Free An Iliad by Alessandro Baricco

left in order to come and fight here, at the walls of Troy. I will return, bringing with me gold and purple bronze and gleaming iron and beautiful women, and everything that I won here: everything except Briseis, because he who gave her to me has taken her away from me.
    Go to Agamemnon and tell him what I’ve said to you, and do it publicly, in front of everyone, so that the other Achaeans may understand what sort of man he is, and take care not to be deceived themselves. I tell you, however shameless he is, he will never have the courage to look me in the eye. And I will not come to his aid, either by fighting or by giving counsel. I’ve had enough—he can go to disaster. There’s nothing I can do if he acts foolishly. I care nothing for him, and I despise his gifts: even if he were to give me ten, twenty times what he has, even if he offered me as many gifts as there are grains of sand, even then he would not soften my heart. First he must pay, completely, for the terrible injury he has done me. And I will not marry one of his daughters, not even if she were as beautiful as Aphrodite or as wise as Athena. Hand her in marriage to someone else, maybe someone more powerful than I, someone of her rank … If the gods save me, if I return home, my father will choose a wife for me. I want to go home, I want to return, to enjoy in peace what is mine, with a woman, a wife, beside me. All the treasures that Troy conceals behind its walls, however vast, are not worth what life is worth. Oxen and fat sheepcan be stolen, with gold one can buy one’s fill of horses and precious tripods. But life—it can’t be stolen, can’t be bought. It goes out of your throat and doesn’t go back in. My mother, one day, told me what my destiny will be: if I stay here, fighting beside the walls of Troy, I will never return but will have eternal glory. And if instead I go home, to my native land, there will be no glory for me, but I will have a long life, before death, walking slowly, comes for me. I say to you, too: go home. We will never see the fall of Troy.
    Return to your tents and take my message to the Achaean chiefs. Tell them to find some other way to save the ships and the army. I can’t help them. Tell them that I remain steadfast in my anger.
    I spoke, and they were all silent: disturbed and surprised by my refusal.
    As I said, Phoenix was with them, the old man Phoenix. My father had ordered him to go with me to the walls of Troy. I was a boy, I knew nothing of war or assemblies. My father spoke to Phoenix, told him to stay with me and teach me everything. And he obeyed. He was like a second father to me. And now I found him on the other side, with Odysseus and Ajax, and it was absurd. So before he returned with them to Agamemnon, I said to him, “Stay with me, Phoenix, sleep in my tent tonight.” I said to him that the next day he could leave with me. I said that I wouldn’t insist, but if he wanted, he could leave with me and return to our homeland.
    “Glorious Achilles,” he answered, “if you are really thinking of returning, how could I, my child, stay on alone, without you? For years I have loved you with all my heart. I made you what you are. Do you remember? You didn’t want to go with anyone else to the banquets, and even at home you wouldn’teat unless I took you on my knee and fed you, cutting the meat for you and pouring the wine. You were a child. Capricious. How many times you soiled my tunic, spitting out your wine. But whatever the trouble or hardship, I was happy if it was for you, because you are the son I’ll never have. And today, if anyone can save me from unhappiness, it’s you. Soften your proud heart, Achilles. Don’t be so harsh. Even the gods are moved, sometimes, and they are a thousand times as brave and strong as you. They let themselves be appeased by the prayers of men, who, to redeem their errors, offer supplications, libations, and gifts. Prayers are the daughters of Zeus. They are lame,