He doesn’t want company, and anyway, there aren’t many places in the camp he’d be welcome now. He’ll go to the sea. Setting off down the path through the dunes, he’s aware once again of following in Achilles’s footsteps, as he does wherever he goes in the camp. What would it be like to choose his own path…? That’s never been possible. Coming out onto the beach, he sees a huge wave burst in thunder and clouds of spray—and beyond that, other waves already gathering. At the water’s edge, he kicks off his sandals, lets his tunic fall round his ankles and braces himself for a few minutes of extreme cold before the sea spews him back onto dry land. No dolphin-like cavorting with the waves for him. He wades a little way in, feels the shock of the rising swell against his knees and then as it retreats the slipping-away of sand between his toes. Would even great Achilles have swum in such a sea? Oh, yes, of course he bloody would—and enjoyed it too! Pyrrhus edges an inch or two further out, as the sea flexes its muscles for the next assault…
“I wouldn’t if I were you.”
A cool, amused voice. Pyrrhus spins round and nearly topples over as the next wave catches him. Can’t see a bloody thing. Ridiculously, he raises a hand to his eyes as if shielding them from the sun—though it’s the moon that’s bleaching the wet pebbles at his feet. The shadowy figure looking down from the top of a steep bank of shingle seems to have absolutely gigantic feet. Pyrrhus shivers a little, though a second later, he realizes it’s only Helenus with his feet still bound in several layers of rags. It’s a strange coincidence seeing him so soon after remembering sticking a knife in his belly (though only a little way in—it can’t have hurt, or not very much) and the strangeness makes him go quiet. He waits for Helenus to speak, but Helenus, perhaps finding the silence threatening, is already backing away.
“No, don’t go,” he says. Instantly, Helenus stops. “What are you doing out here?” That sounds like the beginning of another interrogation—the last thing he intends.
“Actually, I came to wash my feet.”
“Really?”
“Yes, well, you know…Salt helps.”
“I suppose it does.”
Warily, Helenus sits down and begins unwinding the rags. After hesitating a while, Pyrrhus climbs the slope towards him, but slowly, not coming too close. “Might be better to let the air get to it.”
Helenus flexes his toes. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”
Skin heals; the mind doesn’t. Pyrrhus knows it’s time to bring this awkward encounter to a close, though he tells himself it was Helenus who started it—he needn’t have spoken at all. But now, he’s curious to know why he did. So, against his better judgement, he watches as Helenus wades in, wincing as a wave foams round his ankles. He’s not steady on his feet, though he does go a little further before turning round and struggling towards the shore. On impulse, Pyrrhus reaches out and offers his hand. Helenus clasps it, laughing in embarrassment at his weakness, and lets himself be hauled onto dry land. Breathless from the effort, he rests his hands on his knees. He’s very dark-skinned with a lot of hair on his legs that the water’s swirled into half-moons and circles, rather like the pattern seaweed makes on rocks. Exactly like the patterns some kinds of seaweed make on rocks. Somehow, seeing that similarity clears a space in Pyrrhus’s head and he begins to relax, to open up a little.
“They do look a lot better.” A ridiculous comment, since it’s the first time he’s seen them. Nothing he says seems to come out right.
“I’m walking a bit better.” Helenus looks out to sea and then back at Pyrrhus. “Are you going to swim?”
“No, I think I’ll give it a miss.”
“Very wise.” A slight hesitation. “Big day tomorrow.”
Trying to keep his voice neutral, Pyrrhus says: “You must be pleased.”
“It’s the right thing to do.”
“I don’t need a Trojan to—” He bites the words back. “It isn’t easy, you know, being Achilles’s son.”
Helenus snorts. “You think it’s easy being Priam’s son? At least you didn’t betray your father.”
“Didn’t get the chance, did I? Never met the fucker.” But that’s altogether too brutal, too honest; it frightens him back into his cave. “I’d better be going. There’s a lot to do still.”
Pyrrhus picks up his tunic and sandals and starts to walk past Helenus, who puts a hand on his chest to stop him.
“I’m sorry about the horse. They were a great team.”
Bugger the team. It’s Ebony. The pain’s unbearable. He nods brusquely and strides off, though he’s only gone a few yards when Helenus calls after him: “When great Achilles was alive, he defied even the gods.”
Not bothering to turn round, Pyrrhus shouts over his shoulder: “How would you know?”
“Everybody knows.”
Pyrrhus just shakes his head and walks faster. He has to get away from the sea and the sand and the drifting black clouds that are making a widow of the moon, back into his world: straw and hay, smells of leather and saddle soap, the warmth of Ebony’s shoulder, the strong curve of his neck. Reaching the stables, he finds them deserted. Where are all the grooms? Up on the headland probably. All of them? How many men does it take to build a funeral pyre? Only it won’t be the building that’s taking the time, it’ll be the hauling of the logs. He notices the carthorses’ stalls are empty. Anyway, it doesn’t matter that the men aren’t here; the horses have been fed and watered, they’re all settled for the night—and he’d rather be alone anyway. Though even as he thinks that, the idiot boy comes rushing out of the tack room, spit flying, stuttering his eagerness to help. Pyrrhus waves him away and walks along the row of stalls. Ebony whickers a greeting. Pyrrhus selects a few wizened apples from a bag by the door, and gives one to Phoenix first, as always pretending an equality of love he doesn’t feel. It’s a mystery why some horses are special, and others not. Rufus was. Ebony is.
Crossing the narrow aisle, he holds out an apple on the palm of his hand and gently, delicately, Ebony takes it. Much chewing, a foam of green saliva at the corners of his mouth, followed by several nods and shakes of the great head: More! “Just one, then, but that’s the last. You’ve got your hay.” There can’t be too many extra treats, because Ebony’s routine must be kept as normal as possible right up to the moment Pyrrhus raises the sword. Ebony mouths the next apple off his palm. There’s green slobber all over Pyrrhus’s fingers now; he wipes it off on the side of his tunic, picks up a handful of clean straw and begins to rub Ebony down. It’s not necessary—Ebony’s coat gleams, as it always does—he’s better looked after than many a child—but Pyrrhus enjoys doing it. His body bends into the strokes and he gives himself up to the pleasure. Something hypnotic about this; Ebony feels it too—little twitches and flickers run across his skin. He doesn’t regret the past or dread the future, but at the back of Pyrrhus’s mind, there’s always the thought of what the morning will bring.
Only hours left now.
Even as he runs his hand over Ebony’s neck, he’s estimating the precise angle and force of the cut—because this time there mustn’t be any shameful, cack-handed bungling. Ebony mustn’t die the way Priam died.
At last Pyrrhus throws down the straw and stands back. He’d like to spend the night in the stables, to sit with his back against the wall and snatch whatever sleep he can, but he can’t let himself do it. He needs to be rested and Ebony needs his normal routine. Tomorrow morning, early, he’ll come and supervise the making of the drugged mash, though he does wonder whether that’s really necessary. Seeing crowds of people gathered on the headland, Ebony might think it’s the start of another race? He loves racing and, because he’s never been ill-treated, he won’t be afraid, even when Pyrrhus raises the sword.