The Pearl of Troy

Chapter Nineteen

Achilles kicked the side of Hector's body with the toe of his boot. If you came across Hector's body lying like this in the foothills of Mount Ida, you would be forgiven for thinking he was just sleeping. The boiling sun hadn't rotted his flesh, nor had the buzzards and wild dogs touched him. His handsome face wasn't disfigured by being dragged behind Achilles' horse over the rocky terrain of the Plains of Illium. In the Greek camp, they whispered that Venus anointed Hector's body with ambrosial oil, and Apollo sent clouds to shield him from the sun.
Even in death, Hector was beloved by the gods.
"Bring him back to my tent," Achilles said. The two Myrmidons who'd accompanied him picked up Hector. One held his legs, and the other cradled his head. They carried him back to the camp and placed them on a bier inside Achilles' tent. His head rested on a cushion, and Achilles tucked a sheet underneath his chin.
If you walked in and noticed Hector there, you would think he was an honored guest, sleeping peacefully under Achilles' protection. Achilles even had to poke Hector's chest to make sure he was actually dead.
"Goodnight," Achilles said. "You whoreson." He closed the tent flap behind him.

Thetis had been quiet the past several nights. Silence was his only companion when Achilles took his walks through the dunes.
Achilles tossed a stone into the sea, and it skipped across the breaking waves. "Anything to say?" He asked.  Maybe Thetis would talk to him now? 
The crashing waves rang in Achilles' ears. You're on your own now, my boy. Perhaps she'd already said everything she wanted to?
The nights were growing cold. Achilles pulled his mantle closer to his body. What use was it to stay here when he had a nice, warm fire back at his tent.
When he returned, a figure in a gray traveler's cloak knelt beside Hector's bier. The figure rose when Achilles walked in, took his hand, and kissed it.
"I've done the unthinkable." The figure removed his hood. He was a striking elderly gentleman with a silver-streaked beard and a haughty, aquiline nose. The resemblance between him and Hector was undeniable. "I've kissed the hand that murdered my son."
Achilles bowed to King Priam. "My Lord," he said. "You must be exhausted from your journey. Please rest and partake in food and drink." He pulled the best chair beside the fire and bid King Priam to sit.
Hospitality dictated that Achilles offer his guests refreshments. His servants had all retired to bed, so he had to fend for himself. There was some pottage leftover from dinner and a jug of ale on the table. He brought King Priam a bowl of pottage and a cup of ale. "I'm sorry I couldn't offer you more."
King Priam picked at his food and stared across the fire at Hector's body on its bier. A soft chair, a warm fire, and a mediocre dinner wouldn't compensate for losing his son and heir.
Achilles placed a stool next to King Priam's chair. "You were bold to come here, My Lord," he said.
The old man had strode into Achilles' tent as if he had every right to be there and now sat in his chair, back straight and chin held high. How had he managed to sneak into enemy territory without getting a scratch on him?  Mercury himself must have guided him there.
"At my age, boy," King Priam removed a sapphire ring from his finger. "You find that very little scares you anymore." He gave the ring to Achilles. "This is the only ransom I have for Hector."
Achilles examined the ring. It was truly worth a prince's ransom. He put the ring on his finger, then poured himself a cup of ale from the jug on the table. "I'd imagined Prince Paris wasn't happy you came here."
What son worth the name would allow his aged sire to make such a dangerous trip alone.
King Priam snorted. "As if that young pup has any say in what I do." He allowed Achilles to refill his cup. "But I didn't come all this way just to hand over a bauble."
"Why else?" Achilles said. Might King Priam have come to formally surrender to the Greeks? Would all this finally be over?
A moaning wind blew in from the sea, making the tent posts creak. Not yet.
"I'll get around to it when I feel like it, boy." King Priam took a sip of his ale.
Achilles couldn't help but shake his head. For gods' sake, he was Achilles, King of Thessaly. The man responsible for the deaths of any number of King Priam's subjects. Yet he'd barged into Achilles' quarters and scolded him as if he were one of his sons. This old man astonished him.
Achilles sipped his ale. "How is Briseis?" If Briseis was well and happy, then all wasn't hopeless.
"In a lot of trouble because of you." King Priam furrowed his brow.
Achilles missed his meaning at first, but then it hit him. There was usually one meaning whenever a girl was spoken of as being in trouble. "Oh." 
"That is also why I came to see you," King Priam said.
"Is Briseis happy about this?" How did she feel about this child? What did he think about it? So far, siring an heir was the only thing Achilles had done right as king of Thessaly.
"Briseis is like a mother bird building her nest." A fond smile crossed King Priam's face. The old king certainly felt a father's love for his niece, having raised her for a good portion of her life. "When I left her, she was at the loom, weaving a blanket for her little chick."
It was a bittersweet scene: a mother-to-be weaving a baby blanket as if the father of her unborn child wasn't on the opposite side of a war.
Achilles squeezed King Priam's hand. "Does she know you're here?"
"She was the one who asked me to come."
Sweet little fool. Achilles stoked the embers back to a blaze. You might just save us all. He rose and went to the wooden chest where he kept his treasures. Inside was a silver cup and spoon that Achilles had been given at his own birth. There was also a purse fat with gold coins.
"Bring these back to Troy with you." Achilles dropped the silver cup and spoon into King Priam's lap along with the purse of gold. "And use this to commission a cradle. The grandest cradle Troy's ever seen. Something worthy of Achilles' heir." This was the least he could do for Briseis and their child.
A child who will never meet her father. Soreness paralyzed Achilles' legs. He had to sit down so he wouldn't embarrass himself by falling in front of King Priam. Thetis' words returned to him. Life is sweet. Love is sweeter. Glory is the sweetest of all. But, in the grave, all tastes bitter.
When the soreness in his legs passed, Achilles stepped away to give King Priam some time alone with his son, whose cheeks and lips had a faint flush as if there was still some life left in him.
Achilles grumbled. Why was Hector still so beautiful? Why couldn't he be a rotting corpse like any other mortal?
King Priam knelt over Hector's bier and wept. He rested his head on Hector's chest, then cupped a hand over his nostrils. "Nothing," he said. The old king looked up at Achilles and then toward the heavens, beseeching the gods why Achilles still lived when his son was dead.
I don't know why, either. Achilles extended a hand to help King Priam to his feet. "You must be tired, sir," he said. "Please rest here tonight."  He showed him to the bed. King Priam climbed in and was soon asleep.
Achilles slept on the trundle on the floor. In the morning, he personally escorted King Priam and Hector's corpse as far as the Scamander. He paid a boatman, one who'd disobeyed the order to burn all ferries, a generous sum to take them down the river to Troy.
The city bells rang out to welcome their fallen prince home.