But Pyrrhus came to his senses; his voice changed suddenly and his look, now, was inexplicably firm and direct. ‘You will come with me,’ he said, ‘son of Iasus. We will go as far as the Isthmus and lay siege to Mycenae from the north. From the south and west will come Pisistratus son of Nestor, Orestes son of Agamemnon, and Menelaus as well, and perhaps even Ulysses, that bastard son of a bitch. If he has come back. Menelaus has promised me his daughter Hermione as my bride; she is the loveliest girl in the world, the very picture of her mother Helen, they say. Then we will turn against Argos and then Crete. They will all fall.’

‘But wanax!’ protested Anchialus. ‘You are all running a mortal risk. A threat is gathering over the land of the Achaeans, from the north. They will come, sooner or later, and will find you weakened by these fratricidal wars. They will annihilate you; you will suffer the same fate as the Trojans did with us. All of you must unite and face this danger together! Promise me that you will warn the other kings, and then allow me to return to the Land of the Dying Sun, where my lord awaits me.’

Pyrrhus smiled, revealing a row of fierce white teeth: ‘The Achaean kings have been away from their own lands for too long and many things have changed. We must engage in more combat so that things may return the way they were. When this war is over, we will certainly be united, that I can promise you. And no enemy who comes from outside will defeat us because I will govern this land. . There is no metal in the world that can threaten the sword of Achilles!’ he shouted out, unsheathing the sword and striking hard at the shield hanging from the tent’s central pole. The great bronze sword clanged out loudly and Anchialus saw, as if in a dream, the faded images of Ilium: Patroclus wounded, holding out that shield as Hector’s blows rained down inexorably, one after another. He saw all the agony of that night, Ajax Telamon returning to camp with the corpse of Patroclus on his shoulders, the savage howl of pain of Achilles, son of Peleus, reverberating like thunder over the silent plain.

The heart of the fierce boy standing before him harboured none of those feelings: neither devotion to friends nor desire for honour; there was no compassion for the vanquished, no respect for elders and women, no tenderness towards children. Anchialus realized in that moment that the son of Achilles wanted to reign alone over the land of the Achaeans, and that nothing would stop him.

The Pelian breastplate that covered him seemed the scaly skin of a dragon or a serpent. But Anchialus knew that his mission was not yet finished and that he must follow him. Much time would pass before he would be able to return west in search of Diomedes.

He said: ‘I will come with you, wanax, if you so wish, and I will serve you as I served my king, lord Diomedes, shepherd of heroes.’ His voice trembled as he said those words, for he was thinking of his comrades, who wandered through a distant, unknown land. He was thinking of the solitary, weedy mound on the mountains of Buthrotum. And he was thinking of the woman who had found him at his most desperate; she who had taken him home with her and sheltered him from harsh cold and solitude.

The king made sure he was given some hides and a blanket and Anchialus stretched out on the ground at the edge of camp. He was exhausted but could not find sleep because of the emotions that troubled his soul. In his restless tossing, he saw the son of Achilles leave his tent and ascend a hill that overlooked the camp. The young king contemplated his army, with his dog curled up at his feet. But these were not the Myrmidons of his father sleeping under the tents; these were savage Epirotes whom he had convinced to follow him with the promise of pillage and rape. Anchialus finally drifted off, won over by weariness, into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

The guard leaned over the bastions, extending his torch to illuminate the clearing before the bolted city gate, and he distinctly saw a chariot with the insignia of the Spartan Atreides. Next to the driver stood a woman wrapped in dusty dark robes. The woman let them fall to her feet, baring a proud head of blonde hair with coppery reflections, circled by a golden diadem.

‘The queen of Sparta asks to see her sister, Queen Clytemnestra,’ shouted out the charioteer. The sentry scurried down the battlement steps to speak to his commander. Another man was sent running to the palace while the commander himself opened the gate and strode towards the chariot with a torch in his hand. When the light illuminated the woman standing alongside the charioteer, the commander was struck dumb: before him was the awesome beauty that had unleashed the bloodiest war that had ever been fought, the destruction of the greatest city in the world. In all of his life, never before had reality so amply exceeded his expectations.

Helen descended from the chariot and walked towards the gate. Although she wore humble travelling attire, the queen’s body was the epitome of divine perfection. The folds of the gown, rippled by the evening breeze that whistled round the enormous door jambs, fluttered over her flat stomach and clung to her marmoreal breasts, slipping between her long, agile legs. Her walk was supple and bold at once, like a lioness’s, her feet seemed to barely touch the ground and her golden hair rippled around her shoulders like ripe wheat ruffled by the wind in the summer fields.

The commander of the guards understood why the greatest army of all time had been assembled to bring her back to her homeland; why a nation had preferred to suffer annihilation rather than turn her over. Just to catch a glimpse of her as she walked down the road, or when she appeared on the temple steps or in the palace halls. He knew that any man would agree to have his throat slit from side to side, for the mere chance of holding her naked in his arms a single time.

A ceremonial chariot drew up just then, sent by the royal house; Helen entered and sat on its seat.

Queen Clytemnestra did not receive her in the great audience chamber, but had her accompanied to one of the private rooms that faced the plains. The little room was well lit by two candelabra, each of which burned with six lamps, but the last glimmer of dusk still entered a little from the windows, prolonging the spring day against the advance of night. Hesperus, the evening star, twinkled alone in the infinite sky, hovering over the shadowy chasm.

The walls of the room were completely frescoed by scenes of a procession of women offering gifts to the Potinja. They all wore the ancient gown that bared their breasts and swirled in big flowery flounces down to their bare ankles.

Helen was moved to see those figures; that was the gown she had worn the day the Achaean chiefs had come from far and wide to ask for her hand in marriage, and her breasts, high and white as the snows of Mount Olympus, had blinded their minds and unsettled their hearts. Only a solemn pact prevented them from murdering each other in duels to the death, to win her.

On an ebony table stood a precious Cretan vase decorated with fish, medusas and cuttlefish, filled with sharply scented yellow mountain flowers. There was a chest in the corner and two stools in the middle of the room, nothing else.

A maidservant came in and set two small tables before the stools. Bowing, she invited Helen to follow her to the bathing chamber where the black stone tub was already filled with warm, fragrant water. Helen let the maids wash, dry and dress her and then returned to the little room where dinner had already been served. On her feet before her was Queen Clytemnestra, thin and exceedingly anxious, wearing a white gown that seemed one with the pallor of her face.

She reached out her arms: ‘Finally, I can truly see you, after all those meetings in the dark, those words whispered in fear, in suspicion. .’