Achilles by Elizabeth Cook Page A

forwards to break through the other mourners and get close to the bier. Nothing can tire her. She has will and energy for any quest or task. She would look for a flower in a desert or search the beaches of the world for one particular small stone. She would welcome any hard duty as easy compared with the difficulty that faces her now when nothing she can do will bring him back.
    All she has is the jar.
    A beautiful jar. Gold. Hammered by a god. Embossed with scenes of hunting. Hephaestus had insisted that she take it at the same time as she fetched the armour.
    â€˜You will need this later,’ he said.
    She had taken it without question – not even wanting to look at it. She’d wedged it under her chin on top of the heaped armour and busied herself with the awkwardness of carrying so much metal. It took a lot of care to get it all down to earth without a scratch.
    Only when she and her freight had arrived safely did she begin to examine the jar. She traced each scene with her finger, following it through, saw with a sense of building dread that every scene ended in the same way. She recognised – how could she not? – the shape of the jar. The urn. She wrapped it in lengths of protective silk and put it away.
    Now Thetis, take it out. Its time has come.
    Before the body is burnt it is anointed again. A thick paste of oil and honey now mantles him. The oil will make the flames burn hotter. For several days men have set out for the higher ground with axes and returned dragging wood for the pyre. The pyre now stands like a giant hive. Taller than a house; an intricate mesh of branches. At its base they have thrust fir cones to help it catch fire.
    Twelve of the finest and fattest sheep have been slaughtered and lodged in the pyre. Plus ten handsome, dew-lapped steers, their large tongues lolling from lifeless mouths.
    It is a delicate task to lift Achilles from the bier and carry him to the top of the pyre. Ajax – who still hopes for the armour – is the proud and sorrowing bearer. He climbs the ladder propped against the arranged wood slowly lest the whole pile topple. It has been well made, like a good dry wall, and while the odd branch gives way the whole is well knit and holds.
    Automedon puts the brand to the pyre. Thetis, who once lovingly seared her sons in flame, gasps in pain as the whole thing goes up. Automedon ducks and runs from the almost instant heat. To the sea nymphs the force of the fire is like a scalding wall. Only Thetis braves it. She runs around it, screaming, her dark figure silhouetted against the flames. Some see the black gash of her mouth but the sound of her screams is swallowed by the roar of the flames; the crackings and burstings of wood and flesh and bones.
    Night falls. The pyre still blazes, lighting the sky. Soldiers, dressed in their battle gear, file past, firelight burnishing the bronze of their armour. Armed Myrmidons dance with slow and warlike steps to the grave plucked note of the lyre. As they pass they smell the burning flesh. Roasting meat of cattle, sheep and man.
    When daylight comes the fire has burnt down. A thick mound of pale dust remains.
    Automedon is the first to wade in. Using the flat of his two-handled sword he beats down the dust then, with the blade’s edge, he breaks open the last glowing parcels of cinders which exhaust themselves and expire.
    When he has gone over it all and the remains of the pyre lie spread out like a field, Thetis walks in. She sets to work like a gleaner, her bare feet paddling in the soft dust, winnowing the ashes with her hands, gathering bones in the tunic which she holds in an apron before her. Some pieces are thin and dry as sycamore keys or the husk of a chrysalis when the winged creature has gone. She finds the long bones first: femur and tibia, the graceful fibula. The joints are still intact, cartilage shrunk like knobs of resin. Then she picks out the bones of the arms – humerus, radius, ulna. Not