Peace, at last. No war, no death, no pain. Achilles floated gently on the River Styx, enjoying the coolness against his weary skin. He closed his eyes–though it was hardly necessary, in the impenetrable darkness of the Underworld. This was the nearest thing to rest he had achieved since…
Since Patroclus had died. He had never said those words aloud–hadn’t dared to even think them. He had denounced the very notion, as if refusing to accept the truth might somehow have the power to reverse it. It was unreasonable, unthinkable–unbearable.
Until now.
Patroclus was dead; but now, so was he. The seething anger and the burning vengeance didn’t matter any longer. Troy was far beyond his heart’s horizon. They would be together again: that was all he cared about. Achilles drifted freely, listening to the water’s kiss lapping at the banks with gentle lips, and allowed the final sleep to take him. When he woke, it would be to the glorious fields of eternal Elysium, where–he knew–Patroclus would be waiting.
Or so he had assumed.
He was stirred, instead, by an oppressive, blinding light. Rays like spear-tips pierced his skull, causing him to wince. Once his eyes had adjusted enough for him to peer through slitted lids, he saw that he was not in a lush field of ever-blooming orchids; nor did he find himself waist-high in glory’s grass. He was in a cold, stone room, walls bare and absent windows or an entrance. His arms were shackled to a rigid, unforgiving chair which dug into his back, and before him was a desk of plain, worn oak. Achilles was not in Elysium.
He was in a courtroom.
The glare was tolerable now. To his right stood a slender man, thin-haired and balding at the crown. His robes were a deep scarlet, neatly pressed and formal–a priest, presumed Achilles.
‘Nervous?’ asked the man. He gave a reassuring wink, and patted Achilles on the arm. ‘Don’t be. This isn’t my first chariot race.’
Achilles blinked, his jaw hanging loose. He noted now a second desk, ten paces from the one he was behind. Another man was seated there in robes of blue, seemingly engaged in thought. He muttered to himself, flicked through sheaves of pale fabric, smoothed down his auburn hair, and occasionally paused to count upon his fingers.
What in Hades was this lunacy? Achilles swiped at his eyes, shook the harshness of the light from his mind. It could only be a dream–some strange illusion, sent through the Gate of Ivory by the meddlesome Oneiroi. He glanced over his shoulder, hoping to see Elysium beyond–and flinched.
Tiered benches rose almost to the chamber’s ceiling, looming like a Titan. Filling them, he saw with dread, were ghosts. Dozens–no, hundreds of shades, ethereal and glowing; there, and yet not quite. Some would point or nod at him, chatting eagerly to their neighbouring spectators. That’s him, they must have said. That’s Achilles: the greatest of the Greeks.
‘What is this?’ demanded Achilles of the man he sat beside. ‘Where–’
He was interrupted by a booming announcement.
‘All rise for the Three Judges,’ it sounded, a voice without a body. The man at the other desk stood sharply, stool screeching on the bare flagstones. Spirits, souls and spectres rose behind him, the sound of their ascent like rolling thunder.
‘Up you get,’ said the balding man, ushering Achilles. He rose uncertainly, the long chains of his manacles cackling as he disturbed them. His eyes flitted round the sealed room, and he saw nothing at first; then a faint breeze whistled through the hall.
And there they were.
Where before had been but empty space opposite the desks, there now appeared an altar. Marble-hewn, inlaid with gold, it stood near as tall as Achilles was himself. Soon followed triplet thrones, equally ornate–and on them, three great men.
Achilles knew their names: all Greek children learned them young. Be good, their mothers would warn, for the Judges are always watching.
First was Rhadamanthus, Lord of Elysium. Heroes were his people, and he hoarded them obsessively. A close-cut, coal-black beard adorned his proud jaw.
Next came fair Aeacus, Keeper of the Keys. He judged the heart before the deed; his beard was long, and white.
Lastly came King Minos, who cast the Final Vote. The last to materialise, he eyed Achilles coolly, the picture of indifference. His beard was grey, jutting marginally from his chin.
‘Be seated,’ spoke the latter, and all obeyed. ‘We are here to judge Achilles, son of Peleus. Who brings the case against him?’
The auburn-haired, blue-robed man rose. ‘I do, lord,’ he answered. ‘Glaucus of Dardania.’
‘Very good,’ continued Minos. ‘And who for the accused?’
‘Atticus of Athens,’ said the balding man, head bowing in respect.
Minos nodded in recognition. He straightened in his throne, addressing Achilles. ‘The charges are as follows: regarding the death of one Hector, Prince of Troy, excessive brutality, grievous mutilation, and dishonour. How does the accused plead?’
‘Not guilty, my lord,’ declared Atticus.
‘Very well. The burden of proof is on the prosecution. Mister Atticus–present your defence.’
Achilles remained seated while his representative rose. He took the floor, robes flowing like a crimson cloud behind him, and cleared his throat.
‘My client pleads not guilty, lords,’ he began, ‘on grounds of provocation. We do not dispute the reality of the charges, only their relevance to his judgement. Hector killed his closest friend–in doing so, he brought his fate upon himself.’ Returning to his seat, he offered Achilles a reassuring smile.
‘What says you, prosecution?’ Minos asked.
Glaucus stood stiffly, tidying his tunic at the waist. ‘Motive is beside the point, my lords,’ he asserted. ‘The deeds are self-sufficient: it matters not what ill-conceived excuse the accused presents. He did what he did, and he must pay the price.’
A murmur from the spectral crowd. Rhadamanthus ordered silence; Aeacus simply tutted.
‘The court has heard the statements,’ acknowledged Minos. ‘Testimonies will now be heard. Prosecution–call your first witness.’
Glaucus stood and breathed a summons, and, as had appeared the Judges, a solid stone seat was suddenly beside the marble altar. Sitting in it was a man that lit a fire in Achilles’ breast, igniting feelings he would rather have forgotten.
‘Hector,’ Glaucus greeted him. ‘I know you’re a busy man in Elysium, so I’ll be brief. You were killed in a duel with the accused, yes?’
‘I was,’ answered Hector, nodding. The dark curls that dressed his head swayed with the bobbing gesture.
‘This happened because you killed his lover?’
‘Yes.’
‘Objection!’ put in Atticus. ‘Speculation.’
‘I’ll withdraw,’ said Glaucus. ‘What happened afterwards?’
Hector swallowed. ‘He cut out my eyes, and then my tongue. He said I didn’t deserve to see the afterlife.’
Gasps of horror among the spirits. Glaucus shook his head. ‘And yet, here you are, seeing and speaking. How?’
‘The gods undid what he had done.’
‘The gods,’ echoed Glaucus. ‘Even the Olympians recognised the dishonour you had suffered.’
‘Objection,’ cut in Atticus, ‘that isn’t a question.’
‘I’ll rephrase,’ said Glaucus. ‘As a warrior, as a hero, Hector, do you think what Achilles did was justified?’
‘No. It was heinous. Never have I known a man so cruel.’
Glaucus sat. ‘Nothing further.’
Minos scribbled something on a scrap of white material, etching thoughts in charcoal. He looked up after a moment. ‘Defence, your witness.’
Atticus rose, thanking the court. ‘Prince Hector,’ he smiled. ‘Thank you for being here.’ As if he had a choice. ‘I have some questions for you. Do you swear by Father Zeus to answer honestly?’
Hector shifted in the chair. He caught Achilles’ hateful glare, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. ‘I do,’ he nodded, eyes darkening as he frowned.
‘Excellent. Firstly,’ asked Atticus, ‘do you recognise this man?’
‘Yes,’ Hector growled.
‘Who is he?’
‘Vile Achilles.’
‘Just Achilles will do fine, thank you. Now, you didn’t kill Achilles, did you?’
‘No.’
‘Did you ever think you had?’
A pause. ‘Yes.’
‘Tell me about that.’
Hector inhaled deeply. He clenched both fists, knuckles nearly bursting through the taut skin. ‘One of his men wore his armour to fight. I thought he was Achilles, so I killed him. Simple as that.’
‘Did you realise, later, that he wasn’t Achilles?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘When I stripped him of his armour. It’s common practice, to–’
‘I’m aware, thank you. What happened next?’
Hector’s eyes flicked towards the prosecutor, only briefly. ‘I… I tried to take him.’
‘Him meaning Patroclus, yes? Take him where?’
‘Into Troy.’
Atticus smiled wickedly. ‘Into Troy, rather than return his body to his people. In fact, I have the autopsy here,’ he said, producing a strip of fabric, ‘from one Machaon, who states that “the body of the deceased was so damaged as to be nearly unrecognisable”. He says that you tugged the limbs of Patroclus so hard, wrenching him from his comrades, that they were dislocated from their sockets.’ He turned to the Judges, arms aloft, palms upwards in a plea. ‘That, my lords, is excessive brutality. That is grievous mutilation. That, most certainly, is provocation. My client did only unto Hector what had been done to his companion.’
Uproar from the benches. ‘Silence!’ bellowed dark-bearded Rhadamanthus, causing the very chamber to quiver. This time, it took far longer for order to resume.
‘Thank you, Hector,’ said King Minos, once the clamouring had ceased. ‘You may go. Defence, will you call a witness?’
‘I will,’ answered Atticus. He closed his eyes, then breathed a summons of his own.
The man who then replaced Hector in the chair was the largest that Achilles had ever seen. Arms like ancient yews, knotted with muscle, fists as large as boulders: this could be but one man.
‘Heracles,’ said Atticus, bowing low. ‘You honour us with your presence. Will you answer what I ask?’
The giant shifted uncomfortably; the chair was meant for lesser men than he. Perhaps that was deliberate, thought Achilles.
‘I will,’ boomed Heracles, in a voice as monstrous as the man.
‘Wonderful. Tell us, if you would,’ asked Atticus, ‘how your wife and children died?’
Again, Heracles squirmed. ‘I killed them,’ he admitted.
‘Killed?’ echoed Atticus. ‘Or would slaughtered be more accurate? Did you, or did you not, cave their skulls in with your fists?’
‘Yes, but–’
‘Did they provoke you?’
‘No, I–’
‘Yet you killed them?’
‘Objection!’ cried Glaucus. ‘He’s harassing him, lords!’
‘He’s my witness,’ laughed Atticus.
Minos pondered briefly. ‘Overruled,’ he concluded. ‘Answer the question.’
Heracles sighed, and hung his head. ‘Yes,’ he conceded eventually. ‘Yes, I killed them. Horribly. Through no fault of their own.’
Atticus snapped his fingers. ‘There it is,’ he crowed, triumph dripping from his tongue. ‘Precedent, undeniable. Heracles butchers his family–and what is his reward? Where did you go after death, sir?’
‘I ascended to Olympus.’
‘He was made a god. And yet, my client kills a man in single combat, and he is vilified. Where is the justice in that?’
Another ripple in the audience. Atticus smiled, turning to leer at his opposition. ‘No further questions,’ he said, reclaiming his seat.
Glaucus rose then and approached the witness. His manner was direct, Achilles had observed: no pomp, no sass, no flaunting. Just business.
‘After your family’s tragic demise,’ the prosecutor asked, ‘what did you do?’
‘I undertook atonement,’ sniffed Heracles, swiping at his eyes. ‘Twelve labours. I did my time.’
‘Indeed. And when you killed them, was it of your own choosing?’
‘No,’ the giant protested. ‘I would never! I loved my family. I was bewitched.’
‘By whom?’
‘By Hera, wife to Zeus.’
Raucous commotion in the crowd. ‘Order!’ called Aeacus, while Rhadamanthus hammered a fist upon the altar.
Glaucus took a breath. ‘Bewitched,’ he repeated. ‘Then you were not responsible?’
‘Objection!’ yelled Atticus, his voice breaking. Achilles had merely watched as the absurdity of the trial proceeded; but when he heard that hint of worry in his agent’s voice, he paid attention. ‘My client was also under the influence.’
‘Of what?’ scoffed Glaucus.
‘Of grief–of wrath!’
‘Wrath is an effect,’ Glaucus argued, ‘not a cause.’
‘Overruled,’ rumbled Minos. ‘Finish up, prosecution.’
‘My lord,’ Glaucus bowed. ‘It’s clear that the circumstances of the two cases are utterly incomparable. Heracles had no control over his actions. The lack of control exhibited by the accused, however,’ he added, with venom, ‘was entirely of his own making. No further questions.’
Chatter swept throughout the hall. Atticus rubbed at his forehead with two fingers, massaging back and forth. Achilles had seen that look before, upon the face of men who had lost a battle but survived. It gave him no confidence.
‘What’s wrong?’ he whispered. ‘You said this wasn’t your first time, didn’t you?’
‘It isn’t,’ answered Atticus. ‘It’s my second.’
The Judges spoke behind their hands, conferring privately. Achilles watched them, his leg shaking beneath the desk. Ten years, he’d been at war; yet somehow, those few minutes seemed much longer.
Finally, they finished.
Rhadamanthus spoke first. ‘In light of his great deeds,’ he said, chin raised, ‘I move to acquit. Mighty Achilles belongs in glorious Elysium.’
Aeacus was next. ‘I am prepared to accept provocation as a mitigating factor,’ he assented, ‘but not as a full defence. Therefore, I would sentence the accused to ten thousand years in the Pit of Tartarus, rather than an eternity.’
Minos did not speak at once. He twirled long fingers through his grey beard as he thought, the hairs shifting and swirling like smoke upon a breeze; then, a notion struck him. ‘I would hear one more opinion,’ he announced. ‘That of the accused. Where do you think you belong?’
Silence. Achilles hadn’t expected that. He had done wrong–that he knew, and did not disavow. The image of Hector’s broken body was embedded like an arrow, shot into his mind. He had been base, cruel, and wrathful. But had not Heracles been just as bad? He pondered for a moment on the giant’s testimony: I loved my family, he’d professed. Perhaps, Achilles thought, that was the only thing that mattered–love, the purest motive.
He remembered how he’d yearned to see Elysium, to sup eternally on victory and glory. His name would live on in the hearts of men, and he would never be forgotten. That was what he deserved. For ten years, that was all that he had wanted.
But that was before. There was something that–he realised now–he needed, much, much more.
‘Where is Patroclus?’ he asked.
King Minos frowned. ‘Patroclus?’ he repeated. ‘Why does it matter where Patroclus was sent?’
‘Because that,’ proclaimed Achilles, ‘is the only place where I belong.’
To that, nobody could object.