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It was as Odysseus had said: 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 thought, This is what Achilles will feel like when he is old. And then I remembered: he will never be old.
blood. I wet a cloth and tried to clean it away, but he caught my hand. “I could have stopped them,” he said. The skin of his face was very pale; his voice was hoarse. “I was close enough. I could have saved her.” I shook my head. “You could not have known.” He buried his face in his hands and did not speak. I held him and whispered all the bits of broken comfort I could find.
“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.”
“I have no need to forgive you. You cannot offend me.” They were rash words, but I said them with all the conviction of my heart.
“Stand behind me,” he said. I did. When an arrow came close, he brushed it aside with the shield. He took another spear.
“Briseis?” I said. She nodded, shyly. That was the beginning.
She was a better teacher than I, and funnier too. Her mimes brought us all to laughter: a sleepy-eyed lizard, two dogs fighting. It was easy to stay with them long and late, until I heard the creaking of the chariot, and the distant banging of bronze, and returned to greet my Achilles.
It was easy, in those moments, to forget that the war had not yet really begun.
she would say. Just the low sweetness of her voice, the fact that she wished to comfort me, helped take me out of myself.
about me,” he said. “Why?” I bristled at the thought of her fretting over him; that was mine to do.
I was pleased, because I felt that he had seen her, had understood why I spent my days with her when he was gone. She was one of us now, I thought. A member of our circle, for life.
she startled a little and sat up. He did not speak directly to her often, nor she to him. A remnant, perhaps, of what had happened in her village.
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.”
Instead she grew into a kind of aunt—a woman with sweets and love potions and soft fabrics for the drying of eyes. This is how I think of us, when I remember our nights at Troy: Achilles and I beside each other, and Phoinix smiling, and Automedon stuttering through the punch lines of jokes, and Briseis with her secret eyes and quick, spilling laughter.
“Briseis,” I said. “If I ever wished to take a wife, it would be you.” “But you do not wish to take a wife.” “No,” I said, as gently as I could.
Moments passed, and I was sure he was asleep. But then he said, “With you. She wants to have a child with you.” My silence was his answer. He sat up, the blanket falling from his chest. “Is she pregnant?” he asked. There was a tautness to his voice I had not heard before. “No,” I said. His eyes dug into mine, sifting them for answers.
The relief on his face filled me with sweetness. THINGS WERE STRANGE for some time after that. Briseis would have avoided me, but I called on her as I used to, and we went for our walks as we always had. We talked of camp gossip and medicine. She did not mention wives, and I was careful not to mention children. I still saw the softness in her eyes when she looked at me. I did my best to return it as I could.
I want to shatter the cold mask of stone that has slipped down over the boy I knew. He has given her to Agamemnon knowing what will happen.
A tired breath. “You are a better man than I.” The beginning of hope. We have given each other wounds, but they are not mortal. Briseis will not be harmed and Achilles will remember himself and my wrist will heal. There will be a moment after this, and another after that.
“Be careful tomorrow,” she says. “Best of men. Best of the Myrmidons.” She places her fingers to my lips, stopping my objection. “It is truth,”
He held up his hand. “Swear to me,” he said. “Swear to me that if you go, you will not fight them. You will stay with Automedon in the chariot and let the Myrmidons go in front of you.” “Yes.” I pressed my hand to his. “Of course. I am not mad. To frighten them, that is all.” I was drenched and giddy. I had found a way through the endless corridors of his pride and fury. I would save the men; I would save him from himself. “You will let me?”
The last thing I think is: Achilles.
BRISEIS RUNS TOWARDS US, face contorted. She bends over the body, her lovely dark eyes spilling water warm as summer rain. She covers her face with her hands and wails. Achilles does not look at her. He does not even see her. He stands.
brought water and cloth, and washes the blood and dirt from my skin. Her hands are gentle, as though she washes a baby, not a dead thing. Achilles opens the tent, and their eyes meet over my body. “Get away from him,” he says. “I am almost finished. He does not deserve to lie in filth.” “I would not have your hands on him.” Her eyes are sharp with tears. “Do you think you are the only one who loved him?” “Get out. Get out!” “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
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Somewhere, the gods whisper: He has beaten one of us. What will happen if he attacks the city? Troy is not meant to fall yet. And I think: do not fear for Troy. It is only Hector that he wants. Hector, and Hector alone. When Hector is dead, he will stop.
Her black eyes seem to contract, like dying stars. “I am glad that he is dead,” she says. It is the last thing she will ever say to him.
The next day he carries me to the pyre. Briseis and the Myrmidons watch as he places me on the wood and strikes the flint. The flames surround me, and I feel myself slipping further from life, thinning to only the faintest shiver in the air. I yearn for the darkness and silence of the underworld, where I can rest. He collects my ashes himself, though this is a woman’s duty. He puts them in a golden urn, the finest in our camp, and turns to the watching Greeks. “When I am dead, I charge you to mingle our ashes and bury us together.”
Maybe her gods are kinder than ours, and she will find rest. I would give my life again to make it so.
“I have done my best,” he says. “Let it be remembered I tried.” I remember.
We are all there, goddess and mortal and the boy who was both.
ACHILLES, it reads. And beside it, PATROCLUS. “Go,” she says. “He waits for you.” 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 of the sun.
