by Jackie Rose
Like Machaon, Hecamede and all the others who worked with them, I was staggering between my patients, seeing their wounds through half-shut eyes, treating them without thinking about it. I was so tired I could barely even look up when Patrocles burst into the room.
“You’ve all got to get out of here,” he shouted. “The Trojans are coming here.”
“But they have never even come out from behind their walls,” I gasped, as both men and women wailed in terror around me.
“Not while Achilles was in the fighting,” he answered.
“Will Achilles at least let his men help carry the wounded back to the ships?” Machaon demanded.
“Or else he will have to kill me,” said Patrocles grimly. He had never come so close to turning against his famous cousin and had never so much resembled him.
* * *
If anyone in Machaon’s hall was hoping that Patrocles had exaggerated the danger, he soon learned that he was wrong. Rising above them, Prince Hector’s great war cry was urging on his followers while chilling our very blood with fear.
Still, no one moved to leave the hall until Patrocles returned on the run, leading Achilles’ soldiers. They carried out the most seriously wounded on wooden slabs held between them and supported those who were still able to walk.
Hecamede clapped her hands sharply, calling out to the women to take the pitchers, medicines and bandages with them as they followed her. Seizing as many piles of bandage cloth as I could carry, I raced outside towards the ships. I clasped the supplies against my breasts to keep them from being knocked out of my arms as the horsemen thundered by, trampling the wounded men who could not get out of their way.
My grip tightened as I saw Hector riding past. He was so close that I had to run away to keep him from trampling me, and I breathed the dust stirred up by his horse’s hoofs.
For the first time, I wondered if I had chosen rightly, giving myself so freely to the great pirate prince. His opponent, Troy’s defender, seemed just as beautiful as he, now that Hector’s soft lips were set in a grim line beneath his lustrous dark curls. Well, it seems you were wrong, Chryseis, I thought. The Trojans seem to have very big spears now.
Then I saw that the men behind Hector carried torches, as they galloped towards the wooden ships. The few women left inside the ships must have seen the same thing. They raced outside screaming in terror, moments before the first ship was set on fire
As they saw their last escape route so close to destruction, the Argives managed to race down for a counter attack, making a desperate stand beside their ships. The fighting was so close to me, I could see the sweat on their backs and hear the wounded calling for help.
The Argives barely managed to hold their ground, until the first of them saw the setting sun. They raised a great cheer at that, which matched the Trojans’ disappointed groans.
“We’ll finish our work tomorrow, I promise you,” Hector shouted, as he jerked his horse’s head violently around and galloped back towards the city walls.
The fighting had stopped for the night, but the healing had not. No longer knowing if the men would be safer inside the ships or outside on the ground, we kept them lying under blankets on the beach, as we raced from one man to another.
This time, there were a few Trojan wounded among them, but no one now joked about selling them as slaves. Without saying so, we were hoping that they would remember the care we gave them, if worse came to worse and we became slaves to them.
* * *
I still did not realize how badly things were going, until I saw Agamemnon himself racing towards me, his hair as wild as Hecamede’s. Grasping my wrist, he dragged me after him all the way back to his house and pushed me into a chair. It was the same chair, at the same table, where I sat before my desperate struggle with him. The table was not covered with fine food and drink now, but with a quill pen and a parchment scroll.
“Can you write?” he demanded shortly.
“My mother taught me to keep account books,” I answered in confusion, wondering why he was asking such a thing.
“Then write to your lover!” he demanded. “Tell him that I have never touched you, in the natural way or any other.” He forced the quill into my hand.
“Are you giving me back to him?” I asked. For the first time in many days, I felt the stirrings of hope.
“If he’ll have you,” the king answered sharply. “I begged him in person to take you back and forgive me, but he was still too angry. He told me that I could have you, and he was going home.” With cruel relish, he added, “Diomede was standing behind him, and she seemed pleased at that. No doubt he’ll take her with him.”
Studying his desperate face, I realized he was telling the truth. Almost without thinking, I began to scrawl the message.
Had I been fresh and rested, had I not seen the terrors of today, I would never have written as I did: these shameful, pitiful words. But I had no shame left now, only terror, because Achilles was leaving me forever.
As Agamemnon stood at my elbow, I wrote the words he commanded.
“Start by calling him your lord and master, master and lord,” he said.
“Why must I say it twice?”
“Because I tell you to! By all the gods, girl, will you never do what you are told?”
When I still hesitated, he sighed and explained, “It means he is your husband and owner, lord and master, equally.”
And that much, I realized, was true. So then I went on writing as he told me to. First I begged Achilles not to abandon me here. Then I begged him to take me with him as his slave and marry a fine Argive lady, so I that I could spend my life spinning their garments. Then I forgot those fine generous sentiments and reproached him for sporting with Diomede while I was gone—even though, of course, as I swore to him, I had not done the same with Agamemnon. Finally, I even threatened to kill myself if he sailed away without me.
When I finally dropped the pen and leaned back, I loathed myself, as I was sure Achilles would loathe me. Agamemnon snatched the letter from me, though, and decided it was not abject enough. His own generous offer of seven fresh new slave girls for Achilles also had to be highly praised, along with the offered choice of his own three daughters, Electra, Laodice and Iphigenia, who would renounce her vows as a virgin priestess of Artemis in order to marry him.
At these words, I looked up at him in surprise.
“So you believed that story, about how I sacrificed Iphigenia to Artemis on an altar?” he demanded. “Do you Trojans believe every piece of war propaganda you hear? I sacrificed her only to serve as a priestess in her great temple at Tauris, leading constant prayers for our men. In fact, all three of my daughters adore me. Now let’s write the ending to your letter.”
And that ending was the worst part of all. I had to beg Achilles to accept those gifts, just as long as he also forgave Agamemnon and sent for me, soon, soon, soon.
Too tired to defy the great king, I obeyed. And the worst thing of all was realizing that I meant every whining word. I signed it all “the Captive Briseis,” knowing that this was the final truth. I was captive to Agamemnon, captive to Achilles, and captive beyond all to my own passions.
* * *
I planned to go back to the wounded, but first I had to drop my head onto the table for a moment and close my watery eyes, lulled by the warmth of the fire in Agamemnon’s hearth.
When I opened them again, it was because Iphis was standing over me, shouting, in tears. “Wasn’t Achilles enough for you?” she demanded. “Did you have to have Patrocles, too?”
“What in the world are you talking about?” I asked, still half asleep, barely able to lift my head and force my eyelids apart.
“Patrocles read your letter after Achilles was done,” she said. “Achilles still refused to fight, but Patrocles ran out after Agamemnon and promised to go out to fight Hector in Achilles’ armor. In return, he asked only for Briseis.” She shouted my name like a curse.
Grasping the carved a
rmrests, I pulled myself upright. “I must tell him not to do it,” I said.
Her anger turned to pleading. “Please, you must try,” she said. “King Agamemnon is bringing Patrocles here, and you must beg him not to go.”
What would Agamemnon do to us then, when he heard us begging Patrocles to break his promise? Iphis did not even seem to have thought of her own danger, but I was very concerned about mine.
I need not have worried about that, because the cause was hopeless. I knew that the moment I saw Diomede and the working-women fastening Achilles’ star-studded armor onto Patrocles’ back in Achilles’ great hall. It fit him so poorly that Diomede called for fabric pads, to fill out the space between his shoulders and the bronze plates that protected them. Nevertheless, he looked almost like his famous cousin, but he was, as always, a poor, blurred copy, without Achilles’ mixed savagery and grace. Instead, Patrocles seemed to be almost apologetic, as though he had stolen his cousin’s clothes and was taking his women as well.
His cousin’s clothes, his cousin’s women, his cousin’s life. That is what he wanted, I realized, with sickening clarity. He had spent his life advancing Achilles, and now he wanted to be the hero he had helped to create.
And I suddenly knew, even more clearly, how much he had done to create him. The child Patrocles had never killed any child in a rage. If Patrocles had ever done so, Peleus would never have let him near his own precious son, just as I had sensed before, when Chryseis told me the story. The child Achilles had killed some little companion: Achilles, who had thus learned that all the world would bow before his rages.
And, in return for his place in Peleus’ rich household, Patrocles had taken the blame. It had been the start of Patrocles’ great life work, of building Achilles’ legend. And now he was deluded enough to think he could take that legend for himself.
Deluded though he might have been, he was still no fool. At least, he was not enough of a fool to trust Agamemnon. Odysseus was there, no doubt at Patrocles’ insistence, to hear Agamemnon promise, once again, that Briseis would belong to Patrocles, along with the treasure to maintain her.
Both kings seemed surprised at finding me till there, but as always, Odysseus took advantage of the situation. Pointing to me, he declared that I was worthy of any danger a man might run for me.
They all seemed amazed as the subject of their discussion threw herself at Patrocles’ feet, kissing him and pleading with him to leave this madness. I had seen Hector, I cried, he was almost as great as Achilles, almost as dangerous, almost as famous, and no one else could fight him.
I saw exactly how hopeless it was, when the two kings did not even seem annoyed with me. Odysseus smoothly assured their victim that this proved how much I cared for him and what I good heart I had.
“And I always suspected that Achilles always won every battle because everyone believed that he would,” he added. “That was thanks to Patrocles, of course. Now Patrocles will reap the benefit, wearing Achilles’ armor.”
If Patrocles had started having doubts, that quelled them. As gently as ever, he lifted me to my feet. “I will come back, Briseis,” he promised, “and then you will call me your lord. Go to the platform and watch me now, as you watched Achilles.”
Behind us, I heard Iphis wailing, both hands over her face.
“This is the woman who loves you!” I cried, thrusting my hand out towards her.
Putting one arm around me, he reached for Iphis with the other and pulled her towards him. She clung to him, sobbing desperately.
“You will both be mine,” he assured her. “We will all live well, with the treasure of Troy.”
Leaning down, he kissed my head and then hers, before he released us gently. Ignoring both Iphis’ wailing and my renewed pleas, he strode ahead of the other men to the door.
“Will you come and help us care for the wounded?” I asked Iphis, when he was gone. “We need you there, and you can do nothing here.” It will give you something else to think about, I thought, and if you and he are very lucky, you will soon see Patrocles among the injured men.
Rather than answering, she grasped my wrist as I moved towards the door, and I knew it would have taken all of my strength to break her grip.
“My lord Patrocles told us to go to the platform,” she said. “We are going there, as soon as you are fit to reflect his glory. If you refuse, I will go after Agamemnon and have him send his soldiers to lead you.”
“To reflect his glory?” I shrieked, my voice as harsh as Alcestis’ had ever been. “Do you think he is any match for Hector? Do you want to watch him die?”
“We will do as he ordered,” she repeated stubbornly. “He will have what he is paying for.”
* * *
So now I was 'mistress' again to Agamemnon’s women, as Iphis pulled me into the women’s hall and ordered them to dress me for my new lord. Hastily, they removed my shabby clothing, sponged me in cold water and dropped a new gown of Egyptian cotton over my head. It was pale blue again, as Iphis ordered, because the men were used to seeing me in that color and would most readily recognize me that way.
Rummaging through a jewelry chest, she pulled out seven chains of gold set with garnets and draped them over my neck. Two more such chains were used to hold back my hair. As always, my curls sprang out on either side. I winced, because she was no longer even trying to be gentle, as she roughly jerked out one long tress to lie against my neck. By this sign, too, the men would recognize me. I realized then that Iphis had created Briseis, almost as surely as her lord Patrocles had helped to craft my lord Achilles, as the world knew him to be.
“Will that be all, mistress?” Charis asked, as though she had never seen me before, much less pulled my hair.
Iphis draped a dark blue fringed woolen shawl over my shoulders but did not think of shielding herself from the cold. It was Alcestis who grasped a red woolen cape and virtually threw it at her.
“Patrocles is a fool,” Alcestis told me, in her most brusque tone. “Does he think you will ever love him as she does?”
“All men are fools, or we would not be here,” I answered. For once, she smiled in agreement at me, and I saw the kindness that she tried so hard to hide.
As Iphis led me to the platform, we passed the one man who was not a fool, which made him all the more dangerous.
“I see you are decked out for your lord, Briseis,” Odysseus said.
“For Patrocles, yes,” Iphis replied.
He bowed her head to her, as though she had been a fine lady rather than a Hebrew slave. Thus he won, for an instant, my regard. “I can only hope that my own wife Penelope is as devoted to her lord as you are,” he told her.
That moment passed quickly, once Iphis had walked by. He turned to me with his usual look of cold amusement from beneath his shaggy brows.
“But we know who your lord is,” he told me. “The only man you will ever give that name. You can hardly wait for him to send for you, once Patrocles is dead.” I walked on quickly, fearing that he had seen my secret thoughts.
* * *
Iphis helped me mount the platform. This time, instead of facing east, towards the city walls, we looked west, towards the ships, because the Trojans had advanced to our very harbor. It was even hard to see the bright blue sea beyond them, leaving us to wonder if the Argives would ever sail back across it again.
But Patrocles was charging towards the enemy, leading the fresh men from Achilles’ camp. We soon wheeled again to the other side of the platform, watching them force the Trojans back to the city walls.
Hector could barely rally his men to face them, shouting that they must stand firm to protect their wives from disgrace. From the disgrace of Briseis, I thought, but for once I did not care what he or any other man thought of me. When they rallied, the Trojans formed a wall of armor standing before their city walls of stone. The Argives stood still for a moment before them, then charged again.
Riding out before them, Hector hurled his spear straight at the enemy
leader. It caught Patrocles clean through the belly, and I saw his look of amazement as he gazed down at it. The Trojans were cheering wildly, thinking that their great enemy was gone. Hector held up his hand to silence them, so he could hear Achilles’ last word. Instead, he heard Patrocles mutter through his gritted teeth, “Achilles will avenge me.” At the end, I knew, he was returning to his lifelong role, of promoting his cousin’s glory.
And instead of killing his greatest enemy, Hector had merely killed a poor relation. Disappointment turned to cruelty, as he shouted back, “I might send him where I am sending you.” Jumping from his chariot, he knelt to unbuckle Achilles’ armor from Patrocles’ back.
Iphis had not made a sound. I turned to her, hoping to cover her eyes. It was far too late: She was staring straight ahead, as though at something so horrible she could not believe she saw it. I was the one who had to bury my head in my hands.
When I looked up again, I saw that a ring of Trojans surrounded Hector, to shield him while he took his trophy, which was Patrocles and his armor. The Trojans scattered to defend themselves as the Spartans attacked, led by Menelaus, their king. The fighting was thickest around them. I could barely see Menelaus in the fray, lifting Patrocles’ corpse, throw it into his chariot and race back towards the harbor.
Grasping Iphis firmly by the waist to keep her from falling, I helped her down from the platform. For once, I did not stop to worry that her weight might send us both tumbling to the ground.
Chapter Six
Without thinking, I turned back towards Achilles’ house, still holding Iphis around the waist. Agamemnon’s men stopped me.
“The king says you must return with us,” their leader told me, nodding in a respectful bow.
I nodded shortly in return, still holding Iphis beside me. He shook his head regretfully and said, “Iphis still belongs to Achilles. She must go back to his house now, but you must go to Agamemnon’s.”