Page 47 of The Song of Achilles

“Yes,” Lycomedes croaked. I pitied him. I pitied all of us. “Yes. Just through there.” He pointed.

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.”

Chapter Fifteen

T HE ROOM HAD A FEW THREADBARE TAPESTRIES AND four chairs. I forced myself to sit straight against the stiff wood back, as a prince should. 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.

Achilles flushed as if he’d been struck. It was one thing to wear a dress out of necessity, another thing for the world to know of it. Our people reserved their ugliest names for men who acted like women; lives were lost over such insults.

Odysseus held up a restraining hand. “We are all noble men here and it should not have to come to such measures. I hope we can offer you happier reasons to agree. Fame, for instance. You will win much of it, if you fight for us.”

“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.”

“I thought you said it would be an easy campaign, home by next fall,” I managed. I had to do something to stop the relentless roll of their words.

“I lied.” Odysseus shrugged. “I have no idea how long it will be. Faster if we have you.” He looked at Achilles. His dark eyes pulled like the tide, however you swam against it. “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. Fear stirred in me like ash.

“What prophecy?” Achilles asked, slowly.

“That if you do not come to Troy, your godhead will wither in you, unused. Your strength will diminish. At best, you will be like Lycomedes here, moldering on a forgotten island with only daughters to succeed him. Scyros will be conquered soon by a nearby state; you know this as well as I. They will not kill him; why should they? He can live out his years in some corner eating the bread they soften for him, senile and alone. When he dies, people will say, who?”

The words filled the room, thinning the air until we could not breathe. Such a life was a horror.

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.

Odysseus’ dark beard was dusted with fine debris from the door’s ruin. He stood. “Greetings, Thetis.”

Her gaze went to him as a snake’s to her prey, and her skin glowed. The air around Odysseus seemed to tremble slightly, as if with heat or a breeze. Diomedes, on the ground, edged away. I closed my eyes, so I would not have to see the explosion.