As we entered our third year Assos stirred and came to life sluggishly; the snow was melting, the trees in bud. We knew no quarrels or differences, for we had long forgotten any loyalties save those we owed to Achilles and the Second Army.

Sixty-five thousand men were quartered at Assos: a core of twenty thousand veterans who never left for Troy, thirty thousand more who stayed with us for the duration of the campaign season, and fifteen thousand tradesmen and artificers of all kinds, some of whom remained in Assos year round. One of the permanent leaders always garrisoned Assos in case of attack from Dardania while the fleet was away; even Ajax took his turn at this, though Achilles always sailed. As I would not be parted from Achilles, I always sailed too. He was a fierce commander, one who never gave quarter or listened to pleas for surrender. Once he donned armour he was as cold as the North Wind, implacable. The object of our existence, he would say to us, was to ensure Greek supremacy and leave no opposition against the day the Greek nations would begin to send their surplus citizens to colonise Asia Minor.

When we sailed into Assos harbour after a late winter campaign in Lykia (Achilles seemed to have some sort of pact with the Gods of the sea, for we sailed as safely in winter as in summer), Ajax was waiting on the beach to greet us, waving gaily to signal that he hadn’t been threatened in our absence, and was spoiling to go back to war. Spring had come in full measure, the grass ankle high; early flowers dotted the meadows, the camp horses leaped and frolicked in their pastures, the air was soft and heady as undiluted wine. Filling our chests with the scent of home, we scrambled to jump down onto the shingle.

We split up then to meet later, Ajax going off with Little Ajax and Teukros, his great arms about them, while Meriones stalked ahead in Cretan superiority. I strolled with Achilles, delighted to be back in Assos. The women had been busy in our absence; pale green shoots in their garden beds promised herbs and vegetables for the cooking pots, garlands of flowers for our heads. A pretty place, Assos, not at all like the dour war camp Agamemnon had built at Troy. The barracks were scattered randomly through groves of trees and the streets wandered the way streets did in an ordinary town. Of course we were secure. A wall, palisade and ditch twenty cubits high surrounded us, fully guarded even through the coldest moons of winter. Not that our closest enemy, Dardania, seemed interested in us; rumour had it that its King, Anchises, was always at loggerheads with Priam.

There were women everywhere through the camp, some bulging in late pregnancy, and over the winter a landslide of babies had arrived. The sight of them and their mothers pleased me, for they soothed away the ache of war, the emptiness of killing. There were none of mine among those babies, nor any from Achilles. I find women interesting creatures, despite the fact that I am not attracted to them. All of ours were captives of our swords, yet once the initial shock and disorientation had worn off, they seemed able to forget whatever past lives they had known, whatever men they had loved then; they settled down to love again, to have new families and espouse Greek ways. Well, they are not warriors. They are the prizes of warriors. I daresay feminine realities are taught to them by their mothers while they’re still little girls. Women are nest makers, so the nest is of first importance. Of course there were always a few who couldn’t forget, who wept and mourned; they didn’t last at Assos, were sent to toil in the greasy, muddy fields where the Euphrates almost marries the Tigris, there, I imagine, to die still grieving.

The hall was the biggest room in our house, serving both as a sitting room and as a council chamber. Achilles and I entered together, our shoulders combined just clearing the frame on either side of the doorway. Noting that always gave me a pang of pleasure, as if it spoke in some way of who and what we had become. Leaders, masters.

I took off my own armour, whereas Achilles let the women strip his gear from him, standing like a tower with half a dozen women tugging at straps and knots, clucking when they saw the long black ribbon of a half-healed wound on his thigh. I could never bring myself to permit slaves to disarm me; I had seen their faces when we chose them from the spoils as part of our share. But Achilles worried not one bit. He let them remove his sword and dagger without seeming to realise that one of them could turn with the weapon in her hand and slay him as he stood defenceless. I looked them over dubiously, but had to admit that the danger of such an occurrence was very slight. From youngest to oldest, they were all in love with him. Our baths were already filled with warm water, fresh kilts and blouses laid out.

Afterwards, when the wine was poured and the remains of our meal cleared away, Achilles dismissed the women and lay back with a sigh. Both of us were tired, yet it was no use trying to sleep; broad daylight poured through the windows, we were still likely to be invaded by friends.

Achilles had been very quiet all day – not unusual, save that today’s silence hinted at withdrawal. I disliked these moods in him. It was as if he went somewhere I couldn’t follow, into a world his alone, leaving me to cry fruitlessly at its gates. So I leaned across to touch him on the arm, more strength in my fingers than I had intended.

‘Achilles, you’ve hardly touched the wine.’

‘I’ve no appetite for it.’

‘Are you off colour?’

The question surprised him. ‘No. Is it a sign of illness in me when I refuse the wine?’

‘No. More your mood, I think.’

He sighed deeply, gazed about the hall. ‘I love this room more than any other room I’ve ever known. It belongs to me. Because not one thing in it wasn’t won with my sword. It tells me that I’m Achilles, not the son of Peleus.’

‘Yes, it’s a beautiful room,’ I said.

He frowned. ‘Beauty is an indulgence of the senses, I despise it as an infirmity. No, I love this room because it’s my trophy.’

‘A splendid trophy,’ I floundered.

He ignored this banality, went somewhere else again; I tried again to bring him back.

‘Even after so many years, you say things I don’t begin to understand. Surely you love beauty in some guises? To live deeming it an infirmity is no life, Achilles.’

He grunted. ‘It matters little to me how I live or how long I live, provided that I’ve ensured my fame. Men must never forget me when I’m in my grave.’ His mood swung anew. ‘Do you think I’ve gone about the getting of fame the wrong way?’

‘That lies between you and the Gods,’ I answered. ‘You haven’t sinned against them – you haven’t slain fertile women or children too young to bear arms. It’s no sin to give them over into bondage. Nor have you starved a place out. If your hand’s been heavy, it’s never been criminally so. I’m softer, is all.’

A smile dawned. ‘You underestimate yourself, Patrokles. Put a sword in your hand and you’re as hard as any of us.’

‘Battle is different. I can kill without mercy in battle. But sometimes my dreams are dark and heavy.’

‘As are mine. Iphigenia cursed me before she died.’

Not able to sustain the talk, he drifted away; I fell to watching him, as there was nothing I liked better to do. Many of his qualities were beyond my comprehension, yet if any man knew Achilles, that man was I. He possessed the ability to make people love him, be they his Myrmidons or his captive women – or me, for that matter. But the cause didn’t lie in his physical attractiveness; it was a facet of his spirit, a vastness other men always seemed to lack.

Since we had sailed from Aulis three years ago he had become extremely self-contained; I sometimes wondered if his wife would even recognise him when they met again. Of course his troubles were rooted in the death of Iphigenia, and that I shared as well as understood. But not where his thoughts led, nor the deepest layers of his mind.