But the day would come when he would return, and it was close now. The old man would die, and he would become the most powerful sovereign in the land of the Achaeans.
They marched all that day and all the next, following the coast of Boeotia, the cursed land of Oedipus, of Eteocles and of Polynices, and they reached the borders of Phocis and Locris. There they united with the Locrians, the warriors of Ajax Oileus who had survived the waves of the sea. Many of them could no longer enjoy the peace they had longed for during years of war. The clang of weapons and the sound of bugles had them rushing to join. Pyrrhus’s savage vitality and untiring fervour reminded them of his father, and they would follow him, enthralled, even to the gates of the underworld.
A few days later, they were camped on the Isthmus. No one remembered to offer sacrifice to the sea and to Poseidon, so Anchialus did so, alone. He sacrificed a lamb, thinking of his comrades who perhaps still wandered the seas, and of those who perhaps had not yet found the road of return.
The army soon found itself on the road that ran between the dominion of Argos and of Mycenae. They could see sentinels in the distance, posted on the mountain tops. Smoke signals rose at night, as their passage threw the entire land into confusion and dread. The ferocity of Achilles’s son was legendary; the survivors of the long war in Asia had told many a tale during the long winter nights, to their wives and children gathered around the hearth. They knew that war and slaughter were his reason for living, that he feared neither gods nor men, that the odour of blood filled him with an accursed, inexhaustible energy, sated only by the destruction of his very last enemy. Anchialus asked himself whether Menelaus, having unleashed such an annihilator, would ever succeed in containing him or inspiring him to peace. Anchialus felt such loathing towards him that he had even considered doing away with the monster in his sleep after the war was over, but the possibility of succeeding was remote. He was always guarded by Automedon, his father’s charioteer, and by the bronze-covered giant Periphantes, armed with two double-edged axes.
They finally reached the plain of Argolis one evening as the sun was setting. On one side, to the left, they could see the lights of Mycenae and the citadel, still reddened by the last light of dusk. Beyond Mycenae, still hidden from sight, was Argos, and Anchialus imagined the city immersed in the peace that precedes the evening.
They pitched camp, but suddenly, in the dead of night, the sentinels roused the king who was sleeping in his tent next to his dog. Pyrrhus threw a cloak over his naked body and peered out at the mountains that closed off the Argive plain to the west. On the summit blazed a gigantic fire, spreading its glow over a vast area. Menelaus’s army had reached the mountain top and was ready to descend into the plain. The pincers were about to close.
‘Light a fire,’ said Pyrrhus, and he went back to sleep under his tent.
15
The war council was held shortly before dawn in a farmer’s house near Nemea; Hippasus’s sons had secretly made all the arrangements several days earlier. King Menelaus entered first, followed by his nephew Orestes and by Prince Pylades who commanded the Phocian warriors. Shortly thereafter Pisistratus arrived, accompanied by his charioteer; he was covered with bronze and an enormous double-edged axe hung from his belt. He lay it on the table, took off his helmet and kissed Menelaus on both cheeks.
‘My father the king sends his greetings,’ he said, ‘and has told me to tell you that, starting today, one bull from his herds will be immolated to Zeus every day so he may grant victory to our armies. Naturally, he did not fail to say that were he not so old, he would be leading the army himself, and that men today are not made of the same wood they used to be, and we should have seen him that time that the Arcadians invaded his territory to raid his cattle. .’
Menelaus smiled: ‘I know that story. I think I heard it told one hundred times when we were fighting in Asia. But trust me, there’s much truth in what your father says. They say that when he was young, he was a formidable combatant. I’m sorry he did not come: Nestor’s counsel would have been precious.’
The owner of the house brought a basket of fragrant bread, just baked. Menelaus broke it and distributed it to everyone. Pisistratus gulped down a few pieces, then said: ‘It took quite some effort, from my brothers and me, to convince him to stay home. He wanted to come at any cost. But he is very old now, and weakened by the strain of war. Bringing him with us would have been too risky.’
The noise of a chariot and the pawing of horses came from outside, then the sound of footsteps.
‘It’s Pyrrhus,’ said the king, rising to welcome the guest.
The son of Achilles, decked in his father’s armour, stood for a moment at the open door, filling the space completely with his bulk. His adolescent’s face contrasted strangely with his wide shoulders, his powerful muscles, his disquieting gaze. There was something unnatural about him, as though he had not been born of woman. As though the god Hephaestus had fashioned a soulless exterminator in his forge.
Menelaus greeted him and broke some bread for him as well. ‘We are all here now,’ he said then. ‘The council may begin.’ A pale reflection entering the window at that moment announced the birth of a new day.
Pyrrhus spoke immediately, before the king had invited him to do so. ‘Why do we need a battle plan? We will wait for them to come out and annihilate the lot. If they don’t come out, we’ll scale the walls and burn down the city.’ Orestes looked at him and was gripped by a feeling of deep aversion, almost repugnance, for that creature capable only of blind violence, but he said nothing.
‘It’s not so simple,’ said Menelaus. ‘We know that there’s an Argive contingent marching towards us, and we cannot rule out Cretan ships landing at some hidden spot. As far as the city is concerned, I don’t want to destroy it. Hippasus has told me that many of the inhabitants have remained faithful to the memory of my brother. I believe we should detach a contingent to cover us from behind in case the Argive army should turn up unexpectedly as we are attacking Aegisthus’s forces. I was thinking that Prince Orestes could command it.’
Pyrrhus laughed derisively. ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘that way he can’t get into any trouble. I can handle the Mycenaeans alone. I have to earn your daughter’s bed somehow, don’t I?’
Orestes blazed with indignation and jumped to his feet, drawing his sword. ‘I fear no danger!’ he said. ‘And I don’t fear you, even if you are the bastard son of a demigod!’
Pyrrhus also rose to his feet. ‘Then come outside,’ he said, ‘and we can solve the matter immediately. We don’t need you anyway.’
Orestes was heading towards the door, but Menelaus barred their way. ‘That’s enough!’ he thundered. ‘Woe betide an army divided before its first battle! No matter how strong the heroes who lead it are, it is destined to be destroyed, and its leaders with it.’ The two princes stopped cold. ‘The Achaeans have suffered tremendous grief for the ire of your father, don’t you know that?’ he said to Pyrrhus. ‘Do you know how many generous young men were mown down in the fields of Ilium because of that murderous quarrel? How much remorse, how many tears were shed? When your father saw the mangled body of Patroclus, his corpse immobile in the stiffness of death, he would have given anything to have repressed his wrath while he was still in time, to have never abandoned the army to the fury of Hector. Now eat the bread that I have had baked in this house, so that the bond of hospitality, sacred in the eyes of the gods, may unite you!’
Pisistratus handed some bread to both. ‘The king is right,’ he said. ‘This challenge is ill-considered. There will be glory for everyone on the battlefield today. You, Pyrrhus, will be sufficiently rewarded by marrying the daughter of Helen, whom every Achaean prince would want as his bride. There will be no slaughter of the vanquished nor plunder, for this is a war between brothers, between people of the same blood. Thebes was cursed and then destroyed for having permitted the sacrilegious duel between Eteocles and Polynices, sons of the same mother and of the same father. If this were to happen here, the gods would curse us and there would be no more peace for our land.’