Warrior’s Prize

His own death

came upon him as he spoke, and soul from body,

bemoaning severance from youth and manhood,

slipped to be wafted to the underworld.

Iliad, Homer, Book XVI

(Fitzgerald’s translation)

The Achaeans howled and scattered like pariah dogs driven off by lions. As the Trojans stormed into the encampment, I saw Hektor very close, his face under the helmet dark as nightfall. He was everywhere at once, shouting, exhorting the Trojans, his presence so powerful it was as if he spoke to every man personally.

“Trojans, Dardanians, Lykians! Onward! Press forward! We have them now! We will destroy them!”

The beach swarmed with men. The battle surged around the ships so close that we could have reached down and touched them. Ianeira and I clung together, terrified.

“Let’s go below!” she shouted.

I shuddered. “It would be worse—not knowing what’s happening.”

So we stayed, cowering below the rail. Our ship shook with the force of the fighting. The men were intent, unremitting, slashing, stabbing with swords, thrusting spears. Blood spurted everywhere. Numbness overcame me. I could no longer see the Achaeans as enemies or find any comfort in the Trojans’ victory. An arm’s length below me, men were dying like butchered animals.

Suddenly someone threw a plank against the side of our ship, and five or six Achaean men leapt up shouting onto the deck and began thrusting spears downward into the melee. They paid us no heed. We dodged as they leapt, nimble-footed, as if performing some strange dance before the altar of a god.

A volley of arrows flew toward us. The man nearest me howled and pitched off the deck with an arrow in his chest. “Let’s go below!” I screamed to Ianeira, grabbing her hand, but the men blocked our way to the ladder. We crouched beneath the rail like animals in a lair. We heard shouts, grunts, screams, and hollow thuds as bodies hit the hull, shaking the ship. There was blood on the rail, the deck, the ropes—and on our gowns.

“Odios!” Ianeira sobbed. We lifted our heads to look for him. He was backed up against our ship, helpless. He had lost sword and spear, and two Trojans were bearing down on him. “He’ll be killed!” She started to climb over the rail, but I pulled her back. Her lips moved, praying wordlessly. Suddenly a spear sailed over my head, almost striking one of the men, who dodged as it clattered onto the thwarts. I grabbed it and crawled to the edge of the deck. Seeing my intent, Ianeira shouted, “Odios!” He looked up, and we managed to lower the long, unwieldy spear into his hands.

More arrows flew at us. “Down!” I screamed. We smelled smoke, and I dared a quick glance. Black clouds billowed up from leaping flames, consuming a nearby ship.

Ianeira pointed. “They’ve set fire to that ship! And the one beyond it!”

The Achaeans surged toward the fires, screaming, shouting, desperate to staunch the flames. With shields and bare hands, they flung water from the sea. The Trojans pressed forward, forcing the Achaeans to let the ships burn. The fires raced and devoured the pitch-soaked wood. Flames and smoke engulfed both ships.

In a sudden stillness, Achaeans and Trojans alike lifted their eyes to the sky to watch the black cloud swirling up. I saw tears of futility on many Achaean faces. “By the gods,” Ianeira whispered. “This could mean the end for them.”

They’ll be driven into the sea and slaughtered, I thought. Was this the answer to Achilleus’s prayer?

I gripped Ianeira’s arm. “What will happen to us women?”

Another ship farther down the shore went up in flames. The smell of smoke burned my lungs. A blood-red sun hung suspended in the sky. With a roar, the Trojans sprang forward again.

Then, from far down the beach came shouts—vigorous, triumphant roars. Fresh horses raced to battle, pulling warriors in chariots. The distant Trojans fell back. A surge of alarm stilled the rest of their army. The Achaeans soon noticed, and all the men turned.

Sunlight burst through billows of smoke. A dazzling blaze of light shone from the center of the advancing warriors. Sun rays, striking off silver armor. A fearsome warrior in a chariot led an army charging with vigor. Hope lit the faces of the beleaguered Achaeans.

Ianeira grabbed my arm. “Who are they?”

My insides twisted. I knew that armor, those splendid horses. He’s going to fight them off, perhaps even rescue me. But I felt a terrible fear. Oh gods, what if he’s killed?

At my feet, a Trojan warrior dropped his sword and cried in dismay. “Achilleus!”

A hundred voices took up the cry, but I barely heard. Everything blurred and went still. I saw only that silver-armored figure advancing in the sun. My legs would crumble if I moved. All my being went forth in my eyes as I followed the figure cutting a swath through the Trojans, pushing all before him. Pushing, pushing, his advance heralded by fierce shouts and challenges, until the Trojans, depleted of bluster and victory, gave way. Space opened up in the crowded field, and the battered, bruised Achaeans, Odios among them, emerged from where they had been backed up against the ships.

Achilleus bellowed menacingly and thrust his spear about him. As his chariot wheeled by, I stared at that spear. It was not the great long ash spear that he usually wielded. Nevertheless, he used it with chilling efficiency, and the Trojans fled.

The retreat was slow but inexorable. The figure in the silver armor did not yield, and his soldiers, so filled with drive and momentum they were like a river in spate, pushed forward bit by bit until the ground cleared, leaving open patches of bloodied dirt. The Trojans surged toward the fence like liquid forced through a funnel. After a last, desperate stand, they scrambled through the broken gate they had so recently demolished and ran in full retreat toward the plain.

The silver-clad warrior shouted to his charioteer, who drove the horses toward the gate and through it. The horses picked up speed, began to gallop after the fleeing Trojans. The fresh soldiers followed their commander onto the plain, the entire Achaean army, with suddenly rediscovered courage, in pursuit. The battle had turned.

“It’s Achilleus!” Odios shouted up from the shore. “He’s going after them—all the way to the walls of Troy!”

I pulled myself to the highest point of the deck, grasping the curved timber of the prow as I strained to see. Something was wrong.

The name. The spear.

It wasn’t Achilleus.

I continued to watch the imposter in silver armor until my eyes stung and I could see his chariot no more. Soon all I saw was a dazzling point of light where the sun shone on his armor. Then that too vanished. I blinked, and then I saw him again, even more clearly than before, and very near. It was as if I were just above him, looking down. I saw the way he leaned into the chariot rail, his shoulders slightly hunched as if a shadow or a pain followed him and would not let him be. I saw the curl of dark brown hair below the rim of his helmet.

A shock went through me. Patroklos.

I could see him as plainly as if he was very close. I thought I was imagining it, but the vision did not go away. Instead it came clearer, as when, once before, I had left my body and drifted above the sea, seeing everything. Now, just as then, I was floating—above the man in the chariot. I was deeply shaken. Perhaps I was near death again. Yet it was real. Somehow my fate was linked with his. I was with him on that hot and dusty plain, in the jolting, speeding chariot with Automedon at the reins. I breathed with him, I followed him, feeling every rut on the sunbaked ground, my heart and mind attuned to his. I tasted his exhilaration and his fear. And I alone knew his secret.

He was wearing Achilleus’s armor, leading Achilleus’s men. What had possessed Achilleus to send out his dearest friend in his stead? Even though he had prayed for the Achaeans’ defeat, even though he wavered between his two fates, he must have been unable to watch the slaughter. Bound by his oath, he could not go forth to save them. Patroklos must have entreated him: Send me in your stead! Lend me your armor—let me lead the men! I can save our ships and drive the Trojans out of our camp. And Achilleus had yielded.

Trapped in my vision, I was with Patroklos as he reached the walls of Troy. He leapt from the chariot into the thick of the fighting. With that driving will, he felled Trojans left and right and set his foot on the base of the wall, as if he would scale it. He was forced back, but with a great shout he sprang up once more. Again and again, he lunged with his spear, its length streaked with blood, and the Trojans fell back before him.

I remembered the gentle companion who had been like a loving brother, shared pain with me, and laughter and closeness. I could find no trace of him in this relentless warrior. It was as if he had taken into himself the fierce heart of Achilleus.

Then I felt a jolt of fear. It came from him, not me. Hektor’s chariot pushed its way through. Patroklos picked up a huge rock and flung it with all his force. With a thud it hit the charioteer, who fell headlong in the dust. Hektor’s mouth opened in a howl of rage. At once, the men of both sides closed in, fighting for possession of the body of the fallen man—the Trojans to defend it, the Achaeans to gain it as a trophy, to desecrate it. With a snarl of triumph, the Achaeans dragged off the corpse.

A space opened in the turmoil, and Hektor advanced on Patroklos. The fear was all mine now. It crushed the breath from my body.

Patroklos! I didn’t know if I cried aloud but my throat felt torn. You can’t fight him!

I knew with terrible certainty that Achilleus had said the same thing. Don’t fight Hektor. But Patroklos, drunk on victory, advanced across the open space toward Hektor, and I knew that, from the walls of Troy, Andromache watched, her heart in her throat.

Zeus and all gods, I prayed, Let them stop now! Let them both live.

I could feel Hektor’s ferocious intensity. The black-haired prince advanced, and Patroklos, in his disguise, faced him boldly at the base of the walls of Troy.

The two men began to circle each other warily. Time seemed to stop. “Let them live—let them live!” I prayed aloud over and over.

Then something changed. The sunlight dimmed, as if a malevolent shadow had cut off its warmth. Deep cold struck my heart. I knew that shadow. A god had come: the only being in the universe whom Achilleus feared.

Go back, Patroklos! I cried desperately. You cannot win against Apollo!

Patroklos flinched slightly. Surely he felt the god’s cold breath on his neck. Run! I thought. Run for your life! But he stood his ground. At once the shadow seemed to engulf him, and Trojans closed in on him, cutting him off from his men. A spear was flung from behind him with such force and accuracy the god himself must have guided it. It caught him at the back of the neck just above the corselet, and he staggered. Dark blood streamed out. His arm fell, dropping the shield. He was helpless, his strength draining. It took the lifeblood from my own heart and limbs. My fingers gripping the prow slipped, and I felt I had lost my hold on his life.

“Beloved friend!” I whispered, sobbing.

Another blow struck him, and as he stumbled, Achilleus’s helmet came off Patroklos’s head and rolled on the ground, the golden horsehair crest trailing in the dirt.

Hektor must have realized then that he had been cheated of the vengeance he desired above all else. Yet, if he felt disappointment it was short lived. As he advanced under the sheltering shadow of Apollo, he crowed in triumph. I sensed his exultance that through this killing he could inflict so much suffering upon his enemy.

Patroklos had lost shield, spear and helmet. His corselet was torn and loosened. Blood flowed from the base of his neck. For a time Hektor jabbed at him and taunted him cruelly. Then he rushed in for the kill. I felt the bronze point tear through my own flesh as Hektor’s spear plunged into Patroklos’s belly. Patroklos fell at last and lay too long dying, his blood gushing out to stain the dirt beneath the feet of the victorious prince.

I had to watch as Hektor deliberately stripped away the silver armor and left Patroklos’s poor, torn body naked in the dust.