The Trojan War (14 page)

“Thank you, great Achilles,” said Ulysses. “As all men know, your courtesy is equalled only by your courage … by the memory of your courage, that is. For indeed no man has seen you recently performing those feats of arms which made you famed among the famous before you were old enough to grow a beard.”

“Your conversation is always stimulating, friend Ulysses. The gloss of your compliments always conceals a sharp-edged gibe. But you are, as usual, justified. I know that I have been a non-combatant recently, know it well. Do you not think that I chafe at this inactivity? I am like a tiger playing with a ball of wool, hearing a lion roar as he hunts my deer. My desire for battle is so fierce I feel that I could drink blood by the goblet … like some ancient ogre who ate men raw. But I am bound by an oath never to fight on this field as long as Agamemnon leads the Greeks. So I must abide here in my tent, listening to the sounds of battle, being beguiled by my beloved friend, Patroclus—and, occasionally, having the honor of entertaining such fighters as you.”

“A truce to compliments,” said Ulysses. “I have not come here to urge you to fight. In the past few days you have been begged to do so in more eloquent phrases than I can lay tongue to. No, I come with another suggestion: that you, Patroclus, play Achilles. We need an Achilles, even a counterfeit one. And what more fitting than that you, friend of his heart, should put on his armor, take his weapons, mount his chariot, and lead his Myrmidons in a charge against the Trojans?”

“Ridiculous!” said Achilles.

Patroclus said nothing.

“Perhaps you don’t appreciate the gravity of our situation,” said Ulysses. “We are at our last gasp. Even now the Trojans would be firing our fleet did not Great Ajax, like a Titan of old, fight them off with a mast he is using as a spear, carving a place for himself in the history of arms that will never fade as long as men love courage. But when Ajax falls, as fall he must, then they will burn the fleet, not excepting your own ships unless you set sail immediately. Yes, they will put our proud beaked ships to the shame of the torch, and then, in all leisure, penning us between fire and sea, will slaughter us like cattle. You refuse to fight, Achilles. Very well. You are bound by an oath, fettered in your pride. You will not fight. But, in the name of all the gods, lend us your shadow. Allow Patroclus to impersonate you. It is our only chance.”

“What do you say, Patroclus?” said Achilles. “Do you wish to do this thing?”

“I do,” said Patroclus.

“Then you shall. I will be your squire, and dress you myself in my own armor that I never thought any other man should wear.”

“Thank you, great Achilles,” said Ulysses. “Thank you, gallant Patroclus. I must hasten back to the fighting now. Even the whisper of what is to come, I’m sure, will hearten our comrades so that they can withstand the Trojans yet a little while—until Patroclus shall appear on the field.”

P
ATROCLUS STRIPPED HIMSELF THEN
in Achilles’ tent, and put on his friend’s armor. Achilles acted as squire, helping him don corselet, breastplate, greaves, and plumed helmet.

“Beloved friend,” said Achilles. “I wish I could clothe you in my invulnerability instead of these pieces of metal. Oh, they are beautiful pieces of metal, cast of molten gold, and brass, with inlay of copper and tin, made by Hephaestus himself as a wedding present for my father, Peleus. The enemy, seeing this armor, know that it is Achilles they must face, and are disarmed by fear before they can begin to fight. But, friend, let me tell you a secret that no man knows, and no woman either, except my mother, Thetis. I can fight without that armor, and no spear, no sword, nor arrow can pierce me. For my mother, queen of the nereids, ranks as a goddess, and she wished to give me, her son, sired by a mortal, her own immortality. So, when I was just nine days old she dipped me into the River Styx, that black stream that separates the land of the living from the land of the dead and whose waters have magic power. Every part of me the water touched was rendered beyond hurt—tough as nine layers of polished bullhide, stiffened with brass—without losing the delicacy of human skin. Thus, no blade can cut me, no wound kill. All except one place.”

Achilles lifted his foot and tapped the great tendon over his heel.

“She held me right here as she dipped me into the river. Where her fingers clasped, the waters could not touch. In this one spot I am vulnerable.”

Patroclus laughed. “Not an easy spot for an enemy to reach,” he said. “To expose it you would have to be running away. And that is a sight no man has ever seen, or ever will.”

Achilles laughed, and embraced his friend.

“Truly,” he said, “you are a gallant fellow. Here you are about to meet the Trojans—in the full exultant tide of their victory, when their courage burns hot, and they fight better than they know how—and you are smiling and jesting as though you were at a banquet.”

“Dear friend,” said Patroclus. “Clad in your armor I feel as safe as though I were at a banquet, reclining on a couch, being served wine by the slave girls and chatting with the other guests. As Ulysses said, clad in your armor I go forth as your shadow, and even the shadow of you, mighty warrior that you are, is enough to chase the Trojans the best day they ever saw.”

“One word of advice,” said Achilles. “You will be followed by my Myrmidons, who, having been kept out of battle, are rested and fresh. They will give a good account of themselves. The Trojans should break before you. But please, I implore you, when they break, do not pursue them. Let them retreat in their own way. If you follow them, keep with your troops. Do not charge ahead. Do not seek to despoil a fallen foe of his armor, no matter how rich it is. Above all, do not seek single combat. The Trojan heroes will not be seeking an encounter with you, either, clad as you are, so such duels should be easy to avoid. Avoid them! Most important of all, do not seek to engage Hector in hand-to-hand conflict. Now go, dear Patroclus. And may the fickle gods go with you.”

He embraced him again, led him to his chariot and helped him mount, then walked quickly away to the edge of the tide, and stood there looking out over the sea. For his heart was heavy with foreboding.

Patroclus, shining like the morning star in Achilles’ armor, vaulted gaily into Achilles’ chariot. It was of burnished bronze, drawn by a pair of stallions named Xanthus and Balius. They were of divine breed. Their dam was not a mare at all, but a harpy named Podarge who had become amorous of the West Wind. She foaled, dropping two colts, matched blacks with golden eyes, silver hooves, mane and tail of silver fleece. They ran as swiftly as their sire, the West Wind; in their temperaments was the loving ferocity of their dam, Podarge. They were loving to their master, but savage in battle. Achilles had trained them to rear back and strike like a boxer with their silver hooves; one blow of a hoof could crack a warrior’s helmet like a nutshell. They used their great yellow teeth also, snapping like crocodiles. No man dared handle them except Achilles and Patroclus. Achilles boasted of their intelligence, saying they could speak if they wished, but preferred to remain silent.

Drawn by these stallions and driven by Patroclus, the burnished bronze chariot of Achilles whirled into battle.

The Trojans were still trying to burn Ajax’s ship. Hector had mounted the deck where the giant still wielded his thirty-foot mast. Ajax swept the deck with the huge staff, trying to crush Hector. But each time the mast swept toward him Hector either ducked beneath it or leaped above it. Each time he did this he struck at it with his sword, each time hacking off a piece of it, until Ajax was left holding only the fat stump of the mast, which he hurled at the Trojans, who were again swarming over the gunwales, killing two of them. Then Great Ajax leaped off the deck, and tried to rally his men for another stand.

Gleefully the Trojans set Ajax’s ship to the torch, and began to fire the other ships of the first line. Hector pressed forward swiftly after Ajax, wanting to finish him off—so swiftly that he became separated from his men. Suddenly he heard the shouts of triumph change to cries of bawling fear.

“Achilles! It’s Achilles! Flee! Flee!”

He turned, and saw his men break and flee before a chariot of burnished bronze drawn by those stallions he recognized as Xanthus and Balius. Riding the chariot was a tall figure in golden armor, his crest a plume of eagle feathers. Hector’s men, chased by the bright chariot, were like a swarm of field mice and hares fleeing a grass fire. Brave Hector himself was sucked up in the wind of that going, and fled before that chariot to the walls of Troy.

Patroclus, riding in his bronze car, felt the armor of Achilles clinging as lightly and intimately to him as his own skin. Yes, it was as if by some stroke of the gods he had been given a hide of supple bright armor, had been fanged with glittering blades, and had come among the Trojans terrible as a tiger among deer.

He swerved his chariot toward where the enemy was thickest. They fled before him always; they could not outrun his stallions. He scythed down the Trojans like summer grass. Everywhere he led, his Myrmidons followed—wheeling, charging, moving like one man.

They followed after Patroclus at a dead run. No matter how fast the chariot was drawn by those stallions sired by the West Wind the Myrmidons would always catch up, and engage the Trojans at the point where Patroclus had broken their lines.

Hector stood on a low hill under the west wall of Troy watching his men flee. It was here that he meant to rally them to try to prevent the Greeks from storming the wall. But he was full of foreboding. He did not see how he could put any heart into his terror-stricken men. Then he smelled a sunny fragrance and heard a voice full of angry music. He dropped to his knees to listen to the words of Apollo.

“I am disappointed in you, Hector. You were my chosen hero, the man of men who was to combat Achilles. Throughout this war you have plumed yourself on being the only Trojan who would dare to close with the son of Peleus. And now what do I see? You flee his shadow.”

Tears streamed down Hector’s face. He felt himself burning with shame. He could not answer.

“Yes, his
shadow,”
said Apollo. “And I mean it not as a figure of speech, but literally. For that glittering armor clothes not Achilles, but Patroclus, who has borrowed his mighty friend’s appearance, knowing that it alone would be enough to frighten the Trojans into fits. For almost ten years now I have been trying to warm you with my own flame. I see it is hopeless. No one can help cowards; they defeat themselves. I am going to stop defying my father, Zeus, and keep aloof from this war.”

“No, bright Phoebus, no,” pleaded Hector. “Do not withdraw your hand from us. Lord of the moving sun, I pray you—lord of the harp, of the golden bow, heed my plea. I will prove to you I’m no coward. I faltered for a moment, it’s true, but if you abide with me, I will reclaim my manhood, and straightway engage Patroclus. And when I do, he is a dead man. I further swear that when Achilles comes to avenge the dead Patroclus, as come he must, I will not fear to meet him either, but will challenge him to mortal combat.”

Then the sun-god appeared in all his radiance before Hector, and said: “Rise, Hector. Rise, and reclaim your manhood.”

Apollo took off his golden helmet whose crest was a plume of red and blue flame.

“Dip your spearpoint into this plume of flame,” he said. “And go, hot-handed, to meet your false foe.”

Hector arose and held his spearhead in the plume of flame that sprouted from Apollo’s helmet. The god became invisible again, leaving only his fragrance behind—the odor of oranges and roses and those fruits and flowers that love the sun. This fragrance enrapt Hector, filling him with a wild exultance. Yelling his war-cry, he rushed toward Patroclus, shouting: “Actor! Mountebank! Fraud! Descend from that borrowed chariot and fight in your own name.”

Patroclus heard this bright cry, and wheeled his chariot about. He remembered Achilles’ warning, that on no account was he to seek out Hector in single combat. But by now the mask had grown into the face: Aping Achilles, triumphing like Achilles, he had
become
Achilles—or so he thought. Often in days past had he and Achilles felt close enough to have been joined by a membrane, like a pair of unnatural twins, one bloodstream coursing through both bodies. So now he leaped from his chariot, and rushed toward Hector, shouting:

“Well met, son of Priam! Whether I be Achilles or Patroclus, you will never know the difference because the same blade will find your heart.”

He ran so fast that he outraced the Myrmidons. Hector raced to meet him. They met with a crash of weapons like two stags breaking their antlers against each other. Brave he was, Patroclus, and fair. Nobly he wore Achilles’ armor and handled Achilles’ weapons. But he was no Achilles. And Hector at that moment, burning with Apollo’s flame, was more than Hector.

Patroclus never had a chance. Swiftly, delicately, Hector handled his spear. The white-hot spearhead sheared through Patroclus’ armor like a welding torch—for Hector wished not only to vanquish Patroclus but to ease the pain of his own shame by shaming his foe.

Greeks and Trojans watching this duel saw a sight never seen before. Hector’s white-hot spear cut through Achilles’ armor; corselet, breastplate, and greaves dropped off Patroclus, leaving him naked except for his helmet. He hurled his spear. Hector laughed as it rebounded from his shield and leisurely advanced on his naked foe.

“You look like a plucked chick, little Patroclus,” he jeered. “If I were cruel as a Greek, I would stand here, using my sword like a butcher’s knife, and joint you like a chicken. But such is not my purpose. I have bared you this way so that all men may see that it takes more than armor to make a man. Now, actor, it is time for your death scene.”

With an upward stroke he speared Patroclus through the belly. It was a bad death. Patroclus fell, screaming horribly, clutching at his entrails.

P
ATROCLUS SPRAWLED IN THE
bloody dust. Hector lifted his voice above the battle din.