The Silence of the Girls

by Pat Barker

  I was facing Achilles across the slab, as I’d done three months before when Myron died. Then, Achilles had been reluctant to leave, asserting his authority over the washerwomen, his slaves, who’d stood their ground, mutely affirming their own authority, their right to lay out the dead. And amazingly, in the end—not a word spoken—they’d forced him to back down. I felt their shadowy presence in the space behind me, but their nameless authority was of no use to me now.

  Achilles had begun to remove a clump of straw that had stuck to Hector’s skin. He was having to scrape hard to get it loose and I tensed, expecting to see strips of skin come away with the straw. I was still finding it difficult to believe in the miraculous preservation of Hector’s body. I bent down over the slab and sniffed, expecting the dark, rancid, meat-going-off stench that once encountered is never forgotten, but there was nothing like that, only the pervasive smell of wet wool from the huge cauldrons where bloodstained garments were left to soak overnight. Hector lay stretched out as if asleep. Even the eye whites—you could just see them under the half-closed lids—were clear. And, gradually, my nose taught my brain to believe the evidence of my eyes.

  The silence had gone on too long. Achilles looked over the full length of the corpse and made a little disgusted clicking sound with his tongue. “See how the gods defy me?”

  The gods defy you?

  For one horrible moment, I thought I’d spoken the words aloud, but of course I hadn’t. I was aware, suddenly, of the silence in the camp. The drunken fighters would have nodded off to sleep; the guards on the parapet would be struggling to stay awake, staring into the shifting darkness where stumps of trees take on the shapes of men and start to creep closer…Not a sound in this room either, except for the rise and fall of our breathing. I looked at Hector—so alive, so present—and half expected to see his chest rising and falling in time with my own.

  Abruptly, Achilles ordered Automedon and Alcimus out of the room. They looked surprised, in fact more than surprised—shocked. Automedon actually turned round when he got to the door, as if to check Achilles meant what he said. I’d been assuming all three of them would go and leave me to it, though I’d no idea how I was supposed to turn the body on my own. Instead, there was Achilles, facing me across the slab.

  “I could fetch the women…” I said.

  “And have it all over the camp? I don’t think so.”

  Somehow it was obvious he wasn’t going to just stand and watch, so I filled two buckets with water and handed him a cloth. I worked on the left side, Achilles on the right. With every sweep of our hands, bands of white flesh became visible, almost as if we were bringing Hector to life—creating him. After a while, I refilled the buckets, found more clean cloths and we went on working, up and down, side to side, performing a kind of silent dance around the slab. At one point, I was washing Hector’s feet, rubbing the rag between his long, straight toes, while Achilles worked on his hands, finger by finger, using his dagger point to clean under the nails. I knew he wouldn’t be able to do the face, so I fetched a jug of water and poured it over the head, working my fingers through the hair to clear the tangles and loosen clods of earth. I remember it took eight jugs for the water to run clear. Only then did I start on the face. Once I’d wiped away the filth from Hector’s eyes and nostrils and cleaned inside his ears, I stepped back and looked down. This was the man who would have been king of Troy after Priam died, and yet here he was, his flesh as white and dense as dead cod.

  I was struggling not to cry. When I felt my tears were becoming too obvious, I bent down and pretended to rinse the cloth. As I straightened up again, I saw Achilles watching me.

  “I don’t have to send him back, you know.”

  My heart thumped. “But you’ve taken the ransom…”

  “Not Hector, Priam.”

  I was afraid to speak, terrified for Priam and for myself. If he didn’t let Priam go, I—

  “How much do you think the Trojans would pay to get their king back?”

  I just shook my head.

  “Anything. Absolutely anything.”

  “But you’ve already got…”

  He waited. “No, go on.”

  “You’ve already got a king’s ransom. For Hector.”

  “No, you don’t understand. I could ask for Helen.”

  “For Helen?”

  “Well, why not? They can’t wait to be shot of the bitch.”

  He was right, of course. The Trojans would exchange Helen for Priam any day, not a second thought, and then…My mind was racing ahead. Helen restored to her husband, no need to go on fighting, no reason to sack Troy…The war would be over. The war would be over. Everybody could go home. Well, not me, of course—and not any of the other slaves either. But everybody else. The armies, the armies could go home. The possibilities were immense, dizzying.

  But then I looked at him. “You won’t do it.”

  “He’s a guest.”

  “Not invited.”

  “No, but accepted.”

  A strange conversation, you might think, to be taking place between owner and slave, but remember the darkness of night surrounded us, and we had no witness but the dead.

  After that, the work went on in silence, though the quality of the silence had changed.

  When the time came to seal the orifices, Achilles stepped back, leaving me to work alone. I wound a fine linen cloth round the head to keep the jaw in place and looked about for coins to put on Hector’s lids. No coins in sight, but I found a bowl full of small, flat pebbles, kept for just this purpose. I selected two—I remember they were a pale blueish-grey with thin white lines running across—and felt how light and smooth they were. My brothers used to skim stones like these across the river, as no doubt Hector would have done when he was a boy. I placed the pebbles on his lids and then, carefully, lifted his head—you always forget how heavy the human head is, no matter how often you lift one it always comes as a shock—and wound a strip of cloth across the eyes to keep the stones in place. Then I stood back. Hector was gone now. I felt, in some way, that he hadn’t been dead till then.

  We dressed him in the tunic Achilles had set aside, then wrapped him in a sheet of fine linen. I put sprigs of thyme and rosemary between each layer of cloth: I wanted the women who unwrapped him, his mother and his wife, to know that some care and reverence had gone into this, that he hadn’t just been sluiced down and bundled up by indifferent hands. Lastly, I laid a linen cloth, so thin it was almost transparent, over his face.

  Then Achilles lifted him off the slab, while I ran ahead to open the door. Immediately, Alcimus and Automedon were at his side, ready to help, but Achilles insisted on carrying Hector to the cart himself—a considerable feat of strength even by his standards. Alcimus leapt into the cart to receive the head and shoulders. Achilles climbed in after him and began fastening the body to the sides with thick woollen bands so that there’d be no unseemly sliding and slithering about when the wheels jolted over rough ground. By the time they’d finished, all three of them were out of breath.

  Achilles jumped down and stood with one hand resting on the tailgate. I thought he looked desolate, though I was judging his mood more from posture than expression because I couldn’t see his face. At last, he said, turning to Automedon, “I just hope Patroclus understands.”

  I thought—and, who knows, perhaps Automedon did too—that Patroclus would never have wanted Hector’s body to be dishonoured in the first place. Only the mercy of the gods had prevented Priam from coming out this morning to find a heap of pullulating maggots in his cart. And then his grief and horror would have reignited Achilles’s rage, and…And where would that have ended? Quite possibly, with Priam lying dead in the cart beside his son.

  “I think we need a drink,” Achilles said.

  So the three of us followed him through the hall into his living quarters, where
I set to work mixing dishes of strong wine. Achilles, most unusually for him, sank his cup in seconds. Alcimus, who was young and had hollow legs, was eyeing the cuts of cold roast lamb that had been left lying on a platter.

  “Go on, help yourself,” Achilles said, taking another cup of wine from me. Then he asked: “Where’s yours?”

  So I poured myself a cup and sat down on the bed. Now and then, barely distinguishable from the ebb and flow of the sea, came the sound of Priam’s snores. It was peaceful, staring at the fire, though my face felt numb. After they’d finished the wine—and Alcimus had put away an incredible amount of meat in a short time—Achilles rose and wished them good night.

  I could see neither of them wanted to go. As they saw it, they were leaving Achilles alone with a Trojan—yes, an old man and apparently unarmed—but a Trojan nevertheless.

  “He didn’t even have a knife,” Achilles said, wearily. “I had to lend him mine.”

  “And the girl?” Automedon said.

  “She stays.”

  Achilles sounded amused rather than irritated, but Automedon knew better than to press the point. Alcimus, his lips shining with grease, glanced sideways at me as they backed out. When I looked round, Achilles was smiling. “They think you’re in league with Priam,” he said. “They think you’re going to murder me in my sleep.”

  His mood seemed to have lightened. That brief moment of desolation when he’d wondered what Patroclus would have thought seemed to have been forgotten. And his movements were lighter too. I’d noticed it earlier when he jumped down from the cart, landing as noiselessly as a cat, but I’d thought I might be imagining it. Here, in the firelight, the change was unmistakable. I watched him kick off his sandals, first one, then the other, and catch them in mid-air.

  He was pulling his tunic over his head. I started to get undressed too, since I was evidently staying. Really, this was the last thing I needed. I needed to be outside talking to Priam, but there was no way of avoiding it. I lay on my back with my eyes closed, waiting for the bed to sag under his weight. I was praying he’d fall asleep quickly, but he was as full of energy as I’d ever known him. Something else too. There were times he seemed almost tentative, not unsure of himself, he was never that, but more as if he were wanting a response. When, at last, he closed his eyes, his breathing was quick, light and shallow. Still worse, he’d thrown his arm across my chest and the weight of it pinned me down. I felt his sweat cooling on my skin, but I knew I didn’t dare move, not yet.

  44

  I think I must have nodded off to sleep, because the next time I became aware of my surroundings, I was staring into the darkness, feeling disorientated and dazed. Gradually, as the sleep-fog cleared, I remembered that Priam was out there on the veranda—Priam, here!—just on the other side of that door. I had to get to him. I lay and listened. When I was sure Achilles was asleep, I breathed out, flattened myself against the bed and tried to wriggle out from under his arm, but it was too heavy. I was pinned.

  The oil lamps were almost out. Shadows cast by the last guttering flames seemed to gather round the bed, breeding more shadows as the light died. I looked at the gap under the door and tried to judge how close we were to dawn.

  Achilles’s body was hot and heavy. Cautiously, I moved my thigh, and my skin unpeeled from his. I felt sticky, full of him. On any other night, I’d have been longing for the cold slap of waves as I walked into the sea, but not tonight. My mouth was dry, foul-tasting—the grim aftermath of drinking two cups of strong wine. Achilles’s sweat actually smelled of wine, but then he’d drunk more than me.

  Somewhere outside, a dog barked, or perhaps a fox—there were always foxes on the beach, prowling the tideline for dead seagulls—and the sound must have reached him for he muttered in his sleep and turned on his side away from me. The weight of his arm was gone, but even then I didn’t dare slide to the foot of the bed. Not yet, let him settle first.

  Pushing back the covers, I looked down at my body. I put both hands on my belly and thought how totally this flesh, this intricate mesh of bone and nerve and muscle, belonged to me. In spite of Achilles, in spite of my aching hips and thighs. My skin goose-pimpled in the draught from the door, but I didn’t pull the covers up again. I needed to feel the cold, the shock of the outside world.

  Gingerly, inch by inch, I began to work my way down the bed. I knew I didn’t dare risk crawling over him. Every time the bed creaked, I lay still and listened again. Once, he stirred and seemed about to wake and I froze for several minutes, afraid even to think in case my thoughts woke him. A third attempt brought me to the foot of the bed, where I sat for a minute, flexing my toes on the sheepskin rug. How long had I slept? Ten minutes? Half an hour? Not long. I listened for noises, voices, anything that might tell me what time it was, but no, the camp was completely quiet. Even the sea was so calm I could scarcely hear its breathing. The fire had burned low, the logs reduced to a heap of blackened wood and white ash. I reached for my mantle and wrapped it tightly around me. Achilles was sleeping heavily now, his lips puckering on every out-breath. Very slowly, alert for any movement from the bed, I stood up—and the movement seemed to loosen the knot of fear inside me. Really, I thought, what was there to be frightened of? If he woke and found me gone, I could always say I’d thought I heard Priam calling. He couldn’t find fault with me for waiting on his royal guest.

  I lifted the latch and opened the door a crack. The night air struck cold on my face, the eye closest to the gap began to water. Taking a deep breath, I slipped out, making sure the latch fell noiselessly into place behind me. It was deep night; nothing stirred. I edged along the veranda. I knew every creaking board, I’d walked this way so many times, escaping for my few precious moments by the sea.

  Priam was asleep, stretched out straight and still—not even his ankles crossed—like a body on a funeral pyre, except that he was making snuffly sounds as he breathed, rather pleasant, like a horse inside its feedbag. I could see his feet sticking up, twin peaks, folds of purple cloth falling away on either side. He looked so like my grandfather as he slept, I knew I couldn’t just shake him awake, so I fetched a bowl and went off in search of warm water for him to wash.

  A fire was kept banked up and burning in the yard so Achilles could have a hot bath every morning; no matter how often he chose to swim instead, that bath still had to be prepared. I poured fresh water into a metal bowl, set it among the embers and hunkered down to wait. Under the nearest hut, I could see the huddled shapes of women too old or ugly to rate a bed inside. All the doors were closed. Even the dogs were asleep, though now and then I saw a rat run from hut to hut, trailing its naked tail along the ground. Oh, yes, the rats were back, though in much smaller numbers than before. The water was slow to heat up, but I didn’t mind, I needed time to think, to plan what I was going to say. But then I heard a footstep behind me and wheeled around, expecting—dreading—to see Achilles, but it was Alcimus and, immediately behind him, Automedon. Neither of them would have closed their eyes for a second knowing Achilles was asleep in his hut with a Trojan only a few yards away, even if he was an old man and—allegedly—unarmed.

  Alcimus bent down and said something, but I was too startled to take it in. I said: “I’m getting water for Priam to wash.”

  “Is he awake?” Automedon asked.

  “Yes. No, well, I thought I heard him…”

  “And Achilles?”

  “Asleep.”

  Leaning across me, Alcimus dipped a finger in the bowl. “It’s warm enough.”

  Wrapping the hem of my mantle round my hands in case the handles were hot, I lifted the bowl from the fire and prepared to stand up.

  “I’ll carry it,” Alcimus said.

  I stared at him. One of Achilles’s chief aides, carrying water for a slave? No, not for me—well, of course not for me!—for Priam, who, although an enemy—the enemy—was still a king and had to be
treated with the honour due to a royal guest. But then I saw Alcimus’s expression, and thought: No, for me.

  The offer was a nuisance. I needed Priam alone, not being danced attendance on by Achilles’s aides. I might persuade Alcimus to go away and let me get on with it, but Automedon was a different matter. In fact, he led the way, striding ahead confidently, as perfectly groomed and alert after his wakeful night as he would have been after the deepest sleep.

  When we reached the steps, I said as firmly as I could, “I’ll take it to him.” I looked straight into Automedon’s eyes. “He knows me. My sister’s married to one of his sons.”

  Automedon blinked, forced, for a moment—and I honestly think it was for the first time—to see me as a human being, somebody who had a sister, and a sister, moreover, who was King Priam’s daughter-in-law. He hesitated, then nodded, and the two of them watched me set off along the veranda. I sensed rather than saw them settle down on the steps, waiting for Achilles to wake. Once, I thought I heard him moving about inside the hut and stopped to listen, but it was only a creaking board; the walls and floors creaked all the time. All the same, it was a shock. I had such a narrow crack of opportunity and it seemed to be getting narrower all the time.

  Priam was still lying stretched out on his back, his position unchanged, though as I came closer I noticed a tension in the small muscles around his eyes that hadn’t been there before. So I wasn’t surprised when, as I approached the bed, his lids suddenly flashed open. His eyes, which might once have been a vivid blue, were bleached with age, with a rim of silver-grey around the iris that I remembered seeing in my grandfather’s eyes. Just for a second, he looked frightened. Then I realized he couldn’t see me, so I stepped into the circle of light around the lamp. Immediately, he relaxed. He’d thought I was Achilles.