by Jackie Rose
The pirate prince had looted all of these good things from little towns like mine, at no cost to himself, but I knew enough not to say so.
“Do you prefer the rough linen you were wearing when I saved you?” he demanded.
“You are most generous, my lord.”
“So you admit it!” he crowed triumphantly. “So, girl, I swear that you are better off as my captive than you ever were free.”
“I would never deny it.”
“You owe me your very life, or have you forgotten that my own men were shouting at me to leave you to burn alive?”
Now I was weeping openly, as unashamed as Lykaon had been.
“I will never forget your courage or your kindness to me.”
“Then stop that yowling! What have I given you to cry about? Are you trying to pretend that I rewarded myself by taking you by force?”
“I could never tell such a lie,” I answered, my indignation drying my tears.
“Very well, then, have I failed to give you pleasure?”
Amazed that he could ask that, even now, I fell silent. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,” I had cried, in that moment of final truth. How could he question it, even now? Finally, I managed to murmur, “I had never imagined that any woman could know such pleasure, my lord.”
“Oh, so you admit that you have reason to show me gratitude? You will thank me often enough in your pretty words, but not when I ask you to show your thanks with actions.”
“If it was only because you chose me, that would be reason enough to show my gratitude in any way I could.”
That calmed him for a moment. Then in his coldest, most commanding tones, he answered, “In that case, you will do exactly as I say and pray that I may never be defeated.”
I was trying to frame another answer when the meaning of his words struck me. I glanced up, not daring to believe what I had heard, but I quickly bowed my head again and wiped at my eyes.
“Whatever you command, my lord.”
“And you will not dare defy me again.”
“I would not dare, my lord.”
He nodded in apparent satisfaction and called for wine again. Once more I poured it out into the sand. Fervently, I prayed that he might not be defeated. Then I added another, silent prayer that Hector might not be defeated either. He was the great defender of Troy, and I could not stop feeling that he was still my defender, too. The Trojans were Achilles’ enemies, he had every right to kill them, but they were not mine.
“I hope the goddess can hear you,” Achilles said grudgingly, as I finished my spoken prayer. “With that whispery little voice of yours, I can hardly hear you myself, and I can’t believe that you were saying no to my demands. No one else has ever done that before.”
Obviously, I thought. Fearing that he could read my mind, I flinched again, waiting for another outburst. Instead, he glared down at me with folded arms and nodded grudgingly, as though he had forced me to his will.
This encouraged me to say, “My lord?”
“What is it now?” he demanded. “Have you found another way to defy me?’
I thought of answering that I had not defied him in any way but thought better of it, just in time. Instead, I said, “I have not eaten yet today.”
“Good,” he told me. “You have shown me so little gratitude today, you don’t deserve to eat my bread.”
“As you will, my lord,” I said, glad to have escaped so lightly.
Chryseis approached us, swaying, making her gold beads swing from her ears and bringing a wave of her fragrance across the hot, still air.
“He means that you are to eat my bread,” she said. “Just wait a moment, and I will pray for him and his men, as Agamemnon’s household priestess. I can pray for them in any words he chooses and to any gods he names. I don’t believe in any of them anyway.”
“But my lord has said I must not eat today.”
“I said no such thing!” he flared again, striking his thigh. “Will you go hungry all day out of stubbornness? Have I nothing else to worry about but you going hungry, when I have hard work to do? When you are punished, it will be by more than hunger pains.”
Chapter Three
“He must love you,” said Chryseis. “No one else would dare defy him that way.”
“I never defied him,” I insisted. My hands were still shaking as I reached for the bread and cheese, and I could still barely hold back my tears.
She waved away that objection.
“You defied him and won, but I think he likes you all the better for it. He told you that no one ever said no to him before, and it’s probably true,” she went on. “His mother left his father’s house when he was three.”
Her hands, never still, displayed the number three and then acted out Achilles’ mother walking away.
“She thought she was above him, you see. She came from one of their oldest priestly families and was a priestess of Zeus herself. From what I hear, he forced her on the wedding night, she fought him like a tiger, and it was a disaster from then on. Ever since she left him, they’ve both been trying to win over their son by giving him whatever he asked for. It’s an equal contest, believe me.” Her two hands became the two scales of a balance, to show how equal it was.
“His father always liked strong-minded women,” she went on. “Obviously, Achilles shares that taste.”
Seeing that I was about to object, she went on firmly, “Before marrying Achilles’ mother, Peleus was married to Antigone. She defied a king, for all the good it did her: Peleus was left a widower. But Thetis was too strong even for him. For one thing, she’s so wealthy, she gave Achilles that beautiful engraved suit of armor hanging on the wall. What’s more, she’s a priestess of Zeus, so she prays for his victory every hour.
“And Peleus did even more. He was one of that pirate gang like Jason, his old shipmate, who sailed around fighting for treasure. So now that he has all the treasure he needs, Peleus naturally wants his son to be a noble warrior who fights only for fame. He bought an army to help his son do it and built fifty ships to carry them. Of course,” she added loyally, “my lord Agamemnon sent one hundred ships, but no one else sent more than fifty. Peleus even bought his son a friend, as loyal as he was to Jason.”
“Patrocles.”
She nodded before going on, “And Peleus earned his loyalty. Patrocles had killed a little friend in a rage over a children’s dice game, and Peleus gave him refuge in his own house, as his son’s companion.”
I could hardly imagine Patrocles doing anything in a rage, even as a child, and it was even stranger to think that any man would choose such a dangerous companion for his son. I shrugged the thought away. I was much more concerned with the things that my own new friend had done for Achilles. And now I was also starting to fear what Achilles, in his anger, might do to punish my defiance.
“Did you agree to pray for Achilles’ victory on the platform?” I could not help asking. Uneasily, I wondered if he now wished he had kept her, no matter what Agamemnon wanted, instead of taking me in her place.
“He never told me to do it,” she shrugged. “He knew that I didn’t believe in all that, because my father was a priest, and I knew how little he believed it himself.”
Never before had I met anyone who admitted to not believing in the immortal gods. I knew I was in sophisticated modern company, so I tried not to look shocked. Still, I felt compelled to bear witness to the way Aphrodite had answered my prayers.
“I thought she could not do it, after I prayed and prayed to her to save me from having to marry an old man, and I had to do it anyway,” I said. “But look how well she cared for me after all, by giving Achilles to me.”
“You won him for yourself,” she retorted. “I can imagine how you did it.”
I jumped as she suddenly squeezed her eyes shut, opened her full lips and gasped as though in rapture, “‘your spear is so big, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!’ Only you probably meant it,
didn’t you?”
“Did he tell you?” I gasped in shame. I was greeted by gales of laughter and clapping hands.
“By the gods and goddesses, girl, do you think he had to? You really are as innocent as you seem.”
'Innocent' was hardly the word I would have used to describe myself after my night with Achilles. I was not yet beyond embarrassment, though, so I looked around desperately for a way to change the subject.
Glancing down, I saw the way to do it. The entire room looked like a merchant’s shop, filled to overflowing with Egyptian cotton garments, richly dyed woolen carpets, jewelry, silver and gold. The very dishes we ate from were treasures in themselves. Made of the finest clay, they were glazed to a shining black and painted in luminous orange to show running athletes, wedding processions and even the gods themselves. As though Agamemnon had not stolen enough finery, Chryseis’ loom stood ready to create more for him. The battle scene was half completed, showing, naturally, Agamemnon advancing alone on an opponent and carrying a spear that was very big indeed.
“You have so many beautiful things here,” I told her.
“Achilles has many fine things, too,” she assured me. “Just ask for what you want and he’ll take it out of his ships for you. And whatever you want to eat, ask Diomede. But watch her carefully. She’s supposed to be the stewardess, in charge of all the feasting, but she has other ambitions. Believe me, I know.”
Right now, it was not this Diomede who concerned me. “I am sure Achilles gave many fine things to you,” I said, trying hard for a casual tone.
“I made a fine gift for him first,” she assured me, rather defensively. “Did you see that picture I made showing Agamemnon in battle? I made one of Achilles before that and offered it to him as a gift.”
She could not resist a smug smile as she finished her story. “When Achilles accepted it, he grinned and told me that he would ask Agamemnon for another gift as well, and I knew that that gift would be me. Of course, that gift turned out to be more of a loan,” she said, slyly.
“You see, while Achilles was off fighting, I soon started making that weaving you see here as a gift for Agamemnon. I did it because Agamemnon looked at me the way Achilles looks at you. Either way, their service was a great improvement over the work they had given me.”
Rather indignantly, she added, “They had said I could earn my keep with my weaving. I said I preferred that to waiting for any man they chose me for. A lot of very beautiful women have chosen to live by their handiwork. But I am an artist at the loom and weaving plain cloaks and those eternal bandages was beneath me, too. Besides, I could not stand working beneath that horrible Alcestis.”
But choosing a captor and working her way into his bed was, apparently not beneath her. Still, who was I to judge her or anyone?
“And what became of Achilles’ portrait?” I asked.
“He sent it back to Agamemnon when he sent me,” she answered. “And as you can imagine, it has long since been unraveled and re-woven into a simple cloak.”
Thank you for that, Agamemnon, I thought. Fearing that she would read my jealous thoughts, I said in an admiring tone, “I never could have won him with my weaving. Your work is so beautiful, and I could never learn to do it.”
“It only takes practice,” she assured me. I felt sure that it had also taken the desire she must always feel to find some activity for her ever-moving hands.
“I had plenty of time for that,” I told her. “I was married for eight years with no children to show for it.” And now I was glad of it, too, although I was ashamed to tell her so. Once again, she proved that my shame would have been wasted on her.
“You won’t see any children around here,” she answered. “Hecamede sees to that. She is with old Nestor now, but she used to be one of those women who earn a living selling herbs and potions, willow and rue among them. Now she provides them to us. But apparently you have no need of them.”
This time, I could not hide my shocked expression. Realizing that she had finally gone too far, Chryseis rather defensively went on, “She uses her herbs in healing, too. Machaon trained her and some of the other women to help the physicians care for the wounded men. Most of the time the women are washing blood and dirt out of wounds and then washing the physicians’ hands. All that washing sounds like more religious nonsense to me, because why should a wounded man care if the doctor washes his hands or not? Still, Machaon insists it is a very important job, and he is our chief physician.”
And that, I thought, I might learn to do, even if the finer skills, like weaving, were beyond me. What’s more, I might truly reflect Achilles’ glory that way, by showing his men how much he cared for them, without my having to pray for or against them. Even beyond that, it was a new possibility for me. Achilles had filled my life with possibilities, just by being who he was.
“You could always ask him,” she shrugged, making her earrings bob again. “But you’ll have other work to do.”
Noting, again, my shocked expression, she smiled and went on, in her bantering tone. “No, I mean besides the natural thing. You will also serve as hostess to his friends. Do you know how to do that?”
Rather resentfully, I told her that my husband Mynes had been the most important man in our town.
“No, I mean, do you know how to do it in their way?” she answered. “You fill their cups with wine, you ask them to drink, you make sure that the working-women keep their plates filled, and if anyone asks you a question, you answer it.”
“That sounds like our way, too,” I told her, “except that I had to fill the plates myself. We had only one old servant who did the cooking and cleaning and weaving, too.”
“Well, then,” Chryseis went on cheerfully. “You really are better off as his captive, just as he said.” More seriously, she added, “Making you go hungry was beneath him, but you may still have a price to pay for your defiance. If I know him, though, he will keep you, and his friends would not have been so kind.”
Suddenly, I realized who Achilles’ friends must be.
“Will I be entertaining Agamemnon and his brother Menelaus and Odysseus and all the other kings of Argos?” I asked. Still almost shuddering at the thought, I imagined myself surrounded by all of the pirate princes.
“Naturally,” she answered. “But you won’t get to know them very well, especially not Agamemnon, as long as I can help it.”
I was about to answer angrily that I had no designs on her lord. She smiled her broadest smile to show that she was joking, before she went on.
“Don’t worry if you dislike Agamemnon and Odysseus. Achilles does, too. He says that Odysseus is a sneaking liar and Agamemnon is a cowardly thief. Of course, I could never agree about Agamemnon, but Odysseus is even worse than Achilles says. His favorite trick is to make a man surrender by telling him he need have no fear of death and then killing him anyway. Because the prisoner really does have no fear of death after that, you see. Agamemnon finds that amusing.”
“But Achilles does not.”
“No,” she agreed. “He does not.”
“But what if Odysseus really does swear not to kill someone?”
“If he swears by Athena he will keep his word, when there is no way to sneak out of it. If he had told those poor men that he swore by Athena not to kill them, they might be alive today. He says he needs some way to make people believe him.”
* * *
When the time came that I needed them, I would remember her words. That evening I soon forgot them, though, in the knowledge that Achilles would soon be with me again. The last time the working-women had prepared me for him, I had tried not to care. This time, I could barely wait for the water to be warm enough so they could extinguish the fire beneath the tub. With Iphis helping me, I climbed eagerly into the water. He might still be angry with me, I knew, as he had good reason to be, and I might, indeed, still have a price to pay. It would be a small one, as long as I could stay with him.
He strode into the bathing room, b
lending his red-gold head to clear the doorway, while they were still spreading the oil on my back. Diomede and the other women naturally went to help him remove his armor. I slid to the side as far as I could to make room for him beside me, silently pleading that Aphrodite would make him accept the invitation.
“You ladies can leave us now,” he told them curtly, barely containing his rage. I knew, with a sinking heart, that he would not be joining me in the bath, at least not this night. There was, indeed, as Chryseis had warned, a price to be paid.
Did Diomede turn her own blond head to glance back at us, with a look of calculation on her sharp little fox face? No doubt she had been waiting long enough to be called to his bed, and perhaps she heard her opportunity in his angry words.
He had almost used the last of his control while sending the women away. Now he grasped my wrists with one of his hand and pulled me from the tub, making the water splash in tidal waves over the wooden floor, soaking the soft rug. I closed my eyes and flinched when he closed his fist, as any other man would do when he wanted to punish his wife. If that fist struck me, I knew, I would probably not survive the blow.
But he still controlled himself long enough to drag me after him to a nearby chair, where he threw me face down across his lap. I was to be corrected as children are, but, coming from his powerful hands, even that punishment would be terrible enough. My backside, I knew, was round but flat, and I feared that his hand would shatter my very spine, without the soft padding that other women had to protect it.
For a moment, the cool air caressed my backside, still covered with water from the bath. Then his free hand struck with all his force against my exposed nakedness, again and again and again.
The first blow stung, but not unpleasantly. By the tenth, my flesh was burning beneath them, and after that, it blazed like fire. Each time, the water magnified the searing pain. With the last of my pride, I clasped my own hand across my mouth, to muffle my cries. In good time, too: By the eighth hard slap, I was sobbing helplessly as his hand kept rising and falling ever more rapidly, raining those terrible burning blows over flesh already hot and raw. I lost count after the twentieth blow, but there must have been at least as many coming after it.