Warrior's Captive: I, Briseis

by Jackie Rose

  Yes, I had had a family once, and they had been the center of my world. Then they had left me to burn. What had happened to them after that, I neither knew nor cared, any more than they had cared about me. But that had been in another world, a cold, gray world ruled by old men, a world of winter. Achilles had brought the summer to me, wearing the sun that had turned his hair to bronze and his skin to gold.

  The working-women who lived in the ships were milling around, carrying their breakfasts of bread, cheese and fruit. Soon they would be going to their jobs, which consisted, I soon learned, of caring for the wounded or weaving cloaks and bandages. Seeing them reminded me that I had not had any breakfast at all. But what did that matter, when Achilles had sent for me, believing I could reflect his glory?

  The Argives had built the rough stone wall to protect their ships. They also used it as a platform where they could watch the battle, across the field from the ancient walls of Troy. I was eyeing the rickety wooden ladders, wondering which I could climb most safely, when I heard my name shouted and looked up to see what I took to be Achilles waving down at me. Startled, I wondered what in the world he could be doing there once the battle had started, until I realized that I was looking at his cousin Patrocles. Their natural resemblance had deceived me from that distance, along with the shoulder-length lion’s mane that Patrocles wore to imitate his cousin.

  “Come up here, Briseis,” he shouted.

  I obediently started to climb, holding the sides of the wooden ladder with one hand while I clutched my gown with the other, praying that I would not trip on the hem. As I groped my way up the ladder, I kept my eyes half closed as I tried not to look down. Seeing my difficulty, he bounded halfway down the rickety steps and took my hand. Then he helped me to climb while assuring me that he could catch me if I fell. As soon as I was within grasping distance, his arm went around my waist and he pulled me to his side. Assuring myself that the railing would not give way and hurl me to the trampled sand of the beach below us, I still dared not look down.

  Another woman was already standing on the platform and, judging by her actions, she had been there often enough before. She obviously had no fear of falling, because her entire body seemed to be in constant motion as she swayed back and forth. She even used one hand to shield her eyes from the dazzling sun, rather than grasping the railing, as I did, with both hands. As she briefly smiled and nodded in my direction, she emitted waves of heavy perfume.

  A strand of gold beads dangled from either ear, and a gold circlet held back the dark ringlets that bounced as she swayed. As a tradesman’s daughter, I estimated the cost of her adornments. They told me that she must belong to one of their chiefs, who had his choice of the loot.

  “Have you eaten yet?” Patrocles asked me.

  I assured him that I was not hungry, because I was so excited about watching him fight. There was never any need to tell Patrocles who 'he' was when you spoke of his famous cousin.

  As Patrocles went down the ladder, I watched until I saw that he was safely on the ground. Then I looked ahead and found myself staring straight across the field at the famed, faded yellow stone walls of Troy.

  Like dots of color, I saw its royal ladies standing there, watching the battle as I was. They must be the princesses Polyxena, Cassandra and Andromache, I realized, because everyone knew that they always stood there. From across the field, I strained to make out their faces. Above all, I hoped for a glimpse of Helen, to see if she was really as beautiful as the bards had made her.

  Then I looked down again, and everything in the world that was not Achilles ceased to exist for me. Looking back now, I remember that dead bodies were scattered across the field and wounded men were being carried off of it. They were not Achilles, so I did not truly see them.

  He stood out even among all the pairs in combat, towering above them in the bronze armor molded with stars, which glittered like the real thing in the sunlight. I had missed the spearcast, I knew, because the great weapon was already quivering in the ground. Clenching his sword in his fist, he was spinning, striking, slashing, everywhere at once. He made war as he made love; savage power combined with easy grace as he raced to the aid of his beleaguered men and drove their opponents away. It was another reason why they loved him, as I did.

  No matter how he tried, though, he could not find an opponent of his own. In vain, he stalked back and forth, crying out his challenge as the enemy soldiers pretended not to hear. At times he even cried out, in sheer desperation, that the gods do not always give the same man the victory, but still he found no takers. He was left kicking the sand in frustration. Still, he was able to manage a smile and wave as he glanced up briefly at me.

  “Well, you are sure to give him a warm welcome tonight.” So engrossed was I in the combat, I forgot all womanly modesty and merely nodded agreement at the words that had echoed my thoughts.

  “At least you understand the true meaning of this war,” the dark-haired woman went on, her wide lips spreading even further in a friendly smile. “All those men are trying to convince us that they have the biggest spears and know best how to use them.”

  Confused for a moment, I gasped as a realized her true meaning. It was shocking to hear a woman say such things, even if I did not entirely disagree.

  “No, you are not standing beside a common harlot, although some might say I am an uncommon one,” she said, still smiling. “I am Chryseis, a captive just as you are, and my lord is the great king Agamemnon. He likes witty women.”

  I turned to study her more carefully, realizing that she had been with Achilles before I was. I had not found anything particularly witty in her remarks, but I saw no reason to question the great king’s taste. Achilles was another thing, and I wondered, resentfully, if he, too, had found her amusing.

  “You needn’t look so shocked at my little jokes,” she said. “Agamemnon calls it ‘the natural thing,’ so why shouldn’t we joke about it?”

  “If it’s so natural, why are they fighting a war about it?” I heard myself ask. “Why doesn’t Agamemnon’s brother find another woman to be natural with, and leave his wife Helen to do the natural thing with Prince Paris in Troy?”

  At once I was sorry I had spoken, fearing that my critical words would get back to Agamemnon and, through him, to my own lord. Chryseis had obviously asked herself the same question, though, because she quickly answered, “Just as I told you, to see who has the biggest spear. And believe me, if Menelaus ever does get Helen back, she’ll have to spend the rest of her life assuring him that his spear is bigger than an oak tree. From where I’m standing, Agamemnon’s is big enough.”

  “Can’t we talk about anything but war and lovemaking?” I asked.

  “Fighting and fucking? Is anything else more interesting? And, of course, my lord Agamemnon is skilled in both.”

  She pointed in the direction of the king of kings, whose bronze helmet was crowned with a towering black horsehair plume. He was hacking away as best he could while surrounded by his men, who made sure no one got close enough to threaten him.

  “You see how the great king Agamemnon fights among his men,” she said dryly.

  I certainly did. I did not have time to form a tactful answer, though, because I saw that Achilles’ challenge had been met at last.

  Hoping that there was safety in numbers, three tall young warriors were advancing on him at once. Their attack ended the moment Achilles decided which man to take first.

  Almost as soon as he saw that towering figure sprinting towards him, the chosen adversary tore off his helmet and burst into tears. Flinging away his sword, he threw himself onto the sand and reached up to grasp Achilles by the knees in a plea for mercy. I breathed a prayer of thanksgiving when Achilles held out his left hand to him, still firmly grasping his sword in his right.

  “So, friend, what is your name?” he asked, as though the ridiculous sprawling figure had been a guest in his father’s house.

  Bent over so far that his brown hair trailed i
n the sand, the boy was sobbing too hard to answer. Achilles calmly repeated his question.

  “Lykaon, sir,” he finally managed to reply. He had almost stopped crying when he looked at the corpses strewn around the field, realized he might soon join them and began weeping openly again.

  “So, friend, I take it that you wish to surrender,” Achilles said, with the beginning of his faint, fleeting smile. He is enjoying this, I thought happily. He enjoys showing mercy and winning gratitude, not to mention a few ransoms.

  When Lykaon nodded frantically, his captor went on, “I am always inclined to take a ransom, Lykaon. Can you pay me or must I sell you for it?”

  “My father is Priam,” the man blurted out. Then he drew back in open terror, obviously wondering if Achilles would spare the enemy king’s son.

  “Well then, friend, your father can easily afford it,” Achilles assured him.

  He reached down and briefly grasped Lykaon’s hand. A murmur of approval rose from the fighting men, especially from the Trojans, who knew they might soon be in Lykaon’s position. Falling back in relief, Lykaon started wiping his eyes with his hands. He knew, as we all did, that, with this simple handclasp, Achilles had taken the prisoner into his protection.

  Still keeping his eyes steadily on him and his sword firmly grasped, Achilles gestured to the young man to rise and nodded a brief signal over his shoulder. Patrocles obediently joined them. He helped the man to stand as casually as though Lykaon had tripped on a rock while they were strolling together.

  Taking one of the strips of willow that hung from his belt, Patrocles tied Lykaon’s wrists before him so quickly that it was obvious he had done the same thing to many other prisoners, many times before. Looking down at his bound hands, the Trojan seemed surprised that the operation was over so quickly.

  Part of it was practice, of course, but part was the willow itself. Of course Achilles would use willow, soft and supple: not cutting like iron manacles or burning like leather or rope. It did not occur to me then that Patrocles had chosen the merciful bonds, while making sure that Achilles got credit for them.

  Patrocles’ voice rose, for the spectators’ benefit, as he assured the prisoner, in an almost apologetic tone, that the great Achilles, if left to himself, would have freed him without charge. He had his men to think of, though, and no way to provide for them, except by supply raids and ransoms.

  Dropping his voice, Patrocles apparently asked if the bonds were too tight, because Lykaon pulled his wrists apart experimentally and then shook his head.

  “Then let’s go back to the ships, so you can get washed up and change your clothes,” Patrocles said. His brief, reassuring touch on the shoulder pointed Lykaon, almost imperceptibly, towards the shops where he would be held. Tactful as always, Patrocles did not mention why a change of clothes would be needed: Lykaon’s tunic had obviously been stained by more than the sand. Instead, he said, by way of explanation, “Achilles will want you to join him for dinner.”

  Well, at least someone was getting fed, I thought ruefully, although it certainly wasn’t me. It was an odd custom, I thought, dining with a man you were holding for ransom, but one that showed great kindness.

  Patrocles’ kindness was genuine, as I knew at first hand, but, at that moment, I realized that there were other reasons for it as well. Achilles’ cousin was determined that the world must always think well of his prince and see that he earned only gratitude even from his prisoners, male or female. Patrocles’ devotion to his cousin, like his kindness to everyone, was perfectly sincere but not entirely unselfish. Like all poor relations, his fortunes depended on how well he served his more fortunate cousin.

  The sound of cheering interrupted my thoughts. It swept the field as word spread of Achilles’ action, from his own men and the enemy alike. I wished that I could have joined them, to show his men that I was as proud as they were to belong to him.

  His glance swept across the cheering men, and he nodded briefly, accepting the applause. To my delight, I saw that his blue eyes stopped as they caught sight of me. Bounding towards the wall where I stood, he sprang up the rickety stairs three at a time, taking them all in three great bounds. I moved unthinkingly towards him, no longer afraid of falling, as I felt the heat of the sun on his bronze armor and his sunburned arms beneath it. He leaned down to whisper, “You are even more beautiful in the daylight.” That left me thanking Aphrodite for sending Iphis to me.

  He was gleaming with sweat, and when he pulled off his helmet I saw that his sun-streaked mane was matted with it, too. Standing so close to me, he smelled of sweat, leather and metal: It was intoxicating. He reflected and radiated the same heat that was shining down from the dazzling yellow sun. Reaching up to touch his shoulder, I smiled as I replied, “You are, too.”

  “Do you know how much I want to have you right here?” he whispered, as he pressed his thigh against me.

  “No more than I want to have you,” I whispered in reply, as I pressed against him in turn. I found myself wondering how many Trojan lives would be saved if he did stop his fighting long enough to have me. On the other hand, I reminded myself hastily, many more would be lost. Not every Argive soldier would have dealt so kindly with Lykaon.

  “If we had each other right here, that certainly would give the soldiers something to talk about,” I said.

  “We will wait, then,” he decided, smiling and touching my hair. “I gave them enough to talk about this morning.”

  “You did well, my lord.”

  “Yes, I did,” he agreed cheerfully. “And I am glad you saw it. Now I’ve got a job for you, too.”

  Leaning over the railing, in a way that made me shudder with fright, he called down an order. One of his men immediately clambered up the ladder carrying a covered cup of wine. Gratefully, I reached for it and took the cover off, hoping that bread and perhaps even cheese or fruit would follow.

  Instead, he said, raising his voice for his men to hear, “Briseis, my lovely girl, you stand in the place of my wife as household priestess. You will pray to Athena for my victory.”

  If he saw my look of dismay, he mistook it for confusion. “You will do very well,” he assured me. I realized, with a sinking heart, that he would not be saying so a few moments from now. To make matters worse, his men were staring up expectantly at me, assuming I would be praying for them as well.

  They jumped out of my way as I poured the wine down into the sand, slowly enough to let me think of what my prayer should be. Then, with fervent sincerity, I put down the cup on the platform ledge, spread out my palms devoutly and looked up towards the Heavens. “Lady Athena, goddess of the just war, let my lord return to me safely,” I prayed, “and protect his loyal men as well.”

  He was still smiling encouragement as I fell silent. Obviously, he believed that I had misunderstood his command. “You are to pray for my victory,” he corrected me gently.

  “I will pray by the day for your safety, my lord,” I murmured miserably, with downcast eyes, my hands now at my sides.

  He seemed confused for a moment, wondering if I still misunderstood. Then, for the first time, I saw the famed rage of Achilles. I shuddered in sheer terror as the blue eyes turned to burning ice. Once again he filled the world, but this time he filled it with dread.

  “You will do what I tell you!” he snarled, forcing my palms upward.

  Caught between that angry man and the wooden railing, I dared not back away. I could only repeat helplessly, “I will pray for your safety, my lord.”

  He slapped his hands against his thighs, making me flinch at what I soon came to know as his angry gesture. As he moved toward me, I fought hard to keep myself from backing away, over the railing, and fought even harder to stop myself from screaming. What good would that have done: Not one man here would have stopped any other man, let alone the great Achilles, from beating a slave girl no matter what flattering names they called her. He could have picked me up and thrown me off the wall in one angry moment, thus taking back
the life he had given to me, and no one would have said a word.

  My head barely reached his chest, and my voice could barely be heard beneath his. We must have made a ridiculous spectacle, like a poor stray kitten mewing up at a roaring lion, but no one who saw us was smiling. The men below us seemed confused, if not angry, as if they were satisfied with my words, but knew their commander was not.

  “Do you think the Trojans will have you back because you refused to pray against them?” he demanded. “One of the girls believed something like it and managed to escape. They punished her as a traitor by giving her to their Queen Hecuba, who had lost many sons to our swords. I did not matter to them that we had brought her here against her will. None of the working-women ever tried to escape again.”

  “I do not think they would have me back, and if I did I would never try to escape from you,” I told him.

  “Then you will pray for my victory over them.”

  “I will pray without stopping that they may never harm you.”

  “Then do you know that I could beat you half to death?” he asked, leaning towards me with a deceptively calm whisper, as his great fists opened and closed convulsively. “I could make you scream until they hear you all the way to Troy.”

  “You’ve done that already, my lord,” I could not resist replying.

  “Do you dare match wits with me, girl?” he shouted. “I could tie you behind my chariot and drag you all over the field. I could hang you by your wrists from a ceiling beam with an anvil tied to your feet. I could cage you like an animal for the rest of your life.”

  “I must accept any correction you choose for me, my lord,” I murmured, no longer able to stop the tears from running down my face.

  “I should think so,” he grumbled. “Haven’t you accepted enough good things from me?” Grasping a handful of my skirt, he went on, “Do you know how much Egyptian cotton is worth? Do you know you are wearing a headband made of silver and pearls? Do you know that the pearls alone are worth as much as your entire wretched town?”