Achilles Read Online Free PDF Page B

looks Hector over, scanning the armour that fits him so well, searching for a place to insert his blade. Like a lover taking in every inch of his beloved as they lie in the hot sun. All the time he could want, no rush, no fear of missing.
    There is one point where the armour does not close over Hector. The tender diamond hollow between the clavicles is naked. Achilles fits his sword’s tip here.
    Slowly, evenly, the pressure mounting, he pushes.

Father
    Only two of the three chariot horses are left. Pedasus has fallen, the outrigger who gallantly kept pace, and only the two immortals remain. This is the twelfth dawn broken by Achilles heaving them into harness. He doesn’t even pause to pass a hand over their satin necks. Each dawn for the last eleven days he has hooked great Hector’s body like a plough to the back of his chariot. He has threaded a strap through Hector’s ankles, thonging them together like fish to be carried. Then he hooks this thong to his car and drags the body, nose bumping down, through the dust. He has done this each morning. Three times each morning they circle the stone barrow built for Patroclus. A modest barrow, built to tide Patroclus over till the not far time when he and Achilles will lie together again under something more fit.
    Achilles has not slept since his oblivion on the beach after the funeral. Then he was out, face down in the sand by the raked-over ashes. Patroclus had let him rest. But not for long. For the last eleven days and nights Achilles’ eyes have burned in their sockets so his men are afraid to look at them. But he doesn’t see his men. He doesn’t notice Briseis, more friendless than ever with Patroclus gone. She creeps around like an unowned kitten, fending for herself as best she can. He doesn’t even see the barrow where Patroclus’ ashes lie, though round and round and round he goes. He has eyes for one man only: that huge body, winched up by the heels each day at dawn, which will not rot, which will not stop being beautiful.
    When he had finished killing Hector the Myrmidons had each had a go, killing him again and again. They took it in turns to shove in a spear. Some jabbed; others wiggled, getting the feel of the man, till Hector’s body, stripped of the armour he had stolen from Patroclus, was ugly, squelching pulp. Now all those wounds are sealed. Achilles has never seen a body so perfect. It has only one mark: a stain like a kiss at Hector’s throat.
    On this twelfth morning he is making for Hector when Thetis appears. She interposes her immortal self between Hector and her son and Achilles, wanting to see round her, is forced to see her. She takes a hand in both her cool ones; holds his head and kisses his hammering brow.
    â€˜Child,’ she says, ‘this has to stop.’
    At the same moment Iris goes to Priam. His eyes are raw with weeping; tears have washed stripes in the filth on his face. When Iris finds him he is moaning and rubbing dung from the stables into his hair – as if it were ointment.
    The goddess touches his shoulder.
    â€˜Priam, this cannot go on. Zeus has sent me to tell you you are to go to Achilles with gifts. He will give up Hector’s body in return. Take your chariot, a waggon for a bier, and one driver. You won’t need a guard.’
    Hecuba thinks her husband has gone mad. The plan is certain death. The end of Troy – sure enough with Hector gone – a matter now of days.
    â€˜If you’re so sure Zeus is with you, ask him for a sign.’
    Priam is sure. Outside with his waggon and Idaeus, his old herald, to drive it, he offers Zeus wine and prays to the thinker god to send his bird. They hear the heavy wings of Zeus’ eagle and see the bird riding the air to the right. Falling under its huge shadow Hecuba’s heart clears.
    All day Achilles has sat with Hector, watching him, not taking his eyes off him for a second. He doesn’t move; only a muscle