The Song of Achilles

by Madeline Miller

there were always slave girls and serving boys.

That is how they knew she was quite stupid. Brides did not smile.

My mother hugged it. She did not seem to notice a change had been made.

This was the cruelty of adults. Do you understand?

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?

I would know it in dark or disguise, I told myself. I would know it even in madness.

“If you have to go, you know I will go with you.” We slept.

Achilles—for it was Achilles—dropped Deidameia’s hand and flung himself joyously at me, knocking me backwards with the force of his embrace.

I barely heard. Achilles and I clutched each other, almost incoherent with relief.

At the same time, Achilles answered coolly, “My husband.”

Achilles was squeezing my fingers. “Yes,” I said.

“My husband has come for me, and now I may leave your court. Thank you for your hospitality.” Achilles curtsied.

I have lain with him.

I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world.

And despite my hurt, I would not wish to see it gone, to see him as uneasy and fearful as the rest of us, for any price.

He stroked my cheek. “I missed you.”

When we were finished, Achilles bent towards me for a kiss. His lips on mine were soft, and stirred me. He caught the expression in my eyes and smiled. “Later,” he promised me, then turned and went back down the path to the palace.

“You’re welcome to bring Patroclus along, if you like. We have business with him, as well.”

His death. I felt as if I was dying just to think of it, plummeting through a blind, black sky.

Instead I held his hands fast between mine; they were cold, and very still.

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

The never-ending ache of love and sorrow. Perhaps in some other life I could have refused, could have torn my hair and screamed, and made him face his choice alone. But not in this one. He would sail to Troy and I would follow, even into death. “Yes,” I whispered. “Yes.”

“No. The Phthians will not care. And the others can talk all they like. I will still be Aristos Achaion.” Best of the Greeks. “Your honor could be darkened by it.” “Then it is darkened.” His jaw shot forward, stubborn. “They are fools if they let my glory rise or fall on this.”

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

Achilles was looking at me. “Your hair never quite lies flat here.” He touched my head, just behind my ear. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you how I like it.” My scalp prickled where his fingers had been. “You haven’t,” I said. “I should have.” His hand drifted down to the vee at the base of my throat, drew softly across the pulse. “What about this? Have I told you what I think of this, just here?” “No,” I said.

I think: This is what I will miss. I think: I will kill myself rather than miss it. I think: How long do we have?

could not hear it, but I understood. Come with me. I nodded, and we began to walk.

I did not plan to live after he was gone.

I thought, This is what Achilles will feel like when he is old. And then I remembered: he will never be old.

His face seemed cut from stone as he stared his warning at the king of Mycenae—You do not command me. The silence went on and on, painful and breathless, like a singer overreaching to finish a phrase.

He is lucky he was not killed at birth.

I held him and whispered all the bits of broken comfort I could find.

You can use a spear as a walking stick, but that will not change its nature.”

I closed my eyes, felt his lips on mine, the only part of him still soft. Then he was gone.

returned to greet my Achilles.

I woke Achilles, in panic. “I will be there,” he promised me.

His gaze was on me always, preternaturally sensing the moment when a soldier’s eyes widened at the easy target I presented. Before the man drew another breath, he would cut him down.

“I have always said that Hector’s done nothing to offend me. But he cannot say the same, now.”

“There are too many of them,” he said. “It’s simpler if they just remember me.”

“It is strange,” he says, “that you would speak against betrayal.”

“You are a better man than I.”

He is half of my soul, as the poets say. He will be dead soon, and his honor is all that will remain.

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

The last thing I think is: Achilles.

He cradles me, and will not eat, nor speak a word other than my name.

“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.”

Achilles smiles as his face strikes the earth.

Will I feel his ashes as they fall against mine?

His ashes settle among mine, and I feel nothing.