Well, so much for apologies.
It’s raining now. A steady drizzle laced with Zeus’s lightning and drunken cries from the Trojan lines less than a hundred yards away drift across the rain-filled ditch and muddy ramparts. I want the embassy to Achilles to be chosen so I can walk up the beach with Odysseus and Ajax and get on with it. This is the most important night of my life—at least of this second life as a scholic—and I keep rehearsing what I will say to Achilles.
If you will change all of our fates, you must find the fulcrum.
I think I’ve found it. Or at least a fulcrum. Certainly nothing will be the same for the Greeks and gods and Trojans—or for me—if I do what I plan to do this night. When old Phoenix speaks at this embassy to Achilles, it will be not only to end Achilles’ wrath but to unite his cause with Hector’s—to turn both Greeks and Trojans against the gods themselves.
Nestor suddenly cries out, “Son of Atreus, generous marshal and lord of men, our Agamemnon—no man, not even our Prince of Men, Peleus’ son, Achilles, could spurn such gifts. Come, we’ll send a small embassy of carefully chosen men to carry these offers and our love to Achilles’ tent this night. Quick, whomever my eye lights on, let these take the duty!”
Robed in old Phoenix’s flesh, I step to the edge of the circle near Big Ajax, making myself visible to Nestor.
“First of all,” cries Nestor, “let Ajax the Great take up this task. And with Big Ajax, let our tactful and brilliant king, Odysseus, add his counsel. For heralds—I choose Odius and Eurybates to escort our embassy. Water for all their hands now! And a moment of prayerful silence while we all beseech Zeus in our own manner—that the great god will show us mercy and let Achilles smile on our entreaty!”
I stand in shock while the ablutions are administered and the commanders bow their heads in silent prayer.
Nestor ends the silence by urging on the embassy—the embassy of four, not five!—by shouting at the leaving men, “Try hard now! Bring him around and make him pity us, our invincible, pitiless Achilles!”
And the two ambassadors and the two heralds leave our circle of firelight and walk away up the beach.
I wasn’t chosen! Phoenix wasn’t chosen! He hasn’t even been mentioned! Homer was wrong! The events of this Ilium have just wildly diverged from the events of the Iliad, and suddenly I’m as blind to future events as Helen and the other players here, as blind as the gods above, as blind as Homer himself, damn his missing eyes!
Stumbling on my old, skinny legs—on useless Phoenix’ old, skinny legs—I shove my way through the circle of Greek chieftains and run along the crashing water’s edge to try to catch up to Big Ajax and Odysseus.
I catch up to the two halfway down the dark beach to Achilles’ compound. Ajax and Odysseus are alone, speaking softly as they walk along the wet sand. They stop when I come up to them.
“What is it, Phoenix, son of Amyntor?” asks Big Ajax. “I was surprised to see you at the king’s feast, since word is that you’ve stayed close to your Myrmidon healers in recent months. Has Agamemnon sent you after us with some final admonition?”
Gasping as if I’m actually as old as Phoenix, I say, “Greetings, noble Ajax and royal Odysseus—in truth, Lord Agamemnon has sent me to join you in your embassy to Achilles.”
Big Ajax looks perplexed at this but Odysseus looks downright suspicious. “Why would Agamemnon choose you for this duty, honorable elder? Why would you even be in Agamemnon’s camp this dangerous night when the Trojans bay across our ditch like hungry dogs?”
I have no answer for the second question, so I try to bluff my way through the first. “Nestor suggested that I join you to help gain Achilles’ ear, and Agamemnon thought it a wise suggestion.”
“Come then,” says Ajax the Greater. “Join us, Phoenix.”
“But do not speak unless I tell you to,” says Odysseus, still squinting at me as if I were the impostor I truly am. “Nestor and Agamemnon may have seen some reason for you to visit Achilles’ tent, but there can be no reason for you to speak.”
“But . . .” I begin. I have no argument. If I’m not allowed to speak, after Odysseus but before Ajax as Homer had it, I lose all leverage, lose the fulcrum, I fail. If I’m not allowed to speak, the events of this night will diverge from the Iliad. But, I realize, they already have diverged. Phoenix should have been chosen by Nestor, his presence in the embassy seconded by Agamemnon. What’s going on here?
“If you join us in Achilles’ tent, Old Phoenix,” warns Odysseus, “you must wait in the foyer with the heralds, Odius and Eurybates, and enter or speak only on my command. These are my conditions.”
“But . . .” I begin again and see the uselessness of any protest. If Odysseus becomes more suspicious and marches me back to Agamemnon’s camp, my ruse will be up, and with it, my entire plan to turn the mortals against the gods. “Yes, Odysseus,” I say, nodding like the old horseman and tutor Phoenix was. “As you command.”
Odysseus and Big Ajax walk along the crashing sea and I follow.
I’ve talked about Achilles’ tent and you might picture some sort of backyard camping tent, but the son of Peleus lives in a canvas compound that’s closer in size to the main tent of a traveling circus I recall from my childhood . . . recall from what I am beginning to remember from my childhood. Thomas Hockenberry had a life, it seems, and after almost a decade here, some of the memories are leaking back into my mind.
This night, the hundreds of tents and campfires around Achilles’ main tent paint as chaotic a scene as the rest of the mile-long Achaean encampment, with some of Achilles’ loyal Myrmidons packing his black ships for departure, others looking to the ramparts to defend their area of beach should the Trojans win through before dawn, and still others gathering around campfires much as Agamemnon’s commanders had been.
Odius and Eurybates have announced our arrival to the captains of the guard, and Achilles’ personal guards snap to attention and allow us into the inner compound. We leave the beach and climb the low dune to the rise where Achilles’ main tent is situated. I follow the two Achaeans in—Big Ajax ducking his head to go through the lower inner entrance, Odysseus, almost a foot shorter than his comrade, entering without having to duck his head. Odysseus turns and gestures me to a place in the foyer near the entrance. I can see and hear what is happening within, but I won’t be part of it if I stay here.
Achilles, just as Homer described, is playing his lyre and singing an epic song of ancient heroes not so different than the Iliad itself. The lyre, I know, was a spoil of war, won when Achilles conquered Thebe and murdered Andromache’s father, Eetion. Hector’s wife had grown up listening to this same silver lyre being played in the hearth of her royal home there. Now Patroclus, Achilles’ dearest friend, sits across from him, waiting for Achilles to finish his part of the song so that Patroclus can sing the remaining lines.
Achilles quits plucking the instrument and stands in surprise as Ajax and Odysseus enter. Patroclus scrambles to his feet as well.
“Welcome!” cries Achilles. He gestures to Patroclus. “Look, dear friends have come—I must be needed badly to bring them here—and my dearest friends in all the Achaean ranks, even in my anger I acknowledge this.”
He leads the two emissaries to low couches and throws rich purple carpets across the cushioned frames. To Patroclus, Achilles says, “Come, son of Menoetius, a bigger wine bowl. Here . . . put it here. We’ll mix stronger wine. A cup for each of my noble guests—since these men who have come under my roof are those I love the best.”
I watch the unfolding of these surprisingly gracious rituals of heroic hospitality. Patroclus sets a heavy chopping block next to the fire and lays out the chines of a sheep and a goat, next to the fat-marbled back cut of a pig. Automedan, friend and charioteer of both Achilles and Patroclus, holds the slabs of meat while Achilles cuts off prize strips, salts each, and sets them on spits. Patroclus builds up the fire for a minute and then scatters the embers and sets the spits across the hottest part of the fire, salting each strip again.