Authors: Alessandro Baricco
We ran among the corpses and the abandoned weapons and the black blood everywhere, until we came to the camp of the Thracians. Dolon hadn’t lied. They were sleeping, overcome by exhaustion. They had placed their weapons on the ground beside them, all in order, in three rows. Each warrior had two horses nearby. Right in the middle, Rhesus was sleeping. His magnificent horses were tied by their reins to the rim of the chariot.
Then Odysseus says to me, “Diomedes, look, that’s him, Rhesus, and those are the horses Dolon was talking about. It’s time to use the weapons you brought with you. You take care of the men, I’ll take care of the horses.” So he says to me. And I raise my sword and start killing. They were all sleeping, you see? I was like a lion who meets a flock without its shepherd, and pounces in the midst of it, raging. I kill them one after another, blood everywhere, twelve of them I kill. And every time one dies I see Odysseus take him by the feet and get him out of the way—now think what a brain, that man. He moved the bodies, hid them, because he had already thought of Rhesus’s horses, which had just arrived and weren’t used to bodies and blood, and so, think what a brain, he cleared a path so that he could drive them away and they wouldn’t get agitated finding a dead man under their hooves, or the red of blood in their eyes. Odysseus … well, in the end I get to Rhesus. He was sleeping, and dreaming. He was having a nightmare, he was talking and tossing, I think he had dreamed of me—I’m
sure of it, he was dreaming of Diomedes, son of Tydeus, grandson of Oeneus—and his dream killed him, with my sword I killed him—while Odysseus frees the horses with their thick hooves and urges them on, spurring them on with his bow, because he doesn’t have a whip, nothing. To get them going he has to use his bow, imagine, and with that he drives them off and then whistles to me from a distance, because he wants to get out of there as soon as possible. He whistles to me but, I don’t know, there’s the chariot, Rhesus’s fantastic gold and silver chariot. I could grab it by the pole or just lift it up— I could do that, but Odysseus calls me. If I stay I’ll have to kill some more and then I might not get out alive, but still, I would like to go on killing. I see Odysseus leaping onto the horse, right onto its back, holds the reins in his hand, looks at me. To hell with the chariot, to hell with the Thracians, out of there, before it’s too late. Running, I reach Odysseus, I jump onto the horse’s back and we go, he and I, swiftly to the swift ships of the Danaans.
When we reached the point where we had killed the spy, the man named Dolon, I stopped the horses. Diomedes dismounted, picked up the bloody corpse, and handed it to me. Then he got back on the horse and we galloped to the trench and the wall and our ships. When we arrived, they all crowded around us, they shouted, they grasped our hands, they wanted to know everything. Nestor, the old man, you could see he had been afraid that he would never see us again. “Odysseus, tell us, where did you get these horses? Did you steal them from the Trojans, or did a god give them to you? They are like rays of sun, and I, who am always in the midst of the Trojans—
because even though I’m an old man I don’t sit idly by the ships—well, I’ve never seen horses like that in battle.” And I told him, because this is my fate, and I kept nothing back, about the spy, and Rhesus, and the thirteen men killed by Diomedes, and the magnificent horses. Finally we all returned through the trench and I went with Diomedes to his tent. We tied the horses to the manger beside his horses and gave them sweet grain. Then we jumped into the sea, he and I, into the water to wash away the blood and sweat from our legs, from our thighs, from our backs. And after the waves of the sea washed us, we went into the polished baths to rest and comfort our hearts. Washed and anointed with olive oil, we sat at the banquet, finally, drinking sweet wine.
Odysseus placed the bloody corpse of the spy on the stern of his ship. It is for you, Athena, predator goddess.
M
y name is Patroclus, the son of Menoetius. Years ago, because I killed a boy like me, I had to leave my native land, and with my father I came to Phthia, where the wise and valiant Peleus reigned. The king had a son: his name was Achilles. Strange tales circulated about him. That his mother was a goddess. That he was reared without knowing woman’s milk, nourished on the entrails of lions and the marrow of bears. That he would become the fighter without whom Troy would never be conquered. Today his bones are mingled with mine, buried on the white island. His death belongs to him.
Mine began at dawn after the night when Odysseus and Diomedes stole the shining horses of Rhesus. At the first light of day, Agamemnon assembled the army for battle. He ordered the charioteers to keep the chariots on this side of the trench, in orderly ranks, and sent the men, on foot, across to get ready to fight on the other side. All obeyed except us Myrmidons, because Achilles didn’t want us to fight. I stayed in
front of our tent. On the plain opposite us I saw the Trojans gather close around their commanders. I remember Hector: he appeared and disappeared among his soldiers, like a glittering star amid the clouds of a dark night sky.
All that I saw that day, from afar, and that I heard of, I want you to hear, now, if you wish to understand the death I wanted to die.
The two armies clashed. The men advanced without fear and without thought of flight, with the inexorable calm of a thousand reapers who methodically follow their row along the field and mow down what is in their path. Throughout the dawn men fell, and weapons sparkled, and neither of the two armies prevailed. But when the light of the sun rose above the horizon, then, suddenly, the Achaeans broke the Trojan ranks. Agamemnon led them, with a strength never before seen, as if this were to be his day of glory. Advancing, he killed whoever he came upon, first Bienor, then Oileus, and two sons of Priam, Isus and Antiphus. When Pisander and intrepid Hip-polochus appeared before him, standing in their chariot, one beside the other, he dragged them to the ground and leaped on them, like a lion who in the deer’s lair sinks his teeth in her young and kills them. They begged him to let them live: they said that their father, Antilochus, would pay immense riches in ransom. But Agamemnon said, “If you are really sons of Antilochus, then pay for the crime of your father, who in the council of the Trojans, when my brother came to reclaim his wife, voted to kill him and send him home dead.” And he struck Pisander in the chest with his spear. And with his sword he cut off Hippolochus’s arms, and then his head, and sent him rolling like a trunk through the dust of battle.
Where the fray was thickest he charged, and behind him came the Achaeans, cutting off the heads of the Trojans. Men on foot killed men on foot, men in chariots killed men in
chariots, and the horses with their proud heads ran wild, pulling empty chariots and mourning their drivers, who now lay on the ground, more loved by the vultures than by their wives. As far as the tomb of Ilus, in the middle of the plain, Agamemnon drove the Trojans, and then farther, forcing them back to their walls, to the Scaean gates: there he pursued, running and shouting, his hands stained with blood. The Trojans fled: they seemed like cows that have caught the scent of a lion and gone mad. Hector had to jump down from his chariot, shouting and urging his men on. For a while they stopped fleeing and drew up again in order. The Achaeans closed their ranks. Again the two armies were face-to-face, looking into each other’s eyes.
And again the first to charge was Agamemnon. He attacked Iphidamas, the son of Antenor, a big valiant man who had grown up in the fertile land of Thrace. Agamemnon hurled his spear but missed, and the bronze tip ended nowhere. Then Iphidamas, in turn, gripped his spear and threw it, and struck Agamemnon: the point entered under his breastplate and went into his belt. Iphidamas bore down with all his strength, so that it would penetrate the leather, into the flesh. But Agamemnon’s belt had silver studs, and the silver wouldn’t yield: with all his might Iphidamas tried, but he couldn’t pierce that belt. Then Agamemnon got his hands on the spear and, raging like a lion, tore it away from Iphidamas and, having disarmed him, struck him right in the neck with his sword and took away his life. Thus, unhappy man, he fell, and slept a sleep of bronze. There was his brother, not far away, his older brother. His name was Coon. He saw Iphidamas fall and a tremendous grief clouded his eyes. Then he went toward Agamemnon, but without being seen, and took him by surprise, striking with his spear just under the elbow:
the shining tip of the shaft pierced the flesh. Agamemnon shuddered but didn’t run: he saw Coon dragging away the body of his brother, holding it by the ankles, and he hurled himself at him and, driving his spear in under the shield, hit him. Coon fell on the body of his brother. And Agamemnon, standing over him, lifted the man’s head and with his sword cut it off. Thus the two sons of Antenor, one beside the other, fulfilled their destiny and descended to the house of Hades.
Agamemnon went on fighting amid the fray, but his wound bled, and the pain became intolerable. Finally he called to his driver for help and, climbing into the chariot, ordered him to spur the horses to the hollow ships. Sorrowing in his heart, he cried to the Achaeans, with all the strength he had left, “Fight for me and defend our ships.” The charioteer whipped the horses with their fine manes, and, leaping forward, their breasts covered with foam and stained with dust, they took flight and carried the suffering king far from the battle.
“Trojans, the man who fought hardest today is gone!” Hector cried. “Now it’s our turn for glory. Spur your horses and attack the Achaeans. The greatest triumph awaits us.” And he drew them all behind him, charging into the battle like a storm wind that beats down upon the violet sea. It was impressive to see, as the heads of the Achaean fighters rolled, one after the other, under his sword. Asaeus died first, and then Autonous and Opites, and Dolops, the son of Clytius, and Opheltius, and Agelaus, Aesymnus, Oros, and valiant Hipponous, and many others without name, in the tumult. Heads rolled the way huge waves roll during a storm at sea, when the spray boils up under the raging wind.
It was the end. It seemed the end, for us. As the Achaeans were fleeing, Odysseus stopped and, seeing Diomedes not far
from him, cried, “Diomedes, what in the world is happening? Have we forgotten our strength and courage? Come and fight beside me. Surely you don’t want to flee?”
“I won’t flee,” Diomedes answered, and with a thrust of his spear knocked Thymbraeus out of his chariot and killed him. “I won’t flee, but without the help of heaven we will not get out of here alive.” They began fighting alongside each other, like two proud boars, furiously charging against a pack of hounds. The Achaeans, seeing them, took courage, and for a moment the fate of battle seemed to change. But Hector, too, saw them, and with a shout he rushed through the ranks toward them. “Disaster is heading for us,” Diomedes said to Odysseus. “Let’s stop and wait here. If it’s us he wants, we’ll defend ourselves.” He waited until Hector was close enough and, aiming at his head, hurled his long-shadowed spear. The bronze tip struck the top of the helmet and ricocheted to the ground. Hector took a step backward and fell to his knees, stunned by the blow. And while Diomedes ran to recover his spear, Hector was able to stand up and climb into his chariot and flee into the midst of his men.
“Hector, you dog, you’ve managed yet again to escape death,” Diomedes shouted at him. “But I tell you that the next time I will kill you, if only the gods help me the way they’ve helped you today.” And he started killing any who came within his range. He would never have stopped except that from a distance Paris saw him: he was in the shelter of a column at the tomb of Ilus. He stretched his bow and shot. The arrow struck Diomedes in the right foot, passed through the flesh, and stuck in the ground.
“I got you, Diomedes!” Paris had come out of his hiding place and now he was shouting, and laughing. “It’s just too
bad I didn’t rip open your stomach, so the Trojans would stop quaking before you.” He laughed.
“Cowardly archer,” Diomedes answered,“reckless seducer, come here and fight, instead of using your arrows from a distance. You scratched my foot and you brag about it. But look at me, I couldn’t care less about your wound. It’s as if a woman had struck me, or a snot-nosed kid. Didn’t they teach you that the arrows of a coward are always blunt? Not my spear—when it hits it kills, women become widows, children orphans, and fathers corpses that lie rotting for the vultures.” Thus he cried. And meanwhile Odysseus got between him and the Trojans to protect him. Diomedes sat on the ground and pulled the bloody arrow out of his foot. He felt the pain through his whole body. So he had to get into the chariot, with his heart full of anguish, and withdraw from the battle.
Odysseus saw him go and realized that he was alone, abandoned by his friend and all the Achaean warriors, who had fled in fear. Around him were only Trojans: they were like dogs encircling a boar that has emerged from the forest. And Odysseus was afraid. He could have run, but he didn’t. He charged Deiopites and struck him. Then he killed Thoon and Eunomus and Chersidamas. With a thrust of the spear he wounded Charops, and was finishing him when his brother Socus arrived to defend him. Socus hurled his spear and the bronze tip pierced the shield of Odysseus and penetrated the armor, tearing the skin, on his side. Odysseus stepped back. He realized that he had been hit. He raised his spear. Socus had already turned and was trying to escape. Odysseus hurled it, and the bronze tip struck Socus between the shoulders and emerged from his chest. “It will not be your father and mother who close your eyes,” Odysseus said. “The birds will tear
them to shreds with a rapid beating of wings.” Then he gripped Socus’s spear in his hands and pulled it out of his flesh. He felt a tremendous pain and the blood spurted from the wound. The Trojans, too, saw him, and, urging each other on, they pressed close around him. Then Odysseus cried out. Three times, with all his strength, he cried help. Help. Help.