“Appears she climbed out. When the other women tried to hold her to stop trouble coming on ’em all, she hit out at ’em—not as frail as she let on, I guess. Made her lose her balance, it did, and she went right over the side. Under the water and gone. She might be breathing like you and me if she’d been able to think of someone other than herself.”
Briseis nodded. Hatepa had been oblivious to any needs but her own, but the thought of sinking below the cold water made Briseis shudder. The women couldn’t even prepare her body for the pyre or perform the rite to give her soul a place to rest. Briseis scolded herself—she’d made Iatros’s rite apply to all their dead back at Lyrnessos. She supposed she should come up with some prayer for Hatepa’s journey in death.
While Eurome and Briseis talked, the chatter of women had grown louder as they worked nearby in the part of the courtyard that served as kitchen with a lean-to and cook fire.
“We should go help, Eurome.”
Briseis observed two pretty women carrying dishes into Achilles’ shelter. From their demeanor she guessed they viewed this as a privileged task. They were welcome to it.
Briseis got up from the bench and walked over to the work area. A slender, curly haired young woman poured wine from an amphora. It started to slip from the woman’s grasp. Briseis leapt over and helped her place it safely back on the ground.
The woman smiled her thanks. “My name is Iphis.”
Briseis introduced herself. Iphis laughed. “I know. Everyone knows who you are.” Despite the words, her tone was friendly and her eyes gentle. “Will you help me carry this cup to Achilles? I can’t manage both the full pitcher and his cup in one trip.” Briseis hesitated, then nodded. She liked this cheerful woman.
Briseis saw Asdu slip out of the shadows, pick up a tray of wine cups and join them on the way to the open door of Achilles’ shelter.
Inside, six men sat in chairs around the hearth, four other warriors besides Achilles and Patroklos. Achilles’ presence dominated the room.
As soon as they crossed the threshold, Briseis felt the men’s eyes turn toward her. They looked with curiosity and either admiration or wariness, Briseis couldn’t tell which. Achilles’ look puzzled her most of all—his face was filled with light, despite the shadowy room.
Patroklos sat on one side of Achilles. On the other side was an old man past his best fighting days. From the porch Briseis had heard Achilles call him Phoenix. He patted Achilles’ arm with affectionate familiarity, more like a father than a comrade. Briseis didn’t catch the names of the two others, but the fourth, across from Achilles, was called Aias. His fame as a warrior, like Achilles’, had reached Lyrnessos. She had heard him called the bulwark of the Achaians—a name that suited him given his bulk. He would have been the largest man in any other gathering, but unlike Achilles, who moved with a fluid grace, he carried his size like a stone wall.
When Achilles beckoned to them, Briseis followed Iphis. He thanked Briseis as he reached for the cup. She noticed it for the first time. The cup portrayed dolphins swimming beside a goddess as she rose from the waves. Milos, for all his skill, had never fashioned so real a scene. She could feel the rhythm of the waves and the splash as the dolphins leapt in the water.
“Do you see the waves dancing?” he asked her. She nodded. “Not everyone does—the skill of Hephaistos is too fine for some eyes. He gave it to my mother as a wedding gift. See how he’s shown her rising from her father’s kingdom under the sea? When I came to Troy, she told me to bring it. Mothers have their ways of spying on their sons. Sometimes I think she really is watching me from it, but I suppose she has no need for tricks like that.” Briseis studied the face. His goddess mother depicted by an immortal—that must be what her face truly looked like. For a moment it felt as if Thetis stared straight into her heart.
Achilles drew another chair close to him. “Sit here by the fire. You are still recovering and should rest. Do you mind enduring our rough talk of this cursed war? I would enjoy your company.” She noticed surprised looks on the faces around the fire, but they nodded graciously to Achilles’ suggestion, however unusual.
Briseis was about to shake her head, when over Achilles’ shoulder she saw Asdu’s face contorted in a sour expression. Achilles smiled, holding the chair. She sank into it, murmuring her thanks. To refuse would be rude, but she knew that wasn’t the reason she sat.
Briseis felt jealous. Asdu was attracted to Achilles—lovesick over the man who had ruined their lives. Asdu had been his bedmate; he had shared with her the names of rivers… I am jealous over a man I have said I want nothing to do with. I was mean enough to cause Asdu to feel jealous in return. Briseis sank lower into the chair.
Three other young women came in with trays of food. Iphis poured wine for the men, and when she reached Patroklos, she lingered over him, her lips brushing his as she leaned down to fill his cup, and after he had taken a drink, she wiped a drop from the side of his mouth and then raised her wine-stained finger to her lips. Briseis blushed at this intimacy. She had never seen a woman behave like that in open company with men. She lowered her head and looked down into her lap.
When Asdu left, carrying an empty tray, her head was bent low, and Briseis thought she saw a tear glisten on her cheek. She felt bad for Asdu—for all of them in this newfound captivity whose rules and cruelties they would have to learn. She would try not to hurt her again.
The six warriors seated around the hearth discussed the battles that occurred during Achilles’ absence—an endless ebb and flow on the plain of Troy. Apparently the Trojans had pushed the Greeks toward the banks of the Scamander nearer to the camp. These men discussed the cataclysms of war as casually as her father and brothers had discussed crops and the possibility of a frost. Had they been fighting so long that they had become habituated to the horrors? She didn’t want to hear their talk of battles against her people.
They laid plans for tomorrow’s renewed attack. Now that Achilles had returned, they could shift the battle back toward the city. Troy’s massive walls had a weak point where an older section joined a newer part—the men referred to it as “the place of the fig tree.” They had aimed at this spot before without breaking through, but Achilles said they would succeed now because they had worn down the Trojan forces during the months of fighting. Briseis wondered if Achilles’ certainty arose more from his impatience with the war than the state of the Trojan army. It seemed odd to her that the huge Greek army depended so heavily on one man. Only his presence on the battlefield drove back the Trojans. She remembered Achilles’ remark about the danger any immortal child of Thetis would pose to the balance of power among the gods.
Briseis felt uneasy sitting amidst the men. At home, she would have sat on the women’s side of the hearth. Here all sides belonged to men. As a girl, she had disliked her separation from the men, where all the interesting conversations took place. Now she hunched her shoulders and pulled her feet close up under the chair.
Despite her discomfort she ate hungrily and tried not to think about the closeness of the strange men around her or being singled out again for special treatment. At least Iphis and one of the serving women stayed through the meal, refilling food and wine as needed. When the rest of the young women reappeared to clear away the meal, Asdu took Achilles’ plate and received a polite smile. As they carried away the dirty dishes, Briseis saw Asdu turn her head and gaze at Achilles before she went out, but Achilles was listening to something Patroklos said, and if he noticed her, he showed no sign of it.
Patroklos rose and went to some chests at the back of the big room, returning with a silver lyre.
“As you requested,” he said to Achilles, “I saved this from the greedy doe’s clutches. I buried it under some cheeses that had started to mold.” The men around the fire laughed at this, although Briseis sensed their unease with the open disrespect toward Agamemnon.
“When Agamemnon’s henchmen reported back to him about the treasures he should tell his heralds to take
away, they didn’t know it existed. When one of them saw me carrying it and complained that he’d be in trouble for missing such a valuable item, I told him it was far too fine an instrument for the riff-raff Agamemnon finds to sing his praises.” Patroklos bowed to Achilles and handed him the lyre. “An instrument fit for a king.”
Phoenix called out, “A song, Achilles, sing a good tale for us. We’ve missed your company in more ways than one.” This request surprised Briseis. Achilles was a bard? How could that be?
Achilles held the lyre reverently in his hands. He tried the strings. The sound was as silvery as the lyre itself. Despite the beauty of the instrument and the trueness of its sound, he wore a sad expression.
“You can’t find fault with this lyre,” said Patroklos.
“No, the instrument is flawless. I will have to choose my song carefully to do honor to it. Yet I cannot help but mourn for whoever in Thebes had such musical skill that they owned so fine an instrument.” Briseis had never heard of a great bard in Thebes, but she liked the tribute the anonymous man received.
Achilles plucked the strings with the plectrum, and she heard the familiar rhythm of bardic songs. She felt the thrill that always struck her heart when a tale began—greater this time because this unlikely bard piqued her curiosity. What sort of story would he tell? For a time he played the lyre without singing, stopping to tune the strings occasionally until they suited him. He had turned in his chair so that he gazed in her direction, but his mind seemed to rove, searching for a tale to sing.
Then he smiled as if he had thought of something that pleased him and his eyes looked into hers. “Up on the ridge, you asked about my mother, and many know the story of how my father wooed her on a rocky outcropping while the waves crashed on either side—no easy courtship, as she changed from lion to serpent to fire and then tried to slip away as water. He held on through it all and won her love. But before the gods chose my lady mother, Thetis, as his bride, Peleus loved another, the daughter of King Eurytion. By winning her heart he also won a kingdom, for Eurytion ruled in Phthia, where now my father reigns. Together Eurytion and Peleus performed many heroic deeds worthy of song, but tonight I will sing about the Calydonian Boar Hunt—where Peleus won great fame, but the gods demanded too much in return.”
His expression took on a faraway look as Achilles sang of the famous hunt for the monstrous boar that ravaged Calydon. Briseis had heard this song before but not this piece of the story. Achilles described how the boar charged Peleus like lightning from the sky. The hero threw his spear but did not notice Eurytion standing behind the boar’s rocky lair. Peleus’s cast overshot the noxious beast and struck his father-in-law instead. Achilles told of a fateful spear cast that the hero would give anything to withdraw. She knew he spoke to her.
The song told of further sorrow. With heavy heart Peleus buried Eurytion, giving him all the honors due a king. Briseis thought of the pyre which she had left burning by the fallen gates of Lyrnessos.
The rules of death—no matter how accidental—could not be gainsaid. Peleus faced a year’s exile and purification by another king before he could go home to Phthia and his grieving wife. Without the comforting words and embraces of her husband’s presence, his wife could not forgive. Her abyss of grief, Achilles sang, drew to itself a greater darkness. She found fault with her husband no matter how his messages pled. She even believed a false rumor of a new love her husband had found. Though Peleus’s arms ached to hold her and offer solace, she hanged herself and walked below in shadows far from the sunlight’s comfort. Peleus grew inconsolable at the pain he had caused.
Briseis heard yearning in the song and knew Achilles meant it for her.
Achilles had come to her in visions and dreams, spoken through her voice during the Spring Festival, and here, at last, Briseis heard his own song, his warning and his offering. She felt her understanding of him growing, along with her confusion.
At a pause in Achilles’ song, Aias spoke up, his broad forehead creased in bewilderment. “I know you are inspired by the Muses, Achilles, but I’ve never heard the story of the Calydonian Boar told this way.”
Briseis understood his perplexity. When the bards had sung this tale in her father’s home, they had emphasized entirely different aspects.
“Didn’t Meleager slay the boar and protect the city of Calydon?” asked Aias. “Isn’t that what matters? Your father is a fine hero—no one blamed him for a misthrown spear. It could have happened to anyone, and the gods gave him Thetis soon after. What’s this about being inconsolable? You know that our fathers, brothers that they are, fought many battles together. They didn’t have time for brooding.” Briseis smiled in sympathy. He’d told the standard version. She liked Aias’s blunt honesty, but the purpose of Achilles’ tale escaped him.
Achilles laughed. “How right you are, my trustworthy Aias. You always see the short path where I see the winding one. Let me mend my tale. Meleager killed the boar and won the glory that day.”
Achilles stood and the other men rose. Under his breath she heard Patroklos say, “And then more strife broke out over the trophy of the boar’s hide, so that Meleager killed his uncles and even his mother wished him dead. That’s another winding path.”
Briseis frowned at this. He saw her look and shrugged in apology.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Offering of Love
As the men bid one another goodnight, Briseis slipped out. She was unsure whether Achilles intended for her to stay or not, but she knew she wanted to escape. Aias had been confused, but she understood the truth of the song: that love should not be rejected even in the midst of sorrow and that forgiveness brings back joy. Yet as Patroklos had just reminded her, even stories of love have conflict hidden along the path. She could not cast aside the darkness of grief that swirled around her and the voices of her family, even if only one might still be living.
By the dying light of the cook fire, she could see that most of the women had retired for the night. Those left were the prettiest who, Briseis guessed, might be expected to serve in one other duty for the night. She headed toward the women’s hut. Instead of going inside, she sat on the bench facing Achilles’ porch. No one looking out from there would see her in the dark, but she could watch who came and went, lit by the firelight coming through his open door.
The warriors came out onto the porch with Achilles and Patroklos. She heard them reviewing where each king would deploy his forces. When they stepped off the porch, Aias shouted, “To the fig tree!” She smiled at first at how ridiculous a goal that sounded—even if it was the weak place in Troy’s walls. Then she pictured the Trojan women watching as the enemy burst their city’s defenses just as she had done such a short time ago. How could these men make such things the daily business of their lives? The warriors walked off toward the gate. Aias’s bulk overshadowed the others, and Phoenix had an uneven gait, caused, she guessed, by aging joints or an old injury grown worse with the troubles of time.
Patroklos and Achilles remained on the porch. Achilles’ size dwarfed Patroklos, but the greater contrast showed between Achilles’ restless motion, even when nothing remained to be done, and Patroklos’s comfortable stillness. Achilles stretched his arms and then looked around as if he’d lost something. He put his arm around Patroklos’s shoulder and sagged against his friend. Patroklos wrapped his arms around him and supported him. It looked strange to see the smaller man sustaining the colossus. She thought of the word from his song—“inconsolable.”
Patroklos had said that she could cure Achilles’ despair. She wondered. Did she want to? Achilles had described how their friendship had healed Patroklos’s grief and given Achilles the restraint he lacked on his own. If she had her arms around Achilles as Patroklos did now, would the despair leave him and would the weight of her own grief lessen? Her arms, traitors to her brothers, longed to feel Achilles’ smooth, muscled body in their embrace.
She thought too of Peleus holding tight to Thetis through all her t
ransformations, even when she burned him as fire. He had found the strength to love again, to hold on through scorching flames. How to follow Peleus’s lead? How could she embrace a man who had burned up everything she loved? She also remembered the flames that had brought her pleasure in her vision. Which flames would Achilles bring to her?
Achilles and Patroklos stepped out from under the porch roof and looked up at the stars.
“Perhaps tomorrow will be the day we take Troy,” said Achilles. “At least we’re back here where we can finish this war.”
He glanced over at the kitchen fire and called a name Briseis did not recognize. A woman rose and Iphis joined her. They followed the two men into Achilles’ shelter.
Briseis watched as Achilles pushed shut the wooden door, leaving the world around her in darkness.
When she found her bed, she didn’t sleep well. The few times she drifted off, she had restless dreams, which stayed just beyond her memory when she awakened in the dark. Deep into the night she finally fell into a sound sleep.
The heralds’ call-to-arms jolted her from this oblivion. She pulled on the same dirty tunic and skirt she’d been wearing for days and went outside.
The courtyard buzzed with organized commotion. The women served breakfast to hurried men. Grooms prepared chariots. Other men sharpened blades and finished the small daily repairs to armor that constant warfare required.
Achilles’ henchmen laughed and joked as they fastened their leg greaves and chest corselets. She shuddered at the ordinariness with which they viewed arming for battle. From outside the courtyard came a groundswell of noise: the Greek army preparing for battle.
Achilles strode through the courtyard. Across his shoulder he had slung his silver-studded sword and massive shield, thick with leather and bronze layers and faced with blinding gold. His bronze-and-silver greaves formed to his legs as if part of his flesh. His gleaming helmet and its horsehair crest towered above all the other men in the courtyard. Across his chest a skilled craftsman, surely divine, had scattered the starry heavens on his corselet. This is how he had looked when she first saw him astride the fallen Great Gate in Lyrnessos—a god of war bringing destruction to all she loved. She shrank back into the doorway of the women’s hut.
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