I shrug. “Have it your way, son of Peleus. I was sent here to help you avenge Patroclus and reclaim his body for funeral rites. If these things are not your will, I’ll take my leave.” I turn my back on him and start to walk away.
Achilles is on me so fast, throwing me to the sand and drawing his knife so quickly, that I couldn’t have tasered him if my life depended on it. Perhaps it does, for now he sets the razor-sharp blade against my throat. “You dare insult me?”
I speak very carefully so the blade does not draw blood. “I insult no one, Achilles. I was sent here to help you avenge Patroclus. If you wish to do so, do what I say.”
Achilles stares at me a moment, then rises, resheaths his knife, and offers his hand to pull me up. Odysseus and the other captains are watching silently from thirty feet away, obviously curious as hell.
“What is your name?” demands Achilles.
“Hockenberry,” I say, dusting sand off my butt and rubbing my neck where the blade touched it. “Son of Duane,” I add, remembering the usual ritual.
“A strange name,” mutters the man-killer. “But these are strange times. Welcome, Hockenberry, son of Duane.” He extends his hand and grasps my forearm so tight that he squeezes off circulation. I try to return the grip.
Achilles turns back to his captains and his aides. “I am dressing for war, son of Duane. When I am done, I shall accompany you to the depths of Hades if need be.”
“Just Ilium to start with,” I say.
“Come, meet my comrades and my generals now that Agamemnon is defeated.” He leads me over toward Odysseus and the others.
I have to ask. “Is Agamemnon dead? Menelaus?”
Achilles looks grim when he shakes his head. “No, I’ve not killed the Atrides, although I bested both in single combat this morning, one after the other. They are bruised and bloody, but not so badly hurt. They are with the healer Asclepius, and although they have sworn allegiance in return for their lives, I will never trust them.”
Then Achilles is introducing me to Odysseus and all the other heroes I’ve watched for more than nine years. Each of the men grips my forearm in greeting and by the time I’ve gone down the line of just the top captains, my wrist and fingers are numb.
“Godlike Achilles,” says Odysseus, “this morning you have become our king and we swear our allegiance and have given our oath to follow you to Olympos if need be to win back our comrade Patroclus’ body after Athena’s treachery—as unbelievable as that sounds—but I have to tell you that your men and your captains are hungry. The Achaeans must eat. They have been fighting Trojans all morning after little or no sleep and have driven Hector’s forces back from our black ships, our wall, and our trenches, but the men are tired and hungry. Let Talthybius there prepare a wild boar for the captains while your men and you draw back to eat and . . .”
Achilles wheels on the son of Laertes. “Eat? Are you mad, Odysseus? I have no taste for food this day. What I really crave is slaughter and blood and the cries and groans of dying men and butchered gods.”
Odysseus bows his head slightly. “Achilles, son of Peleus, greatest by far of all the Achaeans, you are stronger than I am, and greater by not just a little with the spear, but I might surpass you in wisdom, seasoned as I am by more years of experience and more trials of judgment. Let your heart be swayed by what I say, new King. Do not let your loyal Achaeans and Argives and Danaans attack Ilium on empty bellies this long day, much less go to war against Olympos while they’re hungry.”
Achilles pauses before answering.
Odysseus takes Achilles’ silence as an opportunity to press home his argument. “You want your heroes, Achilles, willing to die for you to a man, eager to avenge Patroclus, to meet their deaths not by battle with the immortal gods but by starving?”
Achilles sets his strong hand on Odysseus’ shoulder, and I realize, not for the first time, how much taller the man-killer is than the stocky tactician. “Odysseus, wise counselor,” says Achilles, “have Agamemnon’s herald Talthybius draw his dragger across the largest boar’s throat and set the animal to the spit over the hottest fire your men can make. Then slaughter as many more as there are appetites in the Achaean ranks. I will order my loyal Myrmidons to take charge of the feast. But make no initial offering to the gods this day. No firstling thrown into the fire for sacrifice. This day, we will give the gods only the business ends of our spears and swords. Let them take the hindmost for a change.”
He looks around and speaks loudly so that all of the captains can hear. “Eat well, my friends. Nestor! Have your sons, Antilochos and Thrasymedes, also Meges the son of Phyleus, Meriones and Thoas, Lycoedes the son of Creon, and Melanippus too, carry the word of the feast to the very front of the fighting, so that no Achaean warrior goes without meat and wine for his midday meal this day! I will dress myself for battle and go off with Hockenberry, the son of Duane, to prepare myself for the coming war with the gods.”
Achilles turns and walks into the tent where he had been dressing when I arrived, beckoning now for me to follow him.
Waiting for Achilles to get dressed for war reminds me of the times I waited for my wife, Susan, to get dressed when we were late for a dinner party somewhere. There’s nothing to do to hurry up the process—all one can do is wait.
But I keep checking my chronometer, thinking of the little robot I left up there—Mahnmut was its name—and wondering if the gods have killed it, him, it, yet. But he told me to return and meet him by the caldera lake in an hour and I still have more than thirty minutes left.
But how can I return to Olympos without the Hades Helmet to hide me? I’d been impulsive in giving the leather cowl to the little robot, and now I may pay for that impulsiveness at any moment if the gods look down and spy me here. But I tell myself that Aphrodite will be able to see me anyway if I return to Olympos, Hades Helmet or no Hades Helmet, so I’ll just have to QT in there fast, get Mahnmut, and QT out. What’s important now is what’s happening here and in Ilium.
What’s happening here is that Achilles is getting dressed.
I notice that Achilles is grinding his teeth as he dresses for war—or rather, as his servants, slaves, and stewards help him dress for war. No knight chavaliex from the Middle Ages ever handled his weapons and armor with greater care and ceremony than does Achilles, son of Peleus, this day.
First, Achilles wraps his legs with finely formed greaves—shin guards that make me remember my days as a catcher in Little League—although these greaves aren’t made of molded plastic, but are wonderfully worked in bronze with silver ankle-clasps.
Then Achilles straps the breastplate around his broad chest and slings his sword over his shoulder. The sword is also made of bronze, is polished brighter than a mirror, is razor sharp, and has a silver-studded hilt. I might lift that sword if I crouched and used both hands. Perhaps.
Then he hoists his huge, round shield, made of two layers of bronze and two layers of tin—a rare metal at this time—separated by a layer of gold. This shield is a polished and gleaming work of art so famous that its design had Homer devote a full book of the Iliad to it; the shield has also been the subject of many stand-alone poems, including my favorite by Robert Graves. And, surprisingly, it doesn’t disappoint when seen in person. Suffice it to say that the shield design includes concentric circles of images which summarize the essence of thought in much of this ancient Greek world, beginning with the River Ocean on the outer rim and moving through amazing images of the City at Peace and the City at War near the center, culminating in beautiful renderings of the Earth, sea, sun, moon and stars in the bull’s-eye center. The shield is so brightly polished that even in the shade of this tent, it gleams like a heliograph mirror.
Finally Achilles lifts his rugged helmet and sets it in place over his brows. Legend has it that the fire god Hephaestus personally drove in the horsehair crest—not only Trojans wear high-crested war helmets in this war, but also the Achaeans—and it’s true that the tall golden plumes along the ridge of the helmet shimmer like flames when Achilles walks.