Oh my oh my, I feel cruel at this point. My sweet Adara, after all she has been through, this seems like enough. I hope you all know that I am not trying to be overtly unkind, but the Iliad really is a sad story when you think of it in its entirety. I hope that some of you are still following along, I would love to hear your thoughts on my most recent updates! Also, I should add that I usually write and upload immediately, so forgive me for typos and errors. Thanks for being here and lmk your thoughts:) Xx
Chapter 46
If there had been space in Adara's mind to feel anything, she would have been astounded by the speed with which the Myrmidons prepared Achilles byre. It was a massive structure, towering towards Olympus with three levels and ladders and enough fuel for a fire that could consume the Trojan gates. There were plenty of spaces for air to circulate through, fanning the flames that would carry the embers of his body upward into the sky. Away from me.
The men moved like ants, carrying logs and bundles of twigs and hay from various points across the camp. Myrmidon men, but also Athenian and Ithacan and Boetian and Corinthian, trailing behind each other in this final act of service to the man who had spared each of their lives for ten years. Their voices were low and humming, reverent as they spoke of his acts.
"Once I saw him rip the head clean off a Trojan spearman with only his hands," one exclaimed, hefting his bundle further up his shoulder.
"Ha, spearman? He lopped of the head of a horse once. Only one swing of his sword, beast didn't even have a chance to scream."
"He tended to me in the healing houses during the plague."
"Did he really train with the Centaur? No one has since Hercules."
"And do you remember his spear throw? God-like!"
And on and on it went. Praises whispered between men destined to be forgotten, their words breathing life into the body of a man who would never rise again in this life. Adara stood before the pyre without moving, draped in the black chiton Achilles had worn to Patroclus' funeral and listened, hating them for their worship of her lover, grateful that they would tell his tale. Around her the camp hummed, Apollo's chariot clawing its way across the sky, but no one approached Adara. She saw their glances, their eyes wide in fear at her ash stained face, the lines of tears marking skin clean upon her cheeks. I look as much a servant of Tartarus as he ever did Adara knew. Let them fear me. She did not know if she would ever care again what anyone thought of her.
The woman of the camp had avoided her too, but they were busy preparing his funeral feast and so she forgave them. There is nothing they can offer me. Not even Melitta could bring me solace now. Vaguely she recalled weeping for Malthus when he had died for her, long ago in Lyrnessus. It seemed a black comedy now, the pain she had felt for the young man only a figment of real agony. The pit in her chest seemed to be spreading, like quicksand sinking into nothingness. All that remained were thoughts of him, flashes of gold and blue, trickles of heat, that nameless feeling that consumed her when he smiled, canines glittering like swords. The ache was unbearable.
As she stood, she heard to the tale of his falling. How Antilochus was slain by the great Ethiopian king Memnon who towered two feet above every other. The boy had never stood a chance, despite his progress under Achilles' tutelage. In a rage, Nestor had begged Achilles to avenge in son, and Achilles, ever on the hunt for his own death had obliged. Their battle had been great, fodder for the legends of bards, yet Achilles had prevailed, seething that his heart still beat in his chest and yet another worthy foe lay dormant at his feet. Unleashed, he had thrown himself at Troy's walls and climbed them only to be thrown off repeatedly by none other than Apollo himself, so the soldiers said. Adara tried not to dwell on this fact – the god had, after all, warned her there remained unfinished business between himself and her lover. The sense of betrayal loomed in the back of her mind nonetheless.
And when at last Achilles had been thrown from the walls of Troy a third time, he had turned to rally his men and lead them through the Scaean gates, only to be struck in the back by an arrow from Paris. Some said it had been divinely shot. It did not matter who loosed the arrow, it had struck. The men whispered he had smiled when he died. They whispered he had been mad all along. Of course he was mad Adara wanted to tell them. His greatest gift was death, wouldn't your mind be broken?
Adara had neither eaten nor drunken since Menelaus had come to her in the Spartan camp. Perhaps it was the exhaustion and dehydration that was stirring the anger within her, or perhaps it was her body's desperate need to feel anything, anything that would drive out the emptiness inside. Anger at Nestor, who had played upon Achilles need for honor and revenge. Anger at the gods for using the young, Pylosian prince as yet another pawn for their amusement. Anger at Odysseus for knowing Achilles' death was coming and not saving him. Anger at Achilles for welcoming death like a brother and choosing to leave her for the ghost of their friend. Anger at her heart for beating traitorously on without Achilles here to still it.
"Adara," a voice called, suddenly loud and echoing in her head. Turning, she saw the Ithacan king approaching her, his face wet with sweat.
"I have been calling to you for several moments? Can you not hear me?" He asked, his ever present temper flaring slightly. He did not give her a drop worth of pity. Adara felt oddly grateful for the fact. She shook her head no in response to his question, her voice seemingly sucked into the pit of emptiness within.
"Now is not the time to forget our responsibilities. Come, there are plans to be made and the kings are gathering."
Adara followed without question, noting that Odysseus had forgone his typical sweat stained grey chiton for a black one. What an odd tradition we undergo to show the rest of the world how much we mourn them she thought, glancing at the ripples of black linen covering Odysseus' back. All of the preparations, the ceremony, the pomp and circumstance, it was for them. The average man who would watch Achilles' body burn, the closest he would ever get to knowing the warrior, who would return to Greece and tell his children he fought side-by-side with the fearsome soldier, that they dined at the same table. Liars, all of them. She did not recall such anger at Patroclus' own funeral, only exhaustion and shock and the need to keep going for Achilles. But now, her temper flared, she hated them all – from the kings down to the lowliest bannerman. What a farce the whole tradition was, a show of honor for the people who had never known and never cared.
Odysseus led her into one of the newly erected tents that would soon become barracks for Neoptolemus' recruits. In the meantime, someone had brought a table into the room and upon it was a papyrus sheet with drawings of a track for funeral games and a high table seating chart.
"Odysseus, there you are! About time too," cried a familiar voice – a voice that sent ripples of anger down Adara's spine and almost caused her to stumble.
Agamemnon was standing at the center of the table, a goblet of wine before him, the kings and princes of Achaea fanning out from beside him like boys waiting for a meal at a soup line. It came as no surprise to Adara that he ignored her, she, the handmaiden who Achilles had used to thwart his desperate bid for control. Instead, he focused his beady eyes upon the Ithacan, flashing a poor excuse for a smile across his broad face. It went without saying that Adara was the only woman present.
"We were just discussing the decorum of the evening, everyone would like to get in on the action," Agamemnon continued, clapping his hands together and eyeing the drawings before him as if this was a production of the Ballad of Eurydice, not the preparations of a funeral. There was not a hint of remorse, but for once, Adara did not mind. There was no love lost between Achilles and Agamemnon – it would have been a greater insult to pretend to care.
"I have just returned from checking the pyre, it should be finished before the three quarter turn of Apollo's chariot," Odysseus confirmed, falling in around the table between two nameless princes. Adara stood behind his left shoulder, unseeing, uncaring.
"Good, good. And the body?" The High King asked.
"It has been wrapped in linen and coins placed upon his eyes. He is ready."
Adara heard but ignored the gruffness in his voice. The idea that any other could feel grief comparable to her own was ridiculous.
"All that remains to be seen is the assignment of roles. I will, of course, preside over the evening," Agamemnon said. A laugh, a cruelty Adara thought, imagining the Mycenean before the pyre. "Ajax will carry the body, Phoenix will say the rites, I will have several of my own slave girls spread the incense…" he read through the items like they were a list burdening him. Around the table, men nodded, each desperate to hear their own names called. It would be considered a great honor to a man and a kingdom to be allowed to participate in Achilles' funeral. Even in their sadness, if what they were feeling could truly be called sadness, they could not hide their yearning to be in some way associated with the man. If only you knew what he thought of you Adara wanted to wail, but her voice was lost, buried in the pit where her heart had once been. Insects, each of you. Annoyances to be tolerated until the point of interference, at which point he would have crushed you.
"Diomedes, you will light the fire, Nestor, lead the procession, Idomeneus, keep the first vigil." Agamemnon droned on and on, Menelaus' name, she noted, had been omitted, as had the names of any Myrmidon man. Even in death, Agamemnon challenges him. Adara knew it was a deep seated fear, a hatred for the lack of respect he felt he had been shown. How pitiful it was that he was threatened by a ghost, how human.
"Odysseus, you will collect the ashes, and that leaves…Thrasymedes to hold the urn," Agamemnon concluded, selecting the name of one of Nestor's remaining sons seemingly at random. There was a murmur of agreement around the tent.
"My Lord, if I may," Odysseus said with a slight bow. Agamemnon's eyes narrowed slightly, always on guard for an offensive, but he gave a jerky nod of his head to encourage Odysseus to continue. Odysseus smiled.
"Your selections are wise and just, all save one, which I believe you have only made without possession of the full knowledge, which means you cannot be blamed for the mistake."
"Stop your dancing and speak, Odysseus," Agamemnon growled. The Ithacan bowed again.
"Although many traditions have fallen to the wayside here upon Ionian shores, it is common Grecian custom for the wife of the deceased to carry the urn, when she is available. Is that not so?" Odysseus asked to the table, imploring the kings of Achaea for the assent. Immediately Adara felt several sets of eyes upon her. She stared at the back of Odysseus' head, willing all of them to turn to ash.
"That is common knowledge, of course, Odysseus," Agamemnon scoffed, the line of steel in his voice barely detectable. "But it is also common knowledge that Achilles had no wife."
"Ah, but that is where you are, forgive me, incorrect. She's right behind me, as it were," Odysseus said, turning and laying his hand out for Adara to take. If he felt the deep rooted cold of her skin as she lay hers hand in his, he did not show it, instead smiling more broadly at Adara as he pulled her to stand beside him. Several men shuffled to give her space, her ash stained clothing and face a seeming symbol of ill fate. One warded against evil out of the corner of her eye.
"The handmaiden? I never heard word of it," Agamemnon replied, at last turning his eyes to Adara. She met his gaze coolly, even her easily offended pride unwrinkled at the childlike attempt at insulting her. I have been more than a handmaiden for some time, King she wanted to say. It did not matter that what Odysseus was saying was a lie, it was true in meaning. She and Achilles had shared a soul, why not put a name upon the bond?
"That is because it was held in secret. Only mine-self, Patroclus, and Thetis were present, and of course Adara and Achilles. It was shortly before he sent Adara into hiding I believe," Odysseus said, letting her hand fall back to Adara's side. There was no denying the jibe as he brought up the old feud between the Mycenean and Myrmidon camps.
"Convenient, that of the names listed, one is a goddess who I cannot question, one is a slave, who's testimony does not count, one a liar, and two dead," Agamemnon practically spat, his face growing redder by the moment. Claiming widowhood was no small thing – she would be entitled to life in the Pythian court if she ever made it out of Troy, and it meant she could not remarry without the agreement of a member of Achilles' family. It is protection. Adara knew with great certainty that Achilles had wished this for her. After all, he promised to make me his queen, if he could not do it in life, why not in death?
"Would you truly question a goddess?" Odysseus whispered, only the raise of an eyebrow challenging the king of kings. "And as we have stated, Adara and Achilles are married, I presided over the ceremony myself, which means she is not a slave."
"Why don't we ask the girl?" A paper-like voice said, all eyes around the table turning to Phoenix who was smiling serenely at Adara.
"She will lie of course!" Agamemnon crowed, glowering at the old man as if hoping his gaze would set him on fire. Phoenix ignored him.
"Adara," he began, her name on his lips like memory of happier times. "Does Odysseus speak true? Were you married to Achilles?" Beside her, the Ithacan tensed just slightly, but he need not have worried.
Slowly Adara dragged her gaze from Achilles' mentor back the beady eyes of Agamemnon, which were blinking furiously, deep set in his continuously purpling face. With the first surge of happiness she had felt since his passing, Adara felt herself smile.
"Yes."
Beside her, Odysseus beamed.
"Then it seems obvious that she will have to carry his urn tonight as I collect the ashes," Odysseus said, clapping his hands together and flashing his grin around the table. "I do hope that is ok with you Thrasymedes and Nestor, the house of Pylos is already being honored once tonight." The king and prince nodded, but Adara was not certain they cared. She wondered when Antilochus' own funeral would be, and if anyone would remember in the shadow of Achilles ceremony. Whatever levity she had felt jading Agamemnon faded immediately to anger once more as she recalled the boy that had kept her table and company. My friends seem to fall like flies.
Agamemnon at last nodded before turning tale and exiting the tent. The other kings of Greece followed him until only Odysseus and Adara remained.
"Thank you," she said, surprised to find that she meant it.
"It was Achilles' idea," Odysseus said with a wry smile, some of the cheer he had been putting on for the gathering of his peers fading. Peering closer, Adara noticed the bags under his eyes and the lines along his face. He has been overseeing the camp in your stead she reminded herself, although the usual guilt did not rise. She would have done the same for him if he was preparing Penelope's funeral.
"Agamemnon is not pleased," Adara noted. Odysseus shrugged.
"I believe he wanted to claim you after the funeral, as a final insult to Achilles after death." It was a disgusting thought, one that Adara immediately knew to be true. She imagined his hands where Achilles had been, and felt nauseous. Adara would have taken death over that punishment.
"He must hate being thwarted, even in death," Adara replied.
"Achilles always hated losing more," Odysseus pointed out. Adara nodded as they both turned and stepped back into the midday heat. "And now, you are a princess, albeit a widowed one."
"Was it wise of you to bring Thetis into this?" Adara asked, recalling the grief stricken look the immortal woman had given her during their singular meeting. If Achilles' temper had been only half of that of a god, hers must be unmeasurable.
"I have my own goddess that watches for me, I fear not for Thetis," he replied, covering his brow with his hand and observing the men as they herded animals for the feast tonight. It was the brash, reckless sort of comment Achilles would have made, and Adara found herself glad of his words. Perhaps I can learn to see the things I loved in him in others. It was a ridiculous thought, but it gave her some small sense of purpose.
"You will have to play the part tonight," Odysseus said, returning his attention to her and eyeing Achilles chiton. "Royalty does not dress in men's clothing." Adara nodded. It did not matter what she wore, she was not doing it for herself.
"How long will the rites last?" Adara asked, following his eyes across the camp that was now hers by sham marriage, not only in practice.
"Twelve days, Agamemnon will want to make a rallying cry out of it."
"Neoptolemus will arrive just after the funeral games of his father," Adara whispered, her voice once again beginning to recede into her. How could she be burdened with the task of explaining the greatest man that had ever lived to his only living son? Again, anger at Achilles for abandoning the world of the living ripped through her.
"I wouldn't worry about Neoptolemus, Adara," Odysseus told her, setting his hand on her shoulder as if sensing the thoughts that plagued her mind. "I, unlike Achilles, have met the man. He is not so different from his father."
"There is no one like Achilles," she replied, unable to keep the coolness from her voice. Wisely, Odysseus did not decide to argue.
"Well he is your son now, so I suggest you learn to accept him," Odysseus cut back, his voice clipped. Like a weight dropping into her stomach, Adara realized he was correct. Having adjusted herself to the idea of never bearing children, this perverse, twisted reversal of fate threatened to send her heaving across the sand. A widow and with child within moments of each other. How strange that I, a fake relation, should meet him before his own blood father. The fates would never cease to amaze.
"How old is he," Adara asked, almost choking on the words.
"Nearing six and ten summers," he confirmed. The nausea in her grew. Achilles had been eight and ten when he arrived in Troy, by the gods machinations they had roped in his heir even sooner.
"The line between boy and man ever seems to blur," Adara whispered. Odysseus nodded and they fell into silence. It was a beautiful day, the ocean far off before them glistening like many thousand diamonds, the sun as radiant as Achilles' shield. It did nothing to remove the deep rooted cold that seeped through Adara's limbs.
"Go to your quarters," Odysseus finally instructed. "I will send Lanassa and that other friend of yours to see to you. I will collect you at sundown." He was not unkind, but Adara could hear the exhaustion. They parted ways without a thought.
Lanassa and Melitta were blessedly silent as they bathed Adara. Words of comfort would have been a jest while muteness was a sign that they stood in solidarity. They only broke the quiet to ask Adara to turn her head, lift an arm, spin, and to eat. Lanassa had taken one look at her upon entering her tent before turning around and calling for a full meal. It did not matter that food tasted like dirt to Adara, Lanassa eyed here until every morsel had been swallowed.
Lanassa's hands were gentle as she poured water across Adara's scalp and down her back. She had warmed it, the drastic temperature change practically scalding Adara's skin as the older woman ran rags of oil and incense across her back. They were royal herbs, saved only for special occasions and the wealthiest of men. Word travels quickly Adara realized. These gifts were now a luxury afforded to her as a member of Achilles family, and if Lanassa and Melitta thought to wonder why Achilles had not bestowed them upon her in life, they did not speak it. He did give me the chitons Adara recalled, considering the chest which lay at the end of her bed full of sumptuous fabrics. Melitta was sifting through it, looking for something suitable for the evening.
It could have been a gentle, tender scene between the three women if it had not been a funeral.
As Lanassa rubbed Adara dry, Melitta began to drape a fine black chiton over her shoulders. It was edged in gold, a thick gold rope tied around Adara's waist. Melitta pushed golden bangles up her arms and on her ankles, and smeared khol around her eyes. Lanassa left her hair to dry curly and unruly and free down her back. It would spiral in maddening curls that would dance in the light of Achilles' fire.
"If you would permit me," Lanassa said as the two women stepped back to admire their handy work, "I believe he would be very proud." Adara's throat was thick and her vision blurred. A lifetime ago she had stumbled into the women's quarters and been saved by these two, but there were no words for her gratitude.
"Be brave for him, tonight," Melitta echoed, stepping forward and taking Adara's hands, pressing life into her fingers. Her stomach was only just beginning to bloom, a slight roundness beneath the chiton that only trained eye would recognize. It reminded Adara of Neoptolemus sailing across the sea for a father he would never meet. I have a son she thought numbly, but instead smiled and squeezed Melitta's hands.
"You will make the Myrmidons proud, daughter," Lanassa spoke, and it was the voice of a queen.
With nothing further to say, they guided her into the night, the violence of the setting sun only a hint of purple on the distant horizon. There was no room to walk the beach was so littered with men. They bore the armor of their camps, a sign of respect for the greatest of warriors, greatest of men. Lanassa and Melitta stood by Adara's side until Odysseus arrived, shoving his way through nameless soldiers to stand before Adara.
"You'll do," he said wryly before offering his arm and leading her through the crowd to the center of the camp where the Pyre stood. She had hardly registered the massive scale of the structure before a nameless boy was placing a clay pot, no an urn, in her hands. With revulsion, she forced herself not to drop the thing, instead peering closer at the inscription.
Patroclus
How could she have forgotten his wish to be lain to rest with his companion? If there had been any heat within her she would have flushed. Beneath his name, "Achilles" was carved also.
The ceremony, in the end was forgettable. Adara spent most of it trying to ignore the burning in her eyes and the voice of Agamemnon which carried over the murmurs of the assembled men. Odysseus stood to her left, Idomeneus to her right, both stiff and unflinching in the face of her grief.
Looking back, she recalled only the moment the pyre caught fire. Diomedes retreated from the oil soaked structure, his eyes along with the assemble host fixed upon the white wrapped body before them. Achilles lyre and spear rested upon his chest.
She kept her composure until the wrappings caught, suddenly thankful that from this angle, through the sea of flames she would be unable to see the fire licking his skin, devouring the silk-like golden hair, hollowing out his cheeks. Tears poured from her eyes, both in defense against the heat and as an expression of sorrow. She hugged Patroclus' urn to her chest, grateful for something to hold, unable to withhold the moans that ripped their way from her lungs out into the night air. Sparks took to the wind, drifting upward amongst the stars until they blinked out of existence. There would never be words for her agony, to describe being forced to watch as the last physical remains of her soul were scorched from reality.
Across from her where the Myrmidons were gathered, Eudoras caught her gaze. His tears fell without restraint, and Adara felt her spine stiffen. It should have been he who lit the fire, or better yet Patroclus. How many cruelty Achilles had been forced to undergo, first in life, now in death. Yet I would make him bear it again if it would mean he was here with me. The pit in Adara's chest seemed to expand.
They stood vigil all night. Adara grew thankful for Lanassa's forced feeding – the nourishment that would sustain her. Patroclus' urn, which had been a second thought, grew heavy around the small hours of the morning as the last few embers of the fire were fading. It would be unforgivable to faint, and so she steeled herself for hours more upon her feet. She may be viewed as a mourning wife, but the empathy of men had limits.
Heat rippled from the structure in waves, warming her skin in mocking caresses of the lover they had taken from her. Soon it will be over and you can sleep Adara repeated over and over to herself, praying to every god and goddess she could name for Achilles' safe journey to Tartarus, for a reunion in her dreams. If they heard her, they did not answer.
At last, the stars before her began to dance with hues of celeste and sky, the rosy fingers of dawn making her welcome arrival.
"Bring forth the stairs," Odysseus called, breaking the stupor of the crowd with a commanding call. From the wood, several black clad Myrmidons arrived with series of wooden steps and platforms the same height as the pyre which Odysseus would use to collect Achilles' ashes. When it was in place, the Ithacan started forward, never looking back to see if Adara followed.
She felt their eyes upon her, pealing back the layers of her skin, burning the hairs upon her head. Unworthy, all of you she wanted to spit, knowing that ash must coat her face, her skin ruddy from the heat. I should call down a curse from on high, magics of Circe and witches as punishment for failing him.
Instead, she followed behind Odysseus, pressing her lips together to prevent sobs from escaping.
They climbed the structure without a word, feeling the bated breath of the men gathered until they reached the top.
If there had been remains of Achilles body, Adara did not look to see. Closing her eyes, she came to halt beside Odysseus and lifted the lid off of Patroclus' urn. The wind carried with it the charred smell of burnt Cyprus, an acrid, haunting scent she thought might follow her to her own death.
"I will tell you when I am finished," Odysseus murmured, and then she felt him begin to move. If she had ever been tested before, it was nothing to this horrible, infinite moment in which she was compelled to listen to Odysseus collect the ashes of Achilles in the urn to mingle with Patroclus. She heard the rake of his hands through sand, the whisper of his body moving, the gentle whoosh as the ash drained through his fingers. To think a human life - glorious, incomparable, radiant - can be reduced to this. Perhaps the gods in their immortality had never understood death, perhaps it was why they forced her to bear this now.
"I am done," Odysseus whispered at last, taking the lid and placing it on the urn, sealing away Achilles forever. He took the pottery from her grasp, leaving her hands floundering in the air. With nothing to hold onto, Adara's body took control, and a sob, earth rattling and dire tore from her chest. She fell into Odysseus' arms, tangling her fingers in his chiton as all the forces of Achaea watched and Achilles spirit departed without her to Elysium. He held her in return, one hand behind her head, a small gesture that did nothing to appease the hole inside her breast.
Achilles, Achilles, Achilles… but he was gone.
