Warrior's Captive: I, Briseis

by Jackie Rose

  “Perhaps he will tire of her, too,” she shrugged. “But at least he’ll let me earn my way with weaving or he’ll give me to some other man who will.” With a trace of her old spirit, she added, “She could never earn her keep with her prophecies, because no one ever wants to hear them.”

  As I was leaving, she called after me, “Perhaps you were luckier than I was, Briseis. Achilles died before he could get tired of you.”

  I did not need Cassandra’s powers to tell me that. Nor did I need them to warn me that Polyxena’s situation was desperate indeed.

  * * *

  With an uneasy heart, I went next to ask Odysseus what he planned to do with Polyxena, hoping against hope that he would prove Cassandra wrong.

  He received me graciously and answered me the same way.

  “I will do nothing to Polyxena,” he told me, with a great show of surprise, still playing the simple man, as he toyed with one of the carved wooden hounds from a board game he had undoubtedly stolen from the player’s house. “How could I do anything to her? Achilles’ son must be the one to take revenge.”

  “For betraying his father, you mean?” I demanded. “Did you tell him she did that?”

  “Everyone knows she did it,” he answered with a show of confusion.

  “I know no such thing, and I saw them together!” I cried. “His mother, not her father, arranged their meeting. She will demand a trial in Argos, and no one can prove anything against her.”

  “She is not going back to Argos,” he told me. “I have brought Achilles’ son here. He is living in his father’s old house.”

  Every time I thought I had measured the depths of his cruelty, I had proven to be wrong, I realized once again. This time was no exception.

  “You will ruin his name and Achilles’, too,” I gasped. “Is that part of your plan?”

  “Do you think I am that clever?” he demanded, with a short laugh.

  “I think,” I said deliberately, “that you are more clever and crueler than I ever believed.”

  For once, he let his cold intelligence shine through his eyes. “And I wish I had taken the armor of Achilles,” he answered. “I would enjoy having a woman who knows what I am. But if you want to try to save Polyxena, you had better hurry. Achilles’ son wants no delay.”

  My hopeless journey thus led my weary escorts and me to Achilles’ house, where our red faces no doubt showed how far we had walked that day, under the glaring sun. That log shelter had also been my home, but I had no time for memories. Instead, I asked Neoptolemus’ guards if he would speak to his father’s old captive. Having been Achilles’ men, they assured me that he would. He will listen if he wants to or not, their shamed voices said.

  He was sitting at his father’s old place at the table, where his feet barely touched the ground. To his credit, he held his hand out for me to be seated beside him when the guard announced my name.

  He could be no more than thirteen now, but I remembered that his father had been the same age when he first went to war. I could see the resemblance, even though the sun had not touched the boy’s fair face. Partly for that reason, he was a paler copy of Achilles than Patrocles had been.

  “Prince Neoptolemus,” I said, in the whispering voice that had pleased his father so much. “You know that I had the privilege of serving as the reflection of your father’s honor.”

  “I know you were his favorite slave girl,” he said impatiently. “You need not try to spare my feelings. I am not a child, and I know about the world.”

  And you know the hurtful words to say, I thought, like the child you are.

  Aloud, I said, “Forgive me. I know that you are a powerful prince. Now you have power over a royal princess.”

  “She betrayed my father,” he said, glaring, as his high boyish voice strove for a manly tone. “Now she must die for it.”

  “I am sure that that is not true,” I answered, still fighting for calm. “And you cannot execute her without a trial. She must have a chance to prove her innocence. Your honor and your father’s depend on it.”

  Obviously, Odysseus had foreseen that objection.

  “If she is innocent,” he assured me, “she can walk with him in the Elysian Fields. He asked for that on his deathbed, did he not?”

  Tell her that we may meet in a better place, he had said. And I had feared, even then, that Odysseus would twist that courteous message to his own devious ends. But, for me, it was even crueler to think that Achilles’ last wish might be granted.

  “Then let me walk there in her place,” I pleaded, seizing his awkward arm. He looked down at my hand in amazement, but did not pull it away.

  “I miss him so much,” I whispered, ashamed to weep before him but unable to stop my tears. “He was the daylight of my life, and there is nothing left now but cold and darkness there If anyone is sent to be with him, let it be me, so that my world might be warm again.”

  For a moment he considered it, seeming old beyond his years. Then he shook his head with its thatch of red-gold hair. With some regret, he answered, “You belong to my lord Menelaus. I doubt he would permit that.”

  Then he smiled at me, and it was so like his father’s faint, fleeting smile that it ripped my heart. Seeing this in my eyes, he said, “Perhaps he would return you to me if I swear to keep you alive. Would you like that, Briseis?”

  He is only a child, as I sternly reminded myself. He wants what his father had. Still, that resemblance, however faint, beguiled me. I could pretend that this boy was Achilles, and this pretence would have some truth to it. It was with difficulty that I gently took my hand away.

  “As you say, Prince Neoptolemus, I belong to Menelaus now,” I answered. With a sudden flash of hope, I added, “unless you would spare Polyxena in return for me. I am sure Menelaus would allow that exchange.” And, I thought, if you agree, you will have proven to be so much like your father that I will go to your bed proudly. But Odysseus had anticipated me, like the crafty game player he was.

  Achilles’ son stood so quickly that he knocked over the table, leaving one of his guardsmen rushing to set it right.

  “Odysseus warned me that you might try to tempt me,” he cried, in a shrill voice that reminded me how young he was. “But I have a slave girl even more famous than you. Andromache!”

  At his shout, she emerged from the women’s hall. Her face was as completely empty of expression as a wall of stone, until he said my name. “Briseis, you must meet your former princess.”

  In a tone close to wonder, he said, “I am still a boy, I know, and she is a woman who would have been queen, but she still belongs to me. I can have her any time I want. And,” he added, his voice rising boastfully, “I have her often, sometimes twice a day. She’s like a toy I can always play with, like a doll with a string I can pull to make her dance. But she’s better than any toy, because I don’t even have to go get her. She must come to me when I send for her.”

  Ignoring his childish coarseness, I tried to stammer out my sorrow at her loss, but I drew back when she looked at me. Hector’s widow’s red-rimmed eyes were the only living thing in her dead-white face, beneath her coal-black hair. Those eyes filled with hate as her lips formed the words, “Traitor whore.”

  In vain, I waited for him to reproach her.

  “Andromache does not approve of women who marry their husband’s killers,” he told me cheerfully. “She told me as much the first time I took her. Of course, I did not kill her dear Hector, my father did, but that was close enough for her. I said that one night with me would make her forget all that. Everyone knows that any woman will forgive any man for anything after their first night together. You, Briseis, should know that better than anyone.”

  But, I remembered, Andromache had lost more than a husband. Would she or any woman forget and forgive a murdered son? Not even Achilles could have made me do that, let alone this leering child, who had stood by while Odysseus threw her baby off a wall. My horror must have shone in my own eyes. Almost in apol
ogy, he added, “Perhaps I will give her another son, to replace the one who was lost.”

  I dared not stop to think about that proposal, for fear he would see my revulsion in my eyes.

  “Then why not spare her husband’s sister instead?” I asked quickly. “Think how grateful she would be. And I would be grateful, too. Do you imagine I would even ask for this, if I suspected she might be guilty?”

  He actually seemed to consider that, until, by some misfortune, a wandering priest started shouting outside.

  “Woe, woe, woe to the merciless men!” the priest cried. “Even the gods who favored them will turn against them now. Even their own Athena will avenge the victims of their crimes!”

  “On your way, Helenus!” shouted one of the soldiers. “We have our own priests to pray for us.” Just in case this priest spoke truly, though, some of the men threw coins at him.

  He threw them back, shouting, “Give them to your own priests. You’ll need their prayers!”

  For the first time, Andromache showed interest and even admiration. Neoptolemus, though, was so angry, I knew that the foolish priest had unwittingly crushed Polyxena’s last hope.

  “No mad Trojan priest can stop me from doing justice to my father,” he said. Then, fearing that he had offended the priest’s god, he added uneasily, “especially not when the priest is Polyxena’s own cousin, with good reason to lie to protect her. I will do my father’s will.”

  “If you think that was his will,” I flared, “then you know nothing about him.”

  * * *

  There was one last justice to do for Polyxena. That was to attend the execution, so that she would see at least one face that did not condemn her. Menelaus had agreed that I owed her no less, even though he refused to attend the murder, as he called it, for fear of seeming to condone it.

  As it turned out, my sympathetic face was not needed there. Standing around the cold ashes of the pyre where they had burned his effigy, Achilles’ men were stonily silent, their heads bowed in shame. Many, no doubt, remembered their prince and this princess riding together across the suddenly quiet battlefield to proclaim that peace had come. They knew that she had never betrayed him to his assassin’s arrow there.

  When she was led out of the ship where she had been held captive, many of them strained forward, only to be stopped by a larger force of soldiers, whom Odysseus had sent. She climbed the ladder leading to the pyre as proudly as though she had been walking to her wedding with Achilles, mounting regally towards the last bright yellow sun and blue sky that she would ever see. Neoptolemus climbed after her and drew his sword with a flourish. Then the boy stared down at it, as though he could not believe what he was about to do.

  “You seem confused,” she said, in her most cordial tones, through barely-parted lips. “It is really very simple. You may either stab me in the heart or cut my throat. It’s murder, either way.”

  He stared down at his sword, up at her face and then down again.

  “Since you can’t make up your mind,” she said, just as calmly, “let me do it for you.”

  She placed her slim hands over his trembling fists, which held the knife. Realizing what she was trying to do, he let her hands guide his in thrusting the blade into her heart.

  “Woe, woe, woe!” I heard Helenus shouting again, from as close as Odysseus’ outer ring of guards would allow him. He did not sound foolish now. I heard myself whispering an echo to his words, “Woe to the merciless men.”

  And woe to me, I thought, if she is with him now. That was a gesture worthy of Achilles’ bride, who would be slain by no hand but her own. It was worthy of such a princess, who was worthy of such a prince. And Odysseus, I realized, was worthy of the foulest Harpy that Hades could send him.

  Achilles’ men, not merciless, groaned in horror and shame, when they saw her blood spread over her gown. My screams rose over their groaning, louder and louder, again and again and again.

  * * *

  Then I turned and ran back to Menelaus’ house, so quickly that my guards could barely keep up with me, and I could hardly see the way there through my tears. My only desire was to throw myself into bed again and pull the covers over my head. Instead, Menelaus met me at the door.

  “They have found Helen,” he said.

  “What has that to do with me?” I demanded.

  “I want you to come with me to attend her when I bring her back. Everyone must see her as a queen.” In a voice that was almost a plea, he added, “I do not want to see her killed before I decide what to do.”

  “Neither do I,” I agreed bitterly. “I have seen one woman die today, and that was more than enough.”

  He flinched at that and said, “Odysseus will not decide my wife’s fate.”

  “Of course not,” I retorted. “He sees no advantage in doing it.” No, I thought, and if you do decide to spare her, Odysseus will try to take the credit for himself. Helen might become an ally, which Polyxena would never have been.

  But there were many others, I knew, who wanted Helen dead. She must have realized the same thing, because she had been hiding on the highest floor of an apartment building in the poorest section of the burned town. A soldier’s widow recognized her and alerted the Argives who were still searching the empty shops for the last traces of loot. She also alerted the other Trojan women who had remained there because they had no place else to go.

  Those women stood before the remains of the house which still stank of burning ashes, shouting for Helen to come out and face their revenge, as they picked up the stones of their burned homes and anything else they could find to throw at her. Fortunately for her, the soldiers had followed her husband’s standing orders by surrounding the house and sending for him as soon as they knew they had her. He came with more men and a litter to carry her away.

  We found her cowering beside the chimney, the last part of the house left standing, where she tried to hide. This is Helen of Troy, I thought, this pitiful creature who looks like a terrified child. As she should be terrified, I thought grimly.

  Then I heard her whimper through lips that were a tiny painted Cupid’s bow. And I, Briseis, a slave woman, wanted only to protect the Queen of Sparta from these howling women and brutal men. Without even knowing it, I had felt, at last, the true power of Aphrodite. It made me long to safeguard her favorite daughter and to believe that I was the only one who could.

  Kneeling beside her, as though she had been the frightened child she seemed, I said gently, “Mistress, your husband has come to take you home. He desires only your happiness.”

  “He is going to kill me,” she wept, burying her head in my shoulder. “Look, he has drawn his sword.”

  Glancing up, I saw that he was indeed grasping his weapon. To this day, I believe that he himself did not know what he was going to do with it. Quickly, I decided for him.

  “That is only to protect you,” I assured her. “Now he is going to lead you home again.”

  At last she dared look up at him from the shelter of my arms with a naked plea in her eyes, tears still running down her painted cheeks. Reluctantly, he extended his hand and raised her to her feet. Sobbing openly, she pressed her head against his shoulder as he awkwardly stroked her hair, which was now flying out as wildly as mine ever had.

  “But they all hate me!” she wailed. “Listen to them shouting and waiting to stone me.”

  “What if they do shout?” I demanded. “The soldiers can fight off these poor widows easily enough.” And don’t you deserve to be shouted at and worse, I asked silently.

  “The soldiers may join them in the attack,” she sniffled. That thought sent her bursting into tears again.

  “Very well, then,” I said in exasperation. “I will put on your clothing and lie in the litter with the curtains drawn. Then that mob will shout at me You may walk behind me with a veil over your face, as my innocent faithful servant. No one will see anything but our blond hair.”

  “Why should you take her just punishment?” her husb
and demanded, glaring at me over her bowed head.

  “Because I have seen enough suffering today,” I answered. “And, at any rate, I am much too tired to stand here arguing all afternoon. It is getting colder already.”

  Having never ridden in a litter, I was surprised at how uncomfortable it was, as the soldiers jounced and jostled it down the stairs that were now open to the sky. That made it all the easier to play my role as I kept whimpering, “Don’t leave me here, please take me home.” Keeping up the pretense, Menelaus led the way while Helen walked behind us.

  Just as we had feared, the ragged women in the streets hurled insults, spittle and even stones at me, despite the soldiers who surrounded us. Luckily, the men kept the missiles from reaching their target.

  Those missiles made me wonder, though, for the first time, why I should be taking Helen’s punishment. Then I realized it was my just punishment as well. Once I had seen Achilles, I would have become an adulteress as wanton as she, had he not taken my disgrace on himself by making me his captive. And still I shared the shame, as Andromache had told me. What might they have shouted at me, if they had known I was Achilles’ traitor whore? Then I heard that some were actually begging Menelaus to kill his wife, and I shuddered. At least they would not be calling for Briseis’ death.

  There was another, less admirable reason for defying these human harpies, I realized. Those harridans all looked to me like my mother, who had assured me that my best hope was the bed of an old man who would pay four oxen for me. I hated the thought of her, or her surrogates, getting her way again.

  Still keeping up the deception in case some assassin had managed to board the ship, I went aboard with a veil on my face and asked to be shown to Menelaus’ cabin. After all the day’s events, it was all I could do to pull off my gown and fall face down on his bed.

  * * *

  Menelaus woke me with the harsh whisper, “Helen.”

  He had seen only my golden hair in the dark. Before I could reveal myself, he clasped one hand over my mouth. With the other, he jerked my gown to my shoulders and then brought his leather strap down across my bare back. Trying desperately to cry out and writhing to dodge the blows, I felt the leather strike my backside and thighs. Back, backside and thighs, each bringing its own angry hiss and burst of searing fire. This was his terrible rhythm, until he had counted out ten blows on each, leaving me almost numb to the pain.