I have no answer for the second question, so I try to bluff my way through the first. “Nestor suggested that I join you to help gain Achilles’ ear, and Agamemnon thought it a wise suggestion.”

“Come then,” says Ajax the Greater. “Join us, Phoenix.”

“But do not speak unless I tell you to,” says Odysseus, still squinting at me as if I were the impostor I truly am. “Nestor and Agamemnon may have seen some reason for you to visit Achilles’ tent, but there can be no reason for you to speak.”

“But . . .” I begin. I have no argument. If I’m not allowed to speak, after Odysseus but before Ajax as Homer had it, I lose all leverage, lose the fulcrum, I fail. If I’m not allowed to speak, the events of this night will diverge from the Iliad. But, I realize, they already have diverged. Phoenix should have been chosen by Nestor, his presence in the embassy seconded by Agamemnon. What’s going on here?

“If you join us in Achilles’ tent, Old Phoenix,” warns Odysseus, “you must wait in the foyer with the heralds, Odius and Eurybates, and enter or speak only on my command. These are my conditions.”

“But . . .” I begin again and see the uselessness of any protest. If Odysseus becomes more suspicious and marches me back to Agamemnon’s camp, my ruse will be up, and with it, my entire plan to turn the mortals against the gods. “Yes, Odysseus,” I say, nodding like the old horseman and tutor Phoenix was. “As you command.”

Odysseus and Big Ajax walk along the crashing sea and I follow.

I’ve talked about Achilles’ tent and you might picture some sort of backyard camping tent, but the son of Peleus lives in a canvas compound that’s closer in size to the main tent of a traveling circus I recall from my childhood . . . recall from what I am beginning to remember from my childhood. Thomas Hockenberry had a life, it seems, and after almost a decade here, some of the memories are leaking back into my mind.

This night, the hundreds of tents and campfires around Achilles’ main tent paint as chaotic a scene as the rest of the mile-long Achaean encampment, with some of Achilles’ loyal Myrmidons packing his black ships for departure, others looking to the ramparts to defend their area of beach should the Trojans win through before dawn, and still others gathering around campfires much as Agamemnon’s commanders had been.

Odius and Eurybates have announced our arrival to the captains of the guard, and Achilles’ personal guards snap to attention and allow us into the inner compound. We leave the beach and climb the low dune to the rise where Achilles’ main tent is situated. I follow the two Achaeans in—Big Ajax ducking his head to go through the lower inner entrance, Odysseus, almost a foot shorter than his comrade, entering without having to duck his head. Odysseus turns and gestures me to a place in the foyer near the entrance. I can see and hear what is happening within, but I won’t be part of it if I stay here.

Achilles, just as Homer described, is playing his lyre and singing an epic song of ancient heroes not so different than the Iliad itself. The lyre, I know, was a spoil of war, won when Achilles conquered Thebe and murdered Andromache’s father, Eetion. Hector’s wife had grown up listening to this same silver lyre being played in the hearth of her royal home there. Now Patroclus, Achilles’ dearest friend, sits across from him, waiting for Achilles to finish his part of the song so that Patroclus can sing the remaining lines.

Achilles quits plucking the instrument and stands in surprise as Ajax and Odysseus enter. Patroclus scrambles to his feet as well.

“Welcome!” cries Achilles. He gestures to Patroclus. “Look, dear friends have come—I must be needed badly to bring them here—and my dearest friends in all the Achaean ranks, even in my anger I acknowledge this.”

He leads the two emissaries to low couches and throws rich purple carpets across the cushioned frames. To Patroclus, Achilles says, “Come, son of Menoetius, a bigger wine bowl. Here . . . put it here. We’ll mix stronger wine. A cup for each of my noble guests—since these men who have come under my roof are those I love the best.”

I watch the unfolding of these surprisingly gracious rituals of heroic hospitality. Patroclus sets a heavy chopping block next to the fire and lays out the chines of a sheep and a goat, next to the fat-marbled back cut of a pig. Automedan, friend and charioteer of both Achilles and Patroclus, holds the slabs of meat while Achilles cuts off prize strips, salts each, and sets them on spits. Patroclus builds up the fire for a minute and then scatters the embers and sets the spits across the hottest part of the fire, salting each strip again.

I realize that I’m famished. If I am called in to speak now—if all of our fates depended on it—I couldn’t do it because my mouth is watering so.

As if hearing my stomach rumbling, Achilles looks out into the foyer and almost freezes with surprise. “Phoenix! Honored mentor, noble horseman! I thought you ill in your tent these weeks last. Come in, come in!”

With that the young hero comes into the foyer, embraces me, and leads me into the firelit center of his home, the air smelling now of roasting mutton and pork. Odysseus shoots daggers from his eyes, silently warning me to keep silent during the discussions.

“Be seated, beloved Phoenix,” says Achilles, this old man’s former student. But he sets me on red cushions, not purple, and farther from the fire than is either Odysseus or Ajax. Achilles is loyal to his old friends, but he understands protocol.

Patroclus brings in wicker baskets of fresh-baked bread and Achilles rakes the meat from their spits and sets the steaming portions out on wooden platters. “Let us sacrifice to the gods, dear friends,” Achilles says, nodding to Patroclus, who tosses the firstlings—the strips of meat chosen as offerings—into the flames.

“Now, eat,” commands Achilles, and all of us set into the bread and wine and meat with a will.

Even while I’m chewing and enjoying the food, my mind is racing: How do I get to make the speech I have to make to change the fates of everyone here, of the gods themselves? It seemed so simple an hour earlier, but Odysseus hasn’t bought my statement that Agamemnon sent me along as an emissary. In the poem, Odysseus speaks soon—relaying Agamemnon’s offer to Achilles—then Achilles replies in what I’ve suggested to my students is the most powerful and beautiful speech in the Iliad, then Phoenix gives his long, three-part monologue—part personal history, part the parable of the “Prayers,” and part allegory of Achilles’ situation in the myth of Meleagros—a paradeigma where a mythical hero waits too long to accept offered gifts and to fight for his friends. All in all, Phoenix’s speech is by far the most interesting entreaty from the three ambassadors sent to persuade Achilles. And, according to the Iliad, it is Phoenix’s argument that persuades the angry Achilles to back away from his vow to sail away the next morning. By the time Ajax speaks, after me, Achilles will agree to stay around the next day to see what the Trojans do and, if necessary, to protect his own ships from the enemy.

My plan is to repeat parts of Phoenix’ long speech from memory, then veer away to insert my own suggestions. But I see Odysseus frowning at me from across the tent and know that I’m not going to get the chance.

And what if I do? I’ve considered the fact that the gods will be monitoring this assembly—it’s one of the key elements of the Iliad, after all, although perhaps only Zeus knows that in advance. But even without advance knowledge, some of the gods and goddesses must be watching this meeting in their video pools and on their image-tabula. Zeus has ordered them not to intervene this day, and most are complying with his ultimatum, but that must make their curiosity about the embassy to Achilles even greater. If Achilles agrees to Agamemnon’s bribe price and the power of Odysseus’ persuasion this night, then Hector’s offensive and perhaps even the will of Zeus himself will be thwarted. Achilles is a one-man army.