The Song of Achilles

by Madeline Miller

But gods were known to be notoriously poor parents; it was expected that Tyndareus would offer patrimony to all.

He leered at me, held out his hand. “Let me see them.” “No.” I did not want his fingers on them, grubby and thick. And I was the prince, however small.

I planted my hands on his chest and shoved, as hard as I could. Our land was one of grass and wheat. Tumbles should not hurt. I am making excuses. It was also a land of rocks.

In our day, death was preferable. But my father was a practical man. My weight in gold was less than the expense of the lavish funeral my death would have demanded.

An ordinary wife would have counted herself lucky to find a husband with Peleus’ mildness, his smile-lined face. But for the sea-nymph Thetis nothing could ever eclipse the stain of his dirty, mortal mediocrity.

He said what he meant; he was puzzled if you did not. Some people might have mistaken this for simplicity. But is it not a sort of genius to cut always to the heart?

He had been trained, a little, by his father. The rest was—what? Divine? This was more of the gods than I had ever seen in my life. He made it look beautiful, this sweating, hacking art of ours.

I had known contentment before, brief snatches of time in which I pursued solitary pleasure: skipping stones or dicing or dreaming. But in truth, it had been less a presence than an absence, a laying aside of dread:

Her desire was ambitious. It was a difficult thing, to make even a half-god immortal.

“There is no law that gods must be fair, Achilles,” Chiron said. “And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone.

“Men will hear of your skill, and they will wish for you to fight their wars.” He paused. “What will you answer?” “I do not know,” Achilles said. “That is an answer for now. It will not be good enough later,” Chiron said.

I will never leave him. It will be this, always, for as long as he will let me.

His eyes opened. “Name one hero who was happy.” I considered. Heracles went mad and killed his family; Theseus lost his bride and father; Jason’s children and new wife were murdered by his old; Bellerophon killed the Chimera but was crippled by the fall from Pegasus’ back. “You can’t.” He was sitting up now, leaning forward. “I can’t.” “I know. They never let you be famous and happy.” He lifted an eyebrow. “I’ll tell you a secret.” “Tell me.” I loved it when he was like this. “I’m going to be the first.”

“You have stayed on Pelion longer than I did, than any hero before.” “That does not mean I must run to help the sons of Atreus every time they lose their wives.”

Later, Achilles pressed close for a final, drowsy whisper. “If you have to go, you know I will go with you.” We slept.

“Oh yes,” Odysseus called over his shoulder. “You’re welcome to bring Patroclus along, if you like. We have business with him, as well.”

What is more heroic than to fight for the honor of the most beautiful woman in the world, against the mightiest city of the East? Perseus cannot say he did so much, nor Jason. Heracles would kill his wife again for a chance to come along.

This was clever diplomacy— we had not made a friend in his brother, so Menelaus did not come himself. Yet, some welcome was due to the best of the Greeks. “A man who plays both sides of the fence,” I whispered to Achilles. “A man who cannot afford to offend me if he wants his wife returned,” he whispered back.

An ugly man, with a face sharp like a weasel and a habit of running a flickering tongue over his lips before he speaks. But most ugly of all are his eyes: blue, bright blue. When people see them, they flinch. Such things are freakish.

“He is a weapon, a killer. Do not forget it. You can use a spear as a walking stick, but that will not change its nature.”

This was no slouchy prince of wine halls and debauchery, as Easterners were said to be. This was a man who moved like the gods were watching; every gesture he made was upright and correct. There was no one else it could be but Hector.

It was a strange war. No territory was gained, no prisoners were taken. It was for honor only, man against man. With time, a mutual rhythm emerged: we fought a civilized seven days out of ten, with time off for festivals and funerals. No raids, no surprise attacks.

The logs in the fire grew white with ash. “It is strange,” he said. “I have always said that Hector’s done nothing to offend me. But he cannot say the same, now.”

“I don’t know how you remember them all. I swear they look the same to me.” I would laugh and point them out again. “That’s Sthenelus, Diomedes’ charioteer. And that’s Podarces, whose brother was the first to die, remember?” “There are too many of them,” he said. “It’s simpler if they just remember me.”

turn, to face me, at last. “Her safety for my honor. Are you happy with your trade?” “There is no honor in betraying your friends.” “It is strange,” he says, “that you would speak against betrayal.”

“Did you hear what I said?” “I heard,” I say. “Greeks will die.” Chiron had said once that nations were the most foolish of mortal inventions. “No man is worth more than another, wherever he is from.”

He is half of my soul, as the poets say. He will be dead soon, and his honor is all that will remain. It is his child, his dearest self. Should I reproach him for it? I have saved Briseis. I cannot save them all. I know, now, how I would answer Chiron. I would say: there is no answer. Whichever you choose, you are wrong.

The funeral pyres burn through the night, their greasy smoke smeared across the moon. I try not to think how every one is a man I know. Knew.

It was not honor that made Meleager fight, or his friends, or victory, or revenge, or even his own life. It was Cleopatra, on her knees before him, her face streaked with tears. Here is Phoinix’s craft: Cleopatra, Patroclus. Her name built from the same pieces as mine, only reversed.

Send the Myrmidons at least. Send me in your place. Put me in your armor, and I will lead the Myrmidons. They will think it is you.” The words shocked us both. They seemed to come through me, not from me, as though spoken straight from a god’s mouth. Yet I seized on them, as a drowning man. “Do you see? You will not have to break your oath, yet the Greeks will be saved.”

We all knew why the chariot was necessary. If I ran down the beach, my steps would never be mistaken for his.

There was more to say, but for once we did not say it. There would be other times for speaking, tonight and tomorrow and all the days after that.

“You care more for him in death than in life.” Her voice is bitter with grief. “How could you have let him go? You knew he could not fight!” Achilles screams, and shatters a serving bowl. “Get out!” Briseis does not flinch. “Kill me. It will not bring him back. He was worth ten of you. Ten! And you sent him to his death!”

“He is the next Aristos Achaion.” “I am not dead yet.” “You may as well be.”