What does Lord Alcimus think about that, then? Tekking on another man’s bastard?
My pregnancy was public knowledge now. The change seemed to have happened imperceptibly, rather like the drawing-in of the nights. Evening after evening, you see no real difference until suddenly there’s a chill in the air and you know it’s autumn. People’s attitudes to me had shifted with the swelling of my belly and that in turn made my own feelings about the unborn child more difficult to deal with. Achilles’s child. Achilles’s son, according to the Myrmidons, who apparently could see inside my womb. At times, I had the feeling that what I carried inside me was not a baby at all, but Achilles himself, miniaturized, reduced to the size of a homunculus, but still identifiably Achilles; and fully armed.
As we neared the gate of Agamemnon’s compound, I looked down, determinedly following the movements of my feet—in, out; in, out—as they appeared and disappeared under the hem of my tunic. I’d been so unhappy in this place, I always dreaded going back, but I reminded myself that the shame of being a slave in Agamemnon’s huts, in Agamemnon’s bed, belonged to the past. I was a free woman; and so, once inside the gate, I lifted my head and looked around.
We were in the main square of the compound. When I’d lived there, this had been the parade ground where the men mustered before marching off to war; now, it was occupied by a hospital tent, moved there from its original, exposed position on the beach. In its new setting, the tent looked even shabbier than before, its canvas covered in green stains, foul-smelling from long storage in the hold of a ship. This was one of the tents the Greeks had lived in for the first months of the war when they’d been arrogant enough to think Troy would be easily defeated. After their first miserable winter under canvas, they’d cut down an entire forest to build their huts.
I ducked under the open flap, pausing for a moment while my eyes adjusted to the green gloom. I thought I’d heard every sound the wind could make, but the snapping and bellowing of canvas was new. The smells were the same though: stale blood from a basket full of used bandages; a tang of fresh herbs: thyme, rosemary, lavender, bay. When I’d worked there, the tent was so overcrowded you’d had to step over one patient to reach the next. Now, it was half empty: just two rows of five or six ox-hide beds, their occupants for the most part sleeping, except for two at the far end who were playing dice. These would be men who’d been wounded in the final assault on Troy. None of them seemed to be seriously injured, except for one at the end of the front row who looked to be in a bad way. I wondered why I was even bothering to assess them; it had nothing to do with me now.
Ritsa was standing by the bench at the far end, wiping her hands on the coarse sacking apron round her waist. She smiled as I approached, but I noticed she didn’t run to meet me as she used to do.
“Well,” she said, as I reached her. “Look at you.”
I wondered what was different about me. My pregnancy, which was beginning to show, or the rich embroidery on my robe? But neither of these was exactly new. Then I realized she must be referring to Amina, who’d followed me in and was hovering a few feet behind me.
“Who’s this, then? Your maid?”
“No.” It was important to make this clear. “It’s just, Alcimus doesn’t want me going around the camp on my own.”
“He’s right there. I’ve never seen so many drunks. Come in, sit down…”
She picked up a jug of wine and poured three cups. After a moment’s hesitation, and with a glance in my direction, Amina accepted one. Annoyingly, she was behaving exactly like a maid.
I sat down at the long table and turned to Ritsa. “How are you?”
“Tired.”
She looked it. In fact, she looked haggard, and I couldn’t understand why because these men, apart from the head injury in the front row, all had slight wounds.
“I’m sleeping in Cassandra’s hut.”
That explained it. I remembered how frenzied Cassandra had been when the Trojan women were waiting to be shared out among the kings—how she’d grabbed torches and whirled them round above her head, stamping her feet, shouting for everybody to come and dance at her wedding…She’d even tried to haul her mother to her feet, forcing her to dance and stamp her feet too.
“Is she any better?”
Ritsa pulled a face. “She varies—mornings are pretty good; the nights are bloody awful…She’s obsessed with fire, it’s amazing how she gets her hands on it, but she does—and every single time, I’m in trouble, my fault. I’m surprised she hasn’t burned the whole bloody place down. I daren’t go to sleep—and then I’ve got to work in here all day. It’s no life.”
“You need somebody to help.”
“Well, there is one girl—she’s pretty useless though. I couldn’t leave Cassandra with her.”
“I could sit with her—let you get some sleep.”
“I don’t know what Machaon would say about that.”
“We could ask. I could ask.”
She shook her head. Machaon was the Greek army’s chief physician. He was also—and rather more relevantly—Ritsa’s owner. I could see she was reluctant to let me approach him, so I had to let it go.
“Nice wine,” I said, to fill a silence.
“It is, isn’t it? Not bad.”
She was just pouring us another cup when a great blast of wind bellied the canvas above our heads. Alarmed, I looked up. “Aren’t you worried? I’d be scared it was coming down.”
“I wish it would.”
I looked at her, but she just shrugged again and went back to grinding herbs. You might think it strange, but I envied her the cool feel of the pestle against the palm of her hand. It was a long time since I’d worked beside her at this bench, but it had been my happiest time in the camp. I could still identify every one of the ingredients she had lined up in front of her—all of them sedative in their effects. Mixed with strong wine, you’d have a draught capable of knocking out a bull. “Is that for Cassandra?”
She glanced at Amina, then mouthed, “Agamemnon. Can’t sleep, apparently.”
“Ah, the poor soul.”
We exchanged a smile, then she jerked her head at Amina. “She’s quiet.”
“Still waters.”
“Really?”
“No, I don’t know. But you’re right: she doesn’t say much.”
“Is she your maid?”
“No, she’s one of Lord Pyrrhus’s girls. Suits both of us, I suppose. I need somebody to walk with, she needs to get out.”
This was all rather awkward. I’d known Ritsa since I was a child. In those days, she was a person of some standing, a respected healer and midwife. She’d been my mother’s best friend—and after my mother’s death Ritsa had done her best to take care of me. Then, years later, when Achilles sacked and burned our city, we’d been brought to this of Lyrnessus camp together as slaves. She’d been an immense help to me then, and to many of the other women. But now I was a free woman, the wife of Lord Alcimus, whereas Ritsa was still a slave. Oh, it’s easy to say changes in status, in fortune, shouldn’t put a strain on friendship, but we all know they do. Not this friendship though. I’d lost so many of the people I loved; I was determined not to lose Ritsa.