!’ I said.
‘By all means try, Automedon. I don’t have any ambition to tackle Ajax in a fit of madness.’
‘Nor I,’ said Agamemnon.
So all we did was stand and watch.
With the dawn his madness lifted. He came to his senses ankle deep in blood, stared about him like a man in a nightmare – at the dozens of consecrated animals surrounding him, at the blood which covered him from head to foot, at the sword in his hand, at the silent Kings watching from beyond the fence. He still held a goat in his hand, drained of life, hideously mutilated. With a shriek of horror he dropped it, understanding at last what he had done in the night. Then he ran to the fence and leaped it, flying away from the place as if the Furies pursued him already. Teukros broke away from us to follow him; we remained where we were, shaken to our marrow.
Menelaos recovered his powers of speech first. ‘Are you going to let him get away with this, brother?’ he asked Agamemnon.
‘What do you want, Menelaos?’
‘His life! He’s killed the sacred animals, his life is forfeit! The Gods demand it!’
Odysseus sighed. ‘Whom the Gods love best, they first drive mad,’ he said. ‘Let it alone, Menelaos.’
‘He has to die!’ Menelaos insisted. ‘Execute him, and let no man dig his grave!’
‘That is the punishment,’ Agamemnon muttered.
Odysseus struck his hands together. ‘No, no, no! Leave him be! Isn’t it enough for you, Menelaos, that Ajax has doomed himself? His shade is condemned to Tartaros for this night’s work! Let him alone! Don’t heap more coals on his poor, crazed head!’
Agamemnon turned away from the carnage. ‘Odysseus is right. He’s mad, brother. Let him atone as best he can.’
Odysseus, Diomedes and I walked down through the streets and the murmuring, shivering men to where Ajax lived with his chief concubine, Tekmessa, and their son, Eurysakes. When Odysseus knocked on the bolted door Tekmessa peered fearfully through the shuttered window, then opened to him, her son at her side.
‘Where’s Ajax?’ asked Diomedes.
She wiped away her tears. ‘Gone, sire. I don’t know where, except that he said he was going to seek forgiveness of Palladian Athene by bathing in the sea.’ She broke down, but managed to go on. ‘He gave Eurysakes his shield. He said it was the only one of his arms not tainted by sacrilege, and told us that all the other pieces were to be buried with him. Then he gave us into the care of Teukros. Sire, sire, what is it? What did he do?’
‘Nothing he understood, Tekmessa. Stay here, we’ll find him.’
He was down by the shore where the tiny waves lapped gently at the fringe of the lagoon and a few rocks dotted the gravelly sand. Teukros was with him, kneeling with his head bent over, stolid Teukros who never spoke much but was always there when Ajax needed him. Even now, at the last.
What he had done spoke mutely for itself: the flat rock a few fingers above the gravel, its surface cracked from some blow of Poseidon’s trident, the sword handle wedged to its hilt in the crack, blade upwards. He had shed his armour and bathed in the sea, he had traced an owl in the sand for Athene and an eye for Mother Kubaba. Then he had positioned himself above the sword and fallen on it with all his weight; it had taken him in the centre of his chest and clove the backbone. Two cubits of it protruded beyond his body. He lay with his face in his own blood, his eyes closed, traces of madness still in his features. His huge hands were slack, the fingers gently curved.
Teukros raised his head to look at us bitterly, his eyes as they rested on Odysseus plainly saying that he knew who was to blame. What Odysseus thought I couldn’t begin to guess, but he didn’t falter.
‘What can we do?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ said Teukros. ‘I’ll bury him myself.’
‘Here?’ asked Diomedes, aghast. ‘No, he deserves better!’
‘You know that’s not true. He knew it. So do I. He’ll have exactly what the laws of the Gods say he deserves – a suicide’s grave. It’s all I’m able to do for him. All that’s left between us. He must pay in death, as Achilles paid in life. He said that before he died.’
We went away then and left them alone, the brothers who would never again fight with the little one under the shelter of the big one’s shield. In eight days they were both gone: Achilles and Ajax, the spirit and the heart of our army.
‘Ai! Ai! Woe! Woe!’ cried Odysseus, the tears running down his face. ‘How strange are the ways of the Gods! Achilles dragged Hektor by the baldric Ajax gave him. Now Ajax falls on the sword Hektor gave him.’ He writhed painfully. ‘By the Mother, I am sick unto death of Troy! I hate the very smell of Trojan air.’