Warrior's Captive: I, Briseis

by Jackie Rose

  My mother had never punished me this way, preferring to use cutting words. I had not been prepared for the fiery pain that blazed higher every time he struck me. I writhed on his lap, trying desperately to avoid the blows, as his arm held me trapped beneath them. My feet beat vainly against the air, as I struggled hopelessly to rise. Against my will, my hand rose up, just as hopelessly, to shield the injured area. He brushed it aside impatiently, barely slowing his pace. With despair, I realized that his arm showed no sign of tiring, and how could it, considering who he was? This punishment would continue until he felt satisfied, and at last I was wondering desperately if it would ever come to an end.

  I could hardly believe my good fortune when he pulled me to my feet. Folding his arms, he stood glaring down at me. Still weeping, with my own eyes lowered, I rubbed the injured place.

  “At first, I planned to whip you, as I would beat a soldier who disobeyed” he said. “But I knew that if I did so, you would soon be dead.”

  It was true, I knew. If he had done this much to me with his bare hand in his rage, I would not have survived his whip, any more than I could have lived through a blow from his closed fist.

  “Now will stop defying me?” he demanded, grasping my arm.

  “I would never defy you, my lord,” I managed to stammer, through my sobs.

  Without even deigning to answer, he moved on me so quickly that I was surprised to find myself lying across his knee again. Even more surprising, I soon learned that the pain could be even greater than it had been before, as he delivered another ten hard slaps over the ones that were still burning me like fire. And I learned, too, that I could cry even more loudly, as I tried to stifle my sobs in my hands.

  Once again, it seemed a miracle when he pulled me up again. But this time, I knew that there could be even worse to come.

  “Now will you pray as I order you to?” he demanded, still grasping my arm, obviously ready to throw me back down across his knee.

  “I would, my lord, so that you will not beat me any more,” I answered, barely conquering my sobs as my free hand rubbed the injured place. “I could not endure another such beating now. But would the gods hear such a prayer?”

  Too angry to even consider my words, he snarled, “Then let the gods hear this!”

  With terror, I saw him untying his leather belt, and I had no doubt of how he would use it.

  “But I am so sore already!” I pleaded, weeping again. “It hurts so much.”

  “It will hurt even more in a moment,” he promised.

  As though in a nightmare, where what you fear most always happens, he pulled me over his knee again. This time, it was harsh leather, not flesh and bone, striking that burning flesh. I had thought that nothing could ever hurt so much as it when his hand had struck me. Now, I knew I had been wrong. As he brought that terrible strap down in an unbroken rhythm of pain, the flames rose a thousand times higher.

  With despair, I realized that the hand holding the strap was not tiring. It would keep raining blow after blow until he was satisfied. Nor would its owner hear any cry for mercy. He might have even been beyond hearing a plea to surrender. But I was crying too hard to form any words or even think of them. I could only wail as helplessly as any animal while I lost count of the blows.

  When he grasped my arm again, to pull me to my feet, the best I dared to hope for was a brief respite with time for recovery.

  Instead, he stood glaring down at me, arms folded, as though wondering if any further punishment would be effective. I admit, I did not know myself. One more trip across his knee and I might very well have begged for the chance to obey him and only hoped that the merciful goddess would understand.

  Instead, he shook his head with resignation.

  “Well, what’s done is done,” he decided. “If my men heard you praying now for our victory, they would only realize that you refused to do it before.”

  Then he told me that Patrocles was undoubtedly ready with dinner. “Will I be joining you, my lord?” I asked.

  “Of course,” he said. With a faint smile, he added, “You are still my geras.” Seeing my blue gown in the corner, he threw it at me. “So dress yourself,” he said, “unless you want your ladies to come and help you.” I did not, I assured him, want any of them to see me that way. As an afterthought, he tossed me a damp cloth that had been lying beside the tub. “And wipe your face,” he ordered.

  My backside still stung so badly, I would far rather have gone back to my warm bath. But then I could not have gone with him that evening, and I longed for that above all.

  As I stepped quickly into my gown, I glanced down over my shoulder, and winced to see that he had turned my backside into a red mass of swelling. Purple bruises would I was sure, replace that color before long. Therefore, I was not surprised to find that even that cloud-soft fabric scraped me like the coarsest flax.

  Ignoring that, Achilles asked rather irritably if I had nothing else to wear. Apologetically, I told him that I did not have any other gowns or jewels, nor did I hope for any gifts beyond the finery he had given me.

  “But there are so many gowns and jewels on the ship,” he said reproachfully, as though I should have known it. “I’ll have Patrocles get some for you.” He added this almost without thinking, leaving me to wonder how many other jobs he counted on this poor relation to do.

  As I walked out into the courtyard beside him, the scent led us to the lamb roasting on the grate over the smoldering charcoal. I had wondered why Patrocles, not Iphis, was doing the cooking, but I saw why now. No woman would willingly have gone near the leaping flames, which had to die down before the coals were ready to use. I waited expectantly with the others for the resulting feast, in the light of the standing torches beneath the stars. In the middle of a war, I was standing in a courtyard waiting for my dinner, fearing nothing because Achilles was with me.

  No, that was not quite true. I feared that he would force me to sit on one of the rough benches to help me remember the penalty for defying him. The raging flames that his beating had ignited were fading to a steady throb, but I knew how my backside would burn again if it pressed against that harsh wood.

  He followed my frightened gaze to those benches, which brought a teasing smile to his lips. In his most courteous tones, he asked if I did not want to be seated. His smile broadened when I assured him that I preferred to stand. I barely kept my hands from rubbing the place that made standing so much preferable. If Patrocles and Iphis knew the reason, from the sounds they had heard coming from the house, they were too courteous to give any sign. I would not have cared, though, if they had laughed and jeered at me because Achilles, my lord, was smiling at me again.

  Iphis was cutting circles of bread, and I went to help her.

  “So, Iphis,” I asked carefully, trying hard to keep my hands from rubbing my poor bruised backside. “Are you one of the women who are trained to help the physicians?”

  “I have too much to do, managing this household,” she answered.

  “That should be your job now,” Achilles told me, putting his arm around my shoulders. “You have enough servants to help you.”

  I wrapped my hand around one of his sun-bronzed fingers as I carefully replied,” And I am happy to do it. But Iphis has been doing it very well, and you told me that my true task was to reflect your glory. I might not have done that very well so far. And,” I added, reaching up to whisper to him, “if I keep doing so badly, I might never sit down again.” He smiled in return.

  “But perhaps I could do it now by learning to tend your wounded men, so they would see how much you care for them,” I finished, more brightly.

  Without taking his arm away, he glanced down in amused suspicion.

  “So, you want to learn to help the physicians, Briseis?”

  I lowered my eyes again.

  “Then why don’t you say so?” he demanded gently.

  My head sank even lower as I confessed, “I was afraid you might be angry with me again.” />
  “I don’t get angry all that easily,” he assured me. “I need a very good cause.” I looked down again, knowing how good his cause had been. “But what exactly do those women do?” he went on.

  “They wash the wounds, so the doctors can treat them,” Patrocles quickly explained.

  “But that is a task for a working-woman, and I have never asked Briseis to do any menial tasks for me. Is this proper work for her?”

  “Hecamede is their leader,” Patrocles said.

  “Old Nestor’s woman?” Achilles replied. “Well, then, it must be proper. Very well, then, I will tell Machaon that he may train you with the others. I am sure he will teach you well. He and I and Patrocles all trained together as physicians with Machaon’s father Asklepius.”

  “And did he tell you that we studied herbs and medicines in a household of learned women?” Patrocles asked.

  “I’d rather you didn’t tell that to everyone,” Achilles answered, in the same bantering tone. “But if you do, remember that I learned about other things from them, too.” A wave of pleasure swept through my lower body, as I remembered them, and we shared a secret smile.

  More sternly, he added, “But of course, Briseis is not to be left alone with him or any other man.”

  “Of course not, my lord,” I assured him.

  “Well, then, let us have our dinner,” he decided. “You must keep up your strength for your new training. And,” he leaned to whisper, “for more pleasant tasks as well.”

  * * *

  I arose long before noon the next morning. Diomede was already choosing the food for the day. I asked her to give me breakfast, half fearing that she would tell me she was not my servant, and I could get it for myself. Instead she replied, “Of course, mistress,” and went to fetch the bread and fruit.

  “You need not call me mistress,” I answered, as she returned. “I would be called a slave, just as you would be, except that Achilles does not like that word.”

  “I also prefer being called stewardess,” she said, with a smile. She seemed perfectly pleasant as she set the plate of bread before me. It was warm and crisp, as the grapes were plump and sweet, showing that she was skilled at her stewardess’ task. She even pretended not to notice that I was standing up to eat. I also noted, with some relief, her pointed chin, that was too sharp for beauty. Still, I remembered Chryseis’ warning about Diomede's ambition.

  Achilles did not seem pleased to find me already out of bed and at the table, waiting for him, by the time he got there. He was true to his word, though, and led me to Machaon’s house. It was silent as we entered it. He and the other physicians and trained women were standing beside the rows of beds, tubs and the tables covered with pitchers, rags and jars of powdered herbs. These gave off a strange mingled smell of bitter and sweet, telling of death and suffering but also healing and comfort, and the eternal battle between them.

  With growing dismay, I realized that these things would stand between life and death when I used them. Already Achilles had given me a white linen gown, saying that all of the physicians and trained women wore such garments, so that they would be recognized as servants of Apollo the Healer. I hoped that it would not mislead anyone into coming to me for help before I had been trained to give it.

  As I was staring at those supplies, Machaon came forward to greet us.

  “I want you to train Briseis to assist you, so my men will see my care for them,” Achilles said. As he spoke, he pushed me forward—gently, as he doubtless thought, but with enough force to almost send me sprawling. He himself does not know how strong he is, I told myself—but I also wondered if perhaps he was angrier than he knew, because I had risen from his bed so long before noon.

  “She is certainly welcome,” the physician replied, peering down at me from his awkward height. Noticing Achilles’ quick frown, Machaon quickly added, “She will work with Hecamede and the other women.”

  He indicated Hecamede, standing behind him, with a quick thrust of his head. She nodded slightly without disturbing her sleek, tightly bound brown hair.

  I was surprised at how young the chief physician seemed. The sun had reddened his face and bleached his hair to dry straw, making him seem younger yet. Standing beside him, his chief assistant seemed to be very much the proper lady. Anyone seeing them would have sworn that she was the mistress and he was some household slave. Both gave off the same smell as the medicines, as though these strange substances they lived with had seeped into their very bones.

  Seeming much more like a priestess than a captive woman, she appraised me with cold eyes. They made me wonder if I would not have been much better off practicing my weaving with Chryseis. But how cool could she really feel, I wondered, working so close to the youthful healer, when she had been given to an old man.

  “You should have a few moments to start teaching her,” Machaon said to his chief assistant, sounding, yes, like a husband instructing his wife. With a faint smile, he added, “We don’t have any wounded to heal at the moment. I had wondered about that, Achilles, until I saw that you are here.”

  “Then I must not let the army go on waiting, or Briseis will have no one to care for,” he teased me. More seriously, he added, “You will never leave her alone with any men?”

  “No one has any time to be alone with anyone here, Achilles,” Machaon answered dryly. “We are always either waiting for the wounded or caring for them.”

  When I saw Achilles turn to go, I was seized by the impulse to run after him and beg him to take me home, away from this place that would soon be filled with suffering and death. The impulse was so strong, I was surprised to suddenly realize that I was thinking of his hall as my home.

  My fear grew as Machaon pointed at me and said sharply, “Look up at me, girl.”

  As I obeyed, he demanded, “What do you think of our army?” It would have seemed a foolish question, were it not for the steady gaze of his pale blue eyes.

  “I think only of my lord Achilles, but I know that he is a very great fighting man.”

  He waved my answer aside.

  “Do you still think of us as your enemies?” he demanded.

  “My city was captured,” I answered, wondering if I dared to tell him that his questions were crude and cruel. “We are not your enemies any more.”

  “And so you are Achilles’ slave girl.”

  This time, I answered quickly, “Achilles does not like that word.”

  He bowed his head briefly, acknowledging that Achilles’ wishes must be respected.

  “Do you feel that he has degraded you?” he demanded.

  “By choosing me above all the women in the world, free or captive?” I demanded in return. I could not stop my voice from rising in anger, but he seemed pleased with my response.

  “The you have no desire to take revenge on us?”

  “For what?”

  “For killing your brothers.”

  I gasped at his cruelty, but managed to answer calmly, “They were killed in the war, sir, by fellow soldiers.”

  Those pale blue eyes went on studying me until I lowered my own before them.

  “Very well,” he said with a nod. “So you will care for his men, and I assure you that you will be caring for Trojan soldiers, too. But you must still take a sacred oath not to harm any of them, as all my women must do. Repeat my words: I swear by Apollo the Healer that I will do no harm, but only good, to every wounded man I care for, in any place I enter.”

  “I swear by Apollo—“ and as I did so, the full meaning of the words stunned me. The great pirate princes would depend on me, and my oath, and my training, for their very lives.

  There was not much time to think about it, though. Almost as soon as we had finished, the distant sound of cries and moans reached me, telling me that the battle had begun. Desperately, I looked at Hecamede, to tell me what I must do.

  My terror grew as the first wounded man was carried into the hall. Beneath his blood-soaked shirt, his bleeding leg dangled uselessly. Ev
en worse, he was looking at me beseechingly to help him. I was relieved to see another woman coming towards me, then dismayed when Hecamede gestured her to stand back and beckoned me forward in her place.

  Still without a word, Hecamede pointed silently towards one of the empty beds. The other two men arranged their wounded companion on it. I was the only one who seemed to sense how strange it was that these pirates were meekly obeying their captive.

  “Now watch me,” she ordered. In one practiced motion, she lifted the tunic, took a pitcher from the table and reached across the table to fill the pitcher in the tub. She poured the water over the wound, washing the blood away. Even when it seemed perfectly clean to me, she refilled the pitcher to pour and pour again, until I saw the wound as a cluster of tiny pinpricks, each pouring out its tiny drop. She ignored the man’s groaning as she patted the wound dry. Then she stepped back as Machaon came forward to replace her, carrying a box of powdered herbs. When he held his hands out, she poured water over them. The two moved together as smoothly as dancers, until she turned away to tend the next man.

  So entranced was I in watching them, I did not even notice that the noise was growing louder, until I turned to see how many wounded men were being carried in. Some were screaming in pain or delirium for the first women who had cared for them: “Mother!” or even “Nurse!” Without thinking, I moved to join the other women who were going towards them.

  Seeing the pleading in the men’s eyes, I wondered how Hecamede could seem so cold. I soon saw, though, that her calm orders gave them more comfort than any show of pity could have done.

  “You stay beside me for now, and watch what I do,” Hecamede said. But how hard could it be, I wondered, to learn to pour water over a wound.

  Harder than I had expected, as I soon realized when she gestured me towards one of the wounded men. As his companions pulled his armor apart—like pulling off the halves of a nutshell, I thought suddenly—I saw that his shirt was soaked with blood beneath it.