by Jackie Rose
“Do you think she should be alone in that house now?” I shouted. “She lived with Patrocles there.” It was no use. No matter what happened, we must all belong to someone. It seemed I still belonged to Agamemnon and she to Achilles.
“At least send one of your men to guard her on the way,” I said, with a sigh.
“Do you think any of us would harm her?” he demanded.
“I think she might wander off somewhere. Look at her, she does not know where she is going.”
He nodded sympathetically. “I’ve seen men go like that, too,” he said. “We’ll make sure that she gets home.”
He took her by the wrist to lead her away. She shrieked and jumped back as though his hand had been on fire, because that was the way Patrocles had led her. The man seemed to know it, because he held up his hands to show how harmless he was and beckoned her to follow him. She followed him blindly, stumbling on the stone path that she had walked so surely before.
I turned to follow the other men back to Agamemnon’s house. They formed a circle around me, as though fearing I would escape.
“You needn’t be afraid that I will run back to Achilles,” I told them bitterly. “He has already refused to take me.”
“Well, the great king is going to offer you again,” one of them consoled me. “He may have better luck this time, now that Patrocles is dead.”
And that, as I soon learned, was just what the great king had counted on.
As soon as we had passed through Agamemnon’s doorway, I sank back into the heavily carved armchair, covered my face with my hands and wept. I barely glanced up when I realized that the great king was standing over me.
“It seems your plans have gone astray,” I told him bitterly.
“Not at all,” he answered, smiling faintly. “They are proceeding perfectly.”
I wondered about that for a moment. Then I remembered the curses that the soldiers had shrieked under the physicians’ knives, in the unbearable pain that not even the strongest medicine could quiet. Then, I had tried to forget their curses. Now, I was glad I had failed to do so. As calmly as I could manage, although with a shaking voice, I said, “You miserable misbegotten bastard son of a whore. You knew Patrocles was going to die out there. You sent him out to do it, to get Achilles fighting again.”
He was so pleased with his success, he did not even seem annoyed with me. Or perhaps he merely realized that he could not send me back to Achilles with a bruised face.
“Your kind feelings do you credit,” he assured me. I noticed, with no kindness, that he was wearing a rich ruby in his uninjured ear, to replace the one I had torn away. “But would you even ask Achilles not to avenge his friend, who died in his place?”
“What if I told him that his friend wanted his woman in return?"
“I do not think you will tell him that,” he assured me. “He would not believe you, and he would blame you if he did. As it is, Achilles merely knows that his cousin was adding to his glory. That’s true enough, isn’t it?”
In vain, I searched my memory for more soldiers’ curses. Then I realized that the truth was worse than any of them.
“That is exactly what you planned for,” I accused him.
“But it was not my idea,” he assured me, afraid of how much I might tell Achilles, after all. “Nestor told Patrocles that he could lead the army in Achilles’ place. He is a very wise old man.”
As he spoke, I remembered what I had seen earlier that morning: a much younger man, with a look of cold amusement darting from beneath his shaggy brows.
“That was not old Nestor’s idea,” I said. “He still has some sense of honor. The idea came from someone else, who did not dare make the offer because Patrocles knew better than to trust him.”
“Odysseus is very wise,” Agamemnon cheerfully agreed.
“Treacherous is more like it.”
“You can tell him that yourself, if you like,” he assured me. “He’ll be in Achilles’ house when I take you back there. This time, your lover has agreed to accept you, along with those seven working-women I promised. They’ll all be very beautiful, I assure you. Perhaps Achilles might even send you back to me willingly after he sees them.”
His threats and taunts barely touched me. I knew only that I would see Achilles soon. The rest would be up to Aphrodite and to him, my goddess and my lord and master, master and lord.
“When are we leaving?” I asked.
“Right now, unless you want to put on more cosmetics and jewelry,” he answered. “Not that I think he will notice.” He shook his head in mock sympathy. “He’s in such a terrible state, I feel very sorry for him.”
“No, you don’t,” I answered.
Once again, he was too cheerful to protest. He even patted my hand before he went off to his ships, where he would select Achilles’ gift from among the women still waiting there.
When he returned with those women I wished, with a sinking heart, that I had taken the time to let Agamemnon’s servants deck me with more jewelry and paint. Just as he had threatened, they were very beautiful. And they were studying me as carefully as I studied them. Each was obviously wondering if she were more beautiful than I was, with the best chance of winning the pirate prince. All of them could offer the lure of novelty, which I had lost weeks earlier, the night after Lyrnessos fell.
The king gestured us all outside and told me, with an ironical bow, to walk in front of the others. His men fell into line, forming an escort on either side, so that their helmets would have hidden us from any observer.
* * *
By now the afternoon was growing cold. We gathered our shawls around us as we followed the great king to Achilles’ house. Agamemnon entered before us. Waiting on the front porch, we heard him loudly swearing that he had never been with me. “For which he has me to thank,” I muttered.
We jumped back quickly as the heavy door swung outward and Agamemnon finally gestured us into the hall. My eyes desperately sought for Achilles in the torchlit room. I could only glimpse his red-gold head rising above the ring of kings who surrounded him. All were begging him to eat something to keep his strength up before he tried to fight. Scornfully, his voice rang out, saying that he would taste nothing until he had avenged Patrocles. The sound brought me running across the room to comfort him. The throng of men stood between us. Odysseus pushed me away, no doubt fearing I would find some way to win Achilles back from his madness.
“Not now, girl,” he snapped. “Wait until he comes back from the fighting.”
How could he fight without his armor? I wondered. Then I remembered the fine suit his mother had given him for a decoration. He would find a much more practical use for it now.
“Do you want to see him?” a voice asked at my elbow. Turning to see Iphis, I realized that, for the first time, someone had said 'him' in this house without meaning Achilles.
Desperately, I wanted not to see Patrocles, but I knew it would comfort Iphis if I did. I let her lead me to the side sleeping porch she had shared with him. The men were filing by to show their respect but parted to let us through.
The women had washed Patrocles and dressed him in a fresh white shirt. He seemed to have fallen asleep, with his red-gold hair falling around his shoulders. They had put a sword in his hand, and I remembered that same hand covering my eyes so that I would not see my brothers dead.
He should have what he paid for, Iphis had said. I gathered his body in my arms, held it against my shoulder and kissed his cold cheek. During those days in the chief physician’s house, I had touched enough dead men’s cheeks so that these did not revolt me.
“You are my prince, just as you wanted to me,” I told him, “because you were always kind. You would never let me grieve before, but you are not here to stop me now.”
Then I heard Iphis sobbing behind me. “But he loved you, too,” I told her. “You made him very happy.”
“I could not give him what he wanted,” she answered. “He wanted Achilles’ woman.”<
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“He wanted to be Achilles, if only for a day,” I told her. “That is what he died for.”
“Mistress.” We both turned at the sound of Diomede’s voice. She rose in my estimation when I saw that even her fox face was tear-stained.
“They are putting his armor on him,” Diomede said. “Patrocles always helped him do it before.”
“Why don’t you help him now?” I demanded. She shrank back, thus giving me her answer even before she spoke. They all feared his rage now, and he was giving them good reason.
“He was crying and shouting about killing Trojan captives,” she whispered. “He is calm now, but he still says he will do it.”
The seven new women shrank away. “He’s gone mad,” one of them murmured, and another nodded assent. They no longer seemed so eager to win the attentions of the famed pirate prince. We now remembered that we were all Trojan captives, no matter what else anyone called us.
“He doesn’t mean it,” I said, for my own assurance more than hers.
“Even if he does mean it, he will not kill Briseis,” Diomede said bitterly. “I learned that much when I was with him and he called me by her name.”
That would have pleased me greatly once, but now what difference did it make, either way? If Achilles, my lord, now wanted to kill me with his other Trojan captives, then why should I want to live? All I felt now was a desperate desire to be near him, bringing whatever comfort I could. Leaving the others behind me, I returned to the main hall and strode towards the circle of kings.
Odysseus moved to block my way, but this time I faced him.
“Do you want to help him on with his armor?” I demanded.” It’s hardly a job for a king, but you may have it if you want it. Otherwise, please move aside.”
With a glance that was almost admiring, he pulled back, giving me room enough to squeeze past him to Achilles’ side. He was trying to tie the leather straps on his own shoulders, impatiently waving the other men away.
He gave no sign that he even recognized me but stood still, stretching out his arms, as I raised myself on tiptoe to buckle the shoulder straps. Then I knelt to fasten the bronze armor around his legs and stood again to fasten the grieves around his arms. Still without seeming to notice, he held out his arms to help me.
I stood on tiptoe again to fasten the belt behind him. Finally, I held out the red-plumed helmet towards him. The great shield was too heavy for me to even think of lifting.
At last, I put his sword into the sheath on his back, but first I held the sword between my hands and bent to kiss the cold iron blade. I barely heard the others murmuring approval at this final benediction.
Only Achilles did not seem to have noticed my gesture. He had stood like a statue, letting me arm him. Then he lifted the shield from the floor. In the same incredibly graceful motion, he reached back for his sword and raised it into the air.
“They feel as light as feathers,” he assured us.
“They won’t seem that way to Hector,” Odysseus assured him.
Achilles’ face darkened at the name, leaving me to wonder if that had been Odysseus’ reason for saying it.
“You’ll soon have Hector’s head on your spear,” Agamemnon promised, in soothing tones.
“I’ll do worse than that,” Achilles answered. His cold voice was more frightening than the most violent rage.
“You will do nothing against your own honor!” I cried. “Patrocles always promoted that above everything.”
At last he seemed to notice me and peered down with distant amusement.
“My dear Briseis,” he said, with the same mirthless grin. “My fragile little flower with the solid iron stem. My beloved little captive who gives orders to me.”
Leaning down, he whispered, in a voice so soft I had to strain to hear him, “Do you know what I will do now, little Briseis? I will capture seven noble Trojans alive and then cut their heads off. I only hope to hear them pleading with me to spare them before I do it.”
He does not mean it, I thought. Then I looked at his cold face and realized that he did.
“Why don’t you kill me, then?” I demanded, staring straight up at him. “I am a Trojan captive and the reason for everything that has happened here today.”
“Perhaps I should," he agreed, smiling fiercely down at me. He chose his words as carefully as he chose his weapons, to cut and wound. “I have already told the others that I wish you had gotten sick and died before you made all this trouble for us.”
At first his words had no meaning, because they had stunned me like a blow. Then I turned and ran blindly, past the men, past Iphis. Past the porch and into the courtyard I ran, still blinded by my tears. I did not even look up when I felt a man’s warm, heavy hand on my shoulders.
“I heard what he said, but he did not mean it,” Menelaus told me. “He said far different things to my brother and me, when we were begging him to come back and fight for us. He told Agamemnon that he could not forgive him for taking you away because he loved you with all his heart, even though it was his spear that won you. Both of his spears, he should have said. Especially the one below his waist.”
His little joke made me smile, even through my tears.
“I do not think he would say that now, my lord Menelaus,” I answered.
“Love does not die so easily,” he answered softly. I lowered my eyes, remembering how his love for Helen had lived through everything. I thought again what a fool she must have been to let this man go.
We both wheeled at Achilles’ voice as he came towards us.
“Are you planning to take Briseis from me, now, Menelaus, after your brother has given her back to me?” he demanded, in the same deadly cold rage.
Menelaus stared straight back at those terrible bright blue eyes.
“Only if you are fool enough to let her go.”
His tone made even Achilles pause.
“Never,” Achilles finally assured us. “Have you both forgotten that she is the living reflection of my glory? She must be on the platform watching again tomorrow, during my greatest fight.”
“I don’t think it will be anything that she should see,” Menelaus answered sharply.
“Thank you, my king,” I said. “But I must look at anything my lord wishes me to see.”
“A very good answer,” Achilles sneered. “Now you must rest, so you will be bright and beautiful tomorrow.”
“And we must go, so you can both rest,” Menelaus said. Raising his voice, he called towards the house, “Let us all go now, gentlemen, so Achilles can rest for tomorrow.”
That sent them out quickly enough. Just as quickly, the women scurried after Diomede to the women’s hall.
I was left alone in the room I had shared with Achilles. After lying awake with my eyes wide open for half the night, and realizing that I still could not sleep, I pulled the red woolen shawl over my shoulders and went out to the courtyard. One of the men on night guard duty told me that Achilles was out walking on the beach.
“In the dead of night?” I demanded. For answer, the soldier pointed west. I shivered, but not from the cold, at the sight of the figure I saw there. He was not eating, he was not sleeping, he was pacing back and forth as he threatened horrible things. He was going mad, and no one in this world would even try to help him. To my shame, I did not go to him either, fearing that he would send me away. And I, Briseis, who had felt men die under my hands—to me, being abandoned by him was still the most terrible thought of all.
* * *
What happened next morning, I would never tell anyone were it not that others have told the world already. That story has been told, I add, by bards who would sing any song for pennies, just as long as they did not have to earn them on the battlefields that they describe so vividly, where they might have seen the things that drive men mad. This time I admit, though, that the bards spoke truly
It started in all decency. Achilles led his men in charging the wall of soldiers standing before the yellow stone wall
s of Troy. Naturally, they fled before him, so quickly that I wondered if there had been some truth in Odysseus’ words: He always won because we all believed he would. His spear struck his man in the shoulder, bringing him down. When Achilles rolled him over, we saw that it was Lykaon.
All too clearly, I heard him pleading for his life. The great Achilles had spared him once before, he sobbed. The great Achilles had even eaten with him, thus taking on the sacred obligations of a host. His father would pay double the ransom he did before, if only the great Achilles would spare him once again. Knowing, as well as Lykaon did, that it was all in vain, I still breathed a silent prayer that Achilles would return to his right mind.
“I used to enjoy showing mercy, but not now,” he answered, in the same cold tone he had taken with me. “So, friend, you die, but you don’t have to cry about it. Everyone dies, even me, and you see how huge and magnificent I am.”
“Does he never talk about anything but himself?” I wondered, awed by the sheer purity of his selfishness.
“Will you at least get it over with quickly,” the poor boy wailed.
Achilles answered, with a faint smile. “You forget, I was trained as a surgeon. I know how to show that much mercy.” He cut his throat with one quick surgeon’s stroke. Still, I heard the terrible gurgling and saw the last convulsions, and I wondered how even Achilles’ killing could ever have seemed beautiful to me.
This happened so quickly, the other Trojans did not have time to run very far away. Hector was shouting at them, rallying them to stand, until Achilles and his men were almost on them.
Once again, the other fighting pairs fell silent, watching the two great adversaries. All knew that those two men’s fates might very well decide the battle and the war. The field was silent, except for the cries of the wounded and the screaming of three women rising over it.
Across the field, on the walls of Troy, I saw the women who were screaming: Hector’s mother, wife and sister Cassandra. This sister was reputed to be mad, but all three seemed that way now, driven mad by grief and fear. Together, they wept and pleaded for Hector to lead his men to safety behind the walls, because even he could not fight the great Achilles. Only his other sister, Polyxena, was silent, pressing her lips hard together. Hector did not even look at them, keeping his eyes fixed on the enemy who was bearing down on him.
