Ilium

30 Achaean Compound, Coast of Ilium

So far this evening’s gone just as Homer said it would.

The Trojans have built their hundreds of watchfires just beyond the Achaean trench—the Greeks’ last line of defense down here on the beach—but the Achaeans, beaten so soundly through the long day and evening into night, have forgone even cooking fires in their milling confusion. I’ve morphed into the form of Old Phoenix and joined the gathering near Agamemnon’s tent where the weeping son of Atreus—weeping! This king of Greek kings weeping!—is urging his commanders to take their men and flee.

I’ve seen Agamemnon use this strategy before—pretending to want to run away so as to rally his men to defiance—but this time, it’s obvious, the older king is in earnest. Agamemnon, hair wild, armor bloody, muddy cheeks rivuleted with tears, wants his men to flee for their lives.

It’s Diomedes who challenges Agamemnon, all but calling their king a coward and promising, with Sthenelus alone if all the others flee, to “fight on alone until we see the fixed fate of Ilium.” The other Achaeans shout support for this bluster, and then it is Old Nestor, citing his years as his passport to speak, who suggests that everyone calm down, have something to eat, post sentries, send men to watch the trench and ramparts, and talk this over before stampeding for the ships, the sea, and home.

And this, just as Homer described, is what they do.

Then the seven chiefs of the guard, led off by Nestor’s middle-aged son, Thrasymedes, each take their hundred fighters out to set up new defensive positions between trench and rampart and to light their dinner fires. The handful of Greek fires—joined soon by Agamemnon’s feast fire—seems pitiful set against the hundreds of Trojan watchfires just beyond the trench, their sparks leaping high toward the lowering thunderclouds.

Here at Agamemnon’s council feast, attended by all the assembled Achaean lords and commanders, the dialogue continues just as Homer reported it. Nestor speaks first, praising Agamemnon’s courage and sagacity but telling him, essentially, that he really screwed the pooch when he chose to steal the slave girl Briseis from Achilles.

“You’re not lying there, old man,” is Agamemnon’s honest response. “I was insane. Insane and blind to offend Achilles so.”

The great king pauses, but no one of the dozens of chiefs hunkered around the central cooking fire rises to argue with him.

“Mad blind I was,” continues Agamemnon, “and not even I would deny it. Zeus loves that young man so that Achilles is worth an entire battalion . . . no, an entire army!”

Still no one argues the point.

“And since I was made mad and blind by my own rage, I’ll set things right now by paying a king’s ransom to bring him back to Achaean ranks.”

Here the assembled chieftains, Odysseus included, make grumbling sounds of agreement around their mouthfuls of beef and chicken.

“Here before you all assembled, I will count off my gifts in their splendor to purchase young Achilles’ love,” cries Agamemnon. “Seven tripods untouched by flame, ten talents’ weight of gold, twenty servant-shined and new-burnished cauldrons, twelve great stallions, fleet of foot, who’ve won races and prizes for me . . .”

And blah and blah and blah. Just as Homer wrote. Just as I predicted to you earlier. And, also as I predicted, Agamemnon vows to return Briseis, unbedded, as well as twenty Trojan women—if and after the walls of Ilium fall, of course—and, as a sort of pièce de résistance, the pick of Agamemnon’s own three daughters, Chrysothemis, Laodike, and Iphianassa—and as an inveterate scholic, I note the continuity error here with earlier and later tales, especially the absence of Elektra and the possible confusion of Iphigeneia’s name, but that’s not important right now—and then, for dessert, Agamemnon throws in the “seven citadels,” strongly settled.

And, just as Homer has reported, Agamemnon offers these things in lieu of an apology. “All this, I will offer him if he will end his wrath,” cries the son of Atreus to his listening commanders. Thunder rumbles and lightning flickers overhead as if Zeus is impatient. “But let Achilles submit to me! Only Hades, the god of death, is as pitiless and relentless as this upstart. Let Achilles yield place and bow to me! I am the elder-born and the kinglier king. I am—I claim—the greater man!”

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.

I realize that I’m famished. If I am called in to speak now—if all of our fates depended on it—I couldn’t do it because my mouth is watering so.

As if hearing my stomach rumbling, Achilles looks out into the foyer and almost freezes with surprise. “Phoenix! Honored mentor, noble horseman! I thought you ill in your tent these weeks last. Come in, come in!”

With that the young hero comes into the foyer, embraces me, and leads me into the firelit center of his home, the air smelling now of roasting mutton and pork. Odysseus shoots daggers from his eyes, silently warning me to keep silent during the discussions.

“Be seated, beloved Phoenix,” says Achilles, this old man’s former student. But he sets me on red cushions, not purple, and farther from the fire than is either Odysseus or Ajax. Achilles is loyal to his old friends, but he understands protocol.

Patroclus brings in wicker baskets of fresh-baked bread and Achilles rakes the meat from their spits and sets the steaming portions out on wooden platters. “Let us sacrifice to the gods, dear friends,” Achilles says, nodding to Patroclus, who tosses the firstlings—the strips of meat chosen as offerings—into the flames.

“Now, eat,” commands Achilles, and all of us set into the bread and wine and meat with a will.

Even while I’m chewing and enjoying the food, my mind is racing: How do I get to make the speech I have to make to change the fates of everyone here, of the gods themselves? It seemed so simple an hour earlier, but Odysseus hasn’t bought my statement that Agamemnon sent me along as an emissary. In the poem, Odysseus speaks soon—relaying Agamemnon’s offer to Achilles—then Achilles replies in what I’ve suggested to my students is the most powerful and beautiful speech in the Iliad, then Phoenix gives his long, three-part monologue—part personal history, part the parable of the “Prayers,” and part allegory of Achilles’ situation in the myth of Meleagros—a paradeigma where a mythical hero waits too long to accept offered gifts and to fight for his friends. All in all, Phoenix’s speech is by far the most interesting entreaty from the three ambassadors sent to persuade Achilles. And, according to the Iliad, it is Phoenix’s argument that persuades the angry Achilles to back away from his vow to sail away the next morning. By the time Ajax speaks, after me, Achilles will agree to stay around the next day to see what the Trojans do and, if necessary, to protect his own ships from the enemy.

My plan is to repeat parts of Phoenix’ long speech from memory, then veer away to insert my own suggestions. But I see Odysseus frowning at me from across the tent and know that I’m not going to get the chance.

And what if I do? I’ve considered the fact that the gods will be monitoring this assembly—it’s one of the key elements of the Iliad, after all, although perhaps only Zeus knows that in advance. But even without advance knowledge, some of the gods and goddesses must be watching this meeting in their video pools and on their image-tabula. Zeus has ordered them not to intervene this day, and most are complying with his ultimatum, but that must make their curiosity about the embassy to Achilles even greater. If Achilles agrees to Agamemnon’s bribe price and the power of Odysseus’ persuasion this night, then Hector’s offensive and perhaps even the will of Zeus himself will be thwarted. Achilles is a one-man army.

So if I suborn him to heresy this night as I’ve planned, if I try to rally Achilles to war against the gods, won’t Zeus intervene at once, blasting this tent and all its occupants? And even if Zeus holds back his wrath, I can imagine Athena or Hera or Apollo or one of the other interested parties swooping down to destroy this . . . “Phoenix” . . . for suggesting a course of action so inimical to their ends. I’ve imagined these things, of course, but trusted the QT medallion and the Hades Helmet to save me.

But so what if I save myself by fleeing again, but these heroes end up killed or dissuaded by the wrath of the gods? The whole plan will have been for nothing and my existence revealed to all the gods. The Hades Helmet and QT medallion won’t help me then—they’ll track me to the ends of the earth, to prehistorical Indiana if need be. And that, as they say, will be that.

Perhaps Odysseus has done me a service by not letting me speak.

Then why am I here?

When we’ve all feasted well, empty platters pushed aside and only crusts of bread remaining in the baskets, and are ready for our third cup of wine, I see Ajax nod ever so slightly to Odysseus.

The great strategist takes the hint and lifts his cup in a toast to Achilles.

“Your health, Achilles!”

We all drink and the young hero bows his blond head in acknowledgment.

“I see that we lack nothing for this feast,” continues Odysseus, his voice surprisingly low and soft, almost mellifluous. Of all the great Achaean captains, this bearded man is the softest spoken and the most devious. “We lack nothing either in Agamemnon’s camp nor here in the house of the son of Peleus. But it’s not the bounteous feast that’s on our minds this stormy night—no, it’s a terrible disaster, bred and willed by the gods, that we’re looking on and fearing tonight.”

Odysseus goes on, slowly, smoothly, never rushing, rarely reaching for rhetorical effect. He describes the rout of the afternoon, the Trojans’ victory, the Achaeans’ panic and will to flee, and Zeus’s complicity.

“These brazen Trojans and their boasting allies have pitched their tents within a stone’s throw of our ships, Achilles,” continues Odysseus, speaking as if Achilles has not already heard all of this from Patroclus, Automedan, and his other friends. Or simply watched it from the hill outside his tent.

“Nothing can stop them now,” continues Odysseus. “That’s their boast, and thousands of their watchfires back that boast with threat tonight. They plan to bring those flames to our ships at first light, then hurl themselves at our blackened hulls, slaughtering the survivors. And Zeus, son of Kronos, sends them signs of encouragement, firebolts crashing on our left wing, all the while Hector rages on furiously, drunk on his strength. He fears nothing, Achilles, neither man nor god. Hector is like a rabid, frenzied dog this day, and the demons of katelepsis have him in their grip.”

Odysseus pauses. Achilles says nothing. His face shows nothing. His friend Patroclus is watching Achilles’ face all this time, but the hero does not even glance his way. Achilles would make one hell of a poker player.

“Hector is eager for the dawn,” Odysseus continues, voice even softer now, “since, at first light, he threatens to shear the horns from our ship sterns, light those ships with consuming fire, and—with all our comrades trapped against the burning hulls, rout and kill and cut down us Achaeans to the man. A nightmare, Achilles—I fear it with all my heart—I fear the gods will give Hector the means to carry out these threats and our destiny will be to die here on the plains of Ilium, far from the horse-pasturing hills of Argos.”

Achilles says nothing when Odysseus pauses again. The dying embers crack. Somewhere several tents away, someone is playing a slow dirge on a lyre. From the opposite direction comes the drunken laugh of a soldier who obviously thinks himself doomed.

“Up with you then, Achilles,” says Odysseus, voice rising at last. “Now, rise with us now, eleventh hour though it be, if you want to rescue the doomed sons of the Achaeans from Trojan slaughter.”

And now Odysseus is asking Achilles to put aside his wrath and describes Agamemnon’s offer, using the same words Agamemnon had chosen to list his unfired tripods and dozen racehorses and so on, and so forth. I think he lingers a bit too long on the description of unbedded Briseis and the Trojan maidens waiting to be ravished and Agamemnon’s three beautiful daughters, but he ends with a passionate peroration, reminding Achilles of his own father’s advice, Peleus’ admonition to value friendship over quarrels.

“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.”

He gestures and goes into his sleeping quarters in the back of the tent and I stand here like the fool I am, speechless in every sense, stunned at this wild veering away from the plotline of the Iliad.

Achilles has to be persuaded to stay, even if he doesn’t join in the fighting, so the Iliad works itself out this way—the Trojans winning again and the Greeks in full retreat with all of their great commanders wounded—Odysseus, Agamemnon, Menelaus, Diomedes, all of them—then, feeling sympathy for his friends while knowing that Achilles will never join the fight, Patroclus will put on Achilles’ golden armor and rout the Trojans back until, in single combat with Hector, Patroclus is killed, his body violated and desecrated. That will bring Achilles out of his tent, filled with killing wrath, thus sealing the fate of Hector and Ilium and Andromache and Helen and all the rest of us.

He’s really leaving? I can’t quite grasp this. Not only didn’t I find the fulcrum and change things, now the entire Iliad has run off the rails. More than nine years I’ve been a scholic here, watching and observing and reporting to the muse and never once has there been a deep rift between the events in this war and Homer’s reporting in the poem. Now . . . this. If Achilles leaves, which he shows every indication of doing come the dawn, the Achaeans will be defeated, their ships burned, Ilium saved, and Hector, not Achilles, will be the great hero of the epic. It seems unlikely that Odysseus’ Odyssey will ever happen . . . and certainly not the way it’s sung now. Everything has changed. Just because the real Phoenix wasn’t here to give his real speech? Or have the gods been tampering with this fulcrum before I had a chance to? I’ll never know. My chance to persuade Achilles and Odysseus in council, my clever plan, is lost forever.

“Come, old Phoenix,” Patroclus says, taking my arm as if I’m a child, leading me to a side room in the great tent where my cushions and coverlets are laid out. “It’s time to go to bed. Tomorrow’s another day.”