Tell him he can fuck her till her back breaks…
There was nothing, now, to stop Agamemnon handing me over to his soldiers for common use. I’d seen the lives of those women. Once, I’d watched a couple of the older women at the rubbish tip scavenging for food among the rats. Patroclus’s dogs lived better.
Back inside Agamemnon’s compound, I didn’t know what to do. I’d have liked to slip into the women’s huts, but I didn’t dare, until Odysseus told me I could. Apart from anything else, I was still wearing the opal necklace. The problem was solved when Odysseus ordered me to fetch a pain-killing draught from Machaon’s stores. I ran all the way to the hospital, mixed a ready-made draught with fresh herbs in a jug of strong wine and raced all the way back.
Odysseus was sitting in a chair by Agamemnon’s fire. He snatched the jug from my hand and downed half the draught in one go. Ajax was kneeling beside him peeling the bandage off his wound. Agamemnon was silent, pacing up and down. I guessed Nestor had called a halt to further questioning until Odysseus had been attended to. I went to see if I could help, but Agamemnon called for me to refill his cup. He’d flushed a mottled red and there were two deep frown lines between his brows as if he couldn’t believe what was happening…
At last, Ajax finished tying a fresh bandage and stood up.
Immediately, Agamemnon said, “Does he actually understand what I’m offering?”
“Yes,” Odysseus said, wearily.
“Marriage to my daughter?”
“Yes.” A stark silence. “Of course he said how honoured he was…”
Nestor darted a glance at Ajax, who shrugged.
“And he still said no? Did he favour you with a reason?”
“This isn’t his war, he’s got nothing against the Trojans, they’ve never raided his cattle, they’ve never burned his crops, they’ve…never stolen his wife.”
“He’s not bloody well married!”
Odysseus jerked his head at me. “He referred to her as his wife.”
“Did he?” said Nestor. “Ah.”
“Oh, and he used to believe in honour and glory and all that stuff and now he doesn’t. Nothing is worth his life.”
“That doesn’t sound like Achilles,” Nestor said. “You sure you went to the right hut?”
“And he’s going home.”
“Again?” Nestor snorted.
“He won’t go,” Agamemnon said. “Not till he’s seen me on my knees in front of Priam.”
Odysseus grunted. “In front of him, I think.”
“And he doesn’t care how many Greeks die?” Nestor asked.
“No.”
“He’s not human,” Ajax blurted out.
“Well, of course he bloody isn’t,” Agamemnon said. “His mother’s a fish.”
Nestor smiled, thinly. “A sea goddess, I believe.”
“Huh.” Agamemnon seized the jug from me and poured himself another cup. “What the hell’s he on about? ‘Nothing’s worth his life.’ This is what happens when a thug like Achilles starts trying to think.”
“No point going over it,” Nestor said. “He’s given us his answer and he’s not going to change it. The question is: what do we do?”
“Could we launch the ships tonight?” Agamemnon asked.
Ajax gaped at him. “What, run away?”
Nestor ignored him. “No—they’d attack. We’d be trying to launch the ships and fight them off as well. No, there’s no choice, we’ve just got to stay and see it out.”
“Fight,” Ajax said.
“Yes,” Nestor said, wearily. “Fight.”
A long silence. Agamemnon looked from face to face, waiting for somebody to come up with a solution.
“There’s always the Myrmidons,” Nestor said.
Agamemnon stared at him as if he thought the old man had finally taken leave of his senses. “I think you’ll find they come with Achilles attached.”
“I don’t know,” Nestor said. “They don’t like what’s happening. I mean, when Achilles said, I’ve been insulted, we’re going home, they were fine with that, but they don’t understand this. Hundreds of miles away from their families and they’re stuck here doing nothing?”
“They worship Achilles,” Ajax said. “They won’t do anything without him.”
“He’s right,” Odysseus said. “Achilles leads them.”
“No,” Nestor said. “Achilles inspires them.”
Agamemnon looked thoughtful. “Would they follow Patroclus?”
“I can’t see it,” Odysseus said.
“No, they would,” Nestor said. “He’s not a bad fighter—he’s a bloody good charioteer, he could drive me any day. And they respect him.”
“Yeah, but there’s a bit of a drawback, isn’t there?” Odysseus said. “He can’t wipe his own arse without getting Achilles’s permission first.”
“How do you know?” Nestor said. “We don’t know what goes on behind closed doors—nobody does.”
Odysseus grinned. “I think we all know what goes on behind that door.”
“Anyway,” Agamemnon said, “it might just work in our favour. He’s a king’s son, Patroclus. Does he really want to go down in history as Achilles’s bum-boy? Because that’s the way it’s heading…”
Ajax had flushed to the roots of his hair. “I don’t know anything about that. But I do know Patroclus wouldn’t do anything to hurt Achilles.”
“Yes, but don’t you see?” Nestor said. “He wouldn’t be hurting him. He might be helping, because I don’t think Achilles wants this situation, I don’t think he’s happy with it, he’s just backed himself into a corner.”
“Yes, I’m inclined to agree,” Odysseus said. “In fact, the more I think about it, the more I think it’s worth a try.”
“I suppose so,” Agamemnon said, grudgingly. “Nestor, why don’t you sound him out?”
“That’s if you can get him on his own,” Odysseus said. “They’re more or less joined at the hip.”
“Well,” Nestor said, “I’ll do my best.”
Agamemnon clapped him on the back. “Good man. Well”—he looked around him—“I don’t think we can do any more tonight—and we’ve got a hard day ahead of us tomorrow.”
I was standing directly behind his chair, looking for an opportunity to escape. I’d taken off my mother’s opals and put them on the carved chest beside his bed. My skin where the warm stones had rested felt bereft. As Agamemnon’s guests lingered over their good nights, I began to edge closer to the door; but then, at the very last moment, just as the door closed behind Odysseus, Agamemnon said, “No. You stay.”
Carefully wiping all expression from my face, I turned back into the room.
24
Patroclus had been gone a long time; much longer than could be accounted for by his escorting Odysseus and Ajax to the gate.
Achilles picked up the lyre, put it down again, poured himself a cup of wine, didn’t drink it. The dogs, ears pricked for the sound of footsteps in the hall, had begun to whine. He bent down and fondled their heads, thinking: Yeah, you and me both.
When, at last, Patroclus came in, wet hair straggling across his face, he looked like a wild animal, something you might glimpse in the dunes at night, red eyes stitched on darkness. The draughty, wind-warped hut seemed to shrink around him as he came towards the hearth, chafing his arms, pretending to be colder than he was so he could lean in closer to the fire and not have to look at Achilles.
“You took your time.”
Patroclus was trying and failing to disguise his anger.
“Well,” he said, at last, “that was brutal.”
“The dead-pig bit? Aah, don’t worry, he won’t repeat it.”
“No, Achilles. Briseis. That was brutal.”
Achilles shifted in his chair. “At least she didn’t lie.
”
“She didn’t speak!” Patroclus pushed the dogs away from him. “Achilles, what is it you want?”
“I want him to admit he was wrong.”
“But he can’t. Odysseus knew you wanted an apology, he just couldn’t offer it.”
“Then it’s a pity he didn’t save himself the walk.”
Patroclus sat down and the dogs settled at his feet. “I suppose it was quite funny in a way.”
“Was it? I must’ve missed that bit.”
“Yes—Odysseus, so clever, so articulate, so—”
“Devious.”
“But it was Ajax who really got to you.”
“He didn’t. Get to me.”
Patroclus looked at him. “Yes, he did.”
Achilles selected an unnecessary log and threw it onto the fire. “How was she?”
“How d’you think?”
“I couldn’t have done anything else.”
Patroclus remained stubbornly silent.
“All right, let’s have it.”
“We should’ve gone home. No, listen. List-en. Not so long ago, you criticized Agamemnon when he told his men the war was over and they were going home—”
“Well, of course I did, I’ve never heard anything so bloody stupid.”
“But don’t you see, you did exactly the same thing? I’ve been insulted, that’s it, we’re finished here—we’re going home. Everybody understood. Only then, suddenly, we’re not going home. They’d started looking forward to seeing their wives and kids. It’s not been easy. It’s not easy to get them out there morning after morning training to do something they’re not allowed to do.”
“I know it’s not easy—and you’re doing a marvellous job. Do you think I don’t know that?” Achilles reached behind his head and tugged his hair out of the band that was tying it back. “C’mon, then, what are they saying?”
“Oh, just the usual—that you’re impossible. That your mother suckled you on bile.”
“Well, that’s true.”
“No, listen. They don’t know what they’re doing here. Sitting around like a load of poky old women while the men go off to fight.”
“He’ll come crawling in the end.”
“No, Achilles. He won’t.”
“He will if he’s faced with losing the war.”
Patroclus puffed out his cheeks. “I give up.”
“More wine?”
“No thanks.” He stood up and reached for his cloak.
“Now what?”
“What do you mean: ‘Now what?’ I’m going out…”
“You’ve just been out.” He watched Patroclus wrap the damp cloak round him. “Do you want company?”
A fractional hesitation? “No, but you can come if you want to.”
I don’t know who’s more delighted, Achilles thought. Me or the dogs.
* * *
——————
Walking through the camp, Achilles saw men lingering by the fires, postponing the moment when they’d have to go into the huts to try to sleep. Agamemnon ought to be going round from fire to fire, trying to instill some fighting spirit into the men, but there was no sign of him. No, he’d be skulking in his hut, getting legless, or else in bed with Briseis—lying, shitting, cheating, fucking bastard.
Patroclus hadn’t said a word since they’d left their hut. Achilles glanced sideways at him and, in a clumsy attempt at reconciliation, threw an arm across his friend’s shoulders. Patroclus let it lie there, but not before Achilles had felt a moment’s involuntary recoil.
They left the camp and began walking along the path through the dunes, their elongated shadows stretching ahead of them over the pale sand. They could hear Trojan fighters singing around their campfires, but it was only when they’d left the dunes behind and were looking out over the scrubland towards the battlefield that they saw the full extent of the Trojan encampment. Leaning his back against a knobbly olive tree, Achilles gazed out over the vast Trojan plain and thought: My god. They were so close; closer than they’d seemed from the stern of his ship. He could actually hear the horses champing on their feed. And so many fires! Like the stars on a moonless night when you lie in the long grass and look up at the sky till your head swims. Peering into the flame-studded darkness, he saw firelight red on sweaty faces, glints of eye white, the occasional gleam of bronze and then—so near he could smell the smoke—a great shower of sparks flying upwards as one of the Trojan fighters poked his fire.
“Seen enough?” Patroclus said, grimly.
He nodded, but couldn’t find the words to reply.
They walked back through the gates and across the yard to their hut, Patroclus continuing silent and remote. When Achilles suggested a final drink, he shook his head. “No, I think I’ll turn in. You never know, we might be fighting tomorrow.”
“No-o, we will not be fighting tomorrow.”
“We will if your ships are on fire.”
Nettled by what sounded remarkably like insubordination, Achilles opened his mouth to deliver a stinging rebuke, but the door had already closed.
25
Next morning, knowing there was no hope of getting the Myrmidons to concentrate on training, Patroclus set them free to watch the battle. They crowded together in the sterns of the ships, jostling heads and shoulders black against the skyline, waiting in tense silence for the fighting to start. When, at last, the clanging of swords on shields began, they started jumping up and down, cheering on the Greek fighters, for all the world like spectators at a chariot race. Sickened, Patroclus turned away. Since when had war been a game for fit young men to stand and watch?
When he could bear it no longer, he climbed down from the stern and went inside the hut, where he plunged his head into a vat of cold water. Coming up, dripping wet, he stared at his reflection in the bronze mirror, trying to ground himself in some external reality—if only the sight of his own face. At least, here, away from the men, he didn’t have to guard his expression.
He lay down on Achilles’s bed—he hadn’t slept more than two hours last night—but as soon as his head touched the pillow he caught the smell of Achilles’s skin and hair—not unpleasant, but strong, almost feral. Outside, the roars and cheers went on. Closing his eyes, he felt the undertow of sleep and soon was drifting just beneath the surface, rocking lights above his head, shadows sliding across the white sea floor.
“Patroclus!”
Groggy from his abrupt awakening, Patroclus swung his legs over the side of the bed. Achilles yelled again. For a moment, he actually contemplated not going to him, but that was out of the question, of course, so he heaved himself onto his feet and went outside. Even in the short time he’d been asleep, the ships’ huge shadows had lengthened on the sand. Shading his eyes, he saw Achilles, gold and black against the dazzling light.
“What do you want?” Too abrupt, but he couldn’t help that.
“I think Machaon’s wounded. I saw him just now in Nestor’s chariot—at least, I think it was him. Would you mind going to ask?”
Would you mind…? Whenever others were present, Achilles’s orders were always framed as requests and generally with a title added. Prince Patroclus…Lord Patroclus…Would you mind? None of it quite disguised the fact that Achilles was using a king’s son as a messenger boy, but it had been like this so long Patroclus hardly knew how to resent it.
And so he set off at a run, weaving his way between groups of wounded men limping back to the hospital tents. Others, more seriously injured, were being carried along on carts, every lurch, every jolt of the wheels, producing groans and cries of pain. He’d seen it all before, of course, many times. What was shocking, today, was the atmosphere of defeat. Defeat was there in the drooping shoulders and the shambling walk; above all, defeat was in the dead-eyed, incurious stares that followed him as he ran past.
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As soon as he could, he got off the path, slipping down narrow passageways till he reached Nestor’s hut. There, on the steps, he stopped to get his breath back, before going into the hall. At the far end, lying on a couch, was Machaon, with Hecamede pressing a white cloth to his shoulder. A portly, white-haired man, with a cynical, fleshy, self-indulgent face, Machaon had no business on a battlefield, and yet he’d turned out to fight. Patroclus fell on his knees beside him. “How are you?”
Machaon winced. “I’ll live. Looks a good bit worse than it is.” He looked up at Hecamede. “Harder, get your weight behind it, girl.”
“Shall I have a go?”
“Bloody hell, no, I’d have no shoulder left. You could pass me that cup though…”
Patroclus sniffed the cup. “Strong. You sure it’s a good idea?”
“No, of course it isn’t A. Good. Idea. I need something to take the edge off.” A flash of his eyes as he lifted the cup. “Cheers.”
After sneaking a quick look at Machaon’s wound—a flesh wound, quite deep, but it looked clean—Patroclus went through into the living quarters, where he found Nestor sitting by the hearth, surrounded by pieces of armour he’d unbuckled and let drop. God, how old was he? Seventy? Bit more than that, perhaps. Patroclus, young, strong and fit, hovered in the doorway praying for the earth to swallow him.
“Patroclus! Come in!”
Nestor levered himself out of his chair and, clasping Patroclus by the hand, dragged him across to another chair next to his.
“No, I can’t stay. Achilles sent me to ask after Machaon, but I can see he’s being well looked after.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Will he be all right?”
“Oh, I should think so, he’s got the best doctor in the world. Himself. We just do as he says. Come on, sit down.”
“No, he’ll be wondering where I am.”
Nestor smiled. “He can’t be that much of a tyrant…”
“Can’t he?”
“You’ve only just got here.”
Patroclus hesitated. “Oh, all right, then.”