So, Alcimus was constantly alert for signs of trouble, and when I turned and looked around, I thought I could see why. Pyrrhus had brought a group of young men with him from his mother’s island of Skyros. They were drinking heavily, shouting, pestering the serving girls—none of this was exactly unusual, but I could see that in the eyes of the Myrmidons, this behaviour showed a lack of respect for older, more experienced men who’d borne the brunt of the fighting. A lot of shouted remarks passed between Pyrrhus and this group. He was flushed—though admittedly his pale skin flushed easily—and obviously very much the worse for wear. Far from setting an example, he seemed to be a large part of the problem. None of this had been apparent to me, sitting alone in my hut, carding wool, supervising the preparation of dinner, waiting for Alcimus to come home, but I saw it very clearly now. This hall was packed from floor to ceiling with kindling; one spark would be enough to set it alight.
Andromache looked wan and wretched, but at least she was still on her feet, and that was more than I’d expected. I whispered to her to start collecting jugs; we needed to fill them up one more time, set them on the tables and then wait for the signal to withdraw. At least, that’s what used to happen when Achilles was alive. I’d always been allowed to leave before the real, serious drinking started. We set the jugs at intervals along the tables and then I went to fetch some of the best wine for the top table. Andromache took up her position behind Pyrrhus’s chair and, without so much as a glance at her, he held out his cup. As she poured, I thought I glimpsed a steeliness in her that I hadn’t seen before, and it gave me hope.
Most of the men had had enough to eat by now; they were just picking at the meat or mopping up the juices with hunks of bread. Here, on the top table, Pyrrhus was talking about the attempt to bury Priam. Whoever had done this had been interrupted before he could finish the job, Pyrrhus said. So, the body had been dug up and guards posted to make sure it didn’t happen again. Everybody at the top table knew this already. This explanation was directed at Calchas, who seemed bewildered by the turn the conversation was taking. I could see he was already deeply offended by his reception. He’d not been asked to lead the company in prayer, nor to pour a libation to the gods. Now, Pyrrhus was needling him; there was real aggression in his manner and no sign at all of respect.
I filled their cups—silently, invisibly—listening. And suddenly, looking down the hall, I thought: I’ve missed this!
As the eating ended, the singing began. Pyrrhus had secured the services of a notable bard, of whom there were several in the camp. The bard sang alone, although there were choruses in which the men could join. Every single song was about Achilles, his short life and glorious death, his courage, his beauty, his frequent, terrifying rages. I remember one of the songs was called simply “Rage.” I happened to be standing in the shadows at the side of the top table, so I could see Pyrrhus’s face. It must have been a source of pride to him to hear his father’s achievements extolled in words and music—and these were some of the best words and greatest music I’d ever heard, but looking at him I did wonder whether there were other, more painful, emotions at work. In some parts of the camp—and not just in the Myrmidon compound—Achilles was worshipped as a god. There must have been times when Pyrrhus felt like a weedy little sapling struggling to survive in the shadow of a great oak. Did he ever doubt himself? I think he must have done.
The last song faded into silence. The men were on their feet, clapping, banging the tables, shouting their appreciation, while the singer took his seat at the top table and accepted a cup of wine.
Not long afterwards, Alcimus suggested to Pyrrhus that it was time for Andromache and me to withdraw. Pyrrhus looked blank for a moment, but then nodded. We retreated to the small room—the “cupboard”—and sat on the bed where we ate hunks of bread and some very dry figs. Andromache kept taking deep breaths as if she’d been half suffocated up till then.
“Cheer up,” I said, as I got up to go. “With any luck, he’ll pass out.”
I crossed the yard to Alcimus’s hut, but I wasn’t ready to go to sleep yet. So I brought out a chair and set it down in the most sheltered part of the veranda. The hall was in uproar. It was always noisy towards the end of the evening, before the men spilled out in search of other forms of fun, but there weren’t usually so many raised voices. I wondered if I ought to go across to the women’s hut and warn Amina about the guards, but the girls would have settled down for the night, and anyway, I couldn’t believe she’d take such an insane risk. Not a second time. We can all be brave once.
My head was buzzing with the sights and sounds of dinner, snippets of overheard conversation that meant nothing in themselves but together formed a pattern. Pyrrhus, the young men from Skyros whom he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, control. Alcimus’s watchful face as he looked up and down the tables, doing for Pyrrhus exactly what Patroclus used to do for Achilles—heading off trouble. But Patroclus had enjoyed Achilles’s total trust, whereas I suspected Pyrrhus secretly resented Alcimus, who’d fought beside his father; who’d known the man he would never know. I understood the pressures Alcimus was under much better now.
The uproar was getting louder, though I couldn’t hear what they were shouting. We were in for a rowdy night. I stood up and was about to go inside when there was a commotion at the entrance to the hall and Pyrrhus appeared on the veranda with Calchas, the two of them obviously arguing. The quarrel seemed to be about Apollo and the part Pyrrhus believed the god had played in Achilles’s death. It was self-evident, he said, that no mortal man could have destroyed Achilles—it had to be the work of a god and everybody knew Apollo hated Achilles, who’d rivalled him in strength and beauty. From Calchas’s point of view, Pyrrhus was spewing out blasphemies. He raised his hand, to protest, I thought, but perhaps Pyrrhus saw it as a threat. At any rate, he caught Calchas by the wrist and shoved him violently towards the steps. I don’t think he meant to do him harm, but unfortunately, Calchas caught his foot in the hem of his robe and fell headlong down the steps onto the yard, where he lay spread-eagled, every bit of breath knocked out of him.
After a few seconds, Calchas raised his head. Blood was oozing from a deep cut on his cheekbone, turning the white paint to a pink mess. Pyrrhus gaped at him, at first in horror, but then burst out laughing. He might have left it there—and that would have been bad enough—but the young men from Skyros came crowding through the door behind him, laughing and egging him on. By now, Calchas had managed to get himself up onto all fours. Confronted by that tempting backside, Pyrrhus simply couldn’t resist. He leapt down the steps, planted his foot squarely on Calchas’s arse and knocked him flat again, before turning to his followers, yelling and punching the air. They, of course, clapped him on the back, ruffled his hair and pulled him back into the hall, shouting at the women to bring more wine.