She watched as, despite the weight of his armor, Achilles leapt lightly in beside his charioteer, and saw his horses toss their heads when they felt his presence. She heard his war cry and the cheers that echoed as he drove through the Myrmidon camp, gathering his men behind him like a towering wave that threatened to crash upon Troy. She felt the ground shake as the thousands marched to Scamander’s plain below the walls of Troy.
As a storm recedes and the thunder wanes, so the courtyard gradually fell into dusty quiet, with the rumble of two armies still a distant backdrop. The men left on guard duty shut the gates and struggled to pull across the timber that barred them. Briseis felt hollow, as though she had been a drum in which all that clamor and menace had reverberated.
She saw Eurome by the cook fire.
“Good morning. Let me fetch you a bit to eat,” her nurse said cheerfully. “What a busy place this morning.” How differently Eurome responded to the camp’s activities.
Her nurse put before her some cheese, a bit of onion and flatbread. Briseis looked at it without eating.
“Feeling lost?” asked Eurome, pushing a piece of the bread into Briseis’s hand.
“All those Greek soldiers readying for battle made me feel terrified all over again—too many reminders of Lyrnessos’s destruction.”
Eurome nodded. “We’ve seen sorrows, we certainly have. My poor Poppy. Eat up, anyway. It’ll do you good, sad or not. You need a distraction from all this, not reminders, I’ll say that.”
It seemed unlikely that she’d find a distraction from the war around her, although perhaps she’d grow accustomed to it as the soldiers had. How could anyone ignore the looming violence that thrived and mounted in intensity all around them even before the army left camp? The sounds of fighting filtered to her, less thunderous but disturbing even so. At times she could make out individual shouts and distinct clashes of bronze against bronze.
She thought of the view from the ridge. Across the bay the Trojan warriors confronted that horde she had watched arming, and somewhere in their midst, her father fought. She listened intently to the cries muffled by distance. Was that exultant war cry her father’s voice? Or was that shriek his death agony? She couldn’t think this way. She’d go mad.
She tried to eat.
Eurome poured some water into a kettle suspended on a tripod over the coals, then she poked at the fire to waken it. “Chamomile tea, that’ll settle you. I always say, chamomile for whatever troubles you.”
Briseis smiled. Eurome and her chamomile tea. The homely reminder made her feel better. How good to be near Eurome. Her home wasn’t a place anymore, but she still had one.
Eurome’s bustling around made her think of Maira somehow, and Briseis wondered how she fared. Maira had maintained a quiet reserve at the palace, but Briseis guessed that wasn’t her chosen nature. Maybe escaping Hatepa and ending up in the Greek camp would be better for her. Mynes had forced her to make a stifling choice. They were both free of him. They’d never spoken of the bond they shared, but Briseis felt it deeply.
Briseis looked around her and an idea started forming. She remembered the layout of the camp as Achilles had shown it to her. If she could get someone to unbar the courtyard gate, perhaps she could go through the camp and find Maira. She’d have to think of a way to convince Agamemnon’s guards to let her inside his stockade. If she brought her healing satchel, she could claim she was seeing to Maira’s health. Eurome wanted a distraction for her. This sounded like a good one. The hollowness began to fill with something solidly familiar.
“Eurome, I think I should go make sure Maira’s all right.”
“Maira? Oh my stars and fishes, what are you saying? You can’t go willy nilly where you please. You’re… you’re forgetting.” She shook her head. “Drink your tea. There’ll be work to get onto in a bit. I knowed this weren’t going to be easy for you.”
“I’ll be back in plenty of time to help.”
Briseis studied the guards sitting by the gate, eating their breakfast. If Iphis had known who she was, probably these soldiers did too. Even the lords around Achilles’ fire had seemed wary of her. She thought the guards might obey her if she told them to open the gate for her—that she had some brief business elsewhere in camp. It was worth a try.
Eurome looked like she was going to launch into one of her scoldings, but Briseis gave her a kiss. “Don’t worry. I may get no further than that gate.”
She brushed the crumbs from her clothes, though there wasn’t much point. Her tunic and skirt were a mess. Eurome, bless her, had found some clothes to replace the ones singed by fire and soaked in Iatros’s blood—rough clothes and even dirtier now after days of wearing them. Difficult to look commanding in such rags, but they’d have to do. First she retrieved her satchel from the women’s hut and then headed to the gate.
The men scrambled to their feet as she approached—a good sign. She pulled herself tall as she had on the beach with Patroklos and made her request. The soldiers looked at each other. She gave them her most imperious expression. “Well?”
One cleared his throat. “You’d return directly here?”
“Of course. I have duties here that I must attend to.” She wasn’t quite sure what those duties might be, but as Eurome had said, there’d be work in a bit. The men leaned into the task of unbarring the gate.
She set off on a garbage-strewn path she hoped would lead toward Agamemnon’s ships. It occurred to her too late that walking alone in a camp of soldiers could prove dangerous. Fortunately, as she made her way, the camp appeared empty. The two soldiers she did see, both obviously wounded, paid no attention to her. Eventually she reached the huge group of ships that she recognized as Agamemnon’s. Winding her way among the propped hulls, she looked for a stockade similar to Achilles’. When she noticed smoke rising above the ships and realized that it must come from cook fires, she hurried forward.
She soon ran into a wall of timbers much sturdier than Achilles’ stockade and followed it around until she came to a broad, open gate. Peeking through she saw a huge shelter surrounded by several small huts that looked similar to the one she had slept in. Clustered near the huts, she saw a large number of women, working at various tasks.
A guard yelled at her. “What are you skulking about, woman? Where do you belong?”
Briseis stepped out of the shadow of the gate and marched up to the guard. She was shivering inside but it wouldn’t do to show fear to this rude soldier. She saw the moment in which he recognized her. Some of her shivering quieted when he stepped back.
She patted the healing satchel at her side. “I need to attend to one of Agamemnon’s captives. I am a healer.” The soldier didn’t look persuaded, but Briseis continued on toward the women.
Fortunately, Maira had noticed her and hurried over. “Lady Briseis, you’ve come.” Maira took her by the arm and led her to the women’s area.
Briseis resisted the urge to look back at the soldier’s reaction. She whispered. “I told the guard I came to see to one of Agamemnon’s captives.”
Maira nodded. “I guessed that when you patted your satchel. The captives don’t move about the camp. That guard shouldn’t have let you in, but it seems like you managed it. No one else could.” She smiled at Briseis. “It’s good to see you. I’m so glad you dared.”
“It’s wonderful to see you.”
They stood awkwardly for a while and then sat on a bench away from the others. After their initial greetings, they remained in silence. Their connection had always been unspoken.
Then Briseis leaned over and hugged Maira. “Everything’s different now, isn’t it?”
Maira nodded.
Briseis looked around. “Agamemnon’s camp has far more huts for women and his shelter—it’s a palace almost.”
Maira shrugged. “He likes to look like the king of the whole army, not just his warriors from Mycenae. And he likes to have lots of captives. He has to house them somewhere. How many women’s huts does Achilles hav
e?”
“Just one. It’s rather full, but our pallets do fit in one.” Briseis counted six huts for Agamemnon. She remembered the much larger number of women he’d taken at the distribution than Achilles had been granted.
Maira hesitated. “I’m glad you came, but didn’t it seem dangerous? I mean…” She shook her head. “You’re not used to being—” She waved her hand to indicate the other captives.
“The soldiers left me alone,” said Briseis. Maira laughed.
Briseis realized she’d never heard Maira laugh before—she liked the sound. “What?”
“You may be the only woman who can walk wherever you please—no wonder the guard let you in. They’re all afraid you’ll go after them with a sword. You have more courage than any of them and they know it. You fought against Achilles and lived.”
Briseis shrugged. “I guess you heard about that. What I did wasn’t so great, whatever the soldiers think. It was useless. Achilles still killed Iatros. I feel sick remembering it.”
Maira put her hand on Briseis’s arm. “You did everything you could to save your brother. To defend a sibling—that’s not useless. It’s love.”
She’d acted from love, true, but also from something darker, a violent strength hidden inside her. “When I think about it, it felt good to fight back even if I didn’t save Iatros.”
“I understand,” said Maira. “It’s hard to be strong and yet powerless to take action.”
Briseis grasped her hand. “You do understand. I’m only beginning to.”
They sat, their silence companionable.
Briseis turned to her. “Do you ever wish you could have taken a sword to Mynes?”
Maira drew back in surprise. Briseis regretted her question—Maira’s sympathy didn’t mean she wanted to take up swords.
“I’m sorry,” Briseis said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
Maira shook her head. “It isn’t that.” She sat looking off in the distance. Then she turned to Briseis. “A knife, not a sword. That’s what I always imagined.”
They looked at each other and started laughing so hard the other women turned and stared at them.
“I don’t know what made me say that, Lady Briseis,” Maira sputtered.
“I do, and I agree with you. He’s dead anyway, and I can’t mourn him. I tried. And I’m not Lady Briseis anymore. We’re two captives. Maybe less captive than we were in the palace?”
Not wanting to upset the guards by staying too long, Briseis said goodbye. She’d visit again. She returned to Achilles’ camp where she worked with Eurome and the others in the lean-to kitchen through the morning and then asked them if she could rest. Smoke made her short of breath.
She went into their hut and closed the door. The only light came from the smoke hole. She was alone and grateful for that. She picked her way to her pallet, stepping around the other bedding and possessions. At her own bed, she started back in fear. Someone lay there, rolled up in a blanket.
Collecting herself, she touched the sleeping figure. It wasn’t a soldier or one of the other women, mistakenly sleeping on her bed. Her hand grasped a tapestry, rolled in such a way it looked human in the dimness. She squatted down next to it and unrolled a portion with shaking hands. It was her tapestry—her tapestry of medicinal plants. Someone must have slipped it in here after she had gotten up that morning.
She spread it out to examine the healing plants and flowers scattered over its surface like a spring meadow. Even in the poor light, they appeared as fresh as the day she had last worked on it. No soot dimmed their colors. She ran her hands over its surface, feeling the variations of weave as her fingers moved over different flowers and leaves. Then she clutched it up in an embrace and wrapped it around her body. She had almost finished it when Lyrnessos had been taken. How had it ended up here, placed like an offering on an altar? Why hadn’t it been burned with the rest of Lyrnessos? An unfinished tapestry was of no value.
Briseis untangled it from around her and examined the unfinished top. Someone had carefully cut it from the loom and tied each warp thread so it would not unravel. Who had taken such pains with a partially formed tapestry of medicinal plants? There was only one answer—only another healer would have cared so much, one who also had an eye for beauty. She remembered Achilles’ delight in the fineness of his wine cup. A healer whose eye had been trained by the immortals. And he brought it to her.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Rhythms of Life and Death
Briseis lived amidst the constant noise of war from morning till sunset: bronze clashing, men shrieking, and horses—their death screams made her feel hollow. Each day she watched the two sides face off in battle, fighting like the stags on Mount Ida, their magnificent antlers locked together, pressing against each other but incapable of breaking off or overpowering one another. Each night brought her horrible dreams of wounded men, smashed babies and her brothers bleeding to death where she couldn’t reach them.
By chance she found a routine that brought her a measure of inner stillness and helped her live with this turbulence. At dawn, before the battle started, she made several trips to the spring on the lower slope of the ridge, carrying a large pitcher. One by one she filled the storage amphorae and replenished the water supply in Achilles’ camp. Most of the captive women feared the soldiers and did not wish to venture beyond the courtyard, but Briseis enjoyed the freedom and the soldiers gave her no trouble. At the spring, she could look out at the plain before it filled with warriors and death. She could breathe the silent air.
By the time she finished her last journey to the spring each morning, tired-eyed women had come out of the sleeping hut to start their chores, leaving it empty. She unrolled her tapestry in the sunlight by the doorway. She was left to herself, but she wasn’t alone.
Looking at her tapestry, the memories unfolded: Mount Ida’s meadows and flowers, the smell of pine and oak, the luxuriant green wherever a spring blessed the land. She could hear Maion explaining where to find a particular plant and feel Iatros holding her hand as they explored the woods. She could see her father breaking an olive between his fingers to test its ripeness and Bienor and Adamas standing in the wheat fields, the ripe grains waist high, as they helped their father oversee the harvest. She could smell the fragrant dried herbs in Antiope’s workroom and the sharp scents of the teas and poultices. She found strength.
Later, toward the evening on the day she found the tapestry, she had seen Achilles on his porch and hurried to thank him before her hesitation to speak to him overcame her gratitude. He must have just finished washing away the grime of battle because his skin was still damp, the fresh tunic clinging to his chest.
“Thank you for my tapestry.”
His face broke into a smile. “I hope it brings you some happiness,” he said, warmth in his voice. “If I had not discovered that work in the hall of a mortal princess—one whom I knew nothing about then but have since come to esteem—I would have assumed that, like the cup we studied together, an immortal hand had fashioned it. I could not bear to relinquish it to the flames, but I did not know how glad I would be that I saved it.”
“I am pleased to have it, although you exaggerate its skill. I made it to remember the plants I use as a healer, but this morning it helped me remember everything.” She felt tears threaten.
“That is good. You wanted to remember.”
She had nodded and left the porch.
In contrast to the war the men waged, which kept her on edge, the women’s tasks soothed with their repetitiveness. Chores which would have made her restless before, grinding grain, kneading dough, washing the soldier’s tunics, now helped her feel calm and sturdy. Briseis enjoyed their communal life. Even simple activities, such as getting clean over buckets of water in the cramped confines of their hut, became enjoyable as the women worked through them together. After all the violence, the womanly touch of washing each other’s hair helped mend their sorrowing hearts. They were allowed to take simple fabrics
from the goods brought back from raids and created enough clothing to keep themselves decent and clean.
The chatter of women accompanied all their tasks. These women’s conversations were new to Briseis. With her older brothers she had listened to their male adventures; with Iatros she told stories; with her mother and even Eurome, she had listened and questioned in order to learn; to her servants, she had commanded. These women talked to fill the hours. Briseis liked the relaxed purposelessness of it. To her surprise she had a place among these women, and they gave her the shelter she needed.
In return, she found that she could heal the women through her mother’s rituals, designed to mend sorrow and restore harmony. For materials, she mixed herbs and roots, polished bits of wood, made clay forms and tugged colored wools from the upper row of her tapestry. As the months unfolded through the spring and into the heat of summer, familiar words, actions and scents brought healing and renewal to the other women and to herself.
Eurome had become the errand runner. Any task too lowly for Achilles’ heralds became Eurome’s, and she carried around her neck an official token marked on a piece of leather so she could enter and leave the various stockades without trouble. For reasons different from Briseis’s, she had decided she did not need to fear the soldiers—her old age precluded anything but insults, and Eurome’s love of gathering gossip soon outweighed her concerns.
One afternoon in midsummer, she pulled Briseis aside in a rush. “Oh, little Poppy, sit down and listen to what I heard. Some soldiers was going on about what they’d done in Lyrnessos. I been listening after anything about home, of course. Most of it ugly stuff I wished I could wash out of my ears, but there’s one tale you’d care to hear, even though it’s sad enough.” Briseis felt her throat tighten. She had left behind so many unknown fates in Lyrnessos.
Hand of Fire Page 22