by Pat Barker
Relaxing a little, Patroclus accepted the cup Nestor held out to him. Nestor raised his own cup to his lips and drank deeply. His nose was sharper and the red veins in his cheeks more prominent than Patroclus remembered. He was starting to look a bit…threadbare.
“So,” Nestor said. “Achilles cares about Machaon?”
“Well, yes, of course he does, he—”
“One man? And suddenly Achilles cares? Do you know how many men died today? While he stood on his ship and watched?”
Patroclus opened his mouth.
“And don’t tell me you agree with it, I know you don’t.”
“I think I should be going.”
“No, please.” Nestor patted the chair beside him. “I’m an old man, humour me.”
Reluctantly, Patroclus sat down.
“You could do it, you know.”
“Do what?”
“Lead the Myrmidons.”
“You mean, without Achilles?”
“Yes, why not?”
Patroclus shook his head. “That’s never going to happen.”
“It won’t if you don’t suggest it.”
“There’s no point, he’d never agree.”
“How do you know? You’ve never asked him. I’ve known Achilles a long time, not as long as you have—but long enough. I don’t believe he’s easy with this, I don’t believe he sleeps at night—”
“Oh, he does.”
“I think he’s backed himself into a corner and he can’t see a way out.”
“You’re saying it’s his fault and—”
“I’m saying it doesn’t matter whose fault it is. We’ve gone well beyond that. I think he’s looking for a way out. You never know, you might just be doing him a favour.”
“I might just get his knife in my guts.”
Nestor smiled. “Not you.”
“You’re sure about that, are you? I wish I was. But, then, I know what it’s like to kill a friend and spend the rest of your life regretting it.”
“I know, I remember. And yet you turned out well.”
In the next room, Machaon cried out. Both men looked at the door and Nestor half rose from his chair.
A second later, Machaon called, “Apologies. She just put the poultice on.”
“Now you know what your patients suffer.” Grimacing, Nestor lowered himself back into his chair. “Old bones,” he said, tapping his knees.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“It might just be enough to push them back. I don’t know what else is going to do it. You know they’ve already set fire to one of Agamemnon’s ships?”
“No, I didn’t know.”
“It’s…” Nestor held up his thumb and forefinger so close they were almost touching. “They’re that close.” He waited, then abruptly lost patience. “What do they have to do before he’ll fight?”
“Burn one of his ships.”
“Well, that might be leaving it a little bit late. Of course, that’s the trouble with ratting on your comrades, you end up fighting alone.”
“He’d still fancy the odds.”
Nestor smiled. “Yes, I know he would.”
Patroclus drew a hand down across his eyes. When he looked up again, he found Nestor watching him, his expression not calculating or manipulative now—simply curious.
“Don’t you ever want to get out of his shadow?”
“I grew up in his shadow, I’m used to it.”
“But that’s not really an answer, is it?”
Patroclus shrugged.
“This could be your chance to—”
“No. No, stop right there. If I do this I’m doing it for him.”
A long silence. Only Nestor’s arthritic fingers twisting together betrayed his tension. Finally, Patroclus said: “All right, you win, I’ll suggest it. I can’t promise more than that. And now I really ought to be getting back.”
Barely able to disguise his triumph, Nestor accompanied him to the door. “Oh, just one more thing,” he said. “Ask him to lend you his armour.”
“What? Now I know you’re mad.”
“If they see him on the battlefield—or think they see him—it’s worth a thousand men.”
Nestor stood back, watching the possibilities work like maggots under the young man’s skin. He’d said enough. “Well, do your best.” He rested his hand briefly on Patroclus’s shoulder. “Nobody can do more.”
26
On his way back to Achilles’s compound, Patroclus heard his name called and looked up to see an old friend, Eurypylus, limping along the path towards him with an arrowhead embedded in his thigh. Patroclus ran towards him and they embraced, cautiously, since Eurypylus was unsteady on his feet.
“That looks nasty,” Patroclus said, stepping back.
“Plenty worse.”
“Come on, let’s get you seen to…” Bracing himself to take the weight, Patroclus draped Eurypylus’s arm across his shoulders and set off in the direction of the hospital. “The sooner you get that cleaned up the better.”
Hobbled together like that, their progress was slow. When, finally, they reached the hospital tents, Patroclus found Eurypylus a space right up against the canvas and lowered him carefully onto a blanket. Looking around for something to use as a tourniquet, he found a strip of bloody cloth and, kneeling down, grasped the arrow shaft and started to pull. Eurypylus screamed. Patroclus ignored him—it was false kindness to put off doing what had to be done. Tightening his grip, he pulled the arrow steadily out, checked he’d left nothing inside, then twisted the cloth tightly round Eurypylus’s leg a couple of inches above the wound. Eurypylus turned his head to one side and vomited. By now, a lightly wounded man had limped across to see what was happening. He was short, with a shock of red, curly hair brushed straight up off his forehead, perhaps to give the impression of greater height. Patroclus knew he knew the man, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember his name. “Can you take over?” he said.
The man took the ends of the cloth from Patroclus. “You all right, mate?” he asked the wounded man. Eurypylus attempted a reply, but his teeth were chattering so much he couldn’t speak.
“I’ll get you some water,” Patroclus said.
Cupping a hand over his nose and mouth to keep out the stench, he stood up and looked around. Many of the wounded men were crying out for water, others were asleep or unconscious. One, several beds away to his left, was very obviously dead. He saw a middle-aged woman giving a drink of water to a man who’d lost an eye. “Water?” he asked, miming the act of drinking. Not all the slaves understood Greek. She pointed behind her, to a table at the far end.
The tent was so crowded he had to step over inert bodies to reach the back. As he got closer, he saw a vat of water with half a dozen jugs lined up beside it, several sacks full of roots—strong, earth-smelling—and a rack of dried herbs swaying in the breeze from an open flap. A dozen or so women were sitting at a long table, some grinding herbs, others spreading a thick, greenish-brown paste onto squares of linen cloth. This was an island of calm efficiency, though a high tide of blood and pain was lapping at the rocks. Walking along the rack, he selected several bunches of dried herbs, picked up sprigs of fresh coriander and thyme and sat down to begin grinding. Dishes of water, honey, milk and wine were ranged at intervals along the table, everything within reach. He needed to clean and bandage the wound, pour a pain-killing draught into Eurypylus’s mouth—and then get back to Achilles, preferably before he’d started foaming at the mouth. There’d been no time to think about Nestor’s suggestion, but perhaps that was just as well. If he’d had time to think, his nerve might have failed him by now.
Intent on finishing quickly, he didn’t immediately recognize the girl sitting opposite him, but then, reaching for a jug of milk, he glanced across the table and ther
e she was: Briseis. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“I work here.”
As she lifted her head, he saw she had a split lip. Her face and neck were covered in bruises. None of this had been there the previous night when Odysseus had pulled off her veil. “How are you?”
“All right. Surviving.”
“I’ve just seen Machaon.”
“Yes, we heard he was wounded. How is he?”
“Not bad. It’s a flesh wound—clean as far as I could tell.” He was trying not to stare too obviously at the bruises. “He’s a dreadful patient…”
She smiled. “I can imagine.” She raised a hand and touched her lip.
After that they worked in silence. When he’d finished grinding the herbs, he said, “Can you find me some vinegar?”
Carefully, he transferred the ground herbs to the dish, with honey and milk, crushed several roots between the heels of his hands and stirred them into the mixture, then added wine and salt. He was aware of her watching him. Almost without looking, he could see the red veins in the whites of her eyes, the fingermarks still developing on her neck.
“Who’s it for?”
“Friend—I just bumped into him. Fact, he’s some sort of cousin, I think. I don’t know, I lose track.”
“I’ll bring a poultice too, if you like.”
Going back, he found it easier to edge along the side of the tent, feeling the thick, stained canvas scrape across his back. He found Eurypylus white and drained, though at least the tourniquet seemed to be working: the flow of blood had slowed to a trickle. He thanked the ginger-haired man, who was probably glad to get off and nurse his own wound, and started dribbling the pain-killer into Eurypylus’s mouth. The wound had almost stopped bleeding. He was reluctant to disturb any clots that might have begun to form, but on the other hand the wound needed to be cleaned…He wished Machaon was there to advise. In the end, he decided cleaning the wound mattered more than anything else. He’d seen too many men die of gangrene; there was nothing worse, not even the plague.
Briseis came up behind him. “Can I help?”
“You could start washing him.”
He lifted the cup again and trickled more of the draught into Eurypylus’s mouth. Slow, painstaking work: Eurypylus kept choking on the mixture and had to rest between mouthfuls. Briseis began washing the leg, gentle, thorough, sweeping movements, bending at intervals to make a minute examination of the wound. She pressed her fingers round the edges, probing delicately, listening to the skin. Patroclus looked a question. She said, “All right, I think. Clean.”
Hearing her, Eurypylus seemed to find fresh strength and gulped down the remainder of the draught. Patroclus wiped his friend’s mouth and lowered his head gently onto the blanket. “There—you’ll feel better now.”
Eurypylus’s eyes were already rolling back in his head. A few seconds later, he was asleep.
Immediately, Patroclus turned to Briseis. “You’re sure it was clean?”
“Far as I can tell, yes.”
She walked with him to the entrance. At one point, they had to step aside to let four men carrying a stretcher edge past—and found themselves face to face with nothing to say. Or nothing that could be said. He reached out and gently touched her face. “What’s all this about?”
“Apparently I didn’t try hard enough to make Achilles want me back. And it’s true, I didn’t. I should’ve lied.”
He shook his head. “It won’t always be like this.”
“Oh, I think it might.”
“No—honestly it won’t. Things do change. And if they don’t you bloody well make them.”
“Spoken like a man.”
“You’ll get your chance. One day. And when you do grab it with both hands.”
“Odysseus said Achilles referred to me as his ‘wife.’ ”
“He did. I was there.”
She shrugged. “Probably another reason I got this.”
And so they parted. A hundred yards further on, he turned to look back and saw her standing at the entrance to the tent, one hand raised, watching him go.
27
Waiting on the steps of his hut, Achilles snapped: “Where’ve you been?”
No time for this now, no patience. Patroclus pushed past, throwing over his shoulder: “Machaon is wounded.”
“Badly?”
“No, not badly. Nestor’s looking after him.”
Achilles followed him in. “And it’s taken you all this time to find that out?”
Patroclus pulled a chair out and sat down, burying his face in his hands.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. What could possibly be wrong?”
“Something is. You don’t usually come back bawling your head off like a little girl.”
Patroclus wiped the heel of his hand across his cheek. “I’m not.”
“Well, you could’ve fooled me. Ooh, Mummy, kiss it better, Mummy, Mummy—”
Enough. Patroclus sprang out of the chair, got his hands round Achilles’s neck, thumbs pressed against the larynx, and squeezed. Achilles’s face purpled, his eyes started to bulge…His hands came up and seized Patroclus’s wrists—but then, suddenly and deliberately, he let them drop—and simply hung there, unfazed and unafraid, watching as Patroclus struggled to bring himself under control. At last, shuddering, he pushed Achilles away. Silence. Achilles grasped his neck, coughed, swallowed hard several times and, finally, managed to speak. “I’d forgotten what a temper you have.”
The words were casual, though his voice was hoarse and pinpricks of red had appeared in the whites of his eyes.
Patroclus sat down. “Machaon’s fine.”
“Good.”
Another silence.
“Which does rather bring us back to the question: why are you crying?”
“Because I’m not made of stone—and apparently you are.”
Achilles took a deep breath. “What—”
“No, Achilles, no. Just for once you listen to me. You listen. I’ve been to the hospital, it’s so overcrowded there’s no room to walk between the beds. And they’re putting up another tent because people are still pouring in. As I walked back, I could hear the Trojans cheering. And tonight, Achilles, while they’re roasting meat on their campfires, we’ll be up there burning the dead. And you know you could stop it.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Fight!”
“You know I can’t.”
“How do you live with yourself? How do you sleep?”
“I didn’t start this, Aga—”
“Oh god, not again—”
“Yes, I know, you’ve heard it all before. Doesn’t mean it’s stopped being true.”
“So this is how you want to be remembered, is it? The man who sat in his hut and sulked while his comrades fought and died? You sure about that?”
“I can’t do it.”
“Then let me.”
“You?”
“Why not? Is it so very hard to imagine?”
Achilles shook his head. “No, of course not.”
“Or perhaps you think the men wouldn’t follow me?”
“No, I know they would.”
“Well, then?”
Achilles was silent, thinking hard.
“If I wore your armour, they’d think it was you. The Trojans, I mean.” Patroclus waited. “It would fit me—well, just about.”
A measuring look. That objective assessment, where he’d been used to seeing only affection, struck a chill. He had to force himself to go on. “It might be enough to push them back.”
“Yes, at the expense of making you a target!”
“I know, but—”
“And not just anybody’s target—the best. Hector.”
“Y
ou’re saying I’m rubbish.”
“No, you’re not rubbish. But you’re not me either.”
A deflating silence. “I don’t care what happens to me.”
“No, but I do!” Unable to keep still, Achilles walked the length of the room and back again, coming to a halt in front of Patroclus. “I suppose it might work.”
“No, it would. I know it would. Once they see the armour, they won’t be able to see past it—”
“All right.” Achilles sank into a chair. He looked winded, as if somebody had landed a punch in his gut. “But with conditions. One, the minute they fall back from the ships, you stop. I don’t care how well it’s going, you STOP. And two, you don’t fight Hector.”
“I’m not going to run away from him—”
“You do not fight Hector. Agreed?”
Silence.
“Look, that’s it, that’s the deal.”
“All right, agreed.” Patroclus stood up and took a deep breath. The walls seemed to be closing in on him. He needed to be outside, moving, doing things—but he knew he had to stay put. “When do we tell the men?”
“Before dinner. Before they get completely paralytic. Do you want a planning session?”
“Nah—plan is get out of the trench and fight like hell.” Suddenly, Patroclus laughed out loud. “I can’t wait to tell them, there’ll be no holding them. They’ve been pawing the ground for weeks.”
Achilles was looking at him, rather sadly. “You know one of my dreams was that you and I would take Troy together.”
“What, just the two of us?”
“Why not?”
“I’d have thought that was fairly obvious.”
“Not to me.”
Achilles was laughing at himself, though only just.
“So, in this dream of yours everybody else is dead?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Your own men? All of them?”
Achilles gave a little shrug.
“You’re a monster, do you know that?”
“Yes, oddly enough, I do.” He threw his arm across Patroclus’s shoulders. “Come on, let’s eat.”
