An Iliad Read online

  PATROCLUS I promise.

  POET Can you see it, can you?

  The young Patroclus—I can’t help it, I always see him as young—too small for Achilles’ armor, so that, you know, he’s kind of knocking around inside it …

  Patroclus O my rider,

  straight at the pressing Trojan ranks you swooped …

  (He drains the glass.)

  And at first he does as he’s promised—the sight of Achilles’ armor terrifies the Trojan fighters, they lose their nerve, and Patroclus drives them back from the Argive ships, and then further, and further. He’s good at this, Patroclus, he never knew he was so good at it—he’s gifted, he breathes in the smell of blood and bronze, he’s been waiting NINE YEARS to show what he’s made of, and here he is wearing Achilles’ armor and he feels GOOD, ya know?

  (Suddenly shifting his tone.) You know that feeling when, for whatever reason, you could kill somebody? Right then and there. You could kill them. You could tear their fucking head off. You could rend them limb from limb. The guy in front of you who cuts you off, you could ram him with your car, you don’t care about the result—just ram him! And you can see the charred metal and you can see the see the smoking thing and you can see the air bag and you hope the air bag smothers him. And if it doesn’t, you’ll get out and you’ll go, “You fucking idiot! Why did you fucking cut me off?!” AAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH! (Vaulting into the battle.)

  glint of a spear

  tore his opponent’s chest

  stabbed his right jawbone, ramming the spearhead

  square between his teeth so hard—

  hoisted, dragged the Trojan—

  fury bursting his heart—

  mouth gaping—

  —flipped him down facefirst,

  dead as he fell—

  (THE POET getting into the bloodlust now.)

  Ha! Ha!

  lunging in—

  he flung a rock

  struck between his eyes

  crushed both brows,

  the skull caved in

  and both eyes burst from their sockets

  (THE POET climbs up on the table now, feverish, swaying, shouting, out of control—)

  NOTHING can hurt Patroclus now, he’s a killing MACHINE, my god—

  Patroclus like something superhuman—

  Patroclus and his men—

  Hungry as wolves that rend and bolt raw flesh,

  hearts filled with battle-frenzy that never dies—

  they gorge on the kill till all their jaws drip red with blood,

  belching bloody meat, but the fury, never shaken,

  builds inside their chests though their glutted bellies burst—

  It’s a BLUR OF KILLS!! One man—SLASHED! Another—GORED! Another—HAMMERED! Another—SPLINTERED!—SINEWS SHRED-DED!—BRONZE RIPPING!—SPLIT THE BELLY!—RAZOR SLICING!—Another—CUTTING AWAY THE TONGUE! One guy—CRACKED THROUGH THE BONY SOCKET! Then—WRENCHED THE WHOLE ARM OUT!!

  (THE POET, panting now, has the Rage Fever himself, he can’t stop, he’s wild-eyed and thrashing, he’s forgotten himself, caught up in the blood lust—)

  IMPALED!! (Urging himself on.) More …

  WHIPPED!! (Urging himself on.) More …

  STABBED!! (Urging himself on.) More …

  CHOPPED!!

  SNAPPED!!

  HEWED!!

  SMASHED!!

  HACKED!!

  WHOLE EARTH RAN HOT WITH BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD.

  And RED DEATH!! AND IT FEELS GOOOODD!!!!

  (He suddenly stops himself, panting. He looks out at us, desperate, lost.)

  Oh god. (Catching his breath.) I’m sorry …

  I’m sorry, that’s not—

  Sometimes it just—

  This is why I don’t do this. This is why I don’t do this.

  (After a long moment, he tries to find his way back to his story:)

  So Patroclus crowded corpse on corpse on the earth that rears us all.

  And then … in the middle of it all—impossibly, like I have never quite understood what happened … his helmet falls off, some of his armor falls off, he suddenly gets shoved to the ground like some massive force hit him, something hit him.

  His helmet didn’t fit anyway. The armor didn’t fit anyway. I mean, like to even put it on he had to stuff rags in his head and rags in his chest to keep the thing on. It’s not his armor, it’s Achilles’ armor. Achilles has like four hundred pounds on him, or whatever it is.

  So Patroclus, you know after all the struggling, has lost his helmet, he’s lost some of his armor. I mean at the time, you know what some people said was that—Apollo knocked it off him. Apollo was on Hector’s side. And that Apollo, went like this:

  (Click with wink.)

  Came up behind him and just went,

  (Click with wink.)

  With his little finger and his helmet, “Chhh.”

  (Knocking off the helmet.)

  And Apollo kind of went, (Exhale.)

  And the straps broke on the breastplate. And it fell off.

  And so Patroclus stands up and goes, (Inhale.)

  Totally exposed. And out of nowhere comes this Dardan, this guy … a nobody—never fought before—first day of fighting, done very very well, ya know, running around, I think he has killed nine people so far, he’s knocked five chariot riders off their—uh—things. Takes his spear and literally, happens to be behind Patroclus and just kind of goes, “Uhhh.” (Makes spear-thrusting gesture.)

  Right through him. And Patroclus, like he doesn’t even feel it, just kind of goes (Turning back.) … and sees this kid, this Dardan. The Dardan takes his spear (Pulling spear out.) pulls it back out, and runs away.

  then, Patroclus, the end of life came blazing up before you—

  Hector.

  Hector sees Achilles’ armor and Hector makes his move. He comes running at him, from, I don’t know how far away, but he gets up a head of steam. Comes running at him, running at him, running at him. He takes his spear and, how did it work? What we say is that it went up his bowels—

  —and the brazen point

  went jutting straight out through Patroclus’ back.

  Patroclus crashes to the ground. And then Hector begins to RAGE:

  HECTOR

  Patroclus—

  surely you must have thought you’d storm my city down,

  you’d wrest from the wives of Troy their day of freedom,

  you fool! The vultures will eat your body raw!

  Not for all his power could Achilles save you now—

  and how he must have filled your ears with orders

  —you maniac, you obeyed!!

  POET And then Patroclus—holding his body together with his hands—Patroclus curses Hector.

  PATROCLUS.

  … you won’t live long yourself, I swear.

  Already I see them looming up beside you—death

  and the strong force of fate, to bring you down—

  POET (A simple funeral ritual.)

  Death cut him short. The end closed in around him.

  Flying free of his limbs

  his soul went winging down to the House of Death.

  But Hector can’t stop yelling at Patroclus, even though he’s dead:

  HECTOR You think you know my fate?? Why should I fear Death? No. Death is on my side. He is my brother. And together we will devastate you, we will murder all Greeks!

  POET

  With that he planted a heel against Patroclus’ chest,

  wrenched his brazen spear from the wound, kicked him over,

  flat on his back —

  And then he tears the rest of Achilles’ armor off the dead body, savagely, awkwardly, crying out like an animal.

  Hector is … a good guy, an honorable man. But at that moment—well …

  (With some shame about his own infection.) Yes. That’s how it happens. We think of ourselves: not me, I’m not like that, I’m a peaceful—

  but it happens anyway, some trick in our
blood and—

  (A fierce whisper.)—rage.

  Do you see?

  (He pours the rest of the bottle into the glass, gulps it down.)

  PART FIVE

  ACHILLES’ NEW SHIELD

  Denis O’Hare, NYTW, 2012.

  PHOTO: JOAN MARCUS

  POET

  A black cloud of grief came shrouding over Achilles.

  Overpowered in all his power, sprawled in the dust,

  Achilles suddenly loosed a terrible, wrenching cry

  And his noble mother heard him …

  Here is what Achilles says to his mother:

  ACHILLES He’s dead. And I sent him out there. It should have been me. What do I do now?

  If only strife could die from the lives of gods and men

  and anger that drives the sanest man to flare in outrage—

  bitter gall, sweeter than dripping streams of honey,

  that swarms in people’s chests and blinds like smoke—

  just like the anger Agamemnon king of men

  has roused within me now …

  Enough.

  Let bygones be bygones. Done is done.

  Now I’ll go and meet that murderer head-on,

  that Hector who destroyed the dearest life I know.

  THETIS Wait—you have no armor, Hector wears your armor now. Sit here, wait.

  POET His mother runs to Hephaestus, the crippled god of fire, and asks him to make new armor for Achilles.

  Hephaestus flicks his hand and tripods swing into place. He waves his hand again and twenty bellows begin pumping and blowing on the fires and the coals start to glow white hot. Again and again he waves his hands and tin, bronze, gold, silver fly through the air, plunging into cauldrons, to be melted down for Achilles—a breastplate, greaves for his legs, a helmet made of bronze and a shield—the most magnificent shield I’ve ever seen. Hephaestus begins to fashion an immense orb—a shield as big as a room—with the river of the Ocean circling … he puts the earth, the sky, the oceans, the sun, the moon, all the stars. He hammers out two cities on this shield: in one there is a wedding taking place, a bride is led down a hillock past trees to her nervous groom—a city at peace. The other city is a walled city and outside it a siege is going on—two armies clash by a river. He fashions a field, large with furrows and he shows the horses tilling back and forth and the farmers being refreshed with large cups of wine and honey—a farmer bringing home his cattle and a lion attacks one of the bulls, and black blood pools on the bottom of the shield—a boy playing a lyre—heartbreaking music—a song of the dying day—a circle of boys and girls dancing, with a crowd gathered around, clapping, singing, laughing.

  This is Achilles’ new shield and it gleamed with a, with a beam that it—it—it went so far. It was as if you were—you were, you were far out at sea, you know, a sailor when they have to look out at the shore and try to find their bearings and they look for a light and you have lighthouses now—but then, sometimes, we would have, like a—one guy on a mountain, herding his sheep and he would have a very strong light, you know, to try to … keep the sailors, sailors safe. And … and they’re way out at sea, and this light beam comes flying out. That’s how Achilles’ shield looked from a distance. It—it—it just bounced the light back, shot it way out like that.

  (A great wind kicks up, and quickly grows.)

  PART SIX

  HECTOR’S DEATH

  Brian Ellingsen, Perth Festival, Australia, 2014.

  POET

  Achilles … dashed toward the city,

  heart racing … rushing on

  like a champion stallion drawing a chariot full tilt,

  sweeping across the plain in easy, tearing strides—

  so Achilles hurtled on, driving legs and knees.

  And Hector was first to see him coming,

  surging over the plain, blazing like a star.

  And I don’t have to tell you, do I?—The tide has turned, of course, because Achilles is back in the game. The Greeks are winning, raging, driving the Trojans back inside their own walls.

  But there stood Hector,

  shackled fast by his deadly fate, holding his ground,

  exposed in front of Troy and the Scaean Gates.

  This is what he looks like. (Holding his ground.) And this is what he’s thinking:

  HECTOR

  No way out. If I slip inside the gates and walls …

  Now my army’s ruined …

  I would die of shame to face the men of Troy

  and the Trojan women trailing

  their long robes …

  So now, better by far for me

  to stand up to Achilles, kill him, come home alive

  or die at his hands in glory out before the walls.

  POET And then he stops—listen:

  HECTOR

  But wait—what if I put down my studded shield

  and heavy helmet, prop my spear on the rampart

  and go forth, just as I am, to meet Achilles …

  why, I could promise to give back Helen, yes,

  and all her treasures with her, all those riches

  Paris once hauled home to Troy in the hollow ships—

  and they were the cause of all our endless fighting—

  POET And that’s what we’ve all been thinking, isn’t it? Isn’t it? JUST GIVE HER BACK!!!

  HECTOR

  Yes, yes, return it all to the sons of Atreus now

  to haul away, and then, at the same time, divide

  the rest with all the Argives, all the city holds,

  and then I’d take an oath for the Trojan royal council

  that we will hide nothing! Share and share alike the hoards

  our handsome citadel stores within its depths and—

  (He stops.) Why debate, my friend? Why thrash things out?

  No way to parley with that man—not now—

  not from behind some oak or rock to whisper,

  like a boy and a young girl, lovers’ secrets

  a boy and girl might whisper to each other …

  Better to clash in battle, now, at once—

  POET

  So he wavered,

  waiting there, but Achilles was closing on him now

  like the god of war, the fighter’s helmet flashing,

  over his right shoulder shaking the Pelian ash spear,

  that terror, and the bronze around his body flared

  like a raging fire or the rising, blazing sun.

  Hector looked up, saw him, started to tremble,

  nerve gone, he could hold his ground no longer,

  he left the gates behind and away he fled in fear—

  so Achilles flew at him, breakneck on in fury

  with Hector fleeing along the walls of Troy,

  fast as his legs would go. On and on they raced,

  passing the lookout point, passing the wild fig tree

  tossed by the wind, always out from under the ramparts

  down the wagon trail they careered until they reached

  the clear running springs where whirling Scamander

  rises up from its double wellsprings bubbling strong—

  Past these they raced, one escaping, one in pursuit

  and the one who fled was great but the one pursuing

  greater, even greater—their pace mounting in speed

  like powerful stallions—so the two of them

  whirled three times around the city of Priam,

  sprinting at top speed.

  And Hector could never throw

  Achilles off his trail, the swift racer Achilles—

  time and again he’d make a dash for the Dardan Gates,

  trying to rush beneath the rock-built ramparts, hoping

  men on the heights might save him, somehow, raining spears

  but time and again Achilles would intercept him quickly,

  heading him off, forcing him out across the plain

  and always sprinting along the city side himself�
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  endless as in a dream …

  when a man can’t catch another fleeing on ahead

  and he can never escape nor his rival overtake him—

  so the one could never run the other down in his speed

  nor the other spring away. And how could Hector have fled

  the fates of death so long?

  (THE POET holds out his hands.) This is the scale the gods use to weigh the fates of men. Zeus weighs the fates of Hector and Achilles in the scales—and these are real, actual things, these scales—and down went Hector’s day of doom, dragging him down to the strong House of Death—and the gods left him.

  HECTOR (Exhausted, panting:)

  No more running from you in fear, Achilles!

  Now my spirit stirs me

  to meet you face-to-face. Now kill or be killed!

  Come, we’ll swear to the gods, the highest witnesses—

  if Zeus allows me to last it out and tear your life away,

  I will give your body back to your loyal comrades.

  Swear you’ll do the same.

  ACHILLES

  Hector, stop!