Eurome was already awake, and over a pot of warm water, a bleary-eyed Patroklos scrubbed his face, chest, and arms.
“Have you been caring for the sick all night?” asked Achilles.
Patroklos nodded.
“Eat a meal with us,” said Achilles, “and then go sleep. We have rested and can manage.”
“So many are sick—”
Achilles’ face clouded over. “Do we save any of the sick? You must sleep. We do little but sit by while the men die—are we healers anymore? Others can keep the dying company since we do nothing more useful than that.”
Eurome brought them bowls of stew. She gave Briseis a reassuring hug. “The other women and I prepared a fresh supply of bandages. I’ll bring you the basket of them and your satchel.”
Briseis thanked her and answered the unasked question. “I’m holding up. A long sleep helped.”
“You both looked barely alive when you came back. I kept away the messengers. No point making the healers sick with exhaustion.” That explained the peace, thought Briseis.
Patroklos, Achilles and she ate without speaking. An eerie silence from the Greek ships weighed down the morning.
Patroklos scraped up the last of his stew with a piece of bread. He described the unrelenting course of the plague during the night. “We must end this or it will be the ruin of the army.”
“Devastation like this comes from the gods,” said Achilles. “We must ask for divine guidance about how to make amends.”
Briseis felt suddenly cold. She put her bowl aside. She had made similar appeals to the gods for her mother and for Lyrnessos.
“Briseis,” Achilles said, “your mother taught you divination, and Kamrusepa is a healing goddess. She will tell you what we must do.”
She shook her head. “You are goddess-born and can speak to the gods yourself.”
“You misunderstand because my mother and I talk together, but I have no skill at divination. It must be you.”
“Don’t ask me to perform this divination for you.” Already she saw messengers approaching—more sick to attend to.
“You heard Patroklos. We must find an answer. Haven’t you seen enough suffering?” Patroklos moved over to stand behind Achilles, his hands resting on his friend’s shoulders.
Anger flared in Briseis. “I want this plague to end as much as you do, but you don’t understand what you’re asking of me. I will no longer make any divinations. I performed many on behalf of Lyrnessos, and it lies in ruins. You talk of my mother teaching me divination, but after I sought guidance through a snake divination, she died of a disease the goddess had given me no help in understanding. The answer to this plague doesn’t lie in immortal knowledge. What good has divination ever done you, of all people? Your mother has foretold your death, and yet, much as she yearns to change this fate, she can do nothing. Immortal knowledge does not bring well-being. When you tell me to read the will of the gods, I feel the cold hand of fate.”
“I didn’t know this about your mother’s death, Briseis, and I’m sorry. Still, we must stop this plague, and the only way is through the gods.”
She looked at Achilles. “You stay at Troy where you know you will die. Even when the gods give you the clearest warning they could—leave now or be killed—you do not heed it. Why would any divination I perform be different? What good can come from it? Even if the gods shared some truth with us, we would be stopped from changing what is fated. Isn’t that what you’ve learned? Knowledge from the gods brings me grief.”
“I must stay at Troy to protect my men—my brothers. This divination would be different. We will find how to cleanse this illness from the men. That is why, despite the grief divination has caused you, you must—”
“No! The Greeks have seers. Let the leaders of this army consult them, if you insist on divination. When the gods confound your wits through the answer you receive, at least I will not have been the prophetess of your undoing.”
He looked at her in sorrow. “If I do not ask the gods, the men will die. Would you have me do nothing?”
“What we do as healers is not nothing. Let us use our skills—” She pointed to the bandages and satchel that Eurome had placed next to her. “We’ll bring what we are able to these men. We cannot see the end of this, but it will come.”
Achilles shook his head. “It isn’t enough. I cannot accept the death of so many. If you cannot perform the divination for me, I will seek out one of the Greek seers.” He rose and strode out along the main path through the camp.
Briseis went to the messengers who waited impatiently for the healers’ help.
She worked all morning and into the afternoon, going from one dying man to another. A few times she thought she might bring someone through, but each time the angry circles of red bulged forth, their hideous centers turning from white to rotted black. Then the blood ran from the body’s orifices and from the putrid sores.
In the middle of the day, she heard the heralds calling the kings to council, but neither she nor the ordinary soldiers who assisted her asked what the Greek leaders discussed. Thus she was unaware that this assembly determined her fate.
By late afternoon, hungry and tired, she returned to Achilles’ camp. To her surprise no one stopped her to attend to the sick. Her body dragged. She had not seen Achilles all day and wondered whether he had received the gods’ answer from the Greek seer. He would have come to tell her of any good news, surely. She shrugged to herself—no more than she expected. They’d have to fight on as best they could.
Too tired even to greet Eurome, she slipped into Achilles’ shelter. She pulled off her cloak and turned into the quiet room.
Achilles lay in Patroklos’s arms. She recognized the force of entwined limbs, the use of body to calm the inner tempest. She too had held him like this. The sight stung her. She knew Patroklos had learned this skill long before she had, but she thought he had given way to her. Achilles had told her she brought him a blessed stillness. She had told herself it was a gift that was hers alone to give. Now, seeing them together, she realized the love of Patroklos was equal to her own. Anger burned in her. Patroklos had returned to a place she had thought was hers.
Patroklos saw her. He untangled his legs from Achilles’, and as he rose, Achilles turned, and her eyes met his—they blazed with rage. She backed out of the room, confused and frightened by the force of Achilles’ anger. What had happened?
On the porch, she turned when she heard footsteps behind her. It was Patroklos, his eyes flashing in anger that almost matched Achilles’. He stumbled. When she reached out to catch him, she grabbed flesh so hot she feared he must have been overcome with the plague.
“That half-witted winesack. Who does he always take from?” Patroklos swung out as though to hit someone. Briseis tried to get him to sit down, but he lurched away and turned to confront her. His voice sounded like Achilles’. “For months that sniveling rabbit’s heart has said, ‘Achilles, raid this town, raid that town’—never mind that those towns never did anything against Achilles. Did it matter that the Trojans never insulted Achilles, never stole his wife? ‘Do all the fighting, Achilles. Bring all their wealth to me, and I will give you some little thing in return—some small insignificant thing. And then I’ll take it away. Your honor be damned. That’s what our fine king said today. You weren’t there when I finally dragged Achilles away from that assembly. Did you have too many dying to attend to? That’s the king’s fault too, though now there’s only a small comfort in knowing.”
“What are you saying, Patroklos? Are you talking about Agamemnon?”
Patroklos shoved his face into hers. She stepped back in fear. “He’s taking you—you! What a fool he is. He has no idea the harm he’s done. At least you won’t be here to see—” He tossed his head toward the open doorway. “—what’s left when the fire gets through burning.” Patroklos held his head in his hands and writhed back and forth.
“Tell me what has happened. What do you mean ‘taking me’?�
�� She pulled him down to sit on the porch floor. He slumped against her as though some seizure had finished with him.
“Are you sick? Why is Achilles angry?” As she asked, she understood what had struck Patroklos. Achilles’ anger filled him—a fire far too fierce for him to quiet no matter what he took into himself. No waters on earth could quench it. Divinity scorches mere mortals who interfere. She had seen it in her vision, calmed immortal rage as Kamrusepa’s little bee. ‘I burn up your anger, I sweeten your heart.’ She needed to know why Achilles raged.
Gently she raised Patroklos’s head and tried to get him to look at her. Beads of sweat ran down his face. “What has Agamemnon done?”
Patroklos’s eyes rolled back and his head wobbled on his neck as if its weight were far too much for Patroklos to sustain. Briseis pressed her hand on his brow; he felt cooler now. The fit passed. She glanced through the open door, but she could not see Achilles.
Patroklos sighed and understanding returned to his eyes.
“What has happened, Patroklos? Please, tell me. What has angered Achilles?”
“You didn’t hear?” She shook her head. “Achilles and the other kings consulted Calchas, the seer who can read the gods’ will from the flight of birds.” She could barely hear Patroklos’s words. “It was that girl Chryseis. Her father is a priest of Apollo, the archer god, the one whose arrows rain down sickness upon those who anger him. When Agamemnon refused to release Chryseis, her father prayed for our destruction, and Apollo answered his plea. To propitiate the god, Agamemnon has been forced to give Chryseis back. She’s gone. The plague will end. Agamemnon has ordered the soldiers to purify the camp now that the source of the plague is gone.”
“Why is Achilles angry? This is good news.”
Patroklos shook his head. “You were right. Divinations do not bring well-being. The plague may be over, but worse will come. Do you think Agamemnon gave up his prize so easily?” His voice had a bitter edge she had heard only from Achilles when he spoke about the king.
“Agamemnon said he would take a prize from one of the other kings. As soon as he made that threat, he revealed the war for what it truly is—his own selfish stockpiling of wealth. At that point Achilles threatened to stop fighting, to go back to Phthia. He had come to Troy out of camaraderie, not self-aggrandizement. Agamemnon, the half-witted heart of a doe, egged him on and said he didn’t need Achilles.” For a moment Briseis’s heart leapt. They would go to Phthia, deny fate, and live a quiet life of peace. Then she remembered—he would never leave the men, not even for a happy life with her. Either he defended the men or his life lost its meaning. She could not ask that of him.
Patroklos echoed her thought. “Achilles will never leave Troy, abandon his men—he only said that in anger. But Agamemnon doesn’t understand that, so when Achilles threatened to leave, Agamemnon had to prove his power over him.”
Briseis suddenly knew what Patroklos had meant, ‘he’s taking you.’ Her chest seized. She could not draw in breath.
Patroklos held her hand limply, still drained. “I’m sorry. Nothing could be worse. Agamemnon couldn’t resist the perfect insult—to take from Achilles the most famous captive in camp. To him you are only a prize. He does not realize what your loss means to Achilles and therefore to the whole army. Achilles’ rage has already grown beyond control. Fire burns indiscriminately—destroying the precious as well as the chaff.”
Chapter Thirty
Holding onto Fire
Briseis needed to speak to Achilles. She would not become Agamemnon’s captive. Achilles had to stop Agamemnon before this quarrel went any further. She couldn’t understand why Achilles hadn’t already put an end to it. She left Patroklos and went inside.
Achilles sat in his chair by the hearth. He stared unseeing, his white knuckles and taut muscles revealing the battle within. She went toward him, expecting him to respond to her presence, but she hardly recognized the being who sat like burning stone. His skin had lost all color, tension had hardened flesh to marble, and yet, even without touching him, she could feel the heat. His rage consumed him, leaving no room for the man she loved, only the god.
She knelt beside him and laid her hands over his. He spoke.
“When he said he would take you, I wanted to kill Agamemnon.” Anger contorted his voice. “You as his prize! I drew my sword to run him through. I charged toward his gluttonous belly. Then, suddenly I was caught by the hair, ripped backwards as though I were a child. No man can restrain me like that. I looked in shock and saw the goddess Athena. She, who usually delights in war, stayed my hand and denied me the satisfaction of killing him. I was forced to obey.”
An agonized moan wrenched through him. “I cannot turn my hand against my own men—even Agamemnon. He will take you—there is no way for me to stop him.”
“What are you saying?” Briseis stood and backed away from him. “You will abandon me?” Her voice rose. “You will let Agamemnon drag me into his bed? That is what you want?” She was screaming—she shouldn’t feed his anger, but she couldn’t stop.
“No!” Achilles shouted. He leapt from his chair and lunged at her. “No!”
She stood unflinching, and he turned aside, grabbing his chair and hurling it across the room, sending splinters in all directions.
He grabbed her by the shoulders. “I have no choice. I cannot kill that winesack—although I want nothing more. Even if I could forget myself as I did in the assembly, the gods forbid it. Would you have me take up my sword against Athena? I can’t stop him from taking you.” He pressed her against his chest with crushing force and buried his face in her hair.
His breath scorched her scalp as he spoke. “Since he must take you, all I can promise you is that I will stay away from the fighting and force him to return you to me. He will long for me in the fighting and that longing, if the gods will it, will bring him to his senses. In his great need he will return you.”
She pulled from his embrace. Like birds caught in a snare, she saw the trap that closed around them. Only if Achilles stayed out of the fight could he force Agamemnon to release her from the hated king’s clutches. And yet, fighting beside his brothers on the battlefield was the one thing that gave Achilles’ life meaning. The rage this trap had created would destroy everything. Her body shook so hard she couldn’t stand. She sank to the ground.
Achilles began to move around the room and she lifted her head to watch him. He paced liked a lion when hunters have cornered him, ready for the kill. “I will fight again when the swine restores my honor.” She saw the man disappear further as he faced his hatred of Agamemnon. Inner fire flashed in his eyes. “The day will come when he is forced to call on me. Then he will restore my honor.”
Briseis leapt up. “Your honor! What about my honor? My body?” She grabbed his shoulders. Her anger would break the stone that trapped him. It didn’t matter to her what fury she unleashed. If he destroyed the entire camp in his rage, she would at least be free of Agamemnon.
“Don’t speak to me of your honor. What do you think Agamemnon will be doing to me while you sit by your ships? Picture that disgusting beast forcing himself on me—think what that means to me.”
Achilles yanked away from her grip. A searing scream exploded from him. The room shook, the air vibrated. She felt as if a lightning bolt had pierced her center, but she also felt a flash of hope.
She turned to him. He could not bear her abduction and somehow he would spring this trap. Her hope faded. She saw marble fate held him trapped. She would pay the price.
A gentle hand fell on her back and she turned in surprise. She had not been aware of Patroklos’s entry.
“Didn’t he ever warn you,” Patroklos asked her softly, “about his nature?”
Achilles’ words spoken on the ridge over a moonlit sea came back to her: “Not all of my nature is easy to hold onto.” She had agreed to hold onto fire.
She nodded. Patroklos said, “When a man tells you who he is, believe him.”
Pa
troklos hurried after Achilles, who had gone outside. Briseis stood in the doorway. In the courtyard, Achilles approached two men she recognized as Agamemnon’s heralds. The speed of their arrival took her by surprise. She had thought she had time.
Instead she watched Achilles greet the two heralds in stiff courtesy, reassuring them that his anger was at their king, not them. She realized if the selfish beast had come for her himself, Achilles would not have found this control. Agamemnon had disarmed him in this cowardly way, using, once again, Achilles’ loyalty to the men’s well-being.
She heard Achilles ask Patroklos to bring her outside to the heralds. How could he do this? He wouldn’t even take this last opportunity for a private good-bye? How could he send Patroklos to retrieve her like some prize to be handed over—that’s what she was to Agamemnon, but not to Achilles.
She turned back inside, fighting the tears. Hurriedly she threw her small possessions in a sack, tucking Iatros’s healing satchel inside, and then she drew hers over her shoulder. She glanced at her tapestry, knowing it was safer to leave it in Achilles’ camp. Patroklos waited in the doorway. Eurome appeared behind him and pushed past.
“You know?” Briseis asked.
Her old nurse nodded, weeping. “All the camp did but you—you were with the sick. My precious girl, I’ll come see you.” She shook her head. “Don’t worry, this madness will end, I’m sure.” Briseis clung to Eurome for a moment and then raised her head and followed Patroklos into the courtyard.
Achilles did not acknowledge her presence. She started to reach for him and then realized from the hardness of his face that he had no choice. If he saw her with his heart, nothing would contain his rage. Kamrusepa had given her the gift to contain the sacred fury, but she must be able to wrap her arms around the god and cover him with sweet nectar to do it. To his grief, Agamemnon had interrupted the rite. The fields and rivers would burn, the bodies would lie in unbearable piles. She shuddered.
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