Authors: Alessandro Baricco
That night we went to sleep without making a decision, and when we woke we received a delegation from the Trojans. Idaeus came to us and said that since the Trojans had taken up the fight again, after the encounter between Paris and Menelaus, and had broken the sacred pact, they were now willing to give us our due by returning all the treasures that Paris had carried off with Helen of Argos. Not the woman but the treasures, yes. And he said that to those they would add splendid gifts, to compensate us for the treachery. They were afraid that the gods would not forgive their perfidy, you see?
Diomedes rose and said, “Not even if they gave us back Helen in flesh and blood would we stop, my friends. Even a fool could understand that the end of Troy is near.” And we all applauded; at that moment we felt that he was right. So Agamemnon answered Idaeus that we rejected the offer. And then he agreed to a truce of one day, so that we and the Trojans could gather our dead and consign them to the flames in accordance with custom. And so it was.
A strange day of war. On the great plain, beneath the sun that lighted up the land, went Achaeans and Trojans, mingled
together, looking for their own dead. They leaned over the fouled bodies, with water washed away the blood in order to identify the faces, and then, weeping, loaded them onto carts. Silently, with grieving hearts, they heaped the bodies on the pyres, and stood there watching as the leaping flames burned those who, until the day before, had fought at their side.
When the sun began to set, I gathered a band of Achaeans around the funeral pyre and had them construct the wall, the hated wall, with high, secure towers and broad gates so that our men could go in and out. I had them build it all the way around the ships. And I had them dig a deep trench in front of the wall to keep the Trojan chariots away. And only when it was finished did we withdraw to the tents to take the gift of sleep. During the night Zeus hurled terrible thunder from the sky, and it was a sound of disaster that left us pale with fear.
At dawn the next day we took our meal quickly and put on our armor. The Trojans emerged from the city and came toward us in an immense tumult. In the middle of the plain the two armies clashed in a fury of shields, spears, and bronze armor, of groans and shouts, of the sorrow of the killed and the triumph of the killers, while the earth was stained with blood. From dawn until noon the blows flew on one side and the other, but when the sun was high in the middle of the sky, then the fate of the battle smiled on the Trojans. Around me I saw our men begin to retreat, and then flee. I, too, thought of turning back in my chariot, like the others, but an arrow shot by Paris struck one of my horses in his forehead: he reared up in pain, then fell to the ground, upsetting the other two. With my sword I cut the traces loose from him and was about to call back the other horses when I saw Hector in his chariot speeding toward me in the fray. I was a dead man. I saw Odysseus not far from me. Even he was fleeing, so I shouted, “Odysseus,
where are you going? Do you want to be killed by a spear in your back? You coward, come and help me!” But patient, glorious Odysseus couldn’t hear me, and continued heading toward the ships.
It was Diomedes who came to save me. He arrived quickly in his chariot and pulled me up with him. I took the reins and urged the horses toward Hector. And when we were close enough, Diomedes hurled his spear with all his strength. When I saw that it had missed, I understood that fate was against us and it was better to escape. “Escape? Me?” said Diomedes. “And then let Hector go around boasting that Diomedes ran away from him?”
As I said, the young love glory, and so they lose wars.
“Diomedes, even if he says it, no one will believe him, because people believe the winner, not the loser.” And I turned the horses in flight amid the turmoil, with the voice of Hector fading behind us, shouting insults.
We retreated to the trench and there we stopped. Hector was driving us back with his whole army, the plain was teeming with soldiers and chariots and horses. Agamemnon was shouting, urging on the Achaeans, and all the heroes fought hard, one beside the other. I remember that Teucer, the archer, hid behind the shield of Ajax, and when Ajax lowered the shield he took aim and let fly into the crowd of Trojans. He didn’t miss a shot. The Trojans fell, one after the other, struck by his arrows. We shouted at him to take Hector, to aim at him. “I can’t hit him, that mad dog,” he said. Twice he had tried, twice missed, and he didn’t have time to try again, for Hector was on him and hit him in the shoulder with a rock. The bow flew out of his hands; he fell to the ground. Ajax sheltered him with his shield, and two men managed to grab him and carry him off, far from Hector’s fury.
We fought but we couldn’t contain them. They pushed us
into the trench and then against the wall, while Hector never stopped shouting, “They think they can hold us back with a wall, but our chariots will fly over that wall and we won’t stop until we reach the ships and fire consumes them!” Nothing could save us.
The sun saved us. It sank into Ocean, bringing night upon the fertile earth. In anger the Trojans watched it set. In joy, ourselves. Even war is obedient to the night.
We withdrew behind the wall, into our tents, in front of the ships. But Hector, for the first time in nine long years of war, didn’t lead his army back inside the walls of the city. He ordered his men to camp there, at the wall. From the city he had oxen and fat sheep brought, and sweet wine and bread and wood for the blazing fires. The wind bore the odor of sacrifices.
And we, who had come from far away to lay siege to a city, became a city under siege.
All night, right before our eyes, the fires of the proud Trojans burned by the thousand. They shone the way the moon and stars shine at night under the open sky, illuminating the mountain peaks and valleys and warming the shepherd’s heart with gladness. In the glow of the flames we saw the shadows of the Trojans moving in the night, waiting for Aurora on her beautiful throne.
F
ive of them came. Odysseus first of all. Then the great warrior Ajax and Phoenix, loved by Zeus. And two heralds, Odius and Eurybates. I was in my tent, playing the lyre. It was a precious lyre—beautifully made, with a silver bridge—that I had chosen from among the spoils, and I was playing because it comforted my heart to play and sing of the adventures of heroes. Beside me Patroclus listened in silence. Then they arrived. They had been well chosen: among all the Achaeans they were most dear to me. “Friends,” I said, and had them sit around me on couches covered with purple carpets. I sent Patroclus to get more wine, and he brought wine, and meat and bread.
So we feasted in my tent together, and only at the end Odysseus, who was sitting just across from me, raised a cup of wine and said, “Hail, Achilles, divine prince. Your banquet is sumptuous, but, sadly, we have not come here for your food and wine. An immense disaster threatens us, and we are
afraid. If you don’t take up your weapons, it will be difficult to save the ships. The proud Trojans and their allies are encamped right at the wall that we built for our defense. They have lighted a thousand fires and say they will not stop until they reach our black ships. Hector is raging, he fears neither men nor gods, he is possessed by a brutal fury. He says that he is only waiting for dawn to attack and set fire to our ships and, in the smoke, slaughter the Achaeans. He will do it, Achilles. I know, in the depths of my heart, that he will do it, and we’ll all die here, in Troy, far from our homes. But if you want, there is still time to save the Achaeans before that irreparable evil, for us and also for you. My friend, do you remember the day when Peleus, your father, watched you leave at Agamemnon’s side? ‘The gods will give you strength,’ he said to you, ‘but you must restrain your proud heart. To be gentle—that is to be strong. Stay away from quarrels and arguments, and the Achaeans, young and old, will honor you.’ Thus he spoke, but you have forgotten.
“Hear me now. Let me tell you, one by one, about the gifts that Agamemnon has promised if you’ll set aside your anger— precious gifts, if only you’ll give up your anger; splendid gifts, if only you’ll forget your anger. Seven tripods never touched by fire, ten talents of gold, twenty shining bowls, twelve strong, swift stallions that have won countless races. Agamemnon will give you seven women from Lesbos skilled in handiwork, the same seven he chose for himself the day you destroyed the well-built city of Lesbos for him. They were the most beautiful: he will give them to you. And along with them he will give you Briseis, whom he took from you one day, and he will swear solemnly that he has never shared his bed with her, and has not loved her the way men and women love. All this you will have, and right away, here. And then if destiny allows us
to destroy the great city of Priam, you may step forward, when the spoils are divided, and load your ship with gold and bronze, as much as you want, and twenty Trojan women, the most beautiful you can find, with the exception of Helen of Argos. And if, finally, we return to Argos, in the fertile land of Achaia, Agamemnon wants you to marry one of his three daughters, who are waiting for him now in his shining palace: you can choose the one you want and bring her to the home of Peleus, without offering any marriage gift. Agamemnon, rather, will give you pleasing gifts, more than any father has ever given to his daughter. He will give you seven of his richest cities—Cardamyle, Enope, Hire, sacred Pherae, Anthea with its green meadows, beautiful Aepea, and Pedasus lush with vineyards—all cities near the sea, all inhabited by men rich in oxen and lambs who will honor you as a god and will pay you, their king, huge tributes. All this he will give you, if you will put aside your anger. And if you can’t, because Agamemnon is too hateful to you and his gifts are insupportable, then at least have pity on us, who today are suffering, and tomorrow will honor you as a god. It’s the right moment to challenge Hector and kill him: he is possessed by a tremendous fury, and, with his conviction that he is the best, he won’t run away. Wouldn’t the glory be immense, Achilles?”
Godlike son of Laertes, sharp-witted Odysseus, it’s better if I speak plainly and say what I think, and what will be: that way we can avoid sitting here talking pointlessly. There is not a single Achaean on earth who can persuade me to put aside my anger. Agamemnon can’t do it, and neither can you. What advantage is there for a man who fights constantly, without respite, against any enemy? Fate is the same for the brave man and the coward, the same honor goes to the strong and the
weak, and death comes equally to the man who does nothing and the one who is busy. After suffering so much, risking my life at every moment in the heart of battle, I am left with nothing. As a bird carries to her young the food she has obtained, but for herself it has been only trouble, so I have spent many sleepless nights, and many days fighting enemies on a bloody battlefield. With my ships I came to twelve cities and destroyed them. And traveling through the fertile land of Troy, I came to eleven more and destroyed them. I carried off vast treasure and gave everything to Agamemnon, the son of Atreus; and he, who stayed in safety in his tent, near the ships, accepted it. Much he kept for himself, some he distributed to the others. To kings and heroes and chiefs he always awarded a prize of honor, and they all still have theirs, but not me: from me he took mine. Agamemnon took away the woman I loved and now she sleeps with him. Let him keep her, and enjoy himself.
But why should we fight for him? Why did he assemble an army and lead it here? Was it not for fair-haired Helen? Well? Is it only the sons of Atreus who love their women? No, every wise and noble man loves his woman and takes care of her, as I with all my heart loved mine, no matter that she was a slave of war. He took her away from me, stole my prize; now I know what kind of man he is, and he will not deceive me another time. Don’t try to convince me, Odysseus; think instead about how to save the ships from fire. You’ve done many things already without me—you built the wall, and beside the wall you dug a wide, deep trench lined with stakes. But you won’t stop Hector that way. While I was fighting with you, he didn’t venture far from his walls. He stayed close to the Scaean gates, and when he was feeling brave he pushed out as far as the oak. That was where he challenged me that day—
do you remember, Odysseus? He and I, one against the other. He escaped with his life by a miracle. But now … now I have no desire to fight him. Tomorrow, if you want, if it matters to you, look toward the sea: at dawn, you’ll see my ships plowing the Hellespont, the men bent over their oars. And if the glorious god who shakes the earth grants us a good journey, after three days I will reach the fertile land of Phthia. All I possess I left in order to come and fight here, at the walls of Troy. I will return, bringing with me gold and purple bronze and gleaming iron and beautiful women, and everything that I won here: everything except Briseis, because he who gave her to me has taken her away from me.
Go to Agamemnon and tell him what I’ve said to you, and do it publicly, in front of everyone, so that the other Achaeans may understand what sort of man he is, and take care not to be deceived themselves. I tell you, however shameless he is, he will never have the courage to look me in the eye. And I will not come to his aid, either by fighting or by giving counsel. I’ve had enough—he can go to disaster. There’s nothing I can do if he acts foolishly. I care nothing for him, and I despise his gifts: even if he were to give me ten, twenty times what he has, even if he offered me as many gifts as there are grains of sand, even then he would not soften my heart. First he must pay, completely, for the terrible injury he has done me. And I will not marry one of his daughters, not even if she were as beautiful as Aphrodite or as wise as Athena. Hand her in marriage to someone else, maybe someone more powerful than I, someone of her rank … If the gods save me, if I return home, my father will choose a wife for me. I want to go home, I want to return, to enjoy in peace what is mine, with a woman, a wife, beside me. All the treasures that Troy conceals behind its walls, however vast, are not worth what life is worth. Oxen and fat sheep
can be stolen, with gold one can buy one’s fill of horses and precious tripods. But life—it can’t be stolen, can’t be bought. It goes out of your throat and doesn’t go back in. My mother, one day, told me what my destiny will be: if I stay here, fighting beside the walls of Troy, I will never return but will have eternal glory. And if instead I go home, to my native land, there will be no glory for me, but I will have a long life, before death, walking slowly, comes for me. I say to you, too: go home. We will never see the fall of Troy.