Ilium

Ada swept out the door and down the stairs to greet him. Daeman stopped in his tracks and smiled stupidly. Ada was not only more beautiful than he remembered; she was more beautiful than he could have imagined.

3 The Plains of Ilium

The Greek commanders are gathered outside Agamemnon’s tent, there is a crowd of interested onlookers, and the brawl between Agamemnon and Achilles is already picking up steam.

I should mention that by this time I have morphed into the form of Bias—not the Pylian captain of that name in Nestor’s ranks, but the captain serving Menestheus. This poor Athenian is ill with typhoid during this period and, though he will survive to fight in Book 13, he rarely leaves his tent, which is far down the coast. As a captain, Bias has enough rank that the spearmen and curious bystanders give way for him, allowing me access to the center circle. But no one will expect Bias to speak during the coming debate.

I’ve missed most of the drama where Calchas, Thestor’s son and the “clearest of all the seers,” has told the Achaeans the real reason for Apollo’s wrath. Another captain standing there whispers to me that Calchas had requested immunity before speaking—demanding that Achilles protect him if the assembled crowd and kings disliked what he had to say. Achilles has agreed. Calchas told the group what they half suspected: that Chryse, the priest of Apollo, had begged for the return of his captured daughter, and Agamemnon’s refusal had infuriated the god.

Agamemnon had been angry at the Calchas’ interpretation. “He shit square goat turds,” whispered the captain with a wine-scented laugh. This captain, unless I am mistaken, is named Orus and will be killed by Hector in a few weeks when the Trojan hero begins massacring Achaeans by the gross.

Orus tells me that Agamemnon agreed just minutes ago to give back the slave girl, Chryseis—“I rank her higher and like her better than Clytaemnestra, my own wife,” Atreus’ son, Agamemnon, had shouted—but then the king had demanded recompense in the form of an equally beautiful captive girl. According to Orus, who is three sheets to the wind, Achilles had shouted—“Wait a minute, Agamemnon, you most grasping man alive”—pointed out that the Argives, still another name for the Achaeans, the Danaans, the damned Greeks with so many names, were in no position to hand over more booty to their leader now. Someday, should the tide of battle turn back their direction, promised the man-killer Achilles, Agamemnon would get his girl. In the meantime, he told Agamemnon to give Chryseis back to her father and to shut up.

“At that point Lord Agamemnon, Atreus’ son, began shitting whole goats,” laughs Orus, speaking loudly enough that several captains turn to frown at us.

I nod and look at the inner circles. Agamemnon, as always, is in the center of things. Atreus’ son looks every inch the supreme commander—tall, beard rolled in classic curls, a demigod’s brow and piercing eyes, muscles oiled, dressed in the finest gear and garb. Directly opposite him in the open bull’s-eye of the circle stands Achilles. Stronger, younger, even more beautiful than Agamemnon, Achilles almost defies description. When I first saw him at the Catalogue of the Ships more than nine years ago, I thought that Achilles had to be the most godlike human walking among these many godlike men, so imposing was the man’s physical and command presence. Since then I’ve realized that for all his beauty and power, Achilles is relatively stupid—a sort of infinitely more handsome Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Around this inner circle are the heroes I spent decades teaching about in my other life. They do not disappoint when encountered in the flesh. Near Agamemnon, but obviously not siding with him in the argument now raging, is Odysseus—a full head shorter than Agamemnon, but broader in the chest and shoulders, moving among the Greek lords like a ram among sheep, his intelligence and craftiness visible in his eyes and etched into the lines on his weathered face. I’ve never spoken to Odysseus, but I look forward to doing so before this war ends and he leaves on his travels.

On Agamemnon’s right is his younger brother Menelaus, Helen’s husband. I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve overheard one of the Achaeans gripe that if Menelaus had been a better lover—“had a bigger cock” was the way Diomedes crudely put it to a friend within my earshot three years ago—then Helen wouldn’t have run off with Paris to Ilium and the heroes of the Greek isles wouldn’t have wasted the past nine years on this accursed siege. On Agamemnon’s left is Orestes—not Agamemnon’s son, left at home and spoiled, who will someday avenge his father’s murder and earn his own play, but only a loyal spear-carrier of the same name who will be slaughtered by Hector during the next big Trojan offensive.

Standing behind King Agamemnon is Eurybates, Agamemnon’s herald—not to be confused with the Eurybates who is Odysseus’ herald. Next to Eurybates stands Ptolemaeus’ son, Eurymedon, a handsome boy, who is Agamemnon’s charioteer—not to be confused with the far-less-handsome Eurymedon who is Nestor’s charioteer. (Sometimes here I admit I’d exchange all these glorious patronymics for a few simple last names.)

Also in Agamemnon’s half of the circle tonight are Big Ajax and Little Ajax, commanders of the troops from Salamis and Locris. These two will never be confused, except by name, since Big Ajax looks like a white NFL linebacker and Little Ajax looks like a pickpocket. Euryalus, third in command of the Argolis fighters, is standing next to his boss, Sthenelus, a man who has such a terrible lisp that he can’t pronounce his own name. Agamemnon’s friend and the ultimate commander of the Argolis fighters, plain-speaking Diomedes, is also here, not happy tonight, glowering at the ground, his arms folded. Old Nestor—“the clear speaker of Pylos”—stands near the halfway point of the inner circle and looks even less happy than Diomedes as Agamemnon and Achilles raise the level of their anger and abuse toward one other.

If things go according to Homer’s telling, Nestor will make his big speech in just a few minutes, trying in vain to shame both Agamemnon and the furious Achilles into reconciling before their anger serves the Trojans’ aims, and I confess that I want to hear Nestor’s speech even if just for his reference to the ancient war against the centaurs. Centaurs have always interested me and Homer has Nestor speak of them and the war against them in a matter-of-fact tone; centaurs are one of only two mythical beasts mentioned in the Iliad, the other being the chimera. I look forward to his mention of the centaurs, but in the meantime, I stay out of Nestor’s sight, since the identity I’m morphing—Bias—is one of the old man’s subordinates, and I don’t want to be pulled into conversation. No worry of that now—Nestor and everyone else’s attention is focused on the exchange of harsh words and spittle between Agamemnon and Achilles.

Standing near Nestor and obviously allying themselves with neither leader are Menesthius (who will be killed by Paris in a few weeks if things proceed according to Homer), Eumelus (leader of the Thessalians from Pherae), Polyxinus (co-commander of the Epeans), Polyxinus’ friend Thalpius, Thoas (commander of the Aetolians), Leonteus and Polypoetes in their distinctive Argissan garb, also Machaon and his brother Podalirius with their various Thessalian lieutenants standing behind them, Odysseus’ dear friend Leucus (fated to be killed in a few days by Antiphus), and others I’ve come to know well over the years, not just by sight but by the sound of their voices, as well as by their distinctive modes of fighting and bragging and making offerings to the gods. If I haven’t mentioned it yet, the ancient Greeks assembled here do nothing in a half-assed way—everything is performed to the full extent of their abilities, every effort running what one twentieth-century scholar called “the full risk of failure.”