The Women of Troy

32

After watching the woman, Briseis, walk across the yard, Pyrrhus turns back into the hall. Lamps and candles cast circles of light over empty plates…He ought to be hungry by now—in fact, he should be famished, he hasn’t had a bite to eat since breakfast; but he isn’t. If anything, he feels slightly sick. Move, he tells himself, but his feet have taken root. Peeling familiarity from his eyes, he notices shadows struggling in the rafters, the same battle they fight every night, creating a sense of conflict, however convivial the gathering going on below. Not that they always are convivial. He’s thinking these trivial, scum-on-the-surface thoughts so he doesn’t have to think about…

He must be standing almost exactly where Priam stood that night, gazing up the hall at a man who sits slumped in his chair, torpid as a lizard on a cold day. Still dangerous, though: lethargy to murderous rage in seconds. How much courage it must have taken to begin that walk up the aisle between the tables, a wall of muscular backs on either side.

Pyrrhus starts walking in Priam’s footsteps down the hall towards the empty chair at the end, though he doesn’t seem to be moving at all, it’s more as if the chair is coming towards him. He stops in front of it—contemplates the impossibility of kneeling as once Priam had knelt. He’d held Achilles knees—the position of a supplicant—and said: “I do what no man before me has ever done, I kiss the hands of the man who killed my son.”

And that’s where Pyrrhus loses it. Totally. Up to that point, he thinks he understands. Priam had shown immense courage in driving, alone and unarmed, into the Greek camp—and Achilles would have responded to that. He would always have responded to courage. But are those really the words of a brave man? It sounds more like giving in. And yet, it’s at that point that Achilles’s behaviour begins to change. Suddenly, he’s inviting Priam into his private quarters, bringing out the best wine, waiting on him at dinner, apparently, like a common serving man. Why didn’t he call Alcimus and Automedon into the room—let them do it? It was their job to wait on a royal guest. And there it is, the word “guest.” He wasn’t a guest! He was an interloper—he’d just walked in off the yard. And yet Achilles himself had used the word “guest”…

That was one thing everybody seemed to agree on, that Achilles and Priam had begun the night as enemies and ended it as friends—guest-friends—to the point where Achilles had been prepared to fight his fellow Greeks to defend Priam. How could a single encounter send a man spinning off onto a different path from the one he’d been pursuing, with such undeviating resolution, up till then? Pyrrhus doesn’t get it. He’s talked to Alcimus, to Automedon, and now to Briseis: he knows exactly what happened that night, but he understands none of it. How could his father, who’d been the scourge of the Trojans for the last nine years, have made a friend of Priam? Even offering to help him when Troy fell. In the deepest, darkest corner of Pyrrhus’s mind is the thought that—if he’d lived—Achilles would have defended Priam on the altar steps.

Anyway, where is everybody? He looks round the empty hall, then remembers he cancelled dinner. Just as well…Tonight’s a time to be alone, because tomorrow…Tomorrow…Everybody says it’s what the gods require. No, it fucking isn’t. It’s what Agamemnon requires. Not even that—it’s what Calchas requires. Should’ve killed the bastard, not just kicked his arse. Ah, well, too late now…

The hall with its indecipherable echoes is intolerable, so he goes into his living quarters where, as usual, somebody has set out cheese and wine. He pours himself a cup, gulps it down, reaches for the jug—and feels the mirror stir into life behind him. Refusing to pay it any attention, he pours himself more wine, and—

Boring! Boring!

Slowly, he puts down the cup.

No, go on, go on, do what you always do!

He can’t ignore it any longer. So he turns and walks towards the mirror but, instead of his reflection becoming bigger as he approaches, it dwindles till it’s scarcely more than a point of light. Once, not so long ago either, he used to dress up in Achilles’s armour and stand in front of this mirror, narrowing his eyes until the image in front of him blurred and it was possible to believe the man standing there was Achilles himself. He’s the model of his father; everybody says he is. Now, though, what he sees is a taunting homunculus. He knows perfectly well this isn’t Achilles—or any other manifestation of the afterlife. It’s him—a sheared-off sliver of his own brain.

No running to Daddy now, is there?

There never was.

Oh, it must be tough, being an orphan. Of course, there aren’t any other fatherless children in Greece, are there? God’s sake, man, get a grip.

He stares at it, this gibing homunculus whose face is a caricature of his own. Abruptly, he remembers something horrible—it’s one of the things this creature does best, dredging up memories from the sediment at the bottom of your mind, and they are never good memories. After the first attempt at burying Priam, Helenus had been brought in for questioning. The man had been tortured before, by Odysseus; he was falling over himself to tell them everything he knew—which was nothing. And yet, Pyrrhus had still pulled out his dagger, and turned it thoughtfully over and over, the movement finding a blue light on the blade. He’d noticed—without appearing to notice—the fear on Helenus’s face, the tension in his muscles. There’d been no need to use force, but still he’d pressed the dagger into Helenus’s belly, only a little way in, just far enough to make a thin rivulet of blood trickle down. No real damage, minimal pain—but there’d been no need for it. He’s ashamed of the action now, ashamed of the excitement he’d felt—and feels again, remembering the involuntary sucking-in of Helenus’s breath. A small, mean-spirited thing to do, altogether unworthy of great Achilles’s son.

That’s you all over, though, isn’t it? Nasty little boy pulling wings off flies. Do you remember doing that?…

I don’t have to listen to you.

Oh, but you do listen, don’t you? And you always will.

Summoning up all his strength, he turns his back on the mirror, grabs his cloak and crashes out into the night.

Outside, breathing the cool night air, he pauses. The stables? No, though he craves time with Ebony, he’s too afraid of the pain. Later, perhaps—or tomorrow morning, first thing, then he’ll go, oversee the making of the drugged mash—better still, make it himself—groom Ebony, plait his mane…But not now, not tonight. Tonight, he wants…

What does he want? Punishment. A surprising answer, since he doesn’t know what crime he’s supposed to have committed and doesn’t accept that he’s actually to blame. How was he supposed to know about the guest-friendship between Priam and Achilles? An offence committed in ignorance is still an offence. No excuses, no allowances, no mercy—the gods are nothing if not relentless. Punishment, then. But it should be for him—not for Ebony.

He doesn’t want company, and anyway, there aren’t many places in the camp he’d be welcome now. He’ll go to the sea. Setting off down the path through the dunes, he’s aware once again of following in Achilles’s footsteps, as he does wherever he goes in the camp. What would it be like to choose his own path…? That’s never been possible. Coming out onto the beach, he sees a huge wave burst in thunder and clouds of spray—and beyond that, other waves already gathering. At the water’s edge, he kicks off his sandals, lets his tunic fall round his ankles and braces himself for a few minutes of extreme cold before the sea spews him back onto dry land. No dolphin-like cavorting with the waves for him. He wades a little way in, feels the shock of the rising swell against his knees and then as it retreats the slipping-away of sand between his toes. Would even great Achilles have swum in such a sea? Oh, yes, of course he bloody would—and enjoyed it too! Pyrrhus edges an inch or two further out, as the sea flexes its muscles for the next assault…

“I wouldn’t if I were you.”

A cool, amused voice. Pyrrhus spins round and nearly topples over as the next wave catches him. Can’t see a bloody thing. Ridiculously, he raises a hand to his eyes as if shielding them from the sun—though it’s the moon that’s bleaching the wet pebbles at his feet. The shadowy figure looking down from the top of a steep bank of shingle seems to have absolutely gigantic feet. Pyrrhus shivers a little, though a second later, he realizes it’s only Helenus with his feet still bound in several layers of rags. It’s a strange coincidence seeing him so soon after remembering sticking a knife in his belly (though only a little way in—it can’t have hurt, or not very much) and the strangeness makes him go quiet. He waits for Helenus to speak, but Helenus, perhaps finding the silence threatening, is already backing away.

“No, don’t go,” he says. Instantly, Helenus stops. “What are you doing out here?” That sounds like the beginning of another interrogation—the last thing he intends.

“Actually, I came to wash my feet.”

“Really?”

“Yes, well, you know…Salt helps.”

“I suppose it does.”

Warily, Helenus sits down and begins unwinding the rags. After hesitating a while, Pyrrhus climbs the slope towards him, but slowly, not coming too close. “Might be better to let the air get to it.”

Helenus flexes his toes. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

Skin heals; the mind doesn’t. Pyrrhus knows it’s time to bring this awkward encounter to a close, though he tells himself it was Helenus who started it—he needn’t have spoken at all. But now, he’s curious to know why he did. So, against his better judgement, he watches as Helenus wades in, wincing as a wave foams round his ankles. He’s not steady on his feet, though he does go a little further before turning round and struggling towards the shore. On impulse, Pyrrhus reaches out and offers his hand. Helenus clasps it, laughing in embarrassment at his weakness, and lets himself be hauled onto dry land. Breathless from the effort, he rests his hands on his knees. He’s very dark-skinned with a lot of hair on his legs that the water’s swirled into half-moons and circles, rather like the pattern seaweed makes on rocks. Exactly like the patterns some kinds of seaweed make on rocks. Somehow, seeing that similarity clears a space in Pyrrhus’s head and he begins to relax, to open up a little.

“They do look a lot better.” A ridiculous comment, since it’s the first time he’s seen them. Nothing he says seems to come out right.

“I’m walking a bit better.” Helenus looks out to sea and then back at Pyrrhus. “Are you going to swim?”

“No, I think I’ll give it a miss.”

“Very wise.” A slight hesitation. “Big day tomorrow.”

Trying to keep his voice neutral, Pyrrhus says: “You must be pleased.”

“It’s the right thing to do.”

“I don’t need a Trojan to—” He bites the words back. “It isn’t easy, you know, being Achilles’s son.”

Helenus snorts. “You think it’s easy being Priam’s son? At least you didn’t betray your father.”

“Didn’t get the chance, did I? Never met the fucker.” But that’s altogether too brutal, too honest; it frightens him back into his cave. “I’d better be going. There’s a lot to do still.”

Pyrrhus picks up his tunic and sandals and starts to walk past Helenus, who puts a hand on his chest to stop him.

“I’m sorry about the horse. They were a great team.”

Bugger the team. It’s Ebony. The pain’s unbearable. He nods brusquely and strides off, though he’s only gone a few yards when Helenus calls after him: “When great Achilles was alive, he defied even the gods.”

Not bothering to turn round, Pyrrhus shouts over his shoulder: “How would you know?”

“Everybody knows.”

Pyrrhus just shakes his head and walks faster. He has to get away from the sea and the sand and the drifting black clouds that are making a widow of the moon, back into his world: straw and hay, smells of leather and saddle soap, the warmth of Ebony’s shoulder, the strong curve of his neck. Reaching the stables, he finds them deserted. Where are all the grooms? Up on the headland probably. All of them? How many men does it take to build a funeral pyre? Only it won’t be the building that’s taking the time, it’ll be the hauling of the logs. He notices the carthorses’ stalls are empty. Anyway, it doesn’t matter that the men aren’t here; the horses have been fed and watered, they’re all settled for the night—and he’d rather be alone anyway. Though even as he thinks that, the idiot boy comes rushing out of the tack room, spit flying, stuttering his eagerness to help. Pyrrhus waves him away and walks along the row of stalls. Ebony whickers a greeting. Pyrrhus selects a few wizened apples from a bag by the door, and gives one to Phoenix first, as always pretending an equality of love he doesn’t feel. It’s a mystery why some horses are special, and others not. Rufus was. Ebony is.

Crossing the narrow aisle, he holds out an apple on the palm of his hand and gently, delicately, Ebony takes it. Much chewing, a foam of green saliva at the corners of his mouth, followed by several nods and shakes of the great head: More! “Just one, then, but that’s the last. You’ve got your hay.” There can’t be too many extra treats, because Ebony’s routine must be kept as normal as possible right up to the moment Pyrrhus raises the sword. Ebony mouths the next apple off his palm. There’s green slobber all over Pyrrhus’s fingers now; he wipes it off on the side of his tunic, picks up a handful of clean straw and begins to rub Ebony down. It’s not necessary—Ebony’s coat gleams, as it always does—he’s better looked after than many a child—but Pyrrhus enjoys doing it. His body bends into the strokes and he gives himself up to the pleasure. Something hypnotic about this; Ebony feels it too—little twitches and flickers run across his skin. He doesn’t regret the past or dread the future, but at the back of Pyrrhus’s mind, there’s always the thought of what the morning will bring.

Only hours left now.

Even as he runs his hand over Ebony’s neck, he’s estimating the precise angle and force of the cut—because this time there mustn’t be any shameful, cack-handed bungling. Ebony mustn’t die the way Priam died.

At last Pyrrhus throws down the straw and stands back. He’d like to spend the night in the stables, to sit with his back against the wall and snatch whatever sleep he can, but he can’t let himself do it. He needs to be rested and Ebony needs his normal routine. Tomorrow morning, early, he’ll come and supervise the making of the drugged mash, though he does wonder whether that’s really necessary. Seeing crowds of people gathered on the headland, Ebony might think it’s the start of another race? He loves racing and, because he’s never been ill-treated, he won’t be afraid, even when Pyrrhus raises the sword.

When great Achilles was alive, he defied even the gods. He wonders what Helenus meant by saying that, whether he’d really been suggesting that Ebony didn’t have to die. If so, he’s a fool. Only madness and ruin await a man who defies the gods. Achilles did. Resting his head against Ebony’s, Pyrrhus blows gently into his flaring nostrils, as once, long ago, he used to do with Rufus. “Sorry, Ebony,” he says. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. I am not that man.”

A few minutes later, stumbling blindly up the veranda steps to the main door of the hall, he fails to notice a man huddled in the shadows, so it’s a shock when he moves. Helenus, of course. No time for that now; no patience. “What do you want?”

“Our fathers were guest-friends. That means we are too. The least you could do is offer me some food.”

Pyrrhus, mouth already open to refuse, looks down at Helenus and sees that he’s cold, hungry, frightened and alone. Then he remembers the emptiness of his living quarters: the gibing mirror and the tongueless lyre. Really, what else is he going to do? So, he steps to one side, opens the door a little wider—and lets the future in.