Yellow-haired Achilles sat brooding in his tent, perched
on a three-legged camp stool like one about to
undergo Korybantic rites. His eyes were
red from grief and barely-contained frenzy.
Each part of him trembled, especially his hands which
yearned to maim and disembowel and cleave Trojan chests, sending
every last one of them down to the murk of Haides,
screaming for mothers and wives, their children
and all the rest they would never see again.
Rage of battle had hold of his soul; it was
easier than thinking about what this pointless war had taken from him.
Over all others had Patroklos been dear to him, dearer
perhaps, even than his own mother, Thetis, the sea’s queen.
Eating and rest is what the Myrmidons need now.
Never! He shouted back to the interloper who’d come to plead
and persuade on their behalf. Never again will Patroklos dine with them in the mess,
nor shall he sleep beside me in the cold night.
Do you think only of yourselves at a time like this?
Years of plenty were stolen from him
on this poison soil far from home, and his
unburied body cries out for justice.
Shut your mouths and you’ll hear it upon the wind,
egging us on to claim vengeance for him and slaughter
everyone within the wall like fatted oxen.
Then, and only then, will we feast.
He nodded somberly at Achilles’ words, smiled and
exclaimed, This is true, my Lord, but many more will your
Myrmidons slay without gnawing hunger and lack of sleep to hold them back.
