Achilles let out a rumble like waves crashing against rocks. “If only I could. It isn’t that simple.” He pressed his face into his hands as if pushing back his emotions.
He sat up straight and looked at her with a far away expression. “If I faced Agamemnon alone—this war and all the men fighting in it no longer existed, the other kings gone—then I would crush him with my bare hands and feel peace.” She clasped her hands over his.
He shook himself. “We are brother kings, two among many. I cannot be disloyal to a brother, even one I hate. He brought far and away the greatest number of ships and men, and because of that he believes that he holds sway over the rest of us. By all men’s reckoning, he does. Only my immortal strength tips the balance—and only if I forget the responsibilities that I hold as a king. I cannot, will not forget—those duties serve as the shield that protects all my men.”
He stood and paced the room. “If I refused to fight, I would be letting down my fellow warriors, true brothers. Unlike Agamemnon, I claim them as brothers not by right of rule but by shared courage and danger on the battlefield. For them most of all, I swallow my disgust when Agamemnon struts like a cock claiming more authority and honor than his deeds have ever earned. He bought his power with his wealth from Mycenae, and now he forces all of us to serve him and swell his mounds of treasure so that he can satiate his seamy and salacious avarice.”
Achilles’ eyes glowed with their inner fire. She felt the embers scorching. He cried out in rage. “I despise bowing to a lesser man, a false and hollow leader, but loyalty compels me.”
He knelt in front of her, burying his head in her lap, his arms wrapping around her. She held him and stroked his back, feeling his heat dissipate. She knew how it felt to show respect you did not feel for a selfish, foolish king. She had thought only her weakness as a woman and her forced obligations as wife had sprung the trap. Achilles suffered a humiliation similar to her own, for all his strength as a fighter and power as a king. She had to think about that.
“My husband ruled as Agamemnon does,” she said, trying to find the words that would show she understood, without offending him. “You are held by loyalty—not unlike my obligations as a wife. I understand the mortification you feel.” He raised his head. “Mine was a more intimate humiliation, but I know what you feel.” She remembered Maira’s comment that it’s hard to be strong and yet powerless to take action.
She pulled Achilles against her and he lifted her out of the chair in an embrace of despair. Her body understood how to sooth his grief as he had soothed hers. They escaped into a frenzy of pleasure and kept the dark at bay.
Throughout the autumn and into the winter months, when disease as well as wounds needed her cures, Briseis’s reputation as a healer spread. The men brought the injured to her, appreciating her salves and skill at cleaning out wounds, and especially her swift needlework with bandaging. She noticed the men preferred the reassurance of a woman when they came down with the usual illnesses that the cold and dark months brought with them.
When the fighting turned against the Greeks—and those times came and went with no pattern she could understand, unless, as Achilles had said, it was the gods’ interference—then she and Achilles worked side by side in a crush of desperation. His skill in taking away the pain of a wound still confounded her. He taught her many of Chiron’s techniques, those a mortal hand could perform. He adopted her style of stitching bandages, although it had been difficult for him to master and he was nowhere near as swift with his stitches as she was. She kept to herself her glee over her prowess in this area.
Some days the fighting halted. Sometimes the winter weather made even desperate battles impossible to fight and the two sides could not muster on the plain before Troy. Then everyone huddled inside shelter, and Briseis and Achilles sought their own ways to keep warm through the damp.
At other times the war was interrupted for the grim task of gathering the dead for proper burial or for fruitless negotiations between Greeks and Trojans. These days provided time for Briseis and Achilles to escape in some measure from the war. Healers stayed away from burials unless those near to them had died, and no one would send Achilles on a diplomatic mission—that was Odysseus’s job. Like Briseis, Achilles spoke what came to his mind and could not hold his feelings in check. She and Achilles took advantage of these days to wander the countryside renewing their stock of medicinal plants and minerals. His invincibility allowed them to go where they liked.
Along the shore, there was no mistaking his inborn understanding of the sea’s plants and creatures. She was in her element when they went into Mount Ida’s foothills. Between Troy and Lyrnessos lay a mountain range with Ida’s central peak rising above many lesser peaks, sprawling foothills and valleys. She was far from her home, but the woods and springs on this side of the mountains supported the same living things. They quickly added to their stores all the plants and roots that could be gathered in the winter months.
Sometimes, when the fighting went on without a break for too long, she and Achilles slipped out of the Greek camp at night in order to taste the freedom of the mountain. They would choose a clear night when the winter storms had abated. Achilles could walk through the woods by moonlight as easily as midday. He had found a secret route on the ridge above the palisade and gates so they could avoid the guards who would report their actions to Agamemnon, an unwelcome intrusion on their privacy.
She had not wandered so far and freely since before her marriage. She had never done so with a partner as in tune with the forest. Her mother and Maion had taught her the plants they viewed as useful, but Achilles’ senses reached into all the life of the forest. He could hear a fawn’s breath as it hid in the underbrush and peek at the delicate creature without startling it. By some ethereal hint in the air, he could track a plant by scent. She hadn’t thought anyone aside from herself could be so captivated by simple offerings to the senses. To find this mutual celebration gave her peace, and her spirit, broken loose from palace and camp, felt joy without shying away from the wounds and grief that also resided there. In the hidden places of the woods, their heightened sensibilities intensified their lovemaking.
Contentment and purpose filled her days, although war and fate both loomed over her if she did not keep them away by an act of will. She preferred to live as Patroklos had advised, without trying to know what the future held, as though she were not in love with a man who, though more than mortal, was subject to a mortal’s fate.
At moments she recognized something else bothering her, some sensibility, like a dream she couldn’t remember on waking, that lingered just beyond her understanding, a visceral obligation she had abandoned but could no longer identify. She didn’t pursue this uncomfortable inner voice, but even so she sensed some other purpose was trying to find its way to her if she chose to listen. Life with Achilles gave her pleasure enough to shut out anything else.
Briseis wanted to visit Maira more frequently, but the growing tension between Achilles and Agamemnon kept her away. She feared her presence might spark something worse now that she was so closely associated with Achilles, but when she received a message from Maira that Chryseis needed her help, she chose to risk it.
Briseis slogged along the sodden paths, choosing her route carefully since it had rained overnight and some of the paths became muddy rivers. As soon as Briseis arrived at Agamemnon’s camp, she saw why she had been called to help the unfortunate victim of Agamemnon’s lust.
Slumped and shivering by a cook fire set up inside one of the lean-to kitchens, Chryseis, willowy before, had grown gaunt; her eyes deadened to a haunted emptiness. She appeared even more childlike in her suffering, but still beautiful. Her blond hair cascaded about her face and shoulders in a luxuriance at odds with the thin face, but the sharp definition of cheekbones was still lovely.
Maira whispered, “You see how she is. We can’t rescue her from Agamemnon’s bed, but is there anything else you can do to help her? What she needs is a re
silient spirit, but.... Perhaps I called you here for nothing.”
“I’m glad you did, although I’m not sure what I can do.”
Briseis sat down by Chryseis and rubbed her shoulders and arms to warm the girl, but Chryseis didn’t look up at her. She wanted to understand this girl with the curious childhood: fostered in a royal household, almost parentless, pampered and privileged, and yet not completely belonging. The intimate wounds Chryseis endured from Agamemnon could rip out a person’s roots. Briseis knew that from experience.
Chryseis responded to her greeting with an unintelligible murmur.
“Maira mentioned you grew up in King Eetion’s palace. Tell me about your life. Remembering the people and places we knew before this war can comfort us. ”
Chryseis looked at her, puzzled. “Why should I tell you anything?” Chryseis’s sullen expression made her look even younger, more a spoiled child than an injured woman.
Briseis took a deep breath and held back what she might have said. “Because it might cheer you to talk about happier times. We probably share experiences in common as noble women.”
“Not like these serving women.” Chryseis tossed her chin disparagingly in the direction of Maira and the other captives. Briseis wanted to shake the girl. How did Maira have such patience, first with Hatepa and now with this girl?
“What did you enjoy?”
Chryseis sagged and her head fell forward like a rag doll’s. “I miss my father,” she sobbed. “He brought me presents.” She raised her head. “Once he gave me braiding from Crete for a new skirt. He paid an exorbitant price—two gold cups. It was even prettier than the trimming on Lady Andromache’s wedding dress.”
The momentary vitality vanished from Chryseis’ expression. “It’s all burned up. Maybe my father could buy me more. He’s the priest on the island of Chryse, so he wasn’t in Thebes when the Greeks killed everyone. But I won’t see him again.”
“Perhaps you will some day,” said Briseis, although that seemed unlikely.
“I was betrothed,” Chryseis blurted out. “King Eetion held a feast to seal the agreement between my father and Lord Armati. I watched him from among the women. So tall and slim, very handsome. I couldn’t hear what the men laughed about, but he sounded happy, and I know he would have loved me.”
So the Greeks had destroyed Chryseis’s world when she was on the verge of having what she most wanted, a handsome, carefree husband to love her. She’d been forced into servitude instead. Whatever her marriage might truly have brought, Chryseis would always believe in its perfection, Briseis guessed.
This conversation would not bring Chryseis strength—quite the reverse.
Healing prayers had comforted many of the captives. Chryseis’s father was a priest; his daughter might cherish the gods. Perhaps Kamrusepa would bring strength to this child.
Briseis took a piece of kindling from a pile by the fire and lit the tip.
“Chryseis, in Lyrnessos, I was Kamrusepa’s priestess. I will pray to her for your good health. She has great power.”
Chryseis nodded solemnly and concentrated on her. As Briseis recited the prayer, she moved the burning twig slowly around the girl’s head.
“Mother Kamrusepa looked down from the heavens.
‘Where is my Chryseis? Why do I hear her call?’
Kamrusepa says: ‘Take the fire and touch her with it.
Let her illness ascend to Heaven.
Look! My child Chryseis shines with good health.’”
Briseis buried the burning stick in the dust. To her relief, the prayer soothed Chryseis. Please, Kamrusepa, she prayed silently, care for this girl. Looking at the translucent, pale skin drawn over the thin bones that defined Chryseis’s face, Briseis felt a new foreboding, although she did not see how this girl could be the source of her misgiving.
bookmark Chapter Twenty Nine Plague
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Plague
A lull in the fighting came as the Greeks focused on guarding and unloading cargo from ships that arrived in the small harbor by the fort, now that the worst of the winter storms were over. Agamemnon engaged in a lively trade of wine and foodstuffs with Lemnos and other allies. He exchanged the wealth brought in through Achilles’ raids for supplies—which he sold back to the army.
Gossip about one of the Greek ships drew Briseis’s interest. A priest had brought gifts in order to ransom his daughter from Agamemnon—this must be Chryseis’s father. It had taken time for her father to gather the ransom because his patron, King Eetion, had been killed and the kingdom looted.
That evening Briseis asked Achilles whether Chryseis’s father had been successful in his appeal to Agamemnon.
“When the priest appeared before the assembled kings, we thought Agamemnon would take the ransom,” said Achilles. “The gods must be honored and greed has always won out with Agamemnon. To our shock, he told the priest he wouldn’t hand over the girl.”
“Oh! That’s terrible.”
Achilles nodded sympathetically. “He insulted him, saying things no father should have to hear—how much he liked her in his bed, even better than his wife. If Agamemnon’s wife Clytemnestra hears that, he may regret keeping the girl.”
Achilles looked at her with a puzzled expression. “I never paid attention to Chryseis. Is there something extraordinary about her? We told Agamemnon to respect the priest and return his daughter. Her father spoke politely—he asked the gods to give us success in plundering Troy. He offered a huge ransom. Even Odysseus did his best with his crafty words to change Agamemnon’s mind and bring him to a wiser choice, but Agamemnon screeched that he’d kill the man if he ever came seeking his daughter again. Shameful to treat a white-haired man that way. The old man seemed like a dried leaf being crushed to nothing, yet I fear his power as a priest. The gods often take offense at the mistreatment of their priests.”
“Poor girl. I don’t know why Agamemnon wants her so much. She’s pretty, but so are most of his captives—and he has so many. She seems to be dying a little more every day. Agamemnon’s a pig.” Her sense of foreboding returned, stronger than before.
Soon after the priest’s departure, the illness broke out. It made little sense to Briseis. The days were beginning to warm and camp life grew less miserable. With spring on the horizon, disease should have retreated, not taken over the camp. Nonetheless, men lay dying all over the Greek camp, their necks and groins swollen with blackened sores, their strength drained by bloody coughs. Day after day, Briseis, Achilles and the other healers tried in vain to staunch the scourge that ravaged the camp.
Briseis sat back on her heels and searched for a pitcher of water among the scattered pots at the soldier’s hearth. The sick man groaned as Achilles worked a poultice into his swollen armpit. The smell of rotted meat rose from their patient. Briseis stepped outside to ask a soldier huddled nearby to bring water. “Is he better?” the soldier asked. She shook her head. These men, undaunted in battle, paled before this monstrous disease.
She knelt beside Achilles. They needed water to wash the man’s blackened fingers and toes. She removed the linen bandage as gently as she could from his foot. His toes came away with the fabric. Achilles exclaimed in horror. She gagged, turning away to collect herself.
A soldier appeared in the doorway, pitcher in his hand. “What’s wrong?”
Achilles stood quickly and took the water before the man could see. Briseis rose and pressed close to Achilles until the soldier turned and left.
They crouched down again by the sick man. The man coughed and choked on his blood. They lifted his chest to help him breathe, but what little life he had, left him.
Briseis wound his body in a blanket, stitching it closed to spare the men this sight as they carried him to one of the many pyres that burned without stop all over the camp. Achilles lifted the bundle, stumbling as he did so. Achilles, my love, you can run all day without tiring, but now you stumble.
When they had laid the dead man next to
the others waiting to be burned, Achilles turned to her.
“The sun is setting. Has it set two times since we rested? I can’t remember.”
She nodded. When a soldier approached to bring them to another stricken man, Achilles shook his head.
“Find Machaon or Podaleirios.”
Sleep came as soon as they lay down, wrapped around each other. When Briseis awoke, she knew a whole night had passed. No one had called for them. Perhaps death had claimed everyone and that explained the quiet.
Her head rested against Achilles’ chest. His breathing told her he still slept. When she moved so that she could look into his face, she saw tears slipping from under his closed lids. She touched his pillow—it was soaked with his weeping. She pulled him tightly against her body, willing him comfort. She too began to weep. Into her mind came an image: the last many days reflected on the surface of a dark pool, the sores and pus, the dead piling up on all sides. She looked into Achilles’ despair.
He had failed his men. He was a warrior and a healer. By both he had held off death from them—until now.
Gradually his tears ceased and his face softened. She felt life coursing through her body, holding at bay the darkness they had battled for days. Achilles moved in his sleep, settling against her body. She drew her fingers from the contour of cheekbone and shoulder to the smoothest skin in the hollow where his leg joined his hip, and down the muscle banding from there along his thigh. The wonder of his beauty took her breath away.
When he opened his eyes, she read the despair in them, but she did not let the darkness reclaim him. She wrapped her legs around his hips and asserted the strength of her love with her whole body, sparking his passion to affirm life for this short time.
Day was breaking when Briseis and Achilles rose from their bed. They dressed and went outside to find something to eat before returning to the dying.
Hand of Fire Page 26