The Song of Achilles

by Madeline Miller

When at last they pulled off the veil, they say my mother smiled. That is how they knew she was quite stupid. Brides did not smile.

and I marveled at the power of this woman who, though veiled, could electrify a room.

“Patroclus.” Achilles did not slur my name, as people often did, running it together as if in a hurry to be rid of it. Instead, he rang each syllable: Pa-tro-clus.

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?

As if he heard me, he smiled, and his face was like the sun.

“Do not let what you gained this day be so easily lost.”

“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.” He took my palm and held it to his. “Swear it.”

Achilles’ face went pale. “It is certain?” This is what all mortals ask first, in disbelief, shock, fear. Is there no exception for me?

I had seen the joy he took in his own skill, the roaring vitality that was always just beneath the surface. Who was he if not miraculous and radiant?

When he died, all things swift and beautiful and bright would be buried with him.

He would sail to Troy and I would follow, even into death.

I lay back and tried not to think of the minutes passing. Just yesterday we had had a wealth of them. Now each was a drop of heartsblood lost.

His fame must be worth the life he paid for it.

“Patroclus. I have given enough to them. I will not give them this.”

But here, as we began to understand the grandness, now and always, that would follow him wherever he went. He had chosen to become a legend, and this was the beginning.

He no longer belongs to me alone.

he had light enough to make heroes of them all.

As for the goddess’s answer, I did not care. I would have no need of her. I did not plan to live after he was gone.

I had embraced him too, those thin, wiry limbs. I thought, This is what Achilles will feel like when he is old. And then I remembered: he will never be old.

I imagine tearing down our tent, smashing the lyre, stabbing myself in the stomach and bleeding to death. I want to see his face broken with grief and regret. I want to shatter the cold mask of stone that has slipped down over the boy I knew.

“It is all I have. I will not live much longer. Memory is all I can hope for.” He swallows, thickly. “You know this. And would you let Agamemnon destroy it? Would you help him take it from me?” “I would not,” I say. “But I would have the memory be worthy of the man. I would have you be yourself, not some tyrant remembered for his cruelty. There are other ways to make Agamemnon pay. We will do it. I will help you, I swear. But not like this. No fame is worth what you did today.”

He is half of my soul, as the poets say.

“Briseis,” I say, “if he is dead, I will not be far behind.”

He will not yield.

My head drops back against the ground, and the last image I see is of Hector, leaning seriously over me, twisting his spear inside me as if he is stirring a pot. The last thing I think is: Achilles.

“There are no bargains between lions and men. I will kill you and eat you raw.”

“Philtatos,” Achilles says, sharply. Most beloved.“Best of men, and slaughtered by your son.”

“When I am dead, I charge you to mingle our ashes and bury us together.”

His breastplate is carelessly buckled, his once-bright hair hangs lank and unwashed.

Achilles hears the faint hum of its passage a second before it strikes. He turns his head a little, as if to watch it come. He closes his eyes and feels its point push through his skin, parting thick muscle, worming its way past the interlacing fingers of his ribs. There, at last, is his heart.

Achilles smiles as his face strikes the earth.

His beautiful body lost to bones and gray ash.

Bury us, and mark our names above. Let us be free.

“I am the son of Achilles,” he announces.

“My lord, have you heard of the man who is buried with your father?” His face goes flat. “Of course I have not heard of him. He is no one.” “Yet your father loved him well, and honored him. He would be well pleased to know they were buried together. He had no need of me.”

“Patroclus was no commoner. He was born a prince and exiled. He served bravely in our army, and many men admired him. He killed Sarpedon, second only to Hector.”

“Have you no more memories?” I am made of memories.

This and this and this. So many moments of happiness, crowding forward.

In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out the sun.