“But if the son of Atreus is too much hated in your heart for you to accept these gifts,” finishes Odysseus, “at least take pity on all the rest of us Achaeans. Join our fight and save us now and we will honor you like a god. Also, remember that if your wrath keeps you from fighting—if your disdain sends you home over the wine-dark sea before this war with Troy is finished—you’ll never know if you could have killed Hector. This is your chance for that aristeia, Achilles, since Hector’s murderous frenzy will bring him to close combat tomorrow after all these years of his aloofness behind the high walls of Ilium. Stay and fight with us, noble Achilles, and now, for the first time, you can meet Hector head-on in combat.”
I have to admit, Odysseus’ speech has been one hell of a performance. I might be persuaded, if I were the young demigod lounging on the cushions six feet from me in the tent. We all sit silently until Achilles sets down his cup of wine and answers.
“Noble son of Laertes, seed of Zeus, resourceful tactician, dear Odysseus—I have to tell you frankly and honestly how I feel and how all this will end, so you won’t keep crowding me, one embassy after another, coaxing and murmuring one after the other like a line of cooing doves.
“As much as I detest the doorways of Death, Hades’ dark gates, so do I detest a man who says one thing with his mouth but hides another in his heart.”
I blink at that. Is this a deep dig at Odysseus, “resourceful tactician,” known by all Achaeans as someone who will bend the truth when it serves his purposes? Perhaps, but Odysseus does not react in any way, so I keep Phoenix’s expression neutral.
“I’ll say this clearly,” continues Achilles. “Will Agamemnon win me back, persuade me with all these . . . gifts?” The hero all but spits this last word. “No. Not for all the world. Nor could all the armies and captains of the Achaeans convince me to return, since their gratitude is too little and too late . . . Where was the gratitude of the Achaeans during my years upon years of warring against their enemies, battle after battle, year after year in harness, fighting every day with no end in sight?
“Twelve cities I’ve stormed from my ships; eleven I’ve claimed by wetting the fertile loam of Ilium’s lands with Trojan blood. And from all these cities I dragged heaps of plunder, mountains of loot, great, crying herds of beautiful women, and always I gave the best of the lot to Agamemnon—that son of Atreus, safe in his racing black ships or skulking far behind the lines. And he would take it all . . . all and more.
“Oh, yes . . . sometimes he’d hand out scraps to you and the other commanders, but always he kept the lion’s share for himself. To all of you, whose loyalty he needs to prop up his regime, he gives—only from me does he take—including the slave girl who would have been my bride. Well, fuck it and fuck him and fuck her, my dear comrades. Let Agamemnon bed Briseis . . . to the hilt, if the old man is up to it.”
With his grievances aired anew, Achilles goes on to question why his Myrmidons and the Achaeans and the Argives should even be fighting this war. “For Helen with her loose and lustrous hair?” he asks contemptuously, saying that Menelaus and his brother Agamemnon are not the only men here with missing wives, reminding Odysseus of his own wife, Penelope, left alone these ten long years.
And I think of Helen sitting up in bed just these few nights ago, her loose and lustrous hair hanging over her shoulders, her pale breasts white in the starlight.
It’s hard to pay attention to Achilles, even though this speech is as wonderful and surprising as Homer reported. In this short talk, Achilles undermines the very heroic code that makes him a superhero, the code of conduct that makes him a god in the eyes of his men and equals.
Achilles says that he has no ambition to battle glorious Hector—neither will to kill him nor will to die by his hand.
Achilles says that he is taking his men and sailing at dawn, leaving the Achaeans to their fates—leaving them to Hector’s mercy when the Trojan and his hordes cross the ditch and rampart tomorrow.
Achilles says that Agamemnon is a dog armored in shamelessness and that he wouldn’t marry one of the old king’s daughters even if she somehow ended up with Aphrodite’s looks and Athena’s crafts.
Then Achilles says something truly amazing—he confesses that his mother, the goddess Thetis, told him that two fates would bear him on to his day of death: one where he stays here, lays siege to Troy, kills Hector, but then dies himself within a few days. In that direction, his mother told him, lies eternal glory in the memories of men and gods alike. His other fate lies in flight—sailing home, losing his pride and glory, but living a long, happy life. The fates are his to choose, his mother told him years ago.
And, Achilles tells us now, he chooses life. Here this . . . this . . . hero, this mass of muscle and testosterone, this living-legend demigod . . . he chooses life over glory. It’s enough to make Odysseus squint in disbelief and Ajax gape.
“So Odysseus, Ajax, brothers both,” he says, “go back to the great commanders of Achaea. Report my answer. Let them figure out how to save the hollow ships and save the men who will be pressed back to these very ships’ burning hulls at this time tomorrow. As for silent Phoenix, here . . .”
I jump three inches off the red cushion when he turns toward me. I’ve been so lost in preparing what I have to say and the moral implications of it that I’ve forgotten that we’re in a discussion here.
“Phoenix,” says Achilles, smiling indulgently, “while Odysseus and Ajax here must report back to their master, you are free to spend the night here with Patroclus and me, and voyage home with us come the dawn. But only if Phoenix wishes . . . I would never force any man to go.”
This is my chance to speak. Ignoring Odysseus’ scowl, I look around, stand awkwardly, clear my throat to begin Phoenix’ long speech. How does it start? All those years of teaching and studying it, of learning the nuance of every Greek word, and now my mind is a blank.
Ajax stands. “While that old fool tries to decide whether to run away with you or not, Achilles, I’ll tell you that you’re as much of a fool as old Phoenix!”
Achilles, the man-killer who will brook no insult to his person, the hero who will let all of his Achaean friends be murdered rather than suffer indignities over a slave girl from Agamemnon, merely smiles and cocks an eyebrow at Ajax’s direct insult.
“Giving up glory and twenty beautiful women for one woman you can’t even have . . . bah!” cries Ajax and turns away. “Come, Odysseus, this golden boy has never drunk from the teat of human friendship. Let’s leave him to his wrath and deliver our dark message to the waiting Achaeans. Tomorrow’s sunrise is coming fast enough, and I for one need some sleep before the fight. If I’m going to die tomorrow, I don’t want to die sleepy.”
Odysseus nods, stands, nods again in the direction of Achilles, and follows Big Ajax out of the tent.
I’m still standing with my mouth agape, ready to deliver Phoenix’s long, three-part speech—that clever speech!—with my own clever amendments and hidden agendas.
Patroclus and Achilles stand, stretch, and exchange glances. Obviously they’ve been expecting this embassy and both men knew Achilles’ shocking answer in advance.
“Phoenix, old father, loved by the gods,” Achilles says warmly, “I don’t know what really brought you here this stormy night, but well I remember when I was a lad and you’d lift me and carry me off to bed after lessons. Stay here this night, Phoenix. Patroclus and Automedon will prepare a soft bed for you. In the morning, we’ll sail for home and you can come . . . or not.”