Valerio Mafredi - The Oath

There were some who said that a sigh was heard coming from the depths of the sea as the flames licked the hero’s body, but that night a great many sounds, cries and laments were borne on the wind.

When the corpse of Achilles had received the funeral honours due him and other Trojan prisoners had been sacrificed to his restless shade, the camp was plunged into silence. Agamemnon approached me. ‘You will look after Achilles’ arms,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘Because I trust you. Until we decide what must be done with them.’

‘It would have been best to burn them on the pyre with Achilles. Now they can only lead to discord.’

Agamemnon looked at me for a few moments in silence as if weighing my words, and then said: ‘I believe we’ll have much more difficult matters to face tomorrow than who might deserve Achilles’ armour. The Trojans will have taken heart. They killed the best of us and, on the same day, they lost the worst of their own.’

I said nothing.

Two men collected Achilles’ armour and weapons, wrapped them in coarse woollen cloth and loaded them onto a horse-drawn cart. They were taken to my tent and mounted on a hanger. I was reminded of the armour I’d seen displayed in Mycenae, in the armoury, when I had visited as a boy. They’d looked to me like the ghosts of fallen warriors. I fell asleep late, under the empty gaze of Achilles’ helmet, and woke up early. There was someone in my tent.

‘Ajax!’

‘I’ve come to take what is mine, Odysseus.’

I turned my head towards the armour. ‘That?’ I asked.

‘Yes. Achilles was my cousin and his armour is rightfully mine as his next of kin. And now that he is dead I am the strongest warrior in this army, the only one who can wear his armour. What’s more, I earned this honour on the battlefield. It was I who carried him back to the ships, on my shoulders!’

‘Wanax Agamemnon turned them over to me and here they will remain until a decision is taken as to what is to be done with them.’

‘Don’t get mixed up in this. You are my friend and I respect you, but I won’t let anyone take what is mine.’

‘And if I say no, what will you do? Kill me?’

The look in Ajax’s eyes was strange. I thought perhaps it was the uncertain light of the early morning that had created the expression on his face, but I was wrong. The madness that shone in the eyes of the gentle giant was real.

And it froze my heart.

‘Don’t interfere. Don’t take sides with Agamemnon or I’ll have to resort to physical force. Now you step aside and let me take that armour.’

I unsheathed my sword. ‘Now you’ll draw yours and soon one of us will be dead,’ I said.

‘You,’ he replied, as he unsheathed his own, which Hector had bequeathed him.

The words that Penelope had said the day we met came into my mind: ‘Do you know how big Ajax, the son of Telamon, is?’ And I had to smile, even though his expression was so menacing.

‘And if it were me? Does that really seem like such a good thing?’ I challenged him. ‘Killing a friend who has fought by your side for years? And who’s to say you’ll succeed? I won our wrestling match, didn’t I?’

‘By tricking me.’

‘No, not by trickery. By skill. I think before I act. That’s only one of the reasons I don’t deserve your scorn.’ He was letting me talk. Maybe I could still stem the violence in him. ‘Listen to me. Achilles’ armour will almost certainly fall to you. Who could have a better claim to it? No one. Each of us knows how valuable you’ve been, how many feats of bravery and strength you’ve accomplished. Many of us owe you our lives. And so, if Achilles’ armour is designated for one of the princes or kings, it will certainly be you. Why take it by force and dishonour yourself? All of us swore to a pact many years ago and you’ve fulfilled your obligations with constancy and with great generosity. If you respect those who command the army you’ll have the honour you deserve.’

His gaze was going dim again: ‘I don’t like the way you’re talking. I don’t like it when words are stronger than the sword. It’s not right.’

‘My friend, even animals have horns, claws and fangs and will happily fight each other to the death. We have more than that, Ajax, we have our hearts and our minds. I beg of you, wait and you’ll see.’

Ajax remained silent, while his Trojan sword found its way back into its sheath.

‘I’ve never had glory,’ he said. ‘I’ve never had a real victory; no one has ever recognized my worth. I’m like that patient ox, or that obstinate ass that is never praised for what he does. In the end, the ox’s heart bursts under the yoke, the ass collapses crushed by the weight of the stones he is hauling, but no one notices. That’s how it’s been for me. I’ve never asked anything of the gods. The gods have never given me a thing. Do you understand me, Odysseus?’

I did understand him, and he was right. Ajax had never lost his temper, had never abandoned the field and left his comrades to die overrun by the enemy. No one had ever implored or begged him to get back in the fight. Ajax was a mountain and mountains don’t lose control. Ajax had saved the ships because he was the cliff against which the waves of destruction could break. And cliffs don’t complain. They go on being cliffs and being mountains, day after day, year after year.

But now the cliff, the mountain, had discovered he had a heart, had feelings: of friendship, of melancholy, of pain and resentment, like every mortal man.

And despair.

He wanted us to know. To recognize that there was a heart beating under his breastplate, behind the shield made of seven bull hides. How this had happened and why, I could not understand. Not then.

He turned before leaving my tent: ‘Don’t betray me, Odysseus.’

I had Achilles’ suit of armour transported to the centre of the assembly and displayed there. Agamemnon had decided that the arms would go to whoever most greatly deserved them and thus had asked each one of the members of the council to declare his opinion. The end result was a tie.

He turned to me: ‘You have not voted, while Ajax has. Express your vote and the decision will be made.’

I should have done it, should have spoken in favour of Ajax. I knew that he was the one who deserved the armour and I remembered his last words to me: ‘Do not betray me, Odysseus.’

I did not do it.

And it still weighs heavily on me. . acute remorse.

I betrayed Great Ajax, bulwark of the Achaians, when I could have saved him and saved myself by pronouncing that short, sweet-sounding name, as I had so many times in battle when I had needed him.

I said instead: ‘We will repeat the voting and this time it will be secret. That way each of us will be freer.’

Agamemnon agreed. ‘Each of you will have two knuckle bones, one black and one white. When your name is called by the herald, you will walk to the centre of the assembly and put your vote into Antilochus’ helmet. Black for Odysseus, white for Ajax. Then we will count the knuckle bones.’

We began our voting. Agamemnon was first, and after him his herald Euribates called up the kings and princes one by one. As the voters approached the helmet placed on a little table at the centre of the assembly and deposited their knuckle bones inside, I asked myself why so many of them had voted for me when it was evident that Ajax had saved the naval camp, had faced up to Hector, had wrenched the body of Achilles from the Trojans and carried it out of the fray. But in the end I knew, even though I didn’t want to admit it to myself: the others may have aspired to owning that armour for any number of reasons, but by voting for me, none of them would feel the sting of defeat. What was more, they’d ensured that the weapons would not be going to the only man who could truly defeat all of them.