The Song of Achilles

by Madeline Miller

“I am here to see King Lycomedes,” I said. I lifted my chin, so they would know I was a man of some importance. I had worn the finest tunic I could find—one of Achilles’.

“I am seeking a friend of mine, who would have arrived here perhaps a month ago. He is from Phthia.” Something flashed in her eyes, or maybe I imagined it did. “And why do you seek him?” she asked. I thought that her tone was not so light as it had been.

You will stay for dinner and await my decision. If you are lucky, I may even dance for you, with my women.” She cocked her head, suddenly. “You have heard of Deidameia’s women?”

moue

Pouting expression of annoyance

“Stranger from Pelion,” she called, “you will never again be able to say that you have not heard of Deidameia’s women.”

“Pyrrha!” Lycomedes’ voice carried the length of the hall, rising over his daughter’s noisy sobs. He was talking to Achilles, I realized. Pyrrha. Fire-hair. Achilles ignored him; Deidameia wailed louder. The king, showing a judiciousness that surprised me, threw his eye upon the rest of his court, women and men both. “Out,” he ordered. They obeyed reluctantly, trailing their glances behind them.

“Who is this man, Pyrrha?” “No one!” Deidameia had seized Achilles’ arm, was tugging at it. At the same time, Achilles answered coolly, “My husband.” I closed my mouth quickly, so I did not gape like a fish. “He is not! That’s not true!” Deidameia’s voice rose high, startling the birds roosting in the rafters. A few feathers wafted down to the floor. She might have said more, but she was crying too hard to speak clearly. Lycomedes turned to me as if for refuge, man to man. “Sir, is this true?” Achilles was squeezing my fingers. “Yes,” I said. “No!” the princess shrieked.

“Daughter!” This was Lycomedes, frowning in a way that was not unlike his daughter’s habit. “Stop this scene. Release Pyrrha.” Her face was blotchy and swollen with tears, her chest heaving. “No!” She turned to Achilles. “You are lying! You have betrayed me! Monster! Apathes!” Heartless. Lycomedes froze. Achilles’ fingers tightened on mine. In our language, words come in different genders. She had used the masculine form. “What was that?” said Lycomedes, slowly. Deidameia’s face had gone pale, but she lifted her chin in defiance, and her voice did not waver. “He is a man,” she said. And then, “We are married.”

“Do not do this,” Achilles said to her. “Please.” It seemed to enrage her. “I will do it!” She turned to her father. “You are a fool! I’m the only one who knew! I knew!” She struck her chest in emphasis. “And now I’ll tell everyone. Achilles!” She screamed as if she would force his name through the stout stone walls, up to the gods themselves. “Achilles! Achilles! I’ll tell everyone!” “You will not.” The words were cold and knife-sharp; they parted the princess’s shouts easily. I know that voice. I turned.

I am the prince Achilles, son of Peleus. She did not wish me to go to war and hid me here, as one of your foster daughters.” Lycomedes swallowed and did not speak. “We will leave now,” Achilles said gently. The words shook Deidameia from her trance. “No,” she said, voice rising again. “You cannot. Your mother said the words over us, and we are married. You are my husband.” Lycomedes’ breath rasped loudly in the chamber; his eyes were for Thetis alone. “Is this true?” he asked. “It is,” the goddess answered. Something fell from a long height in my chest. Achilles turned to me, as if he would speak. But his mother was faster. “You are bound to us now, King Lycomedes. You will continue to shelter Achilles here. You will say nothing of who he is. In return, your daughter will one day be able to claim a famous husband.” Her eyes went to a point above Deidameia’s head, then back. She added, “It is better than she would have done.”

Deidameia stepped backwards, her eyes wide, her lips gone white. Her hands were trembling. She lifted one to her stomach and clutched the fabric of her dress there, as if to steady herself. Outside the palace, beyond the cliffs, we could hear huge waves breaking on the rocks, dashing the shoreline to pieces. “I am pregnant,” the princess whispered. I was watching Achilles when she said it, and I saw the horror on his face. Lycomedes made a noise of pain.

“Please, wait. Please, let me explain. I did not want to do it. My mother—” He was breathless, almost panting. I had never seen him so upset. “She led the girl to my room. She made me. I did not want to. My mother said—she said—” He was stumbling over his words. “She said that if I did as she said, she would tell you where I was.”

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.

“Your mother did not tell me where you were. It was Peleus.” His face had gone pale, bled dry. “She did not tell you?” “No. Did you truly expect she would?” My voice cut harder than I meant it to. “Yes,” he whispered.

auguries

Omens, or signs of things to happen

Something shifted in me then, like the frozen surface of the Apidanos in spring. I had seen the way he looked at Deidameia; or rather the way he did not. It was the same way he had looked at the boys in Phthia, blank and unseeing. He had never, not once, looked at me that way.

“Forgive me,” he said again. “I did not want it. It was not you. I did not—I did not like it.” Hearing it soothed the last of the jagged grief that had begun when Deidameia shouted his name. My throat was thick with the beginning of tears. “There is nothing to forgive,” I said.

“Deidameia was because of you, I think.” He stared at his hands a moment. “But the rest was the war.”

THE NEXT DAYS PASSED QUIETLY. WE TOOK MEALS IN our room and spent long hours away from the palace, exploring the island, seeking what shade there was beneath the scruffy trees. We had to be careful; Achilles could not be seen moving too quickly, climbing too skillfully, holding a spear. But we were not followed, and there were many places where he could safely let his disguise drop.

In the evenings, though, we had to return to the great hall. Reluctant, Achilles would put on his dress and smooth back his hair. Often he bound it up in cloth, as he had that first night; golden hair was uncommon enough to be remarked upon by the sailors and merchants who passed through our harbor. If their tales found the ears of someone clever enough—I did not like to think of it.

Sometimes she saw me watching her; her face would grow hard then, and her eyes would narrow. She put a hand on her belly, possessively, as if to ward off some spell I might cast. Perhaps she thought I was mocking her, flourishing my triumph. Perhaps she thought I hated her. She did not know that I almost asked him, a hundred times, to be a little kinder to her. You do not have to humiliate her so thoroughly, I thought. But it was not kindness he lacked; it was interest. His gaze passed over her as if she were not there.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” she said. “That should make you happy. My father wants me to begin my confinement early. He says it would bring shame upon me for the pregnancy to be seen, before it was known I was married.”

“Achilles does not regard me.” Her voice trembled a little. “Even though I bear his child and am his wife. Do you—know why this is so?” It was a child’s question, like why the rain falls or why the sea’s motion never ceases. I felt older than her, though I was not. “I do not know,” I said softly.

Sorrow for her dragged at me, bearing me down. Even if she called them, even if they believed her, they could not help her. I was the companion of Achilles and invulnerable.

gratefully into the circle of my arms. Her

Later, I almost convinced myself it had not happened, that it had been a vivid dream, drawn from his descriptions and too much imagination. But that is not the truth.

And then there was the war. Even here, in far-off, forgotten Scyros, news came of it. Helen’s former suitors had honored their vow, and Agamemnon’s army was rich with princely blood. It was said that he had done what no man before him could: united our fractious kingdoms with common cause. I remembered him—a grim-faced shadow, shaggy as a bear. To my nine-year-old self, his brother Menelaus had been much the more memorable of the two, with his red hair and merry voice. But Agamemnon was older, and his armies the larger; he would lead the expedition to Troy.

“If it’s a ship, there will be news,” I said, with a familiar clutch in my stomach. Each time I feared word would come of a search for the last of Helen’s suitors, the oath-breaker. I was young then; it did not occur to me that no leader would wish it known that some had not obeyed his summons.

“Not a trader,” Achilles commented. Trading ships used white sails only, practical and cheap; a man needed to be rich indeed to waste his dye on sailcloth.

Agamemnon’s messengers had crimson and purple

sails, symbols stolen from eastern royalty. This ship’s sails were yellow, whorled with patterns of black. “Do you know the d...

“Who are you?” I asked. The man laughed. “A good question. I’ve been terribly rude, barging into your room like this. I am one of the great king Agamemnon’s captains. I travel the islands and speak to promising young men, such as yourself”—he inclined his head towards me—“about joining our army against Troy. Have you heard of the war?”

Odysseus.

“Chironides,” Lycomedes acknowledged my arrival. “This is Odysseus, ruler of Ithaca.” “Thank goodness for hosts,” Odysseus said. “I realized after I left that I never told you my name.”

“You’re a king?” I dropped to a knee, in my best startled obeisance. “Actually, he’s only a prince,” a voice drawled. “I’m the one who’s a king.” I looked up to meet the third man’s eyes; they were a brown so light it was almost yellow, and keen. His beard was short and black, and it emphasized the slanting planes of his face. “This is Lord Diomedes, King of Argos,” Lycomedes said. “A comrade of Odysseus.” And another suitor of Helen’s, though I remembered no more than his name.

And how did you meet your wife, Prince of Ithaca?” If Odysseus felt the tension, he did not show it. “You are kind to ask. When Tyndareus sought a husband for Helen, suitors came from every kingdom. I’m sure you remember.” “I was married already,” Lycomedes said. “I did not go.” “Of course. And these were too young, I’m afraid.” He tossed a smile at me, then turned back to the king. “Of all these men, I was fortunate to arrive first. The king invited me to dine with the family: Helen; her sister, Clytemnestra; and their cousin Penelope.” “Invited,” Diomedes scoffed. “Is that what they call crawling through the bracken to spy upon them?” “I’m sure the prince of Ithaca would not do such a thing.” Lycomedes frowned. “Unfortunately I did just that, though I appreciate your faith in me.” He offered Lycomedes a genial smile. “It was Penelope who caught me, actually.

hour and thought she should step in before I hit the thornbush. Naturally, there was some awkwardness about it, but Tyndareus eventually came around and asked me to stay. In the course of dinner, I came to see that Penelope was twice as clever as her cousins and just as beautiful. So—” “As beautiful as Helen?” Diomedes interrupted. “Is that why she was twenty and unmarried?” Odysseus’ voice was mild. “I’m sure you would not ask a man to compare his wife unfavorably to another woman,” he said. Diomedes rolled his eyes and settled back to pick his teeth with the point of his knife. Odysseus returned to Lycomedes. “So, in the course of our conversation, when it became clear that the Lady Penelope favored me—” “Not for your looks, certainly,” Diomedes commented. “Certainly not,” Odysseus agreed. “She asked me what wedding present I would make to my bride. A wedding bed, I said, rather gallantly, of finest holm-oak. But this answer did not please her. ‘A wedding bed should not be made of dead, dry wood, but something green and living,’ she told me. ‘And what if I can make such a bed?’ I said. ‘Will you have me?’ And she said—”

The king of Argos made a noise of disgust. “I’m sick to death of this tale about your marriage bed.” “Then perhaps you shouldn’t have suggested I tell it.” “And perhaps you should get some new stories, so I don’t fucking kill myself of boredom.” Lycomedes looked shocked; obscenity was for back rooms and practice fields, not state dinners. But Odysseus only shook his head sadly. “Truly, the men of Argos get more and more barbaric with each passing year. Lycomedes, let us show the king of Argos a bit of civilization. I was hoping for a glimpse of the famous dancers of your isle.” Lycomedes swallowed. “Yes...

trumpet blew, loud and panicked. It came from outside,

a sustained note, followed by three short blasts: our signal for utmost, impending disaster. Lycomedes lurched to his feet, the guards’ heads jerked towards the door. Girls screamed and clung to each other, dropping their treasures to the ground in tinkles of breaking glass. All the girls but one. Before the final blast was finished, Achilles had swept up one of the silvered swords and flung off its kidskin sheath. The table blocked his path to the door; he leapt it in a blur, his other hand grabbing a spear from it as he passed. He landed, and the weapons were already lifted, held with a deadly poise that was like no girl, nor no man either. The greatest warrior of his generation. I yanked my gaze to Odysseus and Diomedes and was horrified to see them smiling. “Greetings, Prince Achilles,” Odysseus said. “We’ve been looking for you.”

“Lord Odysseus,” he said. His voice was remarkably calm. “Lord Diomedes.” He inclined his head politely, one prince to another. “I am honored to be the subject of so much effort.”

Odysseus nodded. “Thank you.” He moved towards the door, confidently, as if never doubting but that Achilles would follow. “After you,” Diomedes smirked. Achilles hesitated, and his eyes went to me, just the barest glance. “Oh yes,” Odysseus called over his shoulder. “You’re welcome to bring Patroclus along, if you like. We have business with him, as well.”

Achilles’ face was tight with emotion, and his neck flushed. “It was a trick,” he accused. Odysseus was unperturbed. “You were clever in hiding yourself; we had to be cleverer still in finding you.” Achilles lifted an eyebrow in princely hauteur. “Well? You’ve found me. What do you want?”

“We want you to come to Troy,” Odysseus said. “And if I do not want to come?” “Then we make this known.” Diomedes lifted Achilles’ discarded dress.

“There will be other wars.” “Not like this one,” said Diomedes. “This will be the greatest war of our people, remembered in legend and song for generations. You are a fool not to see it.” “I see nothing but a cuckolded husband and Agamemnon’s greed.”

“Then you are blind. 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. We will master Anatolia all the way to Araby. We will carve ourselves into stories for ages to come.”

“The sons of Troy are known for their skill in battle, and their deaths will lift your name to the stars. If you miss it, you will miss your chance at immortality. You will stay behind, unknown. You will grow old, and older in obscurity.” Achilles frowned. “You cannot know that.” “Actually, I can.” He leaned back in his chair. “I am fortunate to have some knowledge of the gods.” He smiled as if at a memory of some divine mischief. “And the gods have seen fit to share with me a prophecy about you.”

I should have known that Odysseus would not come with tawdry blackmail as his only coin. The stories named him polutropos, the man of many turnings.

But Odysseus’ voice was relentless. “He is known now only because of how his story touches yours. If you go to Troy, your fame will be so great that a man will be written into eternal legend just for having passed a cup to you. You will be—” The doors blew open in a fury of flying splinters. Thetis stood in the doorway, hot as living flame. Her divinity swept over us all, singeing our eyes, blackening the broken edges of the door. I could feel it pulling at my bones, sucking at the blood in my veins as if it would drink me. I cowered, as men were made to do.

“The gray-eyed maiden has ever been kind to me,” Odysseus said, almost apologetically. “She knows why I am here; she blesses and guards my purpose.” It was as if I had missed a step of their conversation. I struggled now to follow. The gray-eyed maiden—goddess of war and its arts. She was said to prize cleverness above all. “Athena has no child to lose.” The words grated from Thetis’ throat, hung in the air.