He asked the fishermen where he could find the king’s house, and they answered that he must continue along the coast, never losing sight of the sea, proceeding south until he reached a place called Buthrotum. There lived the young king, surrounded by his warriors, with a foreign bride, older than he, beautiful but very sad. No one had ever seen her smile, but neither had anyone ever seen her weep. Those who had known her said she looked like a statue, with skin pale as marble and lovely, lightless eyes.
Anchialus thought and thought of who that woman might be, but he could not remember anyone who fitted that description. He was pleased nonetheless; he thought that he would finally meet one of the kings who had fought under the walls of Ilium, and that he could report to him as Diomedes had ordered. He would ask for a ship, and he would set sail west once again. Sooner or later he would find Diomedes and the comrades he had left, and he would join them in their new kingdom, in their new homeland.
He walked for two days before he found a fisherman who was going by boat to the city to sell his catch of fish; he asked if he could go there together with him. They talked at length while the boat slipped calmly over the clear waves, under a brilliant sun. He felt as though he had never left those lands. They could see islands rising from the sea on one side and, on the other, the steep, rocky coastline with its low sandy stretches bordered by lush trees and thick bushes of fragrant juniper and myrtle.
Buthrotum appeared towards evening, walls reddish in the twilight, standing out against the deep green of the surrounding woods. Dogs were barking; gulls screeching over the jutting cliffs. Epirus seemed an untamed land.
Anchialus reached the palace and entered the courtyard to announce himself to the guard at the gate.
‘I am Anchialus, son of Iasus. I once fought at Troy with my king Diomedes, son of Tydeus, the lord of Argos. Tell your king that I am here and must speak with him as soon as possible. A grave danger threatens these lands, and he must know of it.’
The man studied him carefully and only then did Anchialus realize what he must look like: his hair was long and unkempt, his hands rough and calloused, his fingernails black. ‘I know, I seem a beggar, but you must believe me. I was enslaved and forced to put sheep and swine to pasture for years. I finally succeeded in liberating myself and I resumed my journey so I could keep my promise. I want nothing, although I am tormented by hunger. Just allow me to speak with the king.’
‘The king has departed,’ said the guardian.
‘Departed? Where has he gone?’
‘King Menelaus has asked for his help.’
‘King Menelaus? He is alive then?’
‘Yes. He is asking for help from all his allies to put together a large army and attack Mycenae, which is in the hands of his sister-in-law, Queen Clytemnestra. The queen has killed King Agamemnon, with the aid of her lover.’
Anchialus lowered his head. The Great Atreid had fallen! After having endured such suffering in the war, he had fallen in his own home, between the very walls he had so dearly desired.
‘How long ago did he depart?’ he asked.
‘Two days ago. He is marching south, along the coast.’
‘Can you tell me where he is headed?’
‘I do not know. But I could not tell you if I did. The king’s destination is a secret. No one must know where he is coming from. He will descend like a hawk into a flock of crows.’
Anchialus fell silent for a moment, trying to work out what he should do. If only he had been able to meet the young king, he would have given him Diomedes’s message and his mission would have been over. He would have looked for some ship in a port and sailed westward. He wanted to return to Diomedes. As he was contemplating his course of action, his gaze alighted upon the figure of a woman who was just exiting a side door and heading towards a path that led to the mountainside. For a moment, their eyes met and he was thunderstruck: Priam’s daughter-in-law, Hector’s bride: Andromache!
He followed her without making himself seen and saw her stop in front of an earthen mound topped by a stone. Weeds had completely covered the mound and at its base a few wild thistles had opened their purple flowers. She knelt next to it and bowed her head until it touched the ground; she was weeping, her back shaken by sobs.
Anchialus turned away because he understood that those solitary tears should bear no witness. He knew who that mound had been raised to. Andromache had wanted a place where she could grieve for her lost husband, buried far away in the fields of Asia after Achilles had slit his throat, pierced his heels and dragged him behind his chariot. She was the sad bride that the man who had directed him to Buthrotum was speaking of. Queen of a miserable kingdom of shepherds and fishermen, prey to a violent and irascible boy who had demanded her as his trophy; she, the rightful spoil of his father had the gods not sent the arrows of Paris to fell him at the Scaean Gates.
After some time, Andromache rose to her feet, drying her eyes with the edge of her veil, then walked back down the path that led to the city. Anchialus approached her, bowing like a suppliant.
‘Queen,’ he said, ‘stop and heed my request. I am a man who has nothing left to me, neither home, nor homeland, nor friends, but I think I can offer you something if you will help me.’
Andromache appeared startled, as if she could never have expected to meet anyone in so solitary a place. She looked him over calmly; her skin was pale as marble and her eyes were black as the gates to Hades, but the glitter of tears gave her gaze a mournful intensity.
She did not answer and hurried her step, head bowed.
‘I beseech you, queen,’ said Anchialus, nearly barring her way. ‘Do not deny a moment of your time to a poor suppliant.’
‘I am not who you think I am,’ she said in a soft voice. Anchialus could hear her light eastern accent, the same as the women prisoners whom he would take to Diomedes’s tent when they were dividing the spoils after a victory in Asia. Tears swelled within him as well, as the violence and futility of her pain pierced into his very bones.
‘I beg of you, I must reach your husband Pyrrhus, valiant son of Achilles. I have been told that he has departed.’
‘He is not my husband,’ replied Andromache. ‘He is my master. They have given me to a boy who could be my son. .’
‘They say he marches to join forces with Menelaus. Tell me the road he is following, if you can, because I absolutely must find him. If you tell me, I will help you to escape. I will take you with me; I promise you, you will not lack sustenance nor a resting place for the night. I will respect you as befits your rank and your sorrow, and I will never raise my eyes to you unless you wish to speak with me. I will find a peaceful, secret place for you. My own nurse will care for you, if she is still alive; she is a good, old woman who lives alone on a little island. If she is dead, I will find another house for you, and another woman to serve you for as long as you desire. More than this I cannot do, but I swear before the gods that I am sincere and will keep faith to what I have promised.’
‘Sincere. .’ said Andromache. ‘Like the vow Ulysses made to Poseidon on the beach of Ilium: an enormous horse, of wood. .’
Anchialus dropped his head, unable to bear the look in Andromache’s eyes.
He drew a knife from his belt and he held it out to her, kneeling before her. ‘I was inside that horse,’ he said. ‘With lord Diomedes, my king. Kill me if you want, because if I cannot fulfil my mission, I prefer to die by your hand, so that at least a little justice may be done in this world, and so that you may be convinced that I am sincere.’