by Pat Barker
“Lord Priam,” I said gently, emphasizing the “lord.” “I’ve brought you some water to get washed.”
“Well, my dear, that’s very kind.”
He rolled over onto his elbow. I soaked a cloth in the warm water and handed it to him. He ran it over his face and into his ears and then lifted his hair and beard and scrubbed as much of his neck and chest as he could reach. I saw, with a stab of love and pity, that he was totally absorbed in the task, like a small boy who’s being trusted to wash himself for the first time. For those few minutes, he forgot the war, the last nine dreadful years—forgot even the death of Hector. It all fell away from him, the lifetime he’d ruled Troy, fifty years of happy marriage, all gone, wiped away on a square of warm, damp cloth. It seemed perfectly natural to me, witnessing that transformation, to run my wetted fingers through his hair, brushing it back from his forehead and tweaking stray strands into place behind his ears. He watched me, and then suddenly said, “Yes, that’s right, Briseis, isn’t it? Helen’s little friend?”
I could see him gathering himself together, assuming the burden of memory. The carefree little boy had vanished, his place taken by an old man, an old man who’d seen and suffered too much; but still a king. He pushed back the covers, swung his legs over the side of the bed and paused there for a moment. Obviously, standing up was a bit of a challenge. He tried several times to straighten his painful knees, then I put my arm through his and grasped his hand. When he was upright and the worst of the pain seemed to have subsided, I couldn’t hold back any longer. “Take me with you,” I said.
He looked astonished.
“My sister’s in Troy. You remember her? She’s married to Leander, and she’s the only family I’ve got left.”
“Yes, I remember. Your husband was killed, wasn’t he?”
“And my brothers, all four of them. I’ve only got her.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Achilles killed my brothers and now I sleep in his bed.”
“Well, then, you know what happens to women when a city falls. There isn’t a day goes by I don’t think of it. I look at my daughters…” He shook his head as if trying to dislodge the images that had gathered there. “At least I won’t live to see it. With any luck I’ll be dead by then.”
“Please?”
He put his hand on my shoulder. “My dear, you’re not thinking straight. Yes, your sister’ll give you a home, I’m sure she’d be glad to—and Leander. But what then? A few weeks of freedom and then Troy falls and you’re a slave again—and perhaps to a worse man than Achilles.”
“Worse?”
“Why, is he unkind to you?”
“He killed my family.”
“But that’s war.” He was standing tall again now, Priam, the king, the weakness that had needed my help forgotten. “No, I can’t do it. How do you think Achilles would feel if I stole his woman? My son Paris seduced Helen while he was her husband’s guest—and look where that got us.”
“If it’s any help, I don’t think he’d mind.”
“Are you sure? He broke with Agamemnon over you.”
“Yes, but that was just hurt pride.”
“And this wouldn’t hurt his pride? After he took me in, accepted me as his guest? He could’ve killed me. No, I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “I can’t do it.”
I heard a movement behind me and turned to see Achilles standing in the shadows. My heart jumped a beat. How long had he been there?
“I see Briseis is looking after you.”
Long enough.
“Yes, she’s been very kind.”
Priam touched my face, resting the palm of his hand gently against my cheek, but I couldn’t bear to look at him.
“It’s time to go,” Achilles said. “It’ll be light soon and we daren’t risk Agamemnon finding you here.”
“What do you think he’d do?”
Achilles shrugged. “I think I’d rather not find out.”
“But you’d fight for me?”
“Oh, yes, I’d fight. I don’t need a Trojan to teach me my duty to a guest.”
Priam dropped the cloth he was holding with a soft plop into the bowl. “All right, I’m ready.”
Achilles was not only dressed, but armed, his clasped hands resting on the hilt of his sword. Obviously he’d meant it when he said he was prepared to fight. Afraid to look at his face, I looked instead at his hands and noticed Priam staring at them too. Achilles took a step back, wrapping his cloak more closely round him, so that his hands, those terrible manslaughtering hands, disappeared into the folds. I don’t think he was ashamed of anything those hands had done—proud of it, in fact—but all the same they were a problem, because they shaped other people’s perceptions of him in ways he couldn’t control.
I picked up Priam’s cloak and followed them along the veranda. I was invisible now; the ties of host and guest, the ties that bind men together, had reasserted themselves. But then I noticed how daunted Priam was by the steps. Achilles offered his arm, but Priam brushed it aside—one of those sudden spasms of anger that had punctuated this meeting. Already, I could see Priam regretting that moment of involuntary recoil, trying to make himself take Achilles’s arm…It was Achilles who stepped aside and indicated to me that I should help Priam. Priam rested his hand on my shoulder and managed the steps very well, wincing only a little as he reached the ground. Achilles had gone on ahead and was speaking to Automedon, perhaps not wanting to draw attention to the contrast between Priam’s weakness and his own strength. I thought how wise Priam had been to appeal to Achilles through his father. Achilles always showed great tact and delicacy in his dealings with old men and that sensitivity could only have sprung from his love for his own father.
Priam was now leaning his full weight on me. He seemed to have aged ten years in the night, to have moved in a few short hours from vigorous old age into frailty. I felt his veins throbbing under my hand like the heartbeat of a fledgling you know can’t possibly survive. Achilles was waiting for us to catch up. “Everything’s ready,” he said. “I’ll go with you as far as the gate.”
By the time we reached the stable yard, Automedon and Alcimus were already harnessing the mules to the cart. I felt Priam shaking as we approached. So far he’d held himself together, but now—mules champing on their bits, harness bells jingling—he turned towards the cart.
At a gesture from Achilles, Alcimus held the torch higher so that a circle of light fell onto Hector’s body. I lifted the linen cloth so Priam could see his son’s face. Priam made a little noise deep in his throat, then almost timidly reached out and touched his son’s hair. “Oh, my boy, my poor boy.” He was crying now; he put a hand up to his mouth and tried to hold the lips together, but the sobs couldn’t be kept in.
We waited. At last, he turned to Achilles.
“How long do you need to bury him?” Achilles asked.
The brutality of the question jarred. But then I saw that by focusing on the practicalities Achilles had averted what might easily have become a confrontation. Grief was what united them, but it divided them as well.
“Oh…” Breathless now, Priam held on to the side of the cart and tried to think. “It’s a long trek to the woods to get timber—our trees were all cut down to build your huts—and the people are afraid to go…We’ll need a ceasefire.”
“I’ll make sure you get it.”
“Then I’d say…eleven days? Eleven days for the funeral games. And then on the twelfth day we’ll fight again. If fight we must…”
That was almost a question. And why not? I thought. Why not? If he and Achilles could so easily agree to a ceasefire, why not go on and make a permanent peace…?
“I’ll see you to the gate,” Achilles said.
Unexpectedly, Priam looked amused. “Are you sure? What are the sentries supposed to make of that? Grea
t Achilles, godlike Achilles, escorting a farmer’s cart?”
Achilles shrugged. “It doesn’t matter what they think as long as they do as they’re told. But I take the point, we certainly don’t want a guard of honour.” He turned to Automedon and Alcimus. “You stay here, wait for me in the hut.”
“I think it would be better if we said goodbye here,” Priam said.
“No—until you go through that gate you’re still my guest. It wouldn’t be good if you were recognized.”
Priam nodded assent. I could see him wanting all this to stop so he could look at Hector again.
“But first,” Achilles said, “let’s drink the parting cup.”
So thin a veneer of civility hid the anger raging underneath, I thought Priam might refuse, but no, he consented readily enough, even took Achilles’s arm as they walked back to the hut. Automedon and Alcimus glanced at each other, obviously exasperated by the delay, but they followed on behind. I didn’t understand it either, after all that talk of needing to get Priam out of the camp as soon as possible, but it suited me well enough. Nobody noticed what I was doing. To begin with, I just went on standing by the cart, only edging a little to my left so the high sides would hide me should anybody happen to look round.
The dawn wind was freshening. The torches in their sconces all around the yard guttered and burned pale. I rested my hand on the tailgate and waited for the sound of their footsteps to die away. It was now or never; I knew I’d never have a chance like this again. There was no time to think, no time to wonder if I was doing the right thing. As soon as I was sure I wasn’t being observed, I climbed into the cart and lay down beside Hector, my hot body flattened against his cold side. I pulled the linen sheet loose so its folds would cover me too. His body felt clammy against my skin, the smells of thyme and rosemary not strong enough to hide a whiff of decay. His appearance hadn’t changed at all, but my nose told me the inevitable process of decomposition had begun. I didn’t look out to watch for their return, but kept my face pressed hard against Hector’s arm so no movement of my breath would disturb the cloth. It only needed Priam to stop for one more look at his son’s body—and what could be more natural than that?—and there’d be all hell to pay, for me, and perhaps for Priam too, whose assurances that he hadn’t known I was there might not be believed.
I tensed as I heard their footsteps returning. Achilles and Priam were talking in low voices, I couldn’t hear the words. After a while they fell silent—and that silence was more frightening than speech. I thought I heard Priam coming to look at Hector’s body again, but then I felt the cart tilt as he climbed into the driving seat. A jingle of bells, the slap of leather against a mule’s neck, and we lurched forward, Hector’s cold flesh rubbing against my cheek.
Ruts in the stable yard; even out on the path the wheels kept jolting over holes in the ground. I held on to Hector’s body, which was kept more or less stable by the bands tying it to the sides of the cart. I was cold now, almost as cold as the corpse, every muscle clenched in fear. But my mind was racing, I saw my sister, my brother-in-law, the warmth and safety of their home—and above and beyond all that, the great prize of freedom. Me—myself again, a person with family, friends, a role in life. A woman, not a thing. Wasn’t that a prize worth risking everything for, however short a time I might have to enjoy it?
But the more I thought about it, the more insane this bid for freedom seemed. If Priam discovered me before we got to Troy, he might well tip me out of his cart, even while we were crossing the battlefield, perhaps. A few sentimental memories of a little girl he’d once done conjuring tricks for would count for nothing against the duty he owed to Achilles as his host. He wasn’t going to jeopardize that eleven-day ceasefire for my sake.
And even if I got as far as Troy and succeeded in reaching my sister, what did the future hold? A few weeks of happiness, shadowed by fear, and then I’d be hiding in another citadel, surrounded by another group of terrified women, waiting for another city to fall. Waiting for Agamemnon to unleash thousands of drunken fighters onto the streets. I’d heard his plans for Troy, his and Nestor’s. Every man and boy killed—and that would include my brother-in-law—pregnant women to be speared in the belly on the off chance their child would be a boy, and for the other women, gang rape, beatings, mutilation, slavery. A few women—or rather a few very young girls, mainly of royal or aristocratic birth—would be shared out among the kings, but as a former slave I’d have no such status. I might easily end up living the life of the common women, dodging blows by day and sleeping under the huts at night. Or worse still, come face to face with Achilles and endure the punishments that were invariably inflicted on runaway slaves. No hope of mercy there, I’d seen how vengeful Achilles could be…
Priam’s right, I thought. This is mad.
Squeezing my eyes tight shut, I tried to think. I was trapped. All I could do now was lie beside Hector’s corpse and wait for the cart to stop. If it stopped…There was always the possibility that the guards, recognizing Achilles, would wave it through. Carts leaving the camp weren’t usually stopped and searched, anyway.
At last, the lurching stopped. I’d felt Achilles’s presence walking beside the cart every moment, but now the sense of him was lifted and, a few minutes later, I heard him talking to the sentries. The mules’ harness jingled. Priam sighed and coughed, from tension, I suppose. I wanted to cough too. Desperately, I imagined the sharp taste of lemons, gathering saliva and swallowing hard to soothe the tickle in my throat. I heard Achilles and the guards laughing together.
At any moment, the cart would move forward again. It had to be now. I freed myself from the sheet, wriggled to the end of the cart and slid down to the ground. Immediately, I began to walk: cold, frightened, damp, desperate, my skin smelling of Hector’s skin…I felt Achilles’s gaze stitched to my back, but didn’t dare turn round to see if he was really watching me. My instinct was to run, but I knew that would attract too much attention, so I simply wrapped my mantle tightly round me and set off at a fast but steady pace. I wasn’t looking where I was going, I kept tripping over the hem of my tunic. At every moment, I expected to hear my name called.
All around me the camp was awakening: men who’d been drunk the night before yawning and shouting for food; women carrying kindling to revive the overnight fires. The dawn wind ruffled my skirt and hair. I made straight for a group of women and tried to blend in with them, even picking up an empty bucket and carrying it, leaning a little to one side, pretending it was full. Finally, I plucked up the courage to look back and realized none of this play-acting had been necessary. Priam’s cart was already trundling through the gate. Achilles stayed to watch it go, one hand raised in a final salute, then he turned and strode rapidly away in the direction of his hut.
Only then did I take a deep breath. I gave it another few minutes and then followed him, my mind filling with a jumble of routine cares. He’d want hot water to bathe. I spoke to the women whose duty it was to prepare his bath and then went into the hut. He was sitting at the table, staring into space, but glanced up as I came in. I thought he looked surprised.
“Would you like something to eat?” I asked.
He nodded and sat in silence while I prepared bread and olives and a crumbly, white goat’s cheese that they used to make in Lyrnessus. The smell always took me back to my childhood. It had been my mother’s favourite; she used to eat it with some of the small, hard apricots that grew on a tree behind our house. I broke off a few crumbs, put them on my tongue, and the sharp, sour taste brought her back to me. Tears prickled in my eyes, but I didn’t let myself cry. I set the platter down on the table in front of Achilles and stood back.
He seemed to be hungry, tearing off pieces of bread and dipping them in oil, spearing squares of cheese on the point of his dagger and popping them into his mouth. I poured diluted wine into his cup and set it down beside his plate.
Then he
said, casually—only it wasn’t casual—“Why did you come back?”
So he’d known all along. My mouth went dry. Then I thought: No. He just thinks I went to the women’s hut and he’s wondering why I came back without waiting to be summoned. So I turned to face him—and saw I’d been right the first time. He did know. For a moment, the shock made my mind go blank, but then I thought: If you knew I was in the cart, why didn’t you stop me?
I said, slowly, “I don’t know.”
He pushed the platter of bread and cheese towards me. Thinking he’d finished, I made to pick it up, but stopped myself. He was offering me food. It wasn’t exactly a gracious invitation: he simply pointed at my chest and then at a chair. So I sat down, facing him, and we ate and drank together.
I’d said I don’t know because I couldn’t think of anything else to say. All that stuff about Troy falling and becoming a slave again and being hauled in front of Achilles—it was all true. But I’d known all that before I got into the cart. Something else, something I couldn’t put my finger on, had made me turn back. Perhaps no more than a feeling that this was my place now, that I had to make my life work here.
We ate and drank in silence, but I sensed the atmosphere had changed. I’d tried to escape, but then—for whatever reason—I’d come back. He’d known I was in the cart and—again, for whatever reason—had been prepared to let me go. So this was no longer, straightforwardly, a meeting of owner and slave. There was an element of choice. Or was there? I don’t know, probably a lot of it was wishful thinking—and I don’t suppose for a second any of this crossed his mind.
Suddenly, he pushed his plate away and stood up. “I’ve got to see Agamemnon.”
“He won’t be up yet.”
He looked amused. “No, that’s true.”
So he sat down again and we finished the wine.
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