Andromache hesitated a moment, looking at the glittering blade, eyeing the edge slowly all the way up to the hilt. She stretched out her hand until she was nearly touching it with her long white fingers. Anchialus raised his head and saw in her gaze the ferocious tranquillity that he had so often seen in the eyes of warriors in the heat of battle. All their strength gathered in a still gaze and even stiller hand. The quiet that comes the instant before dealing the blow that will take a life.
Anchialus realized that he was ready to accept death without regret, on that dusty trail at the edge of the land of the Achaeans, from that gentle hand that had once caressed the head of a boy and the body of a hero. But all at once, the hand drew back.
‘Pyrrhus has taken the road for Phocis; his aim is to reach King Strophius and Queen Anaxibia, Menelaus’s sister. From there, he will continue with the Phocians towards the Isthmus to close off Mycenae from the north.’
Anchialus sheathed the blade and rose to his feet: ‘Accept my offer, queen. You will live in peace, sheltered from all violence.’
‘In peace?’ said Andromache. ‘Do you know why I haven’t killed myself yet? After having endured the hands that hurled my son from the wall of Troy on my skin, do you know why I haven’t killed myself?’
She turned her head towards the stone stuck into the pitiful, weed-covered mound, and the tears suddenly began to pour from her eyes again, trembling first on the rim of her eyelids, then trickling to meet the corners of her wan lips. Anchialus felt his heart unsteady in his chest.
‘Because the sweetness of my memories is still greater than the horror of that massacre. And my memories are so dear to me that they give me the strength to live. Death would take even them from me. My Hector, my one and only love, and my beloved child: they would die entirely, and for ever. My life, as miserable and shameful as it is, prolongs theirs. Without me, their memory would be lost for ever.’
They began to walk again towards the little city and Anchialus realized that she would not separate herself from that place for any reason. Might that mound actually cover the bones of Hector, the greatest warrior of all Asia? If that were true, what terms did she have to accept in exchange for keeping those relics there? Was her shame the price she’d paid to live with her memories?
An icy shudder gripped him, although the sun shone high; it seemed to him that the sky had lost its light and the sea its splendour.
When he set off for the mountain, he was burdened by an obscure weariness that he had never felt before.
He reached Pyrrhus’s column five days later, in a valley at the heart of the steep mountains of Acarnania. The only people of Achaean stock who had not taken part in the war of Troy lived in that land. They were so isolated and primitive that they cared nothing about anything. Ten years earlier, Agamemnon had sent Ulysses in vain to convince them to fight at his side; not even the persuasive words of the king of Ithaca had moved them. But what could be expected of a people who had no king nor cities, only wretched villages? Ulysses had spoken to a few old heads of family, who had no authority. They listened impassively as if he were speaking nonsense, and did not even deign to answer him. They neither agreed, nor disagreed; they said nothing. As Ulysses was still speaking, one of them stood and left, then another followed, and yet another, until they were all gone.
Anchialus had heard this directly from Ulysses when King Diomedes had once invited him to share the evening meal in his tent. And so he had avoided any contact with those people as he journeyed, for fear of not knowing how to deal with them.
He announced himself to the camp sentinels. One of them ran to advise the king that Anchialus, son of Iasus, a comrade of King Diomedes, had come to speak with him. Pyrrhus had him brought to his tent at once.
A wispy beard barely covered his cheeks, his hair was cut above his ears, and he had an incredibly powerful build for a boy his age. Anchialus had seen him on rare occasions, always at a distance and always flanked by two huge Myrmidons, Periphantes and Automedon. When his eyes had adjusted to the gloom in the tent, with a mere lantern to light it, Anchialus saw that Pyrrhus wore the armour of his father. His first suit of armour, the one that Patroclus had worn to trick the Trojans into believing he was Achilles and drive them from the Achaean camp; the armour that Hector had stripped from Patroclus’s body, and that Achilles had won back by slaying Hector. The other suit of armour, the one that Hephaestus had forged for Achilles’s last battle, had gone to Ulysses.
‘You wear the armour of your father,’ said Anchialus, gazing at the shield adorned with silver stars. ‘How often I saw it shine on the chariot drawn by Balius and Xanthus! We Argives were usually lined up alongside the Myrmidons.’ The youth seemed not to hear his words.
‘Why did you ask to speak with me?’ asked Pyrrhus, eyeing the guest with diffidence.
‘Oh wanax,’ began Anchialus, ‘my lord Diomedes, king of Argos. .’
‘King of nothing!’ snapped the son of Achilles. Anchialus stiffened, wounded by his insult. ‘King of nothing,’ repeated Pyrrhus, his voice dropping, ‘like me. .’
Anchialus understood. ‘Do not say this, wanax. You reign over the Epirotes and Diomedes will soon have a great kingdom in the land of Hesperia, and I will join him there.’
‘Diomedes was forced to flee, as was I. Thessaly is my kingdom, the Myrmidons are my people, my palace stands in Phthia, and yet I must live in these mountains in the midst of savages in a pathetic dwelling that I conquered without glory.’
‘But I have heard that your grandfather, old Peleus, is still alive. How is it possible that you no longer live in your palace, enjoying your privileges? Has an enemy killed Peleus, perhaps, and driven you out?’
‘No enemy,’ said Pyrrhus. ‘There is no enemy capable of driving me out. Only my own grandfather could do so. Peleus would not have me. One cannot fight such an enemy, but only flee. I fled my grandfather.’
Anchialus fell into silence, but his desire to know what had happened prompted him to speak. He said, ‘Wanax, pardon my boldness. Why did Peleus not keep you with him?’
‘He doesn’t like me. He’s an old man and he thinks like an old man. “Why did you kill the old defenceless king,” he said, “who your father Achilles had spared thinking of my white hair? Why did you kill the little prince, smashing him on to the rocks below? Why did you force his mother to lie with you after obliging her to witness such horror?” They’d told him everything, understand? He already knew everything. I swear that if I knew who it was I’d strangle him with my bare hands. I would rip out his eyes and his tongue and feed them to my dog.’
Anchialus was quiet, not knowing what to say.
‘But there was something you wanted to tell me,’ said the youth then. ‘Where do you come from? How did you arrive here among these mountains?’
‘I was following my king, Diomedes, sailing north on the western sea, when we fought a people marching towards the land of the Achaeans. They were as numerous as locusts and they possessed weapons made of an invincible metal. The sword of Tydides, a formidable arm, was snapped in two as if it were made of wood. The king barely saved himself, and we with him. He ordered me to take my leave of the other ships and to sail back, to warn the Achaean kings of the danger. “They must assemble an army,” Diomedes said to me, “they must send the black ships out to sea!” I have travelled at length, I have endured every sort of suffering, I have been imprisoned and enslaved, but I have kept faith to my promise. You are the first of the Achaean kings I have met. Tell the others to prepare their defences and allow me to depart, for I must join my king in the land of Hesperia.’