The Song of Achilles

by Madeline Miller

Other images came in their stead. The curve of a neck bent over a lyre, hair gleaming in firelight, hands with their flickering tendons. We were together all day, and I could not escape: the smell of the oils he used on his feet, the glimpses of skin as he dressed. I would wrench my gaze from him and remember the day on the beach, the coldness in his eyes and how he ran from me. And, always, I remembered his mother.

Slowly, as if to escape my own notice, my hand would move to rest between my thighs. There was shame in this thing that I did, and a greater shame still in the thoughts that came with it. But it would be worse to think them inside the rose-quartz cave, with him beside me.

He’d nod. But I knew he saw the flush that colored my cheeks.

osiers

gravid

Pregnant

murex’s

Predatory tropical mollusk with spiky sharp spines

And last, I passed him the statue. He examined it, his fingertips moving over the small marks my knife had left behind. “It’s you,” I said, grinning foolishly. He looked up, and there was bright pleasure in his eyes. “I know,” he said.

He was on his side, watching me. I had not heard him turn. I never hear him. He was utterly motionless, that stillness that was his alone. I breathed, and was aware of the bare stretch of dark pillow between us. He leaned forward.

Our mouths opened under each other, and the warmth of his sweetened throat poured into mine. I could not think, could not do anything but drink him in, each breath as it came, the soft movements of his lips. It was a miracle.

like. I kissed his neck, the span of his chest, and tasted the salt. He seemed to swell beneath my touch, to ripen. He smelled like almonds and earth. He pressed against me, crushing my lips to wine.

Our bodies cupped each other like hands.

I pulled him to me, and trembled and trembled. He was trembling, too. He sounded as though he had been running far and fast. I said his name, I think. It blew through me; I was hollow as a reed hung up for the wind to sound. There was no time that passed but our breaths.

He did not stop. The feeling gathered and gathered till a hoarse cry leapt from my throat, and the sharp flowering drove me, arching, against him. It was not enough. My hand reached, found the place of his pleasure. His eyes closed. There was a rhythm he liked, I could feel it, the catch of his breath, the yearning. My fingers were ceaseless, following each quickening gasp. His eyelids were the color of the dawn sky; he smelled like earth after rain. His mouth opened in an inarticulate cry, and we were pressed so close that I felt the spurt of his warmth against me. He shuddered, and we lay still.

The cave smelled hot and sweet, like fruit beneath the sun.

“I did not think that we would ever—” He was hesitating over every word, and I could not blame him. “I did not think so either,” I said. “Are you sorry?” The words were quickly out of him, a single breath. “I am not,” I said. “I am not either.” There was silence then, and I did not care about the damp pallet or how sweaty I was. His eyes were unwavering, green flecked with gold. A surety rose in me, lodged in my throat. I will never leave him. It will be this, always, for as long as he will let me.

If I had had words to speak such a thing, I would have. But there were none that seemed big enough for it, to hold that swelling truth. As if he had heard me, he reached for my hand. I did not need to look; his fingers were etched into my memory, slender and petal-veined, strong and quick and never wrong. “Patroclus,” he said. He was always better with words than I.

We were like gods at the dawning of the world, and our joy was so bright we could see nothing else but the other.

“You don’t think he will be angry?” He paused now, considering. I loved this about him. No matter how many times I had asked, he answered me as if it were the first time. “I don’t know.” His eyes met mine. “Does it matter? I would not stop.” His voice was warm with desire. I felt an answering flush across my skin.

“So what if he is?” The first time he had said something like this, I had been shocked. That his father might be angry and Achilles would still do as he wished—it was something I did not understand, could barely imagine. It was like a drug to hear him say it. I never tired of it.

This was the trinity of my fears—Chiron, Peleus, and Thetis.

“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.

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.” “Why me?” “Because you’re the reason. Swear it.” “I swear it,” I said, lost in the high color of his ...

Messengers came to Peleus from Mycenae with news.

On the way back to the cave and Chiron, Achilles and I speculated about the news. Mycenae was far to our south, and its king was Agamemnon, who liked to call himself a lord of men. He was said to have the greatest army of all our kingdoms.

Achilles, always bolder, embraced the centaur, his arms encircling the place where the horse flank gave way to flesh. The messenger, waiting behind me, shifted. “Achilles,” Chiron said, “do you remember when I asked you what you would do when men wanted you to fight?” “Yes,” said Achilles.

You should consider your answer,” Chiron said. A chill went through me, but I did not have time to think on it.

there on the house’s threshold, sudden as lightning-strike, stood Thetis. Her hair shone black against the white marble of the palace. Her dress was dark, the color of an uneasy ocean, bruising purples mixed with churning grays. Somewhere beside her there were guards, and Peleus, too, but I did not look at them. I saw only her, and the curved knife’s blade of her jaw.

“Son of my womb, flesh of my flesh, Achilles,” she said. The words were not spoken loudly but they carried through the courtyard. “Be welcome home.” “Thank you, Mother,” Achilles said. He understood that she was claiming him. We all did. It was proper for a son to greet his father first; mothers came second, if at all. But she was a goddess. Peleus’ mouth had tightened, but he said nothing.

Even amidst the noise of the preparations Achilles’ voice seemed loud. “Father, I do not see a place for Patroclus.” My blush went even deeper. “Achilles,” I began in a whisper. It does not matter, I wanted to say. I will sit with the men; it is all right. But he ignored me.

“Patroclus is my sworn companion. His place is beside me.” Thetis’ eyes flickered. I could feel the heat in them. I saw the refusal on her lips. “Very well,” Peleus said. He gestured to a servant and a place was added for me, thankfully at the opposite side of the table from Thetis. Making myself as small as I could, I followed Achilles to our seats.

I remembered Chiron’s parting words to Achilles: you should consider your answer. “Chiron thinks the news will be war.” Achilles frowned. “But there is always war in Mycenae. I do not see why we should have been called.”

Peleus stood. The room quieted, out to the farthest benches. He lifted his cup. “I have received word from Mycenae, from the sons of Atreus, Agamemnon and Menelaus.” The final stirrings and murmurs ceased, utterly. Even the servants stopped. I did not breathe. Beneath the table, Achilles pressed his leg to mine. “There has been a crime.” He paused again, as if he were weighing what he would say. “The wife of Menelaus, Queen Helen, has been abducted from the palace in Sparta.”

Helen! The hushed whisper of men to their neighbors. Since her marriage the tales of her beauty had grown still greater. Menelaus had built around her palace walls thick with double-layered rock; he had trained his soldiers for a decade to defend it. But, for all his care, she had been stolen. Who had done it?

“Menelaus welcomed an embassy sent from King Priam of Troy. At its head was Priam’s son, the prince Paris, and it is he who is responsible. He stole the queen of Spa...

“Agamemnon and Mycenae appeal to the men of Hellas to sail to the kingdom of Priam for her rescue. Troy is rich and will be easily taken, they say. All who fight will come home wealthy and renowned.” This was well worded. Wealth and reputation were the things our people had always killed for.

Across from me Thetis’ face was cool and still, her eyes distant. She knew this was coming, I realized. She wants him to go.

“Before Helen’s betrothal to King Menelaus, she had many suitors. It seems these suitors swore an oath to protect her, whosoever might win her hand. Agamemnon and Menelaus now charge these men to fulfill their oath and bring her back to her rightful husband.” He handed the linen sheet to the herald. I stared. An oath. In my mind, the sudden image of a brazier, and the spill of blood from a white goat. A rich hall, filled with towering men. The herald lifted the list. The room seemed to tilt, and my eyes would not focus. He began to read. Antenor. Eurypylus. Machaon. I recognized many of the names; we all did. They were the heroes and kings of our time. But they were more to me than that. I had seen them, in a stone chamber heavy with fire-smoke. Agamemnon. A memory of a thick black beard; a brooding man with narrowed, watchful eyes. Odysseus. The scar that wrapped his calf, pink as gums. Ajax. Twice as large as any man in the room, with his huge shield behind him. Philoctetes, the bowman. Menoitiades.

The herald paused a moment, and I heard the murmur: who? My father had not distinguished himself in the years since my exile. His fame had diminished; his name was forgotten. And those who did know him had never heard of a son. I sat frozen, afraid to move lest I give myself away. I am bound to this war. The herald cleared his throat. Idomeneus. Diomedes. “Is that you? You were there?” Achilles had turned back to face me. His voice was low, barely audible, but still I feared that someone might hear it. I nodded. My throat was too dry for words. I had thought only of Achilles’ danger, of how I would try to keep him here, if I could. I had not even considered myself. “Listen. It is not your name anymore. Say nothing. We will think what to do. We will ask Chiron.” Achilles never spoke like that, each word cutting off the next in haste. His urgency brought me back to myself, a little, and I took heart from his eyes on mine. I nodded again. The names kept coming, and memories came with them. Three women on a dais, and one of them Helen. A pile of treasure, and my father’s frown. The stone beneath my knees. I had thought I dreamt it. I had not. When the herald had finished, Peleus dismissed the men. They stood as one, benches scraping, eager to get to Phoinix to enlist. Peleus turned to us. “Come. I would speak further with you both.” I looked to Thetis, to see if she would come too, but she was gone.

The taking of Troy is a feat worthy of our greatest heroes. There may be much honor to be won from sailing with him.” Achilles’ mouth tightened. “There will be other wars.”

“What of Patroclus, then? He is called to serve.” “He is no longer the son of Menoitius. He is not bound by the oath.” Pious Peleus raised an eyebrow. “There is some shuffling there.” “I do not think so.” Achilles lifted his chin. “The oath was undone when his father disowned him.” “I do not wish to go,” I said, softly.

“Achilles, men are coming here to speak with you, kings sent by Agamemnon.” Outside the window, I heard the ocean’s steady whisper against the sand. I could smell the salt. “They will ask me to fight,” Achilles said. It was not a question. “They will.” “You wish me to give them audience.” “I do.” There was quiet again. Then Achilles said, “I will not dishonor them, or you. I will hear their reasons. But I say to you that I do not think they will convince me.”

ACHILLES’ ROOM was as we had left it, except for the cot, which had been removed in our absence. I was glad; it was an easy excuse, in case anyone asked why we shared a bed. We reached for each other, and I thought of how many nights I had lain awake in this room loving him in silence. Later, Achilles pressed close for a final, drowsy whisper. “If you have to go, you know I will go with you.” We slept.

amphorae

Greek jar

“The prince Achilles—” I said. I spoke haltingly, my voice thick with panic. “I cannot find him.” He looked up with some surprise. He had not heard me come in the room; his hearing was poor, and his eyes when they met mine were rheumy and opaque with cataract. “Peleus did not tell you then.” His voice was soft. “No.” My tongue was like a stone in my mouth, so big I could barely speak around it. “I’m sorry,” he said kindly. “His mother has him. She took him last night as he was sleeping. They are gone, no one knows where.”

She would take him to the caves of the sea and teach him contempt for mortals. She would feed him with the food of the gods and burn his human blood from his veins. She would shape him into a figure meant to be painted on vases, to be sung of in songs, to fight against Troy. I imagined him in black armor, a dark helmet that left him nothing but eyes, bronze greaves that covered his feet. He stands with a spear in each hand and does not know me.

It was only my pricking memory of Chiron that finally drove me forth. You do not give up so easily as you once did.

I went to Peleus. I knelt before him on a wool rug, woven bright with purple. He started to speak, but I was too quick for him. One of my hands went to clasp his knees, the other reached upwards, to seize his chin with my hand. The pose of supplication. It was a gesture I had seen many times, but had never made myself. I was under his protection now; he was bound to treat me fairly, by the law of the gods. “Tell me where he is,” I said.

He leaned forward, down to my ear. He whispered, “Scyros.” A place, an island. Achilles.