Father

Only two of the three chariot horses are left. Pedasus has fallen, the outrigger who gallantly kept pace, and only the two immortals remain. This is the twelfth dawn broken by Achilles heaving them into harness. He doesn’t even pause to pass a hand over their satin necks. Each dawn for the last eleven days he has hooked great Hector’s body like a plough to the back of his chariot. He has threaded a strap through Hector’s ankles, thonging them together like fish to be carried. Then he hooks this thong to his car and drags the body, nose bumping down, through the dust. He has done this each morning. Three times each morning they circle the stone barrow built for Patroclus. A modest barrow, built to tide Patroclus over till the not far time when he and Achilles will lie together again under something more fit.

Achilles has not slept since his oblivion on the beach after the funeral. Then he was out, face down in the sand by the raked-over ashes. Patroclus had let him rest. But not for long. For the last eleven days and nights Achilles’ eyes have burned in their sockets so his men are afraid to look at them. But he doesn’t see his men. He doesn’t notice Briseis, more friendless than ever with Patroclus gone. She creeps around like an unowned kitten, fending for herself as best she can. He doesn’t even see the barrow where Patroclus’ ashes lie, though round and round and round he goes. He has eyes for one man only: that huge body, winched up by the heels each day at dawn, which will not rot, which will not stop being beautiful.

When he had finished killing Hector the Myrmidons had each had a go, killing him again and again. They took it in turns to shove in a spear. Some jabbed; others wiggled, getting the feel of the man, till Hector’s body, stripped of the armour he had stolen from Patroclus, was ugly, squelching pulp. Now all those wounds are sealed. Achilles has never seen a body so perfect. It has only one mark: a stain like a kiss at Hector’s throat.

On this twelfth morning he is making for Hector when Thetis appears. She interposes her immortal self between Hector and her son and Achilles, wanting to see round her, is forced to see her. She takes a hand in both her cool ones; holds his head and kisses his hammering brow.

‘Child,’ she says, ‘this has to stop.’

At the same moment Iris goes to Priam. His eyes are raw with weeping; tears have washed stripes in the filth on his face. When Iris finds him he is moaning and rubbing dung from the stables into his hair – as if it were ointment.

The goddess touches his shoulder.

‘Priam, this cannot go on. Zeus has sent me to tell you you are to go to Achilles with gifts. He will give up Hector’s body in return. Take your chariot, a waggon for a bier, and one driver. You won’t need a guard.’

Hecuba thinks her husband has gone mad. The plan is certain death. The end of Troy – sure enough with Hector gone – a matter now of days.

‘If you’re so sure Zeus is with you, ask him for a sign.’

Priam is sure. Outside with his waggon and Idaeus, his old herald, to drive it, he offers Zeus wine and prays to the thinker god to send his bird. They hear the heavy wings of Zeus’ eagle and see the bird riding the air to the right. Falling under its huge shadow Hecuba’s heart clears.

All day Achilles has sat with Hector, watching him, not taking his eyes off him for a second. He doesn’t move; only a muscle in his cheek tightens from time to time.

Cassandra looks down through the dusk from the ramparts of Troy as the mule-drawn waggon sets off with the cart behind it. The great eagle stays close to the travellers, holding the waggon as tight in its gaze as a gull holds a boat soon to land its trawl.

Zeus sends Hermes to guide them in the form of a Myrmidon. It is a warm dusk and mist rises high from Scamander’s banks. Priam and Idaeus have stopped to water the animals. When they see the Myrmidon shoulder through the mist towards them Priam’s hand moves towards his sword.

‘The royal Priam. Away from Troy so late! Have you deserted her now you’ve lost Hector?’

Priam flinches. The god goes on:

‘You’ll know me for one of Achilles’ men. Don’t be afraid. I have a father your age. But what are you doing here with this old man? Do you want to get killed?’

Priam is not afraid. When Hermes tells him that Hector’s body is as firm and as beautiful as if gods had embalmed it – and this in spite of Achilles’ daily ritual of insult – his heart soars. Hector’s piety has not gone unnoticed. He rummages for a moment beneath the waggon’s wicker cover and comes up with a heavy golden beaker.

Hermes refuses the gift, pretending to think it a bribe.

‘But I will guide you past the sentries and take you to the lord Achilles. These nights he never sleeps.’

Hermes puts the sentries to sleep. Idaeus’ waggon with four mules drawing it, Priam’s chariot with Hermes riding it, move as peacefully across the Achaean trench as two farm carts entering town on market day.

When they reach Achilles’ compound, fenced-off with a high palisade, his ship moored nearby, Hermes reveals himself to Priam. Only a god – or Achilles – could, single-handed, slip back the bolt that fastens the fence.

*   *   * 

ACHILLES SITS motionless, a table of untasted food in front of him. Priam sinks before him and embraces his knees.

Imagine: the mighty Priam crouched before you like a child.

Gently Achilles removes his hands from the old man’s clasp. For a moment it looks as if he will stroke the long white hair, it is so like the hair of his own father whom he has not seen these nine years since he set sail with Phoenix for Troy. Huge sobs break from Achilles as he thinks of Peleus, ageing at home in Phthia, uncomforted by his son. And Priam? He thinks of Hector – of what else has he thought these twelve days? – who was like no one else on earth and whom no one could match but this man.

The two men hold each other and weep: for those they have lost, for those who will lose them, for all the men gone down in the slow years of this wasteful war.

*   *   * 

WHEN THE time for tears is past Achilles raises Priam to his feet and fetches him a fine, inlaid chair.

‘You’re brave, to come here unguarded. My men are like wolves. I kept them out of the fight too long. Now they’ve tasted blood again.’

‘It’s Hector’s body I’ve come for. There was no question of fear.’

This irritates Achilles.

‘Don’t give me that. It takes three young, strong men to knock back the bolt on my gate. I know you’ve been helped by a god. I’ve had my instructions too. It’s Zeus’ wish that I give you the body and that’s why you’ll get it.’

He turns away; the muscle in his cheek at work again.

He leaves Priam seated and takes two of his women (not Briseis – two others) to where he keeps Hector when he’s not dragging him in the dust. He glares at Hector accusingly, as if a pact had been broken, then snaps into command, telling the women to wash the body and be sure to rinse away every grain of dirt. He is emphatic about this – as if the dirt he’s dragged Hector through had actually clung, whereas Hector shines through it, shunning the dirt as oil shuns water.

When the body is clean the women are to anoint it.

Priam must be kept from seeing the body till it is time for him to take it. If he sees it now he will want to kill Achilles. Achilles knows how strong old men can be but it is his own strength he fears. If Priam’s hands go for his throat he can buck him off. The hard thing is stopping there. He sees Priam crashing to the floor and the outrage in his eyes. He feels his own shame.

‘Mother,’ he murmurs, ‘cool me down.’

And he feels Thetis’ sea-cool hand pass over him.

He returns to Priam’s gifts, noting their splendour with satisfaction.

He picks out one of the softest robes and goes out again. Priam half rises to follow; stops when he meets Achilles’ gaze.

The women have oiled Hector and laid him out. The power that shines from him is nearly blinding. Achilles hands the garment to the women, hoping it will veil the brightness which tells him the gods love Hector, even in death.

He supports the great shoulders as Automedon and Alcimus help him bear Hector to the waggon. He looks on his conquered enemy for the last time.

Priam wants to rush out to the bier but Achilles restrains him.

‘There is a time for everything.

‘Whatever the occasion a man needs food and rest,’ (this from Achilles!) ‘even Niobe needed to eat at last, though for ten days after her children’s slaughter she neither ate nor slept. Tonight you’re my guest. You must eat and I must serve you.’

He goes outside to his small flock – their meat and milk for his household use – and takes the finest and whitest-woolled and slaughters it. He slings the carcass over his neck and carries it into the hut where he works quickly and neatly, cutting flesh away from mantling fat. Then he and his men thread the meat onto spits which they thrust into the fire to sizzle and drop their juices. Baskets of bread are passed around and each man helps himself, Achilles helping Priam to the choicest pieces until he can take no more. Wine is drunk, the best of Achilles’ store, most delicious to Achilles and Priam who have fasted and watched these twelve days.

Filled with the comfort of food and wine, Priam is at peace. The grief and hatred that have been driving him, step down. Pain slides off and his limbs relax and warm to being at rest. He looks at his host and finds him magnificent. He admires, though cannot like, Achilles’ nerved face, each feature outlined clear. The huge hands that can fashion as well as place a spear.

Achilles too is soothed. The Fury that has gripped him, worried at him, gnawed him, thwacked him against her cavern’s walls, has put him down. He looks at his guest and admires the breadth of the man; the stature which age has not shrunk up. He senses what real power those sceptre-wielding hands still hold.

But Priam is tired and craves a bed. Achilles’ guard goes up.

‘You and your herald must sleep outside – you mustn’t be seen here. But tell me, how many days will you need to prepare for Hector’s funeral? I will lay off the troops for as long as you need.’

Priam asks for eleven days for Trojans to go safely into the mountains to collect wood for the pyre. For nine days they will mourn in their homes, on the tenth day they will hold the funeral and on the eleventh build the barrow. Achilles grasps Priam’s wrist as a pledge of his faith, and the two men part to sleep.

The stars stick out like jewels.

Priam’s sleep is deep and dreamless in the high bed prepared by Achilles’ women. He is woken by Hermes.

‘Priam! Priam, get up. How can you sleep with your enemies all around! Hurry now. We must go while it’s still dark.’

Priam and Idaeus scramble down from their beds. Quietly they untether the horses and harness them to the chariot. The horses are restive and eager to go – their snorts and pacings break the quiet, but the night is always full of sounds – the sheep bells clanking and the wind in the rigging of the great Achaean fleet. They yoke the mules to the bier and Idaeus climbs up to drive them while Priam takes his horses’ reins. Hermes speeds ahead, slips back the bolt and climbs up next to Priam. The horses prick back their ears when the Olympian takes the reins.

This night – like every night – fires light the plain and from afar it looks another sky, mirroring the clearer heavenly one in its more muddied light. As they pass the trench and begin to cross the plain fire-light bruises the air with reddish smoke. They thread between the fires, feeling the heat from each in turn like a pulse. As they pass, Hermes puts each vigilant sentry to sleep.

But Cassandra stays vigilant. She has watched ever since her father set off; saw him and Idaeus wind their way across the scrubby plain and now (though she does not see Hermes slide down from his seat and head off) she’s the first to see the laden bier return.

She runs down from the battlements and cries,

‘Hector has come home!’

And Achilles wakes from his sleep, face down, one arm slung over Briseis’ back.