Spying a horn bush peeking out from behind a scrubby juniper tree, she used her knife to clip some branches, tied the boughs to her sash and headed back to the orchard path.
At the edge of the woods, she knelt by one of the many springs that burbled up. Mount Ida’s springs offered cool refreshment to shepherds and flocks throughout the range’s peaks and valleys. The mountain separated Lyrnessos from their ally Troy, which lay on the other side of Ida, surrounded by a fruitful plain.
Soft leaves of watercress and spearmint edged this spring with fragrant abundance. Briseis recited the thanksgiving to Kamrusepa, the goddess of Mount Ida’s springs, for the blessing of her water and filled the wooden cup that was kept there for any thirsty passerby. She took a long drink and felt the cooling strength of the mountain fill her.
The presence of three Greek traders at the gate waiting to do business with her father shattered the sense of well-being she’d brought back from the mountain. Several of her father’s workmen had gathered around, cautious about these strangers. They would protect her from these men in her father’s absence, but that wasn’t what worried Briseis.
As soon as she entered the courtyard, Eurome bustled to her side to chaperone, as modesty required in the presence of men. She tugged the veil of Briseis’s cloak over her hair, giving her charge a scowl for forgetting these details. Three other serving women clustered around her.
Briseis could manage with these traders on her father’s behalf, although they wouldn’t expect to talk to a woman. Both Briseis and Eurome spoke Greek as fluently as they spoke the language native to Lyrnessos and Troy. Glaukos’s family interacted with Greek traders and diplomats, and Eurome had been captured from a Greek fishing village by slave traders as a child. Besides, many of the bards sang in Greek, and Briseis never wanted to miss a tale.
The Greek traders bowed in courtesy. Their smudged tunics and workable but plain sword belts and scabbards showed that these weren’t the most successful of merchants. Two of them had the squinty eyes and weathered, sun-darkened skin she’d noticed on men who made their living on the sea. One of these had arms like tree trunks and she could imagine him hoisting heavy sail canvas; the other seemed more agile than powerful. From their blank expressions she deduced that they were sailors, not captains, and she turned to the third man. He was the shortest of the men and the least sea-worn. His tunic had at one point been trimmed with yellow braid, but much of that had been worn down to shreds. He stepped forward as leader and asked for guest-rights from the household. He seemed annoyed to be speaking to a woman, and Briseis felt the burden of receiving them.
The household would provide a meal and probably shelter overnight. The rules of hospitality demanded that much. Her father, called to the palace, likely wouldn’t return until late in the day. Her brothers, even Iatros for once, had gone off to the practice field to hone their fighting skills with the other young noblemen, so they would be gone all afternoon also. She would act as hostess alone with her servants, an awkward duty for an unmarried girl and a novel one for her, but she’d watched her mother in this sort of situation. She swallowed the sense of inadequacy that seemed to be growing as a lump in her throat. Eurome held her arm firmly and she gave an answering squeeze of thanks.
All of that was a worrisome nuisance, but more than that she wondered what these Greeks wanted to buy. Her father had traded with Greeks for years—his metalworking shop had a widespread reputation, overseen by a talented servant named Milos. From his days as a young apprentice to her grandfather’s blacksmith, Milos had turned into such an excellent workman that her father had expanded both the space and the number of men he supervised, building several large workrooms onto the back of the original house, so that instead of filling only the household needs, the workshop now produced gold and silver jewelry and bronze weaponry. Traders came often to buy from Glaukos.
She’d have no worries if these men wanted to commission some jewelry. They’d be welcome to stay. However, she’d discussed with her father the rumors of Greek raiding parties that the gossip said might be part of a larger force. From north of Troy came word of this marauding along the coastline—no danger yet to her city, even if true—but it made her cautious of these men. Her father would not put his good swords into the hands of Greek warriors if they planned to raid any town near here. Lyrnessos owed her allegiance to the powerful city of Troy, as did all the towns and islands. In return, Troy kept them safe, and no one would be foolish enough to challenge Troy’s mighty walls. Even so, if these traders had come to buy weapons, she guessed her father would prefer she send them on their way quickly. At least she thought that’s what he’d want. She understood metalworking, having grown up shadowing Milos’s fascinating labors. Milos could help her with questions of manufacture, but whether to do business with these men was a question for her father—now hers alone.
Briseis sent serving women to the kitchen to alert the cook to prepare a meal, bring wine to refresh the men and water to bathe their guests’ feet. With the escort of her menservants, she welcomed the traders into the megaron hall, seated herself and Eurome on the women’s side of the circular hearth in the middle of the room and indicated chairs on the men’s side for the traders. The servants placed tables next to each, poured the wine and knelt to wash their dusty feet.
Until Briseis provided refreshment, the rules of hospitality did not permit her to inquire their names, much less the purpose of their visit. This custom protected travelers while they sought essential food and shelter, since once a household provided for them, the family was bound by the gods’ sacred laws not to harm the visitors—whoever they turned out to be, even allies of old foes.
Briseis would have to wait. She twitched her foot in frustration. Even when she had fed these men, as a young woman, there were limits to how appropriately she could discuss business. She chewed her lip. If they sought weapons, she wanted to send them away as soon as possible without causing offense. Every stage of hospitality increased her obligations toward them. Alienating traders was bad for business, and making enemies of Greeks seemed dangerous these days.
Four serving women came in with trays of flatbread baked with black cumin seed, sliced cucumbers, and wooden cups of chick pea soup, thick with yogurt and studded with fresh coriander leaves. That ought to soften those sour looks. Briseis noticed the servants had brought a small silver plate of dates stuffed with almonds. Dates were a delicacy from far away deserts and she wouldn’t have wasted them on these men, but she figured the cook was throwing her support behind Briseis as best she could.
“I’m sorry Lord Glaukos won’t be available to receive you,” she said. She noted the disappointment on the face of the man who’d taken the lead. He shifted in his chair and looked around the room. He wanted someone to do business with right away. That he felt such pressure was interesting.
Instead of the questions she would have liked to ask, she sifted through the polite things her mother used to say that made everyone comfortable and easy.
“It’s unseasonably warm today. The dust on the road from the harbor must have been choking.” The two sailors nodded but did not interrupt shoveling their meal into their mouths.
“Yes, very dusty and hot,” said the short man with the yellow trim, but then he lapsed unhelpfully into silence.
“Did you sail from a long distance?” Perhaps she could discover if they were working with the raiders to the north.
“Not too far.”
Briseis sighed. She let them eat until the awkward silence made her desperate.
“I wonder in your travels among the Greek kings,” Briseis said, using the only topic that came to mind, “have you ever seen Lord Achilles? The tales the bards sing about him seem impossible, an invincible warrior, half immortal.”
She loved the bards’ tales. The tale of Achilles had enthralled her the first time she heard it sung. Some versions even said an immortal centaur, Chiron—half horse, half man—had taught Achilles to be a healer, of all thing
s. It seemed a pleasant topic to her, but the traders looked alarmed. She remembered that her mother had often warned her not to go on about the stories she loved—it was unladylike and wild. Look what she had done—made them uncomfortable with her inappropriate conversation.
The leader of the traders stared at her. A piece of bread, dripping chickpeas, stayed suspended half way to his mouth. The other two had also stopped stuffing themselves.
It occurred to her that their alarm wasn’t about her rude manners. Did they, in fact, know about the Greek raids? Her mention of the most powerful of the Greek warriors was not a topic traders would want to focus on with her family if they knew of fighting—bad for business. Especially if they wanted weapons.
Briseis smiled at her guests. Maybe her wild conversation topic had been just right for the circumstances. A little surge of confidence made her sit up taller.
The three men looked at each other. The leader put his dripping bread back into the bowl. He cleared his throat.
“No, no, we’ve never seen Lord Achilles. Or King Agamemnon either.” He quickly shoved in a bite of bread as if to shut himself up.
Agamemnon? Briseis’s eyebrows shot up. The powerful king of the Mycenaeans? What a terrible, nervous liar this man was—bringing up what hadn’t even been mentioned. He obviously had business with Agamemnon that he wanted to hide. Her doubts about what course to take with these men disappeared. She’d send them on their way once they’d finished their meal. Housing them for the night was out of the question. She’d avoid having her family antagonize these Greeks.
When the empty plates had been cleared and each had had his fill of wine, she rose from her chair and the servants drew up behind her.
“I am so sorry you have missed my father. I hope you will have better fortune on the next leg of your journey. I am sure you can understand that I am unable to assist you.”
The Greeks rose in courtesy. The man with tattered yellow braid asked, “Your father’s return isn’t expected soon? We could wait. We’d like to discuss some trade with him. Profitable trade.”
She tried to look apologetic. “No, I’m sorry. That won’t be possible. However, it is fortunate that Lyrnessos’s harbor is only a half-day’s walk from here. You have not come too far out of your way. I am sure you will find good business elsewhere.” She bowed them toward the door.
Chapter Four
Gold and Blood
Briseis’s three brothers arrived home late in the afternoon, but they stayed by the gate waiting for their father. From across the courtyard, Briseis watched them whispering together, full of some news. She went over to tell them about the traders’ visit, but they fell silent when she got near.
Briseis crossed her arms over her chest. “What’s so interesting that you don’t want to tell me?”
“We should wait till Father gets home,” her eldest brother Bienor said. “We don’t really know anything for sure.”
Now she was curious. She looked at Iatros to see if she could make him tell her. He pushed a pebble back and forth with his left foot, keeping his eyes on the ground.
They all looked up at the sound of Glaukos’s chariot wheels and horse. He waved and they stepped back to let their father through the gates. He jumped down and tossed the reins to a groom.
“Since you’re all waiting for me,” Glaukos said, “I assume you have heard the news. A Greek army—a big one—has encamped before Troy.” Briseis gasped. How had distant raids become an army at Troy?
“Will we fight?” Bienor asked.
“Probably not,” Glaukos said, rubbing his fingers along his jaw line where the day’s dark stubble showed against his olive skin. His expression was grim. “The Greeks have raided before. They fill their ships with treasure and slaves, whatever they find useful, and leave.”
“I hope so,” said Iatros. “They should go away soon.”
“But won’t we defend Troy?” Bienor looked surprised. He still had on the sword belt he’d worn to practice, slung across his chest. The gold lion inlaid into the bronze grip of his sword appeared to be running up toward his neck. As Glaukos’s sons, both Bienor and Adamas had the best possible weapons from Milos’s workshop. Briseis wondered how eager they were to use them in battle. She hoped they never got a chance. Iatros looked sick. He shared her feelings on this, apparently.
“Troy’s walls will hold off the Greeks,” said Glaukos. “They’ll have to be content to prey on smaller towns nearby.” His mouth turned down. “I’m so sorry, Briseis, they’ve already destroyed Sestos.”
“Sestos!” Briseis had never been so far north, but Sestos mattered to her. A renowned healer from Sestos, named Henti, had stayed for several weeks with Antiope when Briseis was six. She remembered the piercing blue eyes that seemed to read her thoughts and the dusky voice that startled her coming from the tiny, birdlike woman. Henti had chosen to travel around the towns of the Troad to exchange knowledge with other healers. Antiope had revered her.
Glaukos put his arm around Briseis’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. Sestos has been burned to the ground, the scouts say.”
“What happened to the people? Is Henti safe? Do you know?” Briseis gripped her father’s arm.
“We don’t know about the women. Probably taken captive.”
Briseis held tighter to her father. Her knees felt like they might give way. Then she understood what her father hadn’t said—the men must all be dead. “But…”
“Why did Troy let that happen to Sestos?” Iatros looked close to tears.
Glaukos shook his head. “King Priam didn’t have a choice. The Greeks brought a huge army this time, not the usual raiding party. The king can’t risk leaving Troy undefended by sending his warriors to fight somewhere else.”
This didn’t seem right, but there was no point arguing with her father. It hadn’t been his decision to abandon Sestos, Briseis figured, but Priam should protect the small towns. Isn’t that why they allied themselves to Troy?
Briseis guessed from the red flush of Adamas’s face that he wanted to go straight to Troy to fight the Greeks. Her middle brother’s coloring always revealed when he was upset or eager. Part of her sympathized when she remembered Henti. Bienor looked thoughtful though. He’d led skirmishes against the occasional small band of Greek raiders. Maybe he’d talk Adamas out of his enthusiasm.
She suddenly remembered the news she had been waiting to tell her father.
“Father, some Greek traders came while you were at the palace.”
Her father looked at her in surprise. “They’re still here? You should have told me when I entered.”
“Oh no, I sent them on their way. They mentioned Agamemnon so I guessed they might be buying arms for the raiders you’d told me about. I hope I did the right thing. Your news—”
“Agamemnon? He’s the king at the head of the army at Troy. If they have any business with him, you did exactly the right thing. Thank you.”
Adamas tossed his head. “Mynes said Achilles is with them. There’ll be some fighting for sure.”
“Achilles?” Briseis felt odd saying his name now. Listening to the bards, even talking to the traders about the famous warrior, hadn’t felt real. How could such a man walk the earth—born of a sea goddess who could take any form she liked, even water or fire? “They say Achilles is invincible. We should never let him be our foe.”
Her father gave her an odd look.
“Mynes wants to fight him,” said Bienor. Mynes’s eagerness to fight didn’t surprise Briseis.
Her father waved his hands to stop his sons. The lines on his forehead deepened. “The Trojans have their own warriors. You boys don’t need to fight Achilles.”
“Is it true,” Adamas asked, “that a Trojan prince seduced a Greek queen named Helen? And they came to take her back?” He fiddled with the ties at his side that held his leather chest guard in place. She wished he’d take off those hot layers of leather, but neither brother seemed to want to unburden himself of his martial gear. She ho
ped this talk of Troy and armies would pass quickly.
Glaukos shrugged. “That scoundrel Paris did steal one of their queens. He’ll have to pay recompense.”
“Father, everyone’s heard the tales about Achilles,” Bienor said. “If the Greeks want that woman back, won’t he knock down the walls and take her?”
Glaukos shook his head. “Troy’s impregnable and has many allies. Not even a half-immortal hero can change that—if the stories are even true.” Her father sat down on the brick bench built into the courtyard wall and indicated with his chin that they should also. She knew what would follow: one of his lessons. He always included her. She would rule as queen one day and needed to understand how the world beyond the household worked.
He told them it shouldn’t surprise the Trojans to find angry Greeks at their doorstep. “The Trojans control the straits into the Black Sea—the only sea route for trade, and the Greeks are traders. The winds often keep Greek merchants trapped in Troy’s harbor, and the Trojans take advantage of them by charging exorbitant fees: an amphora of wine for a bed to sleep in, a copper ingot for their meals. And they charge tariffs for the right to pass through. The Greeks resent this treatment.”
“The Trojans’ greed has gone too far,” Glaukos said. “The Greeks are even greedier—especially Agamemnon, and he’s in charge of this particular raid.”
Glaukos stood. He shrugged. “Greed can be bought off and King Priam has plenty to pay with. He’ll hand over enough to make the Greeks forget their grievances. They’ll destroy another town or two and feel like a victorious army. Then they’ll leave with their horde of gold.”
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