Something in his tone convinced me, so when I heard voices outside the stable door I crouched down behind a manger listening to the pure, liquid cadences of proper Greek – and to the power and authority one of the voices owned.
‘Isn’t Achilles back yet?’ it asked imperiously.
‘No, sire, but he ought to arrive before nightfall. He had to supervise the sack. A rich haul. The wagons have been laden.’
‘Excellent! I’ll wait in his cabin.’
‘Better to wait in the tent on the beach, sire. You know Achilles. Comfort isn’t important.’
‘As you wish, Phoinix.’
Their voices faded; I crawled from my hiding place. The sound of that cold, proud voice had frightened me. Achilles was a monster too, but better the monster you know, as my nurse used to say when I was little.
No one came near me during the afternoon. At first I sat on the bed I presumed belonged to Achilles and inspected the contents of the bare and featureless cabin curiously. A few spears were propped against a stanchion, no attempt had been made to paint the plain plank walls, and the dimensions of the room were tiny. It contained only two striking items, one an exquisite white fur rug on the bed, the other a massive four-handled pouring cup of gold, its sides worked to show the Sky Father on his throne, each handle surmounted by a horse in full gallop.
At which moment my grief opened and swallowed me, perhaps because for the first time since my capture I had no urgent or dangerous situation to push it away. As I sat here my father would be sprawled on the Lyrnessos refuse heap, food for the perpetually hungry town dogs; that was the traditional fate for high noblemen killed in battle. Tears poured down my face; I threw myself on the white fur rug and wept. Nor could I stop. The white fur became slick under my cheek and still I wept, keening and snuffling.
I didn’t hear the door open, so when a hand rested on my shoulder my heart ran about the inside of my chest like a trapped animal. All my grand ideas of defiance fled; I thought only that the High King Agamemnon had found me, and cringed away.
‘I belong to Achilles, I belong to Achilles!’ I wailed.
‘I’m aware of that. Who did you think came in?’
Carefully wiping the relief from my face before I lifted it, I dabbed at the tears with the palm of my hand. ‘The High King of Greece.’
‘Agamemnon?’
I nodded.
‘Where is he?’
‘In the tent on the beach.’
Achilles went to a chest by the far wall, opened it, rummaged inside it and threw me a square of fine cloth. ‘Here, blow your nose and mop your face. You’ll make yourself sick.’
I did as I was told. He came back to my side and gazed at the rug ruefully.
‘I hope it dries unmarked. It was a gift from my mother.’ He looked me over critically. ‘Was it beyond Phoinix’s resources to find you a bath and a clean dress?’
‘He offered. I refused.’
‘But you won’t refuse me. When the servants bring you a tub and fresh raiment, you’ll use them. Otherwise I’ll order it done by force – and not by women. Is that understood?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ His hand was on the latch when he paused. ‘What’s your name, girl?’
‘Brise.’
He grinned appreciatively. ‘Brise. “She who prevails”. Are you sure you didn’t make that one up?’
‘My father’s name was Brises. He was first cousin to King Anchises and Dardania’s Chancellor. His brother, Chryses, was high priest of Apollo. We are of the Royal Kindred.’
During the evening a Myrmidon officer came to me, unbolted my chains from the beam and led me by them to the side of the ship. A rope ladder was suspended from the rail; silently he indicated that I was to descend, doing me the courtesy of going first so he wouldn’t look up my skirts. The ship was high on the pebbles, which rolled about and hurt my feet.
A huge leather tent squatted on the shore, though I couldn’t remember seeing it when I had arrived on my donkey. The Myrmidon ushered me in through a flap in the back, into a room crammed with about a hundred women of Lyrnessos, none of whom I recognised. I alone had the distinction of chains. Many pairs of eyes fastened on me in hangdog curiosity as I searched the throng for a familiar face. There, in the corner! A head of glorious golden hair no one could mistake. My guard still kept hold of my fetters, but when I moved towards the corner he let me do as I wanted.
My cousin Chryse’s hands were across her face; when I touched her she jumped in panic, her arms falling. She looked at me in dawning wonder, then flung herself at me, weeping.
‘What are you doing here?’ I asked, at a loss. ‘You’re the daughter of the high priest of Apollo, therefore inviolate.’
Her answer was a howl. I shook her.
‘Oh, stop crying, do!’ I snapped.
Since I had been bullying her from the days of our shared childhood, she obeyed me. Then she said, ‘They took me all the same, Brise.’
‘That is a sacrilege!’
‘They say not. My father put on armour and fought. Priests don’t fight. So they classified him as a warrior and took me.’
‘Took you? Have you been raped already?’ I gasped.
‘No, no! According to the women who dressed me, only the ordinary women are thrown to the soldiers. Those in this room have been saved for some special purpose.’ She looked down, saw my hobbles. ‘Oh, Brise! They’ve chained you!’
‘At least I bear visible evidence of my status. No one could mistake me for a camp follower, wearing these.’
‘Brise!’ she choked, a familiar expression on her face; I always managed to shock poor, tame little Chryse. Then she asked, ‘Uncle Brises?’
‘Dead, like all the rest.’
‘Why aren’t you mourning him?’
‘I am mourning him!’ I snarled. ‘However, I’ve been in the hands of the Greeks for long enough to have learned that a captive woman needs her wits about her.’
She looked out of her depth. ‘Why are we here?’
I turned to my Myrmidon. ‘You! Why are we here?’
Though he grinned at my tone, he answered respectfully enough. ‘The High King of Mykenai is the guest of the Second Army. They’re dividing the spoils. The women in this room are to be apportioned among the Kings.’
We waited for what seemed an aeon. Too tired to talk, Chryse and I sat upon the ground. From time to time a guard would enter and remove a small group of women according to coloured tags on their wrists; they were all very handsome girls. No crones, no strumpets, no horse faces, no skeletons. Yet neither Chryse nor I wore tags. The numbers dwindled, we were ignored; finally we were the only two left in the room.
A guard entered and flung veils over our faces before we were led into the next room. Through a thin mesh over my eyes I saw a huge blaze of light from what seemed a thousand lamps, a canopy of cloth overhead, and all around a sea of men. They sat on benches at tables, with wine cups at their elbows and servants hurrying back and forth. Chryse and I were shepherded to stand before a long dais on which stood; the high table.
Perhaps twenty men sat on one side of it only, facing the diners. On a high-backed chair in the middle was a man who looked as I had always fancied Father Zeus might. He had a frowning, noble head; his elaborately curled grey-black hair cascaded over his shimmering garments and a great beard bound with threads of gold fell down his chest, gems sparkling from hidden pins. A pair of dark eyes surveyed us broodingly as one white, aristocratic hand toyed with his moustache. Imperial Agamemnon, High King of Mykenai and Greece, King of Kings. Anchises looked not one-tenth as royal.
I tore my gaze away from him to scan the others as they lounged at their ease in their chairs. Achilles sat on Agamemnon’s left, though he was hard to recognise. I had seen him in armour, grimed and hard. Now he was in a company of kings. His hairless bare chest gleamed below a massive collar of gold and gems across his shoulders, his arms glittered with bracelets and his fingers with rings. He was c
lean-shaven and his bright gold hair was loosely combed back from his forehead, gold pendants in his ears. His yellow eyes were clear and rested, their unusual colour striking under his strongly marked brows and lashes, and he had painted them in Cretan fashion. I blinked, then looked away, confused. Upset.
Next to him was a man of truly noble aspect, tall in his chair, with red hair massed in curls around his broad, high forehead, his skin white and delicate. Under surprisingly dark brows his beautiful eyes shone grey and piercing, the most fascinating eyes I had ever seen. When my gaze dropped to his bare chest I saw in pity how scarred he was; his face seemed to be the only part of him had escaped.
On Agamemnon’s right was another red-haired man, a shambling fellow who kept his gaze on the table top. As he raised his cup to his lips I noticed that his hand shook. His neighbour was a most kingly old man, tall and erect, with a silvery white beard and wide blue eyes. Though he was dressed very simply in a white linen robe, his fingers were smothered in rings from knuckles to tips. The giant Ajax was next to him; I had to blink again, hardly able to associate him with the man who had uncovered my father’s body.
But my eyes grew tired of their different faces, all so deceptively noble. The guard drew Chryse forward, twitching away her veil. My stomach fluttered. She was so beautiful in her foreign clothes, Greek stuff given to her from some Greek chest, clothes bearing no resemblance to the long, straight gowns Lyrnessian women wore between neck and ankles. In Lyrnessos we hid ourselves from all save our husbands; Greek women evidently dressed like whores. Scarlet with shame, Chryse covered her bare breasts with her hands until the guard struck them down so that the table of silent men could see how tiny her waist was in the tight girdle, and how perfect her breasts were. Agamemnon ceased to look like Father Zeus, became Pan instead. He turned to Achilles.
‘By the Mother, she’s exquisite!’
Achilles smiled. ‘We’re pleased you like her, sire. She’s yours – a mark of the Second Army’s esteem. Her name’s Chryse.’
‘Come here, Chryse.’ The elegant white hand gestured; she dared not disobey. ‘Come, look at me! There’s no need to be afraid, girl, I won’t hurt you.’ White teeth flashing, he smiled at her, then stroked her arm without seeming to notice that she flinched. ‘Take her to my ship at once.’
She was led away. It was my turn. The guard threw off my veil to display me in my immodest garb. I stood as tall as I could, my hands by my sides, my face expressionless. The shame was theirs, not mine. Staring down the lust in the High King’s eyes, I forced him to glance away. Achilles said nothing. I moved my legs a little to make my manacles clink. Agamemnon raised his brows.
‘Chains? Who ordered that?’
‘I did, sire. I don’t trust her.’
‘Oh?’ There was a world of meaning in that single word. ‘And whose property is she?’
‘Mine. I captured her myself,’ said Achilles.
‘You should have offered me my choice of the two girls,’ said Agamemnon, displeased.
‘I’ve told you, sire, I captured her myself, which makes her mine. Besides which, I don’t trust her. Our Greek world will survive without me, but not without you. I have ample proof that this girl’s dangerous.’
‘Hmph!’ said the High King, not really mollified. Then he sighed. ‘I’ve never seen hair halfway between red and gold, nor eyes so blue.’ He sighed again. ‘More beautiful than Helen.’
The nervous man on the High King’s right, he with the red hair, brought his fist down on the table so hard that the wine cups leaped. ‘Helen has no peer!’ he cried.
‘Yes, brother, we’re aware of that,’ said Agamemnon patiently. ‘Calm yourself.’
Achilles nodded to his Myrmidon officer. ‘Take her away.’
I waited in a chair in his cabin, lids drooping, though I dared not allow myself to sleep. No woman is more defenceless than a sleeping one.
A long time later Achilles came. When the latch lifted I was dozing despite my resolution, and jumped in fright, gripping my hands together. The moment of reckoning had arrived. But Achilles didn’t seem consumed with want; he ignored me to go to the chest and open it. Then he ripped off the collar, the rings, the bracelets, the jewelled belt. Not his kilt.
‘I can never be rid of that rubbish soon enough,’ he said, staring at me.
I stared back, at a loss. How did a rape begin?
The door opened and another man entered, very like Achilles in colouring and features but smaller in size, and with a more tender face. His lips were lovely. Blue, not yellow, his eyes surveyed me with an apprehensive gleam.
‘Patrokles, this is Brise.’
‘Agamemnon was right. She is more beautiful than Helen.’ The glance he gave Achilles was fraught with meaning and filled with pain. ‘I’ll leave you. I only wanted to see if you needed anything.’
‘Wait outside, I won’t be long,’ said Achilles absently.
Already on the way to the door, Patrokles propped, gave Achilles a look no one could have mistaken. Absolute joy and absolute possession.
‘He’s my lover,’ said Achilles when he had gone.
‘That I gathered.’
He lowered himself onto one side of the narrow bed with a sigh of weariness, and indicated my chair. ‘Sit again.’
I sat regarding him steadily for some time while he stared at me with what seemed detachment; he didn’t, I was beginning to suspect, desire me in the least. Why then had he claimed me?
‘I had thought you women of Lyrnessos very sheltered,’ he said at last, ‘but you appear to know the ways of the world.’
‘Some ways. Those which are universal. What we don’t understand are fashions like these.’ I touched my bare breasts. ‘Rape must be rife in Greece.’
‘No more than anywhere else. A thing tends to lose its novelty when it is – universal.’
‘What do you intend to do with me, Prince Achilles?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘My nature isn’t easy.’
‘I know.’ His smile was wry. ‘In fact, your question was a telling one. I really don’t know what to do with you.’ He shot me a yellow look. ‘Do you play the lyre? Can you sing?’
‘Very well.’
He got to his feet. ‘Then I’ll keep you to play and sing to me,’ he said, and barked, ‘Sit down on the floor!’
I sat. He flipped the heavy skirt up around my thighs, then left the room. When he came back he was carrying a hammer and a chisel. The next moment I was free of my chains.
‘You’ve spoiled the floor,’ I said, pointing to the deep scores where the chisel had bitten too hard.
‘This is no more than a shelter on a foredeck,’ he said, climbing off his knees and hauling me to my feet. His hands were firm and dry. ‘Go to sleep,’ he said, and left me.
But before I crawled into the bed I offered up a prayer of thanks to Artemis. The virgin Goddess had heard me; the man who had taken me for his prize was not a man for women. I was safe. Why then was a part of my sadness not on behalf of my beloved father?
In the morning they ran the flagship down into the water, sailors and warriors hurrying about the deck and rowing benches, filling the air with laughter and choice curses. It was plain that they were delighted to be leaving blackened, denuded Andramyttios. Perhaps they could hear the shades of thousands of innocents reproaching them.
Patrokles the tender man threaded his way gracefully through the crowded midships and climbed the few steps to the foredeck, where I stood watching.
‘Are you well this morning, lady?’
‘Thank you, yes.’
I turned away, but he stayed by my side, apparently content with my chilly company.
‘You’ll get used to things in time,’ he said.
I just looked at him. ‘A more stupid remark is hard to think of,’ I said. ‘Could you get used to it if you were forced to live in the household of the man who was responsible for the death of your father and the destruction of your home?’
<
br /> ‘Probably not,’ he answered, flushing. ‘But this is war, and you’re a woman.’
‘War,’ I answered bitterly, ‘is a man’s activity. Women are its victims, just as they’re the victims of men.’
‘War,’ he countered, amused, ‘was equally prevalent when women ruled under the thumb of the Mother. High queens were as avaricious and ambitious as any High king. War isn’t an aspect of sex. It’s an intrinsic part of the race.’
As that was inarguable, I changed the subject. ‘Why do you, a man of sensitivity and perception, love a man as hard and cruel as Achilles?’ I asked.
His blue eyes stared at me in amazement. ‘But Achilles isn’t hard or cruel!’ he said blankly.
‘That I don’t believe.’
‘Achilles isn’t what he seems,’ said his faithful hound.
‘Then what is he?’
He shook his head. ‘That, Brise, you’ll have to discover for yourself.’
‘Is he married?’ Why did women always have to ask that?
‘Yes. To the only daughter of King Lykomedes of Skyros. He has a son, Neoptolemos, sixteen years old. And, as the only son of Peleus, he’s Heir to the High Kingdom of Thessalia.’
‘None of which alters my opinion of him.’
To my surprise, Patrokles picked up my hand and kissed it. Then he went away.
I stood in the stern as long as there was a smudge of land on the horizon. The sea was under me, I could never go back. No escaping my fate now. I was to be a woman musician, I who had expected to marry a king. Should already have been married to a king, save that the Greeks had arrived and those men who in other days would have come to negotiate for my hand were suddenly too busy to think of marriage alliances.
The water hissed under the hull, broken into white foam by the slap of the oars, a steady, soothing sound which filled my head so subtly that long moments had passed before I realised that I had made up my mind what to do. The rail wasn’t difficult; I clambered onto it and prepared to jump.
Someone jerked me roughly down. Patrokles.
‘Let me do it! Forget you’ve seen me!’ I cried.
The Song of Troy Page 27