Page 85 of The Song of Achilles

“That is what I am doing.”

“Very well,” Odysseus says. “I have said what I came to say.”

Achilles stands. “Then it is time for you to leave.”

“Not yet.” It is Phoinix. “I, too, have something I wish to say.”

Slowly, caught between his pride and his respect for the old man, Achilles sits. Phoenix begins.

“When you were a boy, Achilles, your father gave you to me to raise. Your mother was long gone, and I was the only nurse you would have, cutting your meat and teaching you myself. Now you are a man, and still I strive to watch over you, to keep you safe, from spear, and sword, and folly.”

My eyes lift to Achilles, and I see that he is tensed, wary. I understand what he fears—being played upon by the gentleness of this old man, being convinced by his words to give something up. Worse, a sudden doubt—that perhaps, if Phoinix agrees with these men, he is wrong.

The old man holds up a hand, as if to stop the spin of such thoughts. “Whatever you do, I will stand with you, as I always have. But before you decide your course, there is a story you should hear.”

He does not give Achilles time to object. “In the days of your father’s father, there was a young hero Meleager, whose town of Calydon was besieged by a fierce people called the Curetes.”

I know this story, I think. I heard Peleus tell it, long ago, while Achilles grinned at me from the shadows. There was no blood on his hands then, and no death sentence on his head. Another life.

“In the beginning the Curetes were losing, worn down by Meleager’s skill in war,” Phoinix continues. “Then one day there was an insult, a slight to his honor by his own people, and Meleager refused to fight any further on his city’s behalf. The people offered him gifts and apologies, but he would not hear them. He stormed off to his room to lie with his wife, Cleopatra, and be comforted.”

When he speaks her name, Phoinix’s eyes flicker to me.

“At last, when her city was falling and her friends dying, Cleopatra could bear it no longer. She went to beg her husband to fight again. He loved her above all things and so agreed, and won a mighty victory for his people. But though he had saved them, he came too late. Too many lives had been lost to his pride. And so they gave him no gratitude, no gifts. Only their hatred for not having spared them sooner.”

In the silence, I can hear Phoinix’s breaths, labored with the exertion of speaking so long. I do not dare to speak or move; I am afraid that someone will see the thought that is plain on my face. It was not honor that made Meleager fight, or his friends, or victory, or revenge, or even his own life. It was Cleopatra, on her knees before him, her face streaked with tears. Here is Phoinix’s craft: Cleopatra, Patroclus. Her name built from the same pieces as mine, only reversed.

If Achilles noticed, he does not show it. His voice is gentle for the old man’s sake, but still he refuses. Not until Agamemnon gives back the honor he has taken from me . Even in the darkness I can see that Odysseus is not surprised. I can almost hear his report to the others, his hands spread in regret: I tried. If Achilles had agreed, all to the good. If he did not, his refusal in the face of prizes and apologies would only seem like madness, like fury or unreasonable pride. They will hate him, just as they hated Meleager.

My chest tightens in panic, in a quick desire to kneel before him and beg. But I do not. For like Phoinix I am declared already, decided. I am no longer to guide the course, merely to be carried, into darkness and beyond, with only Achilles’ hands at the helm.

Ajax does not have Odysseus’ equanimity—he glares, his face carved with anger. It has cost him much to be here, to beg for his own demotion. With Achilles not fighting, he is Aristos Achaion.

When they are gone, I stand and give my arm to Phoinix. He is tired tonight, I can see, and his steps are slow. By the time I leave him—old bones sighing onto his pallet—and return to our tent, Achilles is already asleep.

I am disappointed. I had hoped, perhaps, for conversation, for two bodies in one bed, for reassurance that the Achilles I saw at dinner was not the only one. But I do not rouse him; I slip from the tent and leave him to dream.

I CROUCH IN LOOSE SAND, in the shadow of a small tent.

“Briseis?” I call softly.

There is a silence, then I hear: “Patroclus?”

“Yes.”

She tugs up the side of the tent and pulls me quickly inside. Her face is pinched with fear. “It is too dangerous for you to be here. Agamemnon is in a rage. He will kill you.” Her words are a rushing whisper.

“Because Achilles refused the embassy?” I whisper back.

She nods, and in a swift motion snuffs out the tent’s small lamp. “Agamemnon comes often to look in on me. You are not safe here.” In the darkness I cannot see the worry on her face, but her voice is filled with it. “You must go.”

“I will be quick. I have to speak with you.”

“Then we must hide you. He comes without warning.”

“Where?” The tent is small, bare of everything but pallet, pillows and blankets, and a few clothes.

“The bed.”