by Kate Quinn
I had nothing to do but listen. No one knew me in the darkness, and I had a chariot and team on my hands. So I found them water, which they needed, and spent an hour keeping them from drinking themselves to death. Then Skara and I found them food.
When the horses were fed, I was exhausted, as much by the changing tides of my day as by physical fatigue. But when we came back to the fire in front of Achilles’ tent, Odysseus was there, and he was very much alive, his dark hair shining in the firelight, holding a wad of bloody cloth to the inside of one leg.
“Not so dead, after all,” Achilles said and embraced him. “I was sure that if you were dead, I would sense it.”
Odysseus didn’t laugh. He shook his head, frowned, looked at the fire. “They are killing us,” he said. “I am sorry to say it, because your stubborn pride is as annoying as Agamemnon’s fucking vanity, but we can’t win without you. Come and save us and name your price.”
“No,” Achilles said.
Now Odysseus was not a big man, though he was strong—incredibly strong, nor was he unhandsome. But he only came up to the bridge of Achilles’ nose. Nonetheless, when the godlike man made his contemptuous answer, Odysseus turned on him like a boar at bay faces the dogs.
“Damn you!” Odysseus said. “Damn you and your pride. Men are dying, Achilles. Little men, spearmen, they have fucking lives. Women weep for them, their sons will howl, their daughters will be trulls, because your pride is more important than their lives.”
“Yes,” Achilles said. “That is just. I am born of a goddess. They are vermin.”
“They are not vermin!” Odysseus said. “They are men, just as you are. They live, they feel, they think.”
“They are brutes who do not even trouble to clean themselves,” Achilles said. “Most of them couldn’t even tell you why we are fighting this war. But I can. We are fighting this war so that Agamemnon can have more land, more gold, and so that Menelaus can lay hands on a faithless wife who left him. In my opinion, Odysseus, those reasons are not worth the lives of even a single one of your brutish spearmen, much less my life. You say it is my foolish pride? I don’t want to be on this beach, oh wisest of the Achaeans, godlike in your brilliance. I want to be home in my palace. I want to hunt monsters with Patrocles and Philoctetes and other gentlemen. And I rather fancied the dancing of that Lesvian girl, Briseis—I might have taken her home to Phthias. But no... Agamemnon wanted her. He wants Troy, too, and a helmet many sizes bigger than the one he wears now.” Achilles smiled, and all his rage was right there.
I could not breathe. He knew I was alive.
“He took the girl from me? Very well, then. He may have the rest as well, but not with any help from me or mine. I say to you, Odysseus, rather than cursing my name—see to your own. Call together your spearmen, if you value these men of Ithaca, and put to sea. Let Agamemnon take Troy by himself.”
Odysseus glared, and Achilles’ smile was terrible. Never, to me, did he seem so inhuman. In that hour, I came to admire Odysseus a little; he had the courage to stand up to Achilles, and what he said, that the spearmen were like us, the god-born, I knew it was true. He convinced me. Perhaps because I knew that women were not less than men, so I knew, in that moment, that slaves and spearmen were not truly less than the god-born. Being god-born meant so much to me, and then, suddenly...
But I understood Achilles, too, that however cogent Odysseus’ argument might be, it was not Achilles’ arrogance that doomed us.
Achilles turned, ending the conversation with his back, and walked deeper into his tent, but Odysseus would not be gainsaid and followed him.
Patrocles smiled at me over Skara’s head. “Perhaps it would be best if you said nothing of what you heard here, eh?” he said. “Eurypilos is sitting up. He should go to his own tent. Can you take him, charioteer?”
“Of course,” I said.
I had to re-tack the chariot, but Achilles’ young charioteer, Automedon, came and helped me. An auburn-haired boy of my own age, whom I recognized from my first days among the Myrmidons. Together we got the yoke on, got the two tired geldings back into their harnesses, and sorted out the reins.
“Good to be working,” he said. He asked my name, and when I told him my man’s name, he looked at me. Even in the moonlit darkness, he looked a long time.
“Brises. Really?” he asked and laughed.
Then we were back at the fire with the chariot, and Eurypilos came out of Patrocles’ sleeping tent and leaned heavily against the side rail of the chariot.
Odysseus was still at Achilles’ side by the fire, still trying. “What if Agamemnon comes here and apologizes personally?” he asked.
“And the girl?” Achilles asked.
“I'll bring her to you,” Odysseus said.
“Spoiled by weeks of abuse,” Achilles said.
“Untouched! By all the gods, Achilles! The high king heard your threats. He didn’t touch her. Give me an hour. Let me fix this!” He was shouting.
Achilles waved a hand negligently. “I promise nothing,” he said. “The return of the girl is something, but the war itself is the root problem, and you know it.”
I drove off, Automedon waving behind me. He looked to me as if he was laughing.
I got Eurypilos to his tent, where a dozen slaves took him in hand.
“His charioteer is dead,” I said. “These horses are fed and watered... ”
No one wanted to take responsibility for the chariot. Horses are terrifying to those who do not know them. I couldn’t keep two geldings and a chariot car in my little tent.
And then I thought, I can go back to the Myrmidons.
Or the Trojans...
Why, though? When I thought about it, it was a terrible tangle, one of those questions that priests test acolytes with. I thought of mighty Hector; I thought of the moment when I saw his chariot come through the Achaean line; and then I thought of the willingness with which I had followed old Nestor.
And Achilles. Something happened in my heart when I thought about him; he was so odd, so inhuman, so...
Godlike.
Sometimes thought is wasted. I knew I was going back to the camp of the Myrmidons, to Achilles. I could not tell you why even now, which tempts me to say that the Lady made the decision, and not I. Perhaps that is cowardice. But here is my wisdom: in combat and childbirth, you do not really think or plan, and I have done both; you merely live and act, or die.
I drove the team back over the smooth ground of the camp, and none stopped me; the Achaeans sat at their fires and cursed and licked their wounds like dogs. I thought that I’d find Patrocles or Skara. At any rate, I found Automedon, staring into the darkness.
“I thought you’d be back,” he said. “Can you even unhitch?”
“I can,” I said. “I know how.” I was stung by his arrogance and his amusement and his assumption that he knew me.
He laughed. “Odysseus is going to look for you, to bring you to Achilles,” he said. “You could just... appear. And I’d take care of the horses.”
I couldn't see his face, but he seemed trustworthy. Achilles liked him as much as he liked anyone.
“I need women's clothes,” I said.
Automedon laughed again. “You can have mine,” he said. “You don't recognize me, do you?”
He walked off, leaving me with the horses, but he was back in moments with a plain wool chiton and a nice embroidered belt. As soon as I saw the belt, even by torchlight, I knew him. One of the older slaves in Agamemnon’s palace had worn it; older but slim and strong...
“Put on a dress and a veil, and no one even knows you exist,” Automedon said. “You never noticed me, either.” He grinned and took the horses. “You make a fair boy,” he admitted. “But I watched you for weeks, and I know what you look like.”
I went off into the darkness, found Skara, and changed hurriedly, laying my sword aside with a certain reluctance, I confess.
It was a strange end to a strange day. I had been too many people
in one day, and the Fates seemed all around me. I could feel them. The night was dark and warm and somehow heavy. If I closed my eyes, I saw horses and blood. The charioteer dying in my arms.
Ten minutes sufficed for me to sponge some fresh water on myself and don the clean woman's chiton and belt it at my waist with the embroidered belt. Skara handed me some sandals, prettier than any I’d worn in a long time.
Then she took me to a tent. She smiled, kissed me on the lips, and walked away.
Inside, of course, were Patrocles and Odysseus.
I made a curtsy. Neither of them cared, and I wondered if I looked as tired as they. Odysseus lay naked on a straw bed soaked in his blood, having peeled away the wad of bloody cloth at his leg and revealed a long gash that had cut above his right greave. Patrocles was sitting on a shield, bandaging him.
“There you are, girl,” Odysseus said. “I thought you were in the little tent we left you in, but I gather you have a mind of your own.” He laughed, winced, and his breath was ragged. “What a lot of trouble you have made.”
“Not I, my king,” I said. “I am a mere chattel.”
Odysseus nodded. “Don’t waste your false humility on me, girl. I can see through you.”
I took a deep breath, and the Ithacan started suddenly as Patrocles’ hands moved over his wound, and then the wounded man shook his head. “Never mind. I’m hurt; makes me an arse. Look, girl, we need you. We all need you. We need you to—seduce Achilles. To do his duty.”
“I do not think that Prince Achilles can be seduced,” I said.
Patrocles smiled. “I assure you that he likes a pretty girl as much as he likes a handsome man.”
I shrugged. “But can he be seduced? I say nothing of my own feelings on the subject yet. Can Prince Achilles be moved from his own will by mere sex?” There was a folding stool, and I sat. Without permission.
Patrocles gave me a smile. “You make an excellent point, Briseis.” He looked at Odysseus. “One I recall making just a few moments ago.”
“Fuck that,” Odysseus said. “For all his pretense, he’s a man like you or me. He eats, he shits, and he’s as liable to smooth skin and perfumed hair as any bastard in this camp.” Odysseus looked at me. “He hasn’t bedded you yet, right? Wait—are you a virgin?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “I had a husband. Perhaps you killed him, or Achilles.”
He didn’t like the way I answered, but then, I didn’t like the way he asked.
“Did Agamemnon... ” he paused.
“No,” I said. “His steward tried, though.”
“And he’s dead now,” Patrocles said. Something about the exchange was amusing Patrocles. He was on the verge of open laughter.
“Ares’ cock,” Odysseus said. He winced as Patrocles did something to his thigh. “Oh gods, that hurts.” He gritted his teeth and stared at one of the oil lamps while Patrocles cleaned under the flap of skin and muscle that a sword blow had lifted; tears streamed down his face. The wound was perhaps a hand’s breath from his penis and had flayed open a part of his thigh. It followed along an older scar, a terrible wound.
I knew how to deal with this sort of wound, though, from my time with the Lady’s priestesses. I went and knelt by Patrocles and handed him things—a scrap of linen, a needle, after I ran the point through the flame of the oil lamp once or twice and threaded it.
“Can you stitch him up?” Patrocles asked. “Not my best craft.”
So I bent over the Ithacan’s thigh and sewed. He twitched and murmured and whimpered, and then we were done. Odysseus was pale and covered in sweat; he stank like an Achaean spearman—of fear. Patrocles smeared honey on the stitching lines, a neat V.
“Hermes, that hurt. Oh gods. Tartarus... black hell... ” He looked at me. “Will you go to him?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Will you... ” he paused. “Do what you can?”
“Will I make love to the monster who sacked my city so that you Achaeans can continue your siege of Troy?” I asked.
Patrocles laughed aloud. “You speak so well,” he said.
I still had the end of the thread that had closed his wound in my hand. One pull and I could cause Odysseus agony. And he knew it.
But he was brave, incredibly brave. I liked Odysseus. There was something about him to admire, something almost indescribable. There he was, at the uttermost of vulnerability, and yet he was not letting go of his goal. It occurred to me that it was Odysseus who was the captain of the Achaeans at Troy, and not Agamemnon. Agamemnon was just his tool.
“What will you give me if I succeed?” I asked.
He met my eye. “Anything you ask that I can give,” he said.
“What is your wife's name?” I asked.
He paused. “Why?”
“Answer me,” I said.
Patrocles smiled. “Best do as she says.”
“Penelope,” he said. “The best of wives.”
I nodded. “Swear for me, then, on Penelope’s chastity and all the immortal gods. Swear that you will give me whatever I ask if I succeed, lest, as a curse, raiders descend on your palace and take your wife to be a bed-slave in some foreign land. Swear it.”
He paused. “That's grim,” he said. “A grim oath.”
“No grimmer than what you will bring to Troy,” I said. “And my demand? I want my pick of all the women in this camp for my own; and to return to my home on a ship I may keep with slaves to row it; and ten gold cups or their equivalent. I want all this on your oath and Patrocles’ oath. And your promise, man of wiles, that no Achaean will ever darken my shores for as long as I live. All this I ask, and in return, I will do what I can to bring Achilles back to your war.”
“What will you do with these women?” Odysseus said.
“None of your business,” I said. “Swear, or seduce him yourself.”
So he swore. He swore my terrible oath with the Furies beating their wings outside the tent and Patrocles as a witness, and then Patrocles swore, too. And when he was done, I took my iron knife from the sheath hidden in the small of my back and cut the thread that bound us, close to his skin, so that he winced.
Then Odysseus rose to go to the high king. And I rose and went to Achilles.
Patrocles put his hand on my shoulder as we approached the tent. “May I tell you something?” he said to me.
“Anything,” I said. I was, in fact, more nervous at the thought of presenting myself to Achilles than I had been at the notion of fighting hand to hand.
“He was raised to be a woman,” Patrocles said, perhaps the most unexpected words I've ever heard. “His mother is quite mad, or perhaps truly a goddess, as she claims. There was a prophecy that he would die young and gloriously in war. His mother sought to avert the prophecy by sending him to be raised as a girl.” He shrugged. “Skara says you are fey. But to me, you are two of a kind. I thought it might help you understand him.”
“Skara is as odd as he is,” I answered.
Patrocles threw back his head and laughed. “Let me tell you all my wisdom,” he said. “All men and women are mad. None are sane. Listen, Briseis. I was sent on this expedition to keep him from... being foolish. He needs to leave this stupid pride and lead these men to victory; then his name will live forever, just as the prophecy said. If you will do this thing, I will give you whatever you like with both fists.”
I nodded. Then I straightened my back. I was tired, and I had just promised to seduce a man who was not a man. I bowed and left the smell of Odysseus’ fear and blood and walked to Achilles’ great pavilion.
Achilles was still sitting in front of his tent. Automedon was serving him wine.
Patrocles followed.
I walked up out of the warm darkness into the firelight.
“My prince,” Patrocles said. “I bring you Briseis, who you won for your own, returned by the high king. He will send heralds and apologies in the morning.”
Patrocles said a great deal more, but Achilles looked at me.
His pale green eyes met mine, and I was not listening to Patrocles.
Time passed.
Achilles rose. “Patrocles,” he said. “I didn't hear a word you just said.”
“Just as well,” Patrocles said, amused.
Achilles looked at his friend and then back at me. “Was it brutal?” he asked.
I was unarmored against his question. It was personal; it was wholly directed at me. He saw me; he thought of me.
“Yes,” I said.
His face closed.
“I was at the battle today,” I said.
His head snapped around. “You were?” he asked. He was more interested in that than he was in any horror I’d endured among the Achaeans, but I understood that.
“A man died on my lap,” I said. “There was blood. More blood than I thought possible.”
“Yes,” Achilles said. He reached out and touched my face. “I remember the first time I saw a man killed.”
“Of course, you killed him,” Patrocles said.
“He tried to rape me,” Achilles said to me. He shrugged.
“I killed a man who tried to rape me,” I said.
Automedon turned his face away. I realized with a twist of my heart that he was amused.
“What did our great king do to you?” Achilles asked me.
“He made me clean his chamber pots,” I said.
Achilles smiled. It was a slow smile, very different from the smile of his rage. He looked like a boy.
“He’s afraid of me,” he said. “I'm sorry.” He glanced at Automedon. “I sent this boy to protect you, but he was not always there, I know. And yet you are... alive.”
He had sent his best to protect me while claiming disinterest. He had given me his iron knife at parting.
I thought of Odysseus’ assertion that the spearmen and slaves were the equals of the god-born.
