Pyrrhus looked at him without batting an eye.
‘Who told you where you could find me?’ he asked, looking intently at Anchialus in the darkness as if to see inside of him. He rose to his feet and approached him, towering over him by a full head. ‘My route was a secret. How did you find me?’
‘I suffered and fought at Ilium like your father, like all the other Achaean chiefs and warriors, like you did. What does it matter how I found you? The gods guided my steps so I could bring you this alarm.’
Pyrrhus burst out laughing. ‘The gods! If there are any gods, they amuse themselves by setting us down the wrong paths, by bringing us to remote, desolate destinations. They set us off one against another and they enjoy watching as we add wound to wound, as we slaughter each other. Like when we goad our dogs into a fight, and bet on which will be the first to rip out the throat of another. Don’t talk to me about the gods. I’m young but I’m not stupid, don’t make game of me. Tell me who told you where I was or you will die. I could care less if you fought at Ilium.’
Anchialus shuddered: in that boy was the awesome power of the son of Peleus, but not a crumb of his father’s piety, nor his hospitable manners. He had not offered him a seat, had not had his feet washed and had not brought him food or drink. And now he was threatening him with death.
‘If I tell you the truth, do you promise you will bring my message to the kings of the Achaeans?’
‘I promise to take you with me; you can tell them yourself. I have no reason to believe you and I do not know who you are. They’ll believe you if they want to. If someone recognizes you. Now speak, for my patience is at an end.’
Anchialus spoke: ‘Andromache told me, of her own free accord. Do not hurt her; she did not wish to harm you.’
‘Andromache. .’ repeated the young king.
‘Oh wanax,’ Anchialus spoke again, unable to hold back his feelings, ‘if the blood of Achilles truly flows in your veins, be generous with her, give her her freedom, respect her pain. She has been spared no suffering.’
Pyrrhus returned to his stool and started to pet his dog, as if he had heard nothing. He held his head low, as if he were listening to a dim, distant song; his men were singing to themselves as they struggled to stay awake on guard.
When he raised his head, his dark gaze was streaked with folly: ‘My mother was a silly, fearful girl who didn’t even want to give birth to me, afraid as she was of the pain. I need a real mother. That’s why I took away Andromache’s son, that little bastard, understand? Because I wanted her all for myself. When I saw her I knew she was the mother I wanted. . and you think that I would leave her after all I’ve done to have her? You must be mad, foreigner, if you think I would give her up.’
Anchialus looked at him, bewildered: he had journeyed so far, overcoming such danger, to meet up with a foolish boy whom the gods had deprived of the light of reason. And yet the blood of Thetis and Peleus ran in that boy’s veins, the blood of Achilles! The race of the Achaeans, in keeping with some obscure destiny, had been corrupted and poisoned, and perhaps all of his troubles had been for naught. He thought of returning whence he had come, of seeking a crossing towards the land of Hesperia where he would find his king, the one man who would never disappoint or betray him; not even the mysterious lights that pulsed in the sky could touch him.
But Pyrrhus came to his senses; his voice changed suddenly and his look, now, was inexplicably firm and direct. ‘You will come with me,’ he said, ‘son of Iasus. We will go as far as the Isthmus and lay siege to Mycenae from the north. From the south and west will come Pisistratus son of Nestor, Orestes son of Agamemnon, and Menelaus as well, and perhaps even Ulysses, that bastard son of a bitch. If he has come back. Menelaus has promised me his daughter Hermione as my bride; she is the loveliest girl in the world, the very picture of her mother Helen, they say. Then we will turn against Argos and then Crete. They will all fall.’
‘But wanax!’ protested Anchialus. ‘You are all running a mortal risk. A threat is gathering over the land of the Achaeans, from the north. They will come, sooner or later, and will find you weakened by these fratricidal wars. They will annihilate you; you will suffer the same fate as the Trojans did with us. All of you must unite and face this danger together! Promise me that you will warn the other kings, and then allow me to return to the Land of the Dying Sun, where my lord awaits me.’
Pyrrhus smiled, revealing a row of fierce white teeth: ‘The Achaean kings have been away from their own lands for too long and many things have changed. We must engage in more combat so that things may return the way they were. When this war is over, we will certainly be united, that I can promise you. And no enemy who comes from outside will defeat us because I will govern this land. . There is no metal in the world that can threaten the sword of Achilles!’ he shouted out, unsheathing the sword and striking hard at the shield hanging from the tent’s central pole. The great bronze sword clanged out loudly and Anchialus saw, as if in a dream, the faded images of Ilium: Patroclus wounded, holding out that shield as Hector’s blows rained down inexorably, one after another. He saw all the agony of that night, Ajax Telamon returning to camp with the corpse of Patroclus on his shoulders, the savage howl of pain of Achilles, son of Peleus, reverberating like thunder over the silent plain.
The heart of the fierce boy standing before him harboured none of those feelings: neither devotion to friends nor desire for honour; there was no compassion for the vanquished, no respect for elders and women, no tenderness towards children. Anchialus realized in that moment that the son of Achilles wanted to reign alone over the land of the Achaeans, and that nothing would stop him.
The Pelian breastplate that covered him seemed the scaly skin of a dragon or a serpent. But Anchialus knew that his mission was not yet finished and that he must follow him. Much time would pass before he would be able to return west in search of Diomedes.
He said: ‘I will come with you, wanax, if you so wish, and I will serve you as I served my king, lord Diomedes, shepherd of heroes.’ His voice trembled as he said those words, for he was thinking of his comrades, who wandered through a distant, unknown land. He was thinking of the solitary, weedy mound on the mountains of Buthrotum. And he was thinking of the woman who had found him at his most desperate; she who had taken him home with her and sheltered him from harsh cold and solitude.
The king made sure he was given some hides and a blanket and Anchialus stretched out on the ground at the edge of camp. He was exhausted but could not find sleep because of the emotions that troubled his soul. In his restless tossing, he saw the son of Achilles leave his tent and ascend a hill that overlooked the camp. The young king contemplated his army, with his dog curled up at his feet. But these were not the Myrmidons of his father sleeping under the tents; these were savage Epirotes whom he had convinced to follow him with the promise of pillage and rape. Anchialus finally drifted off, won over by weariness, into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
The guard leaned over the bastions, extending his torch to illuminate the clearing before the bolted city gate, and he distinctly saw a chariot with the insignia of the Spartan Atreides. Next to the driver stood a woman wrapped in dusty dark robes. The woman let them fall to her feet, baring a proud head of blonde hair with coppery reflections, circled by a golden diadem.
‘The queen of Sparta asks to see her sister, Queen Clytemnestra,’ shouted out the charioteer. The sentry scurried down the battlement steps to speak to his commander. Another man was sent running to the palace while the commander himself opened the gate and strode towards the chariot with a torch in his hand. When the light illuminated the woman standing alongside the charioteer, the commander was struck dumb: before him was the awesome beauty that had unleashed the bloodiest war that had ever been fought, the destruction of the greatest city in the world. In all of his life, never before had reality so amply exceeded his expectations.