“You ripped my heart from my chest that day … I will never understand.”
“Nor forgive,” the king said, wryly.
“I forgave you, Priam. A wife must forgive her king. But I do not forget what my husband’s hand forced me to endure. That I will never forget.”
The king twirled the gold ring on his thumb. How can I make her understand? “Agamemnon’s forces will not stop until they have brought Troy to its knees, Hecuba. They have conquered Lyrnessus, killed its king and princes … and my friend, Briseus, took his own life thinking Briseis lost to Achilles’ cruelty. Even with that victory, the Greeks did not find satisfaction. They marched on Pedasus, and without their king they were overrun as well. I do not know what happened to Queen Shavash. These Greeks will not simply tire of war and return to their neglected kingdoms.”
Hecuba leveled her eyes with Priam. “Then, return the whore.”
“That would solve nothing. Agamemnon has come too far, lost too much to accept the surrender of Helen and leave our lands.” He rose from the couch, cautiously approaching his wife. “We have lost many Trojans. I must acknowledge Melita’s son as my own. Allow him to train with Hektor and the others. My blood runs through his veins. He is a true warrior of Troy. Hecuba, you are not blind to the people coming to Troy seeking safety from the raids. One by one, the barbarians are taking the Troad. We must push the invaders back.”
“Then, you intend to take her as a wife,” Hecuba said, tersely.
Has she heard nothing that I say? He placed his hand softly on his wife’s shoulder. “I have many wives, but only one queen.”
Hecuba brushed his hand away. The love they once shared had become dust years ago. A mutual friendship grew instead, an understanding of duty to family, their family. Now, with Melita’s return to Troy and being forced to accept Priam’s ancient concubine as a legitimate member of her household, it stung her pride, and drudged up the old pain, shattering the tender truce between her and Priam. Again, she was reminded that Troy would always be the mistress of his heart. Priam would always be king first. The queen stiffened her spine, dropping the cold mask of indifference. “It matters no more, Priam. You are right. It was all a very long time ago. Do whatever you will for your war.”
Melita smiled up at Kebriones, smoothing a wild black curl from his forehead. “You are a man grown, my son. You resemble him.” She thought wistfully of her love affair with King Priam. My hair was black as onyx then. “He should have claimed you years ago.” Now, passed my prime, Priam takes me as a wife. The gods are cruel to grant my heart’s desire, now that my womb is a dusty vessel.
“My life will change very little, Mother. I did not grow up with the sons of Priam. All are strangers to me.”
Melita smiled, placing a soft, dry hand to his cheek. “I see the life you’ve lived at the edges of your eyes. What you have learned, what the gods have granted you so far will always stay with you. But now … now, you will gain much more.”
Kebriones adjusted his belt. “They will not accept me.”
“They will, my son, because they must. The war with these barbarians has taken more than King Priam expected. He needs all his sons at his side.”
“I am to become Hektor’s charioteer.”
“That is a great honor, Kebriones. Hektor is a hard man, but fair. He will not judge you harshly, on account of me.”
“I know nothing of manning a chariot.”
“Shah. You know the horses. You will be trained. Don’t doubt yourself. It’s in your blood to do this.”
“I hope it’s as you say,” Kebriones replied, his voice uncertain. He surveyed the room for the first time, taking note of the silver bowls inlaid with ivory on the table. “I never wanted this, Mother. I never wanted to be more than who I was.”
“Who wants the comforts of their life to change? We grow complacent with our lives, until a time comes when we must look beyond the little world we’ve carved out for ourselves. I never gave voice to being a wife of Priam’s. I comforted him when he wished. I bore his son as he desired. I stayed out of the queen’s path. And here I stand, an old woman being taken as wife. Such things are beyond the desires of a woman of my age. We will be slaves no more.”
“We will be slaves of a different kind.”
“Only the gods know what comes for you. It is all any mortal knows … that he is not in control of his destiny.”
Kebriones kissed his mother on the cheek. “I will see you soon.”
“Yes, my son. Soon.”
Knowing her son would fight alongside Hektor should’ve given her comfort, but it did not. I must keep my eye on him. Hecuba is a cruel, vindictive woman.
THIRTY EIGHT
BAY OF EDREMIT
1243 BCE
Beach Camp between Lyrnessus and Pedasus
Briseis wiped the sweat from her brow with her forearm. It was the third trip that morning for water, and it wouldn’t be the last. Every day she filled no less than a dozen clay hydriai with clean water from the stream or river nearest wherever Achilles and his men had camped. She picked up the heavy jar and scowled at the red painted images … Achilles terrorizing a town in a chariot drawn by two mighty horses. He destroys everything he touches. It is always the same. The walk back to the tent she shared with her captor was long, and Apollo’s heat radiated through the chill of the turning air. The slant of Apollo’s path through the sky told her that soon Persephone would be returning to her home with Hades beneath the earth. As I return to Achilles.
For all the whispers carried on the wind about Achilles’ conquests, he had not forced himself on her. I should be grateful. She clung to the image of her dead husband, cruelly cut down by Ares. I remember. I remember. I remember. She knew it was the way of war for women and children to be slain or sold as slaves. She despised herself for thinking that being Achilles’ prize had not turned out to be so harsh. Secretly, she blamed Helen for bringing the enemy to the gates of every city felled by Agamemnon and his horde. Why the gods let that bitch live, I will never understand.
Walking through camp, the Myrmidons mostly ignored her. She was neither elevated nor considered as low as most slaves. She was Achilles’ prize, and the only woman who’d ever lived with him for longer than a few days. In fact, they understood their captain placed value on her, so they left her to her chores and to do Achilles’ bidding.
Patrokles, the dark twin of her captor, hailed her from across several tents. “Briseis!”
Briseis’ face brightened. “Patrokles, I am here!”
He took the heavy jar from her. “Many more trips to make?”
“Several. Achilles uses water more liberally than most use sand.”
“He has never had to trudge with jars all morning. Did he tell you where he went before Apollo’s rise?”
“No. He was gone before I woke.”
Patrokles narrowed his eyes. “Unusual … that neither of us knows.”
When they reached the tent, Patrokles set the jar down next to the others lined up near the entrance. “I take my leave, my lady.”
Briseis shook her head. “I am a lady no more, Patrokles.” Then, she waved him off before stepping into the tent she tended for her master. To her surprise, Achilles was sitting at the table, smeared with filth from head to toe, and dressed in a dirty, ragged robe. He was studying a map drawn on a large scroll.
Without looking up, he asked, “Where is Patrokles? I heard his voice outside.”
“He did not say. I was unaware you had returned.”
Achilles glanced up from his plotting. “You get along well with my cousin.”
“Is that a question?”
“No.”
Briseis detected a sharpness in his tone. “Apologies.” What am I to say to that? Patrokles is kind, where you are aloof and distant? You killed my brothers, he did not?
He returned to his map, moving figures around, scowling. “You need give none. Patrokles has my confidence, as you do.”
Briseis hand jer
ked as she poured the wine. His confidence? I am his slave. If I spoke against him, any man here would slit my throat. “Here, my lord.”
Achilles took the cup absentmindedly, lost in concentration over the map. “You have more water to fetch?”
“Yes.”
“I will want a bath when you are finished. Call on a few camp women to help you with the tub. Choose several with golden hair.”
“As you wish.” Briseis ducked out of the tent, bumping into Patrokles who’d returned. “He is here,” she said through clenched teeth, and picked up an empty hydria to carry more water. “He wants another bath.” She stormed off toward the stream.
“Greetings, my lord, Achilles!” Patrokles smiled knowingly at his commander as he made his way to the table to join Achilles. “I see you have managed to upset Briseis once again.” He pinched his nose closed. “By the balls of Zeus, you smell of muck and shit.”
“What do I care if my slave is upset?” Achilles asked.
“Has she consented to―”
Achilles’ shoulders tensed. “I have not asked for such a favor.”
“Why not?”
“I have no shortage of women willing to spread their legs for me.”
Patrokles shrugged. “If you were to―”
“I require no advice from you.” Achilles drained his cup of wine. “Why have you come, cousin? To talk of my slave, or discuss this map?”
“So, you did retrieve it.”
“I did.”
“How did you do it?”
The Myrmidon captain gestured to his disheveled appearance, grinning mischievously. “I borrowed a tactic from our clever Odysseus. I dressed the beggar.”
Patrokles clapped his commander on the shoulder. “Well done, my lord cousin.”
“After we take Hypoplakia Thebe, we can break our camps, sail back to the Bay of Troy, and make our final assault on the citadel. Before we can do that, we must prepare for a long siege. Build a surplus of grain, armor, and weapons that we did not have when first we landed in Troad territory. We must also herd the livestock west then north to the main encampment. Our final assault on Troy must be unrelenting, merciless … or we will lose the war. Be forced to return home humiliated and without glory.” Briseis’ words still haunted him. I must see the fall of Troy with my own eyes. How will I have glory, immortality without victory?
“Agreed,” Patrokles said. “Have you sent word to Agamemnon of your plan?”
“No. I leave the Fat King to you.”
Briseis stoked the fire beneath the cauldron of water for Achilles’ bath. She’d already had the women carry in the wooden bathing tub and fresh linen. They stood about the tent giggling and flitting like little birds in a bush. I wonder which one of them he will choose to pour the water. Afterward, the chosen woman always emerged dripping wet and flushed, disheveled and most annoying to Briseis, smiling.
At Achilles’ command, she worked alongside Knaxon as Achilles’ personal slave. Because of that, she knew the Myrmidon commander took many women to bed, sometimes two or three at a time, but always casting them aside by light of day. It was fairly legend among the camp that Achilles’ prowess in bed was only rivaled by his bravery in battle.
She angrily jabbed the flames with a long stick, knocking a small, burning log loose, collapsing the fire brands. She quickly kicked the small logs back in place, using the stick to reposition them. She choked on the resultant smoke, before the flames rekindled. Why do you care, Briseis, that he will choose a golden-haired woman to pour for him? She stirred the water. It was fairly steaming. She would mix the hot with the cold in each pitcher for the water pourer. What takes him so long?
The Myrmidon commander had gone to the beach to soak first in the cold water of the Edremit, before taking the hot waters of a private bath. Bathing was the single luxury Achilles indulged in, as far as she’d observed. The women’s chattering suddenly grew louder, as they pointed toward the beach. Briseis turned her head to see Achilles, tall and proud, striding up the beach completely naked. His men hailed him as he passed by, and the women fairly pushed each other aside, each hoping to be noticed. She turned away, flushing at the sight of his brazen nudity. Pompous. Arrogant. The cauldron clanged as she stirred.
He walked by all the golden-haired beauties she and Knaxon had selected and he ignored them all.
“Briseis, you will pour,” Achilles said, as he pushed into his tent, leaving the small gaggle of willing conquests standing mouths agape.
Briseis looked to the camp women reluctantly walking away, and then at a bronze hydria. Grudgingly, she dipped it into the hot water, mixing it with cool water from another jug. She carried it into the tent. She froze when she saw Achilles already reclining in the tub, his head tilted back against the wide rim. He made no attempt at modesty.
“What are you waiting for, Briseis? Pour.”
She approached the tub, cautiously. Why be fearful? She glanced at the length of his naked body. Even the gods cannot be more perfect. Every muscle, the entire length of his body was carved with precision. She dumped the first pitcher down his wide chest.
Achilles, opening his eyes in surprise, grabbed Briseis firmly by the wrist. “Pour slowly.”
When Briseis returned with another jug, Achilles said, “Undo my braids.”
She bristled. He has at least fifty. Darkness will fall before I am finished. “Would you not prefer another to―”
“No.”
“Your water will be cold―”
“Have another bring hot water to fill the basin. Then, undo my braids. I would clean the mud from my hair. Patrokles remarked I smelled of ‘muck and shit’.”
“He speaks honestly.”
Achilles slapped at the shallow water, splashing her. “Hold your tongue, woman. Go, do as I command. There is a short blade on the table. Use that to cut the ties.”
When the young, honey-haired slave poured the last of the hydriai, she lingered near the tub’s edge. A twinge of jealously tugged at Briseis, before she could stop herself. What do you care another woman finds him desirable? Who would not?
Achilles waved the woman off, and she left with head hung low to her chest.
Idiotic girl.
Briseis fingered the small knife as she picked it up. She ran her thumb lightly over the flat of the blade, testing the edge for sharpness. She recalled her husband in that moment; his body ruined in the dirt of war. She shivered at the memory of the dark god’s revelry amidst carnage and death. I cannot recall the sweetness of his face. Was I even in Lyrnessus? Or was that someone else entire?
She positioned a low stool behind the tub where Achilles’ head rested and picked up a soaking wet braid in one hand, bringing up the blade with the other. Achilles’ eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling in a light sleep. She eyed the vein at his neck, beating the steady rhythm of his life.
“Do not even consider it,” Achilles said quietly.
Briseis cut the leather bond, set the knife on the ledge of the tub, and silently undid the length of his honey-silver hair. One by one she cut the leather ties. She fetched hydriai of fresh water, pouring it through his locks until it was clean. Briseis handed him the pile of fresh linen.
Achilles stepped from the tub. “Call the women to empty the water.”
Briseis left the tent feeling ill at ease. Why does he not take me as he takes other women? You are dark-haired, and old, Briseis. She cursed the gods that she had begun to see her enemy in a softer light. She clenched her fists at her sides. I remember. I remember. I remember. As she walked through camp, tears slid down her cheeks. I am forgetting. Gods curse me, I am forgetting. She tried desperately to hold her husband’s face in her mind. It slipped like a shadow from her eyes. I am forgetting.
ABYDOS
No less than twenty heavily armed guards trailed Hektor and Andromache as they rode through the hills and along the shores of Abydos. “What do you suppose they are doing camped in the south so long?” the princess asked.
Andromache glanced at her husband from under her lashes. He was even more handsome now, than when she’d first met him as a younger man. And I thought him old then. Is that even possible? Or did I dream it? The passage of time and worry had creased his brow and grayed his hair at the temples. Yet, she couldn’t imagine any place safer than the hollow of his arms. Hektor was the wall around her world that kept life’s perils at bay. How is it possible to love him more with each passing season?
“And after that?” she asked.
The Prince of Troy caught her searching glance, and smiled gently at his wife. “They will head for Troy, my love.”
The princess shook her head. “I have heard the stories about Achilles. They say he is a giant. As tall as the gods.”
“He is not so tall as that,” Hektor said, remembering the day he faced the Golden Warrior.
“Will you have to fight him?” Andromache asked, her voice trembling slightly.
After signaling for the men to stop, Hektor dismounted and walked to his wife’s horse, offering her a hand down. He ordered the guards to wait for them.
A broad-shouldered captain, a scar running the length of his cheek, jumped from his mount in one fluid movement. “My lord, you should not walk alone.” He made to follow the prince.
However, Hektor held up his hand. “No. I would speak privately with my wife.”
The burly guard nodded his understanding, but didn’t remount his horse. Instead, he stood vigil on foot, watching his prince walk away.
When Hektor and Andromache were safely out of earshot, he stopped. “Wife,” he said, taking her face in his hands, “do you know how much my heart yearns for you?”
Andromache blushed. “We have been man and wife too long for such foolish sentiments,” she whispered.
“Is my love foolish, then?”
“No. I … it is only that I am frightened.”
Rise of Princes (Homeric Chronicles Book 2) Page 27