The Women of Troy

17

The hut was dark and silent when I got back. I groped my way into the living quarters, which at first I took to be empty, but then I noticed an oblong of deeper darkness by the bed. With shaking fingers, I lit an oil lamp and Alcimus’s shadow leapt across the floor.

“You’ve been gone a long time.”

“We’re running short of herbs, I—”

“I was worried.”

“I’m sorry. Is there anything I can get you?”

“I’ll have a cup of wine—and pour yourself one too. We need to talk.”

I poured two cups and set them down on the table. We sat facing each other, but despite what he’d just said he didn’t immediately speak. I knew I mustn’t ask questions about Priam’s burial—it might be rash even to express an interest—but I couldn’t help myself. “Did you find Helenus?”

“Yes, he was with his sister.”

I made myself wait.

“He just looked Pyrrhus in the face and said he wished he had buried Priam. He said he was ashamed somebody else had had to do it—it should have been him.”

“Was he…?” Tortured, I wanted to ask. That was my great fear: that somebody else would pay a terrible price for what Amina had done. I forced myself to say the word.

Alcimus was staring down into his cup. “No, no need, he’s a broken man. Once a man breaks like that, betrays everything, there’s no way back.”

Silence. I watched the shadows creating hollows in his cheeks. “What did you want to speak to me about?”

“Oh. Andromache. Pyrrhus wants her to serve wine at dinner tonight.”

“No—she can’t.”

The words were out before I could stop myself. Pyrrhus was entirely within his rights: she was his prize of honour, why shouldn’t he show her off to his men? Not so long ago, Achilles had displayed me at dinner in exactly the same way; but I’d grown used to it, even learnt to value the access to information it gave me. But Andromache, in the state she was in…? I couldn’t see how she’d even begin to cope.

“I thought you might like to do it with her,” Alcimus said. He’d always shown great gentleness to Andromache—he and Automedon had buried her baby son—but nevertheless, I was surprised he was willing to permit this. “If you don’t mind?”

“She can’t do it alone.” I made to stand up. “I’ll go to her, unless there’s something else…?”

He hesitated. “Be careful around Pyrrhus. You know I said Helenus wasn’t tortured? Well, he wasn’t…but Pyrrhus did do something a bit strange. He stuck his dagger into Helenus’s stomach, not very far, just a cut, but he dabbled his fingers in the blood—and I think he enjoyed knowing Helenus was afraid.”

On the scale of the bloodletting in the camp, that seemed absurdly trivial, but evidently it had disturbed Alcimus—a man not easily disturbed. “There was no need for it,” he added. “Helenus was falling over himself to tell us everything he knew—which was nothing!”

I waited, but there was no more. “If that’s all…?”

“Yes, yes, you go.”

I went first to the storeroom and fetched an embroidered tunic from the chest where I kept my clothes, and then to my own room to brush my hair. So long now since I’d done this, though for months, when Achilles was alive, it had been my nightly routine. When I’d finished dressing and brushing my hair, I opened my mouth several times as wide as it would go, hearing the click of my jaws, then stretched my lips in a rictus of a smile. All the old nervousness, the old tension, was back. I let myself out and crossed the short distance to the women’s hut. The men had already begun to gather outside the hall. A smell of roast meat drifted out through the open door; I felt a gush of saliva, but I knew I wouldn’t be eating until much later—if indeed I ate at all.

Inside the hut, I went straight to Andromache’s room. She was up and dressed, but standing rather helplessly beside the bed, her hair still tousled from sleep. The tunic she was wearing wouldn’t do at all. I went back to the living quarters, selected two girls at random and told them to fetch hot water and clean clothes. Under my direction, they helped Andromache to wash—a bath would have been better, but there wasn’t time for that—and brushed her hair until it shone. Much to my surprise, Amina came in carrying a wreath of purple daisies—the kind that grow in abundance at this time of year. She placed it on Andromache’s head, pinned it into position and stood back to admire the effect. The colour suited Andromache, that glowing purple against the darkness of her hair, though there was no escaping the contrast between the freshness of the flowers and her ravaged face. “You’ll be all right,” I said, fiercely, chafing her arms. “I’ll be there—you won’t be on your own—just pour the sodding wine and hope it chokes them.”

She stumbled twice on the short walk from the women’s hut to the hall. As we stepped over the threshold, I felt a blast of hot air open the pores in my skin. Smells of roast beef, spices, warm bread, sweaty men, resin from the walls, tar from the torches—but also, sharper, greener smells from the rushes rustling under our feet. Oh—and the din! Singing—ragged at first, rising to a roar, subsiding into laughter and jeers. Banging of fists on tables, sometimes keeping time with the music, sometimes protesting when the food didn’t arrive fast enough. I took Andromache across to the far corner where there was a sideboard with jugs of wine lined up. I put one in her hands, hoping to god she wouldn’t drop it, then picked one up myself and started to work my way up the nearest table. Andromache kept pace with me on the other side. The Myrmidons greeted me with every sign of affection; one or two of them even patted my stomach. I could never have imagined being touched below the waist by so many men with so little sexual intent. I saw two other women, common women from around the fires, working their way up the other table—and they were being pawed constantly, their breasts and groins grabbed. One of them happened to look across at me and her expression, unhappy, still, and far away, haunts me to this day, though I can’t remember her name.

Until all the men were eating and drinking, I had no leisure even to glance at the top table, where Pyrrhus, Alcimus and Automedon sat. Calchas was there too, in full priestly regalia though the white paint on his face was flaking in the heat. Did he realize he was only here to be interrogated, that the men sitting on either side of him were not his friends? Alcimus was staring down at his plate. Sometimes, when you see somebody you know well from a distance, it sharpens your perception of them. He was thinner than he’d been when I first knew him; older. When he looked up from his plate, his eyes ran up and down the tables, assessing the interactions between the men, alert for the moment when banter turned to real insult and old injuries, chafed raw, resurfaced and demanded revenge. These were men who’d been living on their nerves for years and now, when things should have been easy, they were frustrated because the longed-for journey home was continually postponed. Every day began in hope, every day ended in disappointment. They’d just won a war. How could it be that this victory, the greatest in the history of the world—and it was, there’s no denying it—had started to taste like defeat?

So, Alcimus was constantly alert for signs of trouble, and when I turned and looked around, I thought I could see why. Pyrrhus had brought a group of young men with him from his mother’s island of Skyros. They were drinking heavily, shouting, pestering the serving girls—none of this was exactly unusual, but I could see that in the eyes of the Myrmidons, this behaviour showed a lack of respect for older, more experienced men who’d borne the brunt of the fighting. A lot of shouted remarks passed between Pyrrhus and this group. He was flushed—though admittedly his pale skin flushed easily—and obviously very much the worse for wear. Far from setting an example, he seemed to be a large part of the problem. None of this had been apparent to me, sitting alone in my hut, carding wool, supervising the preparation of dinner, waiting for Alcimus to come home, but I saw it very clearly now. This hall was packed from floor to ceiling with kindling; one spark would be enough to set it alight.

Andromache looked wan and wretched, but at least she was still on her feet, and that was more than I’d expected. I whispered to her to start collecting jugs; we needed to fill them up one more time, set them on the tables and then wait for the signal to withdraw. At least, that’s what used to happen when Achilles was alive. I’d always been allowed to leave before the real, serious drinking started. We set the jugs at intervals along the tables and then I went to fetch some of the best wine for the top table. Andromache took up her position behind Pyrrhus’s chair and, without so much as a glance at her, he held out his cup. As she poured, I thought I glimpsed a steeliness in her that I hadn’t seen before, and it gave me hope.

Most of the men had had enough to eat by now; they were just picking at the meat or mopping up the juices with hunks of bread. Here, on the top table, Pyrrhus was talking about the attempt to bury Priam. Whoever had done this had been interrupted before he could finish the job, Pyrrhus said. So, the body had been dug up and guards posted to make sure it didn’t happen again. Everybody at the top table knew this already. This explanation was directed at Calchas, who seemed bewildered by the turn the conversation was taking. I could see he was already deeply offended by his reception. He’d not been asked to lead the company in prayer, nor to pour a libation to the gods. Now, Pyrrhus was needling him; there was real aggression in his manner and no sign at all of respect.

I filled their cups—silently, invisibly—listening. And suddenly, looking down the hall, I thought: I’ve missed this!

As the eating ended, the singing began. Pyrrhus had secured the services of a notable bard, of whom there were several in the camp. The bard sang alone, although there were choruses in which the men could join. Every single song was about Achilles, his short life and glorious death, his courage, his beauty, his frequent, terrifying rages. I remember one of the songs was called simply “Rage.” I happened to be standing in the shadows at the side of the top table, so I could see Pyrrhus’s face. It must have been a source of pride to him to hear his father’s achievements extolled in words and music—and these were some of the best words and greatest music I’d ever heard, but looking at him I did wonder whether there were other, more painful, emotions at work. In some parts of the camp—and not just in the Myrmidon compound—Achilles was worshipped as a god. There must have been times when Pyrrhus felt like a weedy little sapling struggling to survive in the shadow of a great oak. Did he ever doubt himself? I think he must have done.

The last song faded into silence. The men were on their feet, clapping, banging the tables, shouting their appreciation, while the singer took his seat at the top table and accepted a cup of wine.

Not long afterwards, Alcimus suggested to Pyrrhus that it was time for Andromache and me to withdraw. Pyrrhus looked blank for a moment, but then nodded. We retreated to the small room—the “cupboard”—and sat on the bed where we ate hunks of bread and some very dry figs. Andromache kept taking deep breaths as if she’d been half suffocated up till then.

“Cheer up,” I said, as I got up to go. “With any luck, he’ll pass out.”

I crossed the yard to Alcimus’s hut, but I wasn’t ready to go to sleep yet. So I brought out a chair and set it down in the most sheltered part of the veranda. The hall was in uproar. It was always noisy towards the end of the evening, before the men spilled out in search of other forms of fun, but there weren’t usually so many raised voices. I wondered if I ought to go across to the women’s hut and warn Amina about the guards, but the girls would have settled down for the night, and anyway, I couldn’t believe she’d take such an insane risk. Not a second time. We can all be brave once.

My head was buzzing with the sights and sounds of dinner, snippets of overheard conversation that meant nothing in themselves but together formed a pattern. Pyrrhus, the young men from Skyros whom he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, control. Alcimus’s watchful face as he looked up and down the tables, doing for Pyrrhus exactly what Patroclus used to do for Achilles—heading off trouble. But Patroclus had enjoyed Achilles’s total trust, whereas I suspected Pyrrhus secretly resented Alcimus, who’d fought beside his father; who’d known the man he would never know. I understood the pressures Alcimus was under much better now.

The uproar was getting louder, though I couldn’t hear what they were shouting. We were in for a rowdy night. I stood up and was about to go inside when there was a commotion at the entrance to the hall and Pyrrhus appeared on the veranda with Calchas, the two of them obviously arguing. The quarrel seemed to be about Apollo and the part Pyrrhus believed the god had played in Achilles’s death. It was self-evident, he said, that no mortal man could have destroyed Achilles—it had to be the work of a god and everybody knew Apollo hated Achilles, who’d rivalled him in strength and beauty. From Calchas’s point of view, Pyrrhus was spewing out blasphemies. He raised his hand, to protest, I thought, but perhaps Pyrrhus saw it as a threat. At any rate, he caught Calchas by the wrist and shoved him violently towards the steps. I don’t think he meant to do him harm, but unfortunately, Calchas caught his foot in the hem of his robe and fell headlong down the steps onto the yard, where he lay spread-eagled, every bit of breath knocked out of him.

After a few seconds, Calchas raised his head. Blood was oozing from a deep cut on his cheekbone, turning the white paint to a pink mess. Pyrrhus gaped at him, at first in horror, but then burst out laughing. He might have left it there—and that would have been bad enough—but the young men from Skyros came crowding through the door behind him, laughing and egging him on. By now, Calchas had managed to get himself up onto all fours. Confronted by that tempting backside, Pyrrhus simply couldn’t resist. He leapt down the steps, planted his foot squarely on Calchas’s arse and knocked him flat again, before turning to his followers, yelling and punching the air. They, of course, clapped him on the back, ruffled his hair and pulled him back into the hall, shouting at the women to bring more wine.

My first impulse was to rush across to help, but instead I retreated further into the shadows, watching, as Automedon lifted Calchas to his feet and dusted him down. Often, those who witness a man’s humiliation are resented almost as much as the person who inflicts it—and I had no desire to make an enemy of Calchas. Perhaps, as everybody said, he was out of favour with Agamemnon, but he was still a clever and powerful man. So, I looked on as Automedon supported him as he hobbled a few trial steps. I knew Automedon was a devoutly religious man and he’d deplore the insult he’d just witnessed. Some of the men around the campfires sniggered or openly jeered as the priest limped past. It wasn’t even that they disliked Calchas; they were bullies, ready to turn on anybody they perceived to be weak, like weasels sniffing blood. Others, though, were obviously appalled. One or two even made the sign against the evil eye as Calchas, with his arm draped across Automedon’s shoulders, shuffled slowly to the gate.

I think Automedon must have helped the priest all the way home because although I lingered on the veranda for a while, I didn’t see him return.