‘Then, my dear,’ and his voice quickens, ‘it is no longer night. And this time, when I look behind me, what is glowing out from under the coverlet, under the wickerwork canopy, is the body of my son Hector, all his limbs newly restored and shining, restored and ransomed. And that is it,’ he whispers before she can protest out of the stricken face she has turned upon him, ‘that is what I intend to do. To go today, immediately, to Achilles, just as I saw myself in my dream, plainly dressed and with no attendant but a driver for the cart — not as a king but as an ordinary man, a father, and offer him a ransom, and in the sight of the gods, who must surely look down in pity on me, beg him humbly, on my knees if that is what it comes to, to give me back the body of my son.’
His voice breaks and he turns quickly away. He dares not meet her look. When he does at last, Hecuba, her eyes narrowed, is still staring at him.
She nods her head. Rapidly. She is, he knows, controlling herself. He must be strong now. He has always been afraid of this controlled rage in her.
‘And you expect him to do it?’ she hisses. The scorn in her voice is withering. ‘You expect that… jackal, that noble bully, to be moved by this touching pantomime?’
She gets up and begins to stride about. The lamp flickers in the air she stirs up, as, small, straight, furious, she passes back and forth before him.
‘When Hector accepted Achilles’ challenge and very courteously offered him terms of combat — to allow no insult to Achilles’ body if he prevailed but to give it over, in the time-honoured way, to be dealt with as the gods demand — what did the man do? He rejected the offer with contempt, and when Hector —’ she paused, unable to speak the word — ‘when victory went to the Greek, he let his henchmen loose on my dear son’s body, and twenty times over, one after another, they plunged their daggers into his flesh. Why? For what reason? To vent their spite on him, the cowards, for being what Achilles will never be, a man with no blemish on his soul, shining pure before the gods. He tied Hector’s feet to the axlebar of his chariot, a thing unheard of, and dragged his body in the dust. And you expect this wolf, this violator of every law of gods and men, to take the gift you hold out to him and act like a man?’
‘I do not expect it,’ Priam says quietly. ‘I believe it is possible. I believe —’ and he is astonished at the enormity of the thought he is expressing, he whose whole life has been guided by what is established and conventional — surely, he thinks, it is a goddess who is speaking through me. ‘I believe,’ he says, ‘that the thing that is needed to cut this knot we are all tied in is something that has never before been done or thought of. Something impossible. Something new.’
She composes herself, hoods her eyes and sits. The assurance with which he has spoken, the quietness that has spread around them, makes her wary: she must not cross him. But the danger of what he is determined on fills her with alarm. She will need all her wiles, all her powers of firm but calm persuasion, to lead him back from it.
‘But you would never get there,’ she whispers.
‘Some swaggering lout among the Greeks would strike you down before you got even halfway to the camp. Think of it. Two old men in a cart laden with gold? Do you suppose your grey hairs would save you?’
‘No,’ he admits. ‘But the gods might. If it was their intention that I get there.’
‘Priam, Priam,’ she sighs, and again takes his hand. ‘This is folly.’
‘It is, yes. I know. But what seems foolish is just what is most sensible sometimes. The fact that it has never been done, that it is novel, unthinkable — except that I have thought of it — is just what makes me believe it should be attempted. It is possible because it is not possible. And because it is simple. Why do we think always that the simple thing is beneath us? Because we are kings? What I do is what any man might do.’
‘But you are not any man.’
‘That’s true. In one way I’m not. But in another, deeper way, I am. I feel a kind of freedom in that. It’s a feeling I like, it appeals to me. And perhaps, because it is unexpected, it may appeal to him too: the chance to break free of the obligation of being always the hero, as I am expected always to be the king. To take on the lighter bond of being simply a man. Perhaps that is the real gift I have to bring him. Perhaps that is the ransom.’
Hecuba shakes her head. ‘And if you too are lost? Who will stand by me in what we know is to come? Because we know, both of us, what that is, and can speak of it here where there is no one else to hear it. Just ourselves and the gods.’
Her voice has fallen to the merest breath. The flame of the lamp, too, gutters and falls.
‘Who will share this weight of sorrow that is coming to us? And when my spirit fails, who will lend me the hand of comfort as you do now, my dear one? Who will keep Troy, our beloved city, alive with at least a semblance of the old neighbourliness and order if its great centre and source is gone?’
They sit in silence now, her hand in his. They have spoken of these things before. Quietly, soberly. They are two old people consulting together, seeking comfort in one another’s presence. Two children holding hands in the dark.
‘Am I being selfish?’ she asks at length.
But the question is to herself and he has no answer. His voice too when he replies is no more than a breath.
‘If I do not succeed in this, and am lost, then all is lost. We must leave that to the gods. Or to chance.’
There! — and a little shiver goes through him — he has said it.
Chance?
She looks up quickly. Surely she has misheard.
‘It seems to me,’ he says, almost dreamily, ‘that there might be another way of naming what we call fortune and attribute to the will, or the whim, of the gods. Which offers a kind of opening. The opportunity to act for ourselves. To try something that might force events into a different course.’
She wishes she had misheard. Words are powerful. They too can be the agents of what is new, of what is conceivable and can be thought and let loose upon the world. That Priam of all men should say such things — he who has always been so observant of what is established and lawful — makes her wonder now if his wits are not unstrung. She needs time. She needs the help of her sons.
‘Listen, my dear, this plan of yours, if you really mean to go through with it, should be put to our sons, to Helenus and the rest, in council. That is the proper course.’ She allows herself a moment’s pause. ‘As for this other matter —’ she cannot bring herself to use his word — ‘this idea you’re so taken with, of how and why things happen as they do, that is not to be spoken of. Imagine what it would lead to, what would be permitted. The randomness, the violence. Imagine the panic it would spread. You must, I beg you, keep that strictly to yourself. Now, I will go and give orders to have a fire set under the cauldron and water heated for your bath,’ and she steps swiftly to the door and calls a servant. Priam meanwhile, dreamily absorbed, continues to sit upright on the edge of the bed. When she returns he is still sitting.
‘My dear,’ she says, ‘what is it? What more?’ She is dry-eyed, intent, efficient. She has her own plan now to forestall him.
‘Hecuba,’ he begins, ‘there is something else I want you to hear. Something that till now I have never spoken of in all the many intimate hours we have spent together. Even to you, my dear, who know all my doubts and foibles, and little shameful anxieties and fears. Not because I wanted to be secretive — you of all people know I am not — and anyway, you have your own sweet ways of getting around me, so what would be the use? I have not spoken of these things because I did not know how to. How even to begin.’