I, Briseis

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Warrior's Captive: I, Briseis

Copyrightã2004 Jackie Rose

ISBN: 1-55410-145-X

Cover art and design by Martine Jardin

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

Published by eXtasy Books, a division of Zumaya Publications, 2004

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Dedication :

To my husband David, for his boundless patience and knowledge in answering a barrage of questions like, “When was leather invented?” and “Did women go shopping during the Bronze Age?”

Part I: Achilles, My Lord

Chapter One

Golden-haired invaders had stormed in from the sea. In every town they entered, they stole cattle, sheep, grain, weapons and the other things they needed, to fight this war that had lasted ten years and still showed no sign of ending. Those provisions included women like me, for the warriors’ recreation.

Now I stood in one of the log houses they had built beside their ships, a stolen girl dressed in looted finery, waiting for one of their leaders to claim me. Flickering in the log walls, the torches showed me that the room contained a wooden bed with thick purple blanket above an even more luxuriant leopard rug. Both lay beneath an elaborately carved suit of bronze armor suspended from the wall. The sight left no doubt as to my purpose there: I was to share the bed with the armor’s owner.

Well, what of it? I asked myself defiantly. I surely had nothing to be ashamed of, as I firmly assured myself. Getting some of their food was what mattered now, no matter where it came from. Even if the invaders freed me, I saw no hope of finding it for myself.

Food was real: bread, cheese, fruit, wine. The pirates had taken it all away from us, piled high in their wooden carts and chariots, so they were the only ones who could give some back to me. Captivity was just a word, like marriage, and it could hardly be any more degrading.

Whatever my captor did to me, it could not be any worse than serving my lawful husband, who had paid my father four oxen for me. And now I had been marked for the most famous pirate prince. My parents could not have imagined such a dubious honor for me, I reflected bitterly, or they would have made the old man pay a higher bride price. My mother would certainly not have been so eager to convince me that four oxen was far better than they had hoped.

The bonds that held my wrists before me were real enough, too. But they were supple willow, which did not cut or burn. Even better, my hands were still free enough to scratch my nose when it itched and even to wipe my tears away, when, despite my best intentions, a few appeared in my eyes.

I had closed my eyes often enough to avoid seeing my husband’s old flesh shaking above me. Then I had pressed my eyes even tighter shut until he finished. I had shut my ears as well, so that I would not hear his complaining about my failure to give him a child in these eight years. Now I could keep both eyes and ears closed again, as the price of my survival.

I did not think of praying to my goddess. She had not saved me from that marriage, despite my frantic pleas, and I did not think she would do any better now.

Instead, I would rely on my own rule: Don’t look, don’t think, don’t care about it. Hadn’t that been the law of my life ever since my parents sold me? I had gotten plenty of practice in keeping my eyes and ears shut tight. My heart was shut just as carefully, during those eight years that were as gray as my husband’s face, as gray as his few strands of hair, as gray as death.

So I waited for the battle to end for the night, as it always did, when my new lord and master would come for me. At this point, I only hoped he would do so quickly and get it over with. I was so tired of standing here waiting, in a few more moments I would have fallen down on the bed, pulled the blanket over me and let him do whatever he wanted to while I was fast asleep. No doubt I would have done so already if the evening chill had not kept me awake. They had captured me in the heat of the day and their maids had dressed me accordingly in a blue cotton gown, so sheer it was almost transparent.

Given the choice, I would rather have gone with the young soldier who had saved me from my burning

house that morning. Instead, he had sent me to his prince, who, I was sure, would never be a great enough hero to risk his own life in the flames.

My eyes opened wide as the log door swung open, letting in the wind, which carried a young god with it. He swept into the dimly torchlit room, so gloriously, radiantly, arrogantly alive that he seemed to wear the sun. It had warmed his fair skin to a deep bronze, beneath the lion’s mane of copper-gold hair that fell to his shoulders and framed a square jaw that tapered to a perfectly rounded chin.

He was faintly scented with licorice from the fennel water he soaked in after one of his pirate raids. It made me ashamed of the heavy perfumed oil that the women had poured over my shoulders, so I would please him.

The bards had praised him too highly, I had thought before, when they visited our town singing about the men whom the war was making famous. Now I felt that they had not said enough. They had called him magnificent, but he was beyond even that. The very sight of him summoned me to be as great as he was.

For one thing, there was his hair. Listening to the bards, I had pictured as brown streaked with gold. I was stunned to see, instead, that startling red-gold mane.

And concerned as they were with battles, the bards had not even mentioned his faint, fleeting smile. Once he smiled at me that way, nothing existed except for the wonderful fact that he was there, and I, by some great good fortune, was there with him. His bright blue eyes caught and held mine, telling me that I was the only thing in his world at that moment, as he was the only thing in mine. The last dreary eight years of my life vanished like a shadow in their light. The light was as real as food and drink, and now I needed it just as desperately.

I held out my hands, never doubting that he would cut the bonds that held them. He did so, smiling, with one swift stroke of his dagger. As we both knew, I could not have been bound to him any more surely if I had been covered with chains.

Some of you, I am sure, believe that I should have resisted him, if only for a few days or hours at least, out of modesty. If you had ever seen him, you would know how foolish that idea was. In the first place, my head barely reached his chest and my arms looked like willow twigs beside his, which more resembled twin oak trees. In the second place, we were surrounded by his loyal soldiers who would have enforced his right to have me and who, as I have said before, controlled every scrap of food. But even beyond these very practical reasons, the truth was that no woman could have looked at him even once and felt anything but gratitude that he had chosen her.

And I had even more reason than most to be grateful. With incredulous delight, I realized that I had seen this face and form before. He was my fierce young rescuer from this morning, the one who had saved me from my burning house at the risk of his own life. He had shown such great courage in doing it, he had won even my neighbors’ applause. A fearsome plumed helmet had hidden half of his face then, but he was even more impressive, more princely, now. Instead of his heavy armor he wore a shirt made of white Egyptian cotton, the same costly material as my own new sky-blue gown, which was like wearing a sheer spun cloud. In this simple garment, bound with a plain leather belt, he was every inch a prince, and he showed a prince’s courtesy to me.

“Did they tell you why you were brought to me?” he asked.

“The woman named Iphis said that you were taking me into your care and wished to greet me personally. I knew what your greeting would be.”

He laughed at that, and I could not help smiling in reply.

“Are you afraid?” he asked.

“Only that I will not please you, my lord.”

He smiled again, more broadly this time. “It is for me to please you,” he retorted.

Looking down modestly, I saw his spear growing great and hard beneath his tunic. Soon it was as large as an infant’s arm with a clenched fist at the end. At last I was frightened then, wondering how my little sheath could contain it.

My fear grew as he fell across me, lifting my skirt to my waist while he pushed me gently backward onto the bed. His gentleness did little to reassure me. Surely he must split me open with that mighty weapon.

“You are still afraid of me,” he said, with a teasing smile.

“Not of you, my lord,” I assured him. “But only of your spear, because I am too small to hold it.”

“You will not be,” he assured me, in a tone that told me he had often had cause to overcome this fear before. “Did you know that I studied to be a physician? I know the secret place on a woman’s body that she does not know herself.”

His great hand spread the lips beneath my waist, so gently that I felt only a trembling of desire. It made me eager to receive his mighty weapon, even if in the very next moment it tore me apart.

“Now, now, please!” I begged him.

“No, not yet,” he ordered. “I have more to do before you will be fully ready for me.”

As I wondered what he could possibly mean, he showed me. Between my lower lips, he gently caressed a tiny spot I had not even known to be there. Now I was writhing, moaning, begging wildly, “Now, please, now!”

My sheath was eager to greet him as he pressed inside. Sweet, warm lightning struck me, as though he had been the young war god he seemed, hurling his thunderbolts deep into me. He filled me up with that great spear as well as he had fought my Trojan countrymen: savage power combined with easy grace. His massive body would have crushed me, if he had not supported his weight on his arms.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop!” I commanded him, harshly enough to match every harsh thrust. “Don’t stop!” I commanded, with my hands barely reaching around his shoulders. They felt as big as tree trunks under my fingers.

His upper arms closed around my shoulders as his hands caressed my hair. His arms and hands were sunburned to the line where his breastplate had protected them, and I felt their heat against me. Now I was glad for the cool evening, which kept his heat from consuming me.

Then suddenly, for a moment, I fell silently cold, as though a shadow had passed over the sun. This man was a stranger, an enemy. What was I doing in his bed, embracing him with such rapture?

Feeling me freeze in his arms, he thrust even harder.

“Do you like it, girl?” he demanded, almost with a sneer, joining each word to a savage spear thrust. “Do you like it, like it, like it?”

“Oh, yes, yes, yes,” I gasped.

“And are you afraid now?”

The only answer I could make was, “Don’t stop, don’t stop!”

And I, who had always shut my eyes tight to avoid seeing my husband finish as he made those sounds, opened my eyes wide. The terrible pirate prince looked as innocent as a child as he finished. Even more incredibly, I was finishing with him, trembling violently in his arms while he convulsed in mine. Then I was wiping away my tears of happiness.

As he collapsed into my arms, I could barely manage to stammer, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, with a startled laugh. Then he rolled off me to his side, propping up his cheek with his hand as he fixed me again with his bright blue gaze. He squinted down to study me in the flickering light cast by the torches on the timber walls.

“So, girl, what is your name?”

“I am Briseis, my lord Achilles,” I answered.

“Well, Briseis,” he said, saying it as 'Brri-SAY-iss', and thus making it sound as magical as Aphrodite’s own name. “It seems we will get along very well.” He traced my chin with his finger as he spoke.

“I hope so, my lord,” I answered demurely, fighting hard against my desire to seize his fingers and hold them down forever. Instead, my finger, in turn, traced his face, from the square jaw down to the perfectly rounded chin.

“I like the way you call me your lord,” he told me, staring down at me again. “Your voice is almost a whisper, but it tells me that nothing in the world could make you do it unless you wanted to. It tells me that I have chosen well.”

“I am glad, my lord,” I said, smiling helplessly back up at him.

“Let me tell you, I paid well for my choice,” he assured me. “I told Agamemnon that the only prize I wanted was the girl I had saved from the flames. He could keep everything else in all of Lyrnessos. Does that make you proud?”

He had chosen me for his recreation, and I could imagine no greater honor. I had no need to hesitate this time before I answered him. “Helen herself would be proud to be your slave girl, my lord.”

To my dismay, I saw that I had not pleased him. Instead, he pulled back from me as though I had slapped his face.

“That word ‘slave’ is an ugly word, and I don’t like to hear it,” he said. “You were a captive, never a slave. My spear bought you, in battle and bed, not gold coins in the market. The only chains you will ever wear will be fine gold, set with jewels, as my gift to you. I’ve taken so many jeweled golden chains from so many conquered cities, you’ll see that you are better off as my captive than you ever were free.”

“I know that already, my lord,” I assured him quickly. “I never meant to offend you.”

“You merely chose the wrong word,” he answered, the anger fading from his voice as he stroked my hair to show I was forgiven. “I am sure you have heard it often enough, although never from me. But you are even more than a captive, you are my geras: my prize, my measure of honor, the living reflection of

my glory.”

It was too great a tribute for me, and I knew, with a sinking heart, I would have to tell him why it was not deserved.

“I am no fit reflection of your glory,” I told him. “My parents sold me for four oxen, and that was the best they could do, because my mouth is too little, my nose turns up too far, my hair always flies out this way. What’s more, I am three years older than you are. I can’t even weave scenes to show the world your victories, because my people always come out looking like locusts.”

He sighed as he turned towards me again. “You are beautiful, your hair is beautiful, your parents were fools, I do not care how old you are, and the whole world already knows about my victories,” he said. “You reflect my glory because I see it in your eyes.”

I knew that, for me, there would never be any higher praise.

“Now go to sleep,” he added, as he rolled over onto his face. “Tomorrow I will have much hard work to do.”

I rested my head against his arm, feeling his leg touching mine. Through my drowsy contentment, I felt myself wondering what sort of hard work a pirate prince might be doing. Then it struck me that this was another one of those pleasant terms he used to avoid an ugly one like 'slave'. This time, the pleasant term was 'hard work' and the ugly one was 'killing'.

And how could there be any ugliness between us? Somehow, through Aphrodite’s own miracle, this splendid young god had chosen me. More, he had served me, as the men must always serve us in bed, just as he had told me: bowing before us, fearing only that they will fail. Hadn’t that great prophet Tiresias said as much himself? After living as both a man and a woman, he had proclaimed that we enjoyed physical pleasure ten times more than they. Always before, I had wondered how such a great prophet could say such a foolish thing, and I had put it down to men’s vanity. Now I knew for certain that he had told the simple truth.

What, then, had the great Achilles won by taking me as his prize, except for the chance to be my prize a thousand times more? What was there to resist, except for happiness greater than I had ever dared to hope for?

Before I drifted into my sweet sleep, I forced myself to stay awake long enough to thank Aphrodite and beg her forgiveness for having doubted her. I saw now that her wisdom had been far greater than my own: She had held off her blessings only long enough to be sure I would be grateful.

And when had she given any other woman more to be grateful for? Other people had assured me that she had made me in her own image, just as she had made Helen herself. That, I thought, could only have been because they saw some vague resemblance between my goddess’ famous golden tresses and my unruly yellow curls. Now it was unmistakably true.

She had gone far beyond that, though. Showing her great favor to me, she had made my life into an image of her own.

Her father had given her to a lame man, the gods’ blacksmith, just as my father had sold me to an old one. At last, her beloved war god had taken her, though, just as mine had taken me. My mind slipped past the rest of the story: how the lame god had taken revenge on them both. Mercifully, I could not have imagined how cruelly he would avenge himself against Achilles and me, in turn.

Chapter Two

At dawn, the clattering and shouting in the courtyard awakened me briefly. I heard a young man’s voice above me, asking, “Don’t you want to wake her up before you go, cousin?”

“No, Patrocles, she’s exhausted, the poor girl,” Achilles answered, in a boastful tone. As I drifted back to sleep, I wondered what he was boasting about. I soon learned that it was a great point of honor among them to leave their women too sated with love to get out of bed before noon.

Hours later, coming fully awake, I felt sure that I must have been dreaming a wonderful dream, in which I had lain with the great Achilles himself. Then I became aware of the soft fleece blanket, dyed with costly purple, beneath my fingers, and of that wonderful strange aching in my legs, which had spread so wide to surround him.

It had been no dream, I really was here, in his log house, in his bed. What’s more, he intended me to stay there, because Aphrodite had answered my prayers.

I would have lain there thanking her until long after noon when the gathering heat would have driven me outside, had nature’s necessities not intruded long before then. Reluctantly, I pushed back the heavy cover and swung down my legs. My feet curled in painful anticipation of the cold-packed earth floor, which had always greeted them at home. Instead, they sank into the leopard’s luxurious hide.

As my toes caressed the soft fur, my fingers closed around themselves as I remembered how they had woven themselves through his red-gold lion’s mane. My glance fell on the magnificent suit of show armor hanging on the wall, encrusted with scenes of village life, dances and festivals. I imagined for a moment that he stood there, wearing it.

The working-women had left fennel, warm water and a square of linen on a stand in the necessary room for me. I marveled, again, that those things had appeared there without my having to fetch them from the well outside. It was yet another sign of Achilles’ power, which was now my own.

After chewing on the fragrant fennel stalks and washing my face in the basin, I returned to the main room. Wide awake by now, I was starting to wonder whether I should go out and ask the other women where I could find my breakfast or wait for this, too, to appear of its own accord.

I was spared the trouble of deciding when the door creaked open and the sun streamed in, making me wince and shade my eyes with my hand. I could barely make out Iphis, one of the women who had fed me, bathed me and put salve on my burns in preparation for Achilles the night before.

Carrying a wooden box under one arm, she stooped to pick up the sky-blue cotton Egyptian gown with her free hand. When I had pulled the dress over my head again, she asked me to sit and opened her box of combs, cosmetics, mirrors and ornaments on the table before me. She would have no easy task, I warned her, as she began piling up the unruly yellow curls, which were so much paler and less luxuriant than Achilles’ mane of golden bronze.

Dipping into the wooden box, she produced a silver headband set with pearls and kept trying to fasten my curls beneath it. As I had warned her, they kept springing free. “My hair always flies out that way,” I apologized. I jumped as she tugged a curl too hard in trying to arrange it.

“I am sorry that I have to work so quickly,” she said, “but he wants you to go out to the walls and watch him at work.” She had no need to say that 'he' was Achilles, any more than she needed to tell me what his 'work' was. She smiled as she added, “My lord Patrocles wants me to make you ready, because the men will be watching you watch him.”

At that I settled back obediently, determined not to jump no matter how hard she pulled. She was getting me ready to earn my place by reflecting his glory, and the least I could do was help her. At best, I realized, I made but a poor, dim reflection indeed.

“If you will look straight at me, mistress,” she said. After turning my head this way and that, she pulled two curls over my temples.

“You must not call me that,” I answered. “I am a captive, just as you are.”

“How did they come to capture you?” she asked, obviously resigned to the fact that she would be working here for a long time, fighting my rebel curls.

“I would not call it a capture,” I quickly replied. “He rescued me.”

I was silent, hoping she would change the subject. Instead, she asked, “How?”

“My husband, father and brothers had decided that death was better than dishonor, on my behalf,” I answered, anger making my voice rise. “They locked me in my house and took the key. I begged and begged them not to do it, but they assured me that one of them, at least, was sure to come back from the battle and free me. I pounded on the door, still pleading, but I only heard them running away.”

My voice shook with fury as I went on, “I prayed and prayed on my knees to every god on Olympus that they would send back at least one man to save me. Instead, I heard a neighbor shouting that everyone had to flee to Mount Ida because the Argives were burning the town. My house caught fire soon after that. All I could do was scream and scream, knowing that no one would find me.

“The fire reached the ceiling beams first, and one of them fell on me, pinning me beneath it as the flames came towards me. All I could do then was scream to all the gods, begging them to let the smoke suffocate me first so I would not burn alive. I had good hope of that at least: The smoke was so thick that I could hardly breathe or even see through it.

“Then I heard feet on the ground and an axe hitting the door and men shouting, ‘No, my lord, it’s too late, the whole house will fall down on top of you!’”

“’Whoever you are, help me!’ I screamed, hoping he would hear me above their voices. I kept on screaming until the smoke choked me with coughing.

“The door crashed in, and I saw that my rescuer was wearing the bronze Argive helmet that covered half his face. Then I did what I had never dreamed of doing before: I thanked all the gods that they had sent the pirates to me.”

“He lifted the beam as thought it had been a broomstick. Then he picked me up just as easily and threw me out the door. I remember how cool and bright the air seemed then, even in that hot afternoon. He ran out after me just as the house fell down behind him. It collapsed in a shower of sparks. They flew onto

my shoulder, and I screamed again as he beat them out with his hands.”

I smiled faintly as I remembered the next part. “The people in the street stopped fleeing long enough to cheer him, even more loudly than his own men cheered. The young man who was waiting in his chariot, holding his horses, cheered most loudly of all. I should have known then that my rescuer was the great pirate prince Achilles himself, but I could not believe that he would endanger his own life that way. I did not know it even when he lifted me to my feet and I bent to kiss his hand. All I could manage to say through my coughing was, ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’

I did not even realize who he was when he lifted me into the chariot. Coughing almost as hard as I was, he said to the driver, ‘Patrocles, tell Agamemnon that this lady is for the great Achilles, as his share of the spoils.’ No matter how great Achilles was, I would rather have stayed with the man who had saved me. I did not dream that they were one and the same: that the great pirate prince was hero enough to risk his own life in the flames.”

As I told the story, I saw no reason to add that Patrocles had tied my wrists in front of me. Well, what of it? I asked myself again. He had used supple willow strips, which did not cut or burn, and he had assured me that Achilles would cut them off as soon as he met me, so that no one would see me wearing them.

No one except for the entire Argive army, I thought with some embarrassment, but they were used to the sight. They barely looked up to see the dirty, disheveled new captive, who still smelled of smoke from her burning house, being taken to their prince’s house so his women could bathe her for him.

It was not, of course, a question of subduing me, as Patrocles had assured me while I rode beside him in the wooden chariot, keeping my bound hands for balance on the bronze rim. The great Achilles would never want a woman brought to him against her will: Too many came to him eagerly. I had been bound merely as a way of telling the other soldiers that must not try to take me for themselves. As I told Iphis how kind Patrocles had been, she leaned forward eagerly to catch every word. Her fingers fell still, letting my curls fall where they may. That told me that the bond between them might be even stronger than the one between Achilles and me.

For her sake, I went on to describe Patrocles’ goodness in even greater detail. He had held his hand over my eyes, I said, so that I would not see the dead. I was grateful for that favor, because my brothers’ bodies might very well be among them, and I had no wish to see them there.

He had even assured me that Achilles was going to marry me as soon as we returned to his homeland. I

had to smile at that, knowing that Achilles would do no such thing: he would take some great princess as his bride. “But in any event,” Patrocles had told me, “We Argives have a saying that any woman will forgive any man for anything after she spends one night with him.” That had made me smile too, at such unbridled arrogance.

And so Patrocles’ kindness had cheered me, I told her, even before Achilles had shown me how very much I had to be cheerful about.

“Then, best of all, I learned that Achilleswas the man who had saved me. Even better, the bards had not exaggerated in saying how beautiful he was.”

Beautiful was not the word, I thought, for the excitement, the force, the radiant arrogance he carried with him.

“But what is your story?” I asked. “How did they capture you?”

“Nothing so exciting,” Iphis answered. “My former master bought me in Egypt to be his wife’s maid. Soon after that the Argives captured Skyros, where he lived.”

She smiled ruefully. “If I had stayed in Egypt just a bit longer, I could have gone free with Prince Moses, but I suppose it’s just as well I did not. I would never have met my lord Patrocles, then, and I don’t suppose Moses would have had much use for a ladies’ maid in the desert.” Her face brightened as she went on, “I can assure you that my lord Patrocles’ service is much lighter than Pharaoh’s.”

“And much more pleasant, too, I imagine.”

She could not help smiling as she answered, “Much. And I had never expected it. My job was adorning the captives for their new lords, as I had learned to adorn my old mistress on Skyros. Achilles brought Patrocles to the room where I was working on them and told him he could choose the prettiest for himself.” Her comb stopped briefly as she smiled at the memory. “Patrocles said that he wanted the one who was trying to make the others look as pretty as she was.”

He saw your kindness, I thought, as well as your beauty. For her sake I was glad of it, despite her

disreputable ancestry. I had, of course, heard the scandalous report of the renegade prince who had led the Hebrew slaves in escaping. I should have known, without being told, that she been one of them. She proclaimed it by her exotic accent, her luminous olive skin and her lustrous black waterfall of hair, all perfectly set off by her simple, clinging white cotton gown. Even her name sounded suspiciously close to 'Isis', the Egyptian goddess’ name. Privately, I thought that Prince Moses would no doubt have found a use for her, just as Patrocles had done.

And I was glad, for her sake, that Patrocles had been the one to do so. This was not only because of his kindness, but because he seemed like a blurred copy of his great cousin, and even a blurred copy was beautiful enough. She deserved no less. He was obviously as generous as his famous cousin, too. Iphis wore a belt made of tiny golden leaves, extending from her waist to her hips. It was obviously his gift and would have been a very costly one, if he had not simply stolen it.

I was even happier that she had not fled with Prince Moses, as I assured her, because then I would have lost her skills as a lady’s maid. They were considerable, as I could see. She had rimmed her great black eyes with Egyptian kohl to make them seem even larger, but she had done it so subtly that I could only see the cosmetic when her face was close to mine. From any greater distance, I saw only that her eyes were beautiful.

“You’ll need all our skills to help me,” I said, as she kept trying to bind my hair beneath the silver band, only to have one curl fly out as another was captured. Sighing, she pushed the strays beneath the band again. I realized how gentle her hands were, compared to my mother’s, when she had tried to same task. The same gentle hands had soothed me with scented oil in the bath. Remembering that, I was suddenly struck by a terrible thought: Had she lain in that bath in turn?

“Did Achilles have you?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. If he had, then I could see myself in the future sharing her fate, bathing another woman in perfumed oil to prepare her for my lord. If that ever happened, I decided, I might very well find my way to the desert, to look for Prince Moses myself, for then I would truly be a slave.

To my relief, Iphis seemed offended by the question. “He gave me to my lord Patrocles,” she replied firmly. “And the first thing my lord told me is that we must always try to show our gratitude to the great Prince Achilles, for the kindness he had shown us.”

She was careful to follow Patrocles’ directions. When I had tried to thank her as she bathed me, she had answered that I must instead thank the great Achilles, who had taken me into his care. “You may thank him when he greets you personally,” she had said.

“And Patrocles knew that Achilles had not loved you?” I asked.

“Patrocles knew it,” she answered simply, “because he was my first.” She smiled again at the memory. “Not that that was any advantage for him. I knew he wanted me to hold him close at night, but I had never seen a man’s spear before. I almost screamed with terror when I saw his. So there he was, the great warrior, pointing to his spear and my sheath, and telling me how much pleasure they would bring us when we brought them together. He warned me that there would be a bit of pain and bleeding first, but I must not let them frighten me, because the pleasure would soon replace them. And I soon had reason to tell him that he had told the truth.”

“Then I envy you, Iphis,” I said, with a rueful smile, wishing that I had learned about the spear and sheath that way. Then my thoughts turned to a question that concerned me more.

“When Achilles did not have a household priestess, did you pray for both of them?” I asked.

“I would have done it happily, but I may only pray to our one Hebrew God. Patrocles was afraid that we would offend your own gods and goddesses if I did.”

Aphrodite might well be offended, I thought, considering how much she has given you. But I had no wish to insult my new friend by saying so, especially when I heard her next words.

“Achilles chose another before you named Chryseis, but the great king of kings Agamemnon soon took her for himself.”

Before I could ask about this other captive, Iphis quickly took a mirror from the table beside me and held it up for my approval, where the sun would strike it coming through the window.

“You look beautiful,” she assured me.

I tried to shove back the tendrils that were still creeping over the headband, especially the one long curl that hung down to my neck, but she gently pushed my hand away.

“You look better that way, without every hair in place,” she assured me. “It makes it seem as though your hair naturally fell this way.”

But still I was not satisfied with the reflection that stared back at me.

“I still need face paint, and layers of it,” I said. “My mother always told me that I looked good enough, if I used enough cosmetics.”

“Don’t you know yet that your mother was wrong?” Iphis demanded. “Achilles could have had any woman, captive or free, and he chose you without your face painted.”

“He felt kindly towards me because he had saved my life,” I told her.

“Nonsense,” she answered briskly. “You are a very beautiful girl. You have lovely round soft cheeks, and all you need is a bit of pink to play them up, with a bit more to brighten your lips.” Those lips were too small, my nose turned up and my eyes were too pale blue, as I knew only too well, but it was tactful of her not to say so.

“Almost, but not quite,” she said, after the cosmetics had been applied. Turning my head this way and that again, she took a small razor from her toolbox. “Your eyebrows are too close together,” she decided. “I’ll shave the space between them, and then your eyes will seem larger.” She did, and they did.

After a few final deft strokes with her combs, she took the mirror from the table and invited me to examine her handiwork again. I could barely believe the results.

“You have made me look beautiful!”

“Youare beautiful,” she replied firmly, “even if you are the only one who does not know it.”

“Then perhaps I can reflect his glory, after all. I am trying hard to do it.”

“Well, Briseis,” she answered, applying a last dot of pink to my lips. “Everyone around him is trying to do the same thing.”

As I walked towards the door, she stopped me, to show me once again how much I had to learn about my new role. “You must wait for one of the men to open it,” she said. “It is the sign of their respect for your lord.”

There was no need to tell me to wait when we came to the courtyard. Iphis and I together could not have budged that massive bar of wood and bronze that stood between the courtyard and the Argive camp outside. Three of the men hurried forward to raise it as I waited.

“Achilles could have lifted that by himself,” Iphis told me. “But as you can imagine, he is hard at work now.”

I wondered how long it would be until I, too, had started calling it 'hard work' instead of 'killing'.

***

Outside, the brilliant sun was making the blue sea shimmer like stars. It seemed an even brighter blue, in contrast to the black ships filling the harbor. The salty air from the sea mingled with the smells of wood and pitch, in an intoxicating brew. The sea slapped against the ships and the gulls cawed in rousing harmony. It all came together to remind me that I had entered a brand new world, made bright and warm by Achilles as the center of it.

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 in 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?”

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 eatmy 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, blending 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.

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. Even 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.

He lay with his eyes closed, barely breathing, so pale that he seemed almost green. Hecamede put her finger against a vein on his throat and pressed for a moment before taking my hand in hers and putting it in the same place.

“Do you feel that?” she demanded. “That tells you the blood is still running through his body. If you can’t feel it, leave the man alone and go on to another.”

I put my finger obediently on the spot, searching carefully for the pulsing blood, little dreaming how I would use that knowledge some day.

Satisfied that I had felt the pulsing that told me the man was alive, I reached for the pitcher that stood on the low three-legged wooden stool between the bed and the tub. She sighed and reached out to stop me.

“Aren’t you going to cut his shirt away?” she prompted. “Hasn’t he enough problems without you pouring his shirt into his flesh?”

As I obediently away tore the remnants of the fabric, I winced as I saw bleeding wound beneath it. It seemed impossible that I could ever wash it clean, but I drew and poured pitcher after pitcher, until I finally reached the tiny pinpricks beneath the great wound.

Stepping back, I looked up at Hecamede for approval.

“Aren’t you going to pat his skin dry?” she prompted again. Taking a cloth from the table, I patted as gently as I could and winced when I heard his moans.

As I hesitated, waiting for her judgment, we heard Machaon shouting, “Hecamede, send a girl here quickly!”

“The new girl will do,” she replied. I knew then, with pride, that I had earned her good opinion.

“Then come here quickly, girl!” he shouted. “I need you now!”

In normal times, no decent man would have talked that way to a farm slave, and I could not imagine Achilles calling to me in that tone. Now, somehow, it was as flattering as Achilles’ praise.

But I almost stopped in my tracks when I saw why he had called me. The man lying beneath him was in convulsions. One of the other women was trying, but failing, to hold onto his chest.

“You hold his legs!” Machaon shouted at me. When the violent trembling proved too much for my hands to control, I threw my body across the wounded man, heedless of the blood spurting over me.

With a look of desperation in his pale eyes, Machaon pounded a dark powder into the wound. It was the sign of his desperation that he did not wait to have his hands washed, even at the risk of offending the gods. Then the trembling stopped, and Machaon’s hand was still. He probed the neck quickly and then turned away. I jumped back, knowing that a dead man lay under me.

As he and his other assistant went off to find the next wounded man, I turned away in search of Hecamede and my next assignment. I was stopped by a voice saying, “I was told to find Briseis.”

The man coming through the door was holding his wounded arm carefully. As I walked towards him, he held it out to me.

“Achilles sent me to you,” he said. “I am his prisoner. He said he had given me a nice little wound for you to practice on.”

“An unusual gift,” I responded. “A pretty pair of earrings would have done just as well.”

To my own shame and surprise, I had to cover my mouth to keep from laughing. I kept smiling to myself, until the moans and screams became a loud, steady roar. The wounded were pouring in.

“No more gifts, Achilles, please,” I begged him silently, as I raced from one bed to another, not caring that I was pouring half the water over my own gown. Soon it was clinging to my legs, leaving me half chilled, even in that warm room. Some of the men I cared for would be dead soon enough, I realized, but perhaps caring for these was the most important work of all. I did not realize that the day was ending, only that my chilled wet limbs were growing colder and the men’s wounds were getting harder to see.

When Patrocles strode into the hall, mercifully unwounded, I remembered that he and Achilles had studied medicine together.

“Patrocles is here to help us,” I called to Machaon. “He is a physician, too.”

“No, Briseis, I am here to take you home,” he corrected me. “Achilles is entertaining guests and needs you. We have been waiting since sunset, so I could start the meat roasting.”

“But I can’t leave here,” I answered, without stopping to realize that I was defying Achilles yet again. “Can’t Iphis pour the wine for him?”

“Achilles has sent for you,” he repeated firmly.

Helplessly, I looked at Machaon, hoping that he would explain why I could not leave here now. Instead, he informed me that, since Achilles had sent for me, of course I must go.

Chapter Four

Patrocles all but dragged me out to his waiting chariot and threw me inside. I clung desperately to the railing as he sped off towards Achilles’ house. We barely noticed the wounded streaming past us in the other direction, to Machaon’s hall.

As I scurried through Achilles’ doorway, I saw to my dismay that he was glaring from the head of the table with his annoyance all too obvious, even in the dim torchlight. His three guests sat waiting around him, barely concealing their own impatience.

The working-women had set out the pitchers and cups before going back to the ships, leaving only Diomede, the stewardess. As I ran forward to pour the wine, the men gasped at my appearance. One, who sat hidden by shadows, said “a charming sight,” in a tone that could have been either ridicule or regard.

At his words, I looked down to see that my white robes of Apollo were covered with water and blood. Glancing at my reflection in a polished silver pitcher, I saw that I had smeared blood across my face and even into my hair. It was, of course, flying out in all directions, even more wildly than usual.

I flinched as Achilles rose, his hands gripping the table, obviously appalled at the sight. Mercifully, his hands relaxed as he decided to make a joke of it.

“So, friends, this is my lovely girl,” he said. They all laughed nervously. I wondered if I could possibly be right in feeling that Agamemnon, king of kings, was eyeing me as my old husband Mynes had done when

he first visited my parents’ house. It was too easy to believe that the great king had such a base nature, remembering the cowardly part that he had played in the fighting.

“Have you been beating her?” asked the man in the shadows, still taking the same light tone. “If so, you may have gone too far.”

The others glanced at Achilles, obviously wondering whether they should laugh at this, and quickly decided against it.

“I sent her to help the physicians care for my wounded men, Odysseus,” Achilles answered, in a tone of reproach. “But now she is here, so we can begin our feast.”

Taking my cue, I reached for the wine pitcher. Instead of leaning forward, the men pulled away. Then I saw my bloody hands grasping the handle and realized why they had done so. Helplessly, I stared at the red-smeared vessel until Iphis mercifully ran forward, bearing a pitcher of water with a towel over her arm. I was already reaching for the towel as she poured the water over my hands, so I accidentally knocked the pitcher from her fingers. Agamemnon jumped up as the water splashed over the leather straps of his sandals. Trying, for once, not to look at Achilles, I resolutely grasped the wine pitcher, filled each cup and said, “Please, gentlemen, drink,” before I fled into the women’s hall.

I would have stayed there, too, half dead with shame, if Iphis had not come to me with a wet cloth to wipe my hands and face. Then she ran to the wooden chest, pulled out a fresh gown, draped it over me and tied the tasseled sash. It was black, but we had no time to wonder whether the color suited me. I was starting back into the main hall when Iphis grasped my wrist.

“You can’t let them see you without the jewels he has given you,” she said.

“I don’t want them to see me at all!” I wailed. “I was supposed to reflect Achilles’ glory, and instead I have disgraced him completely instead. They must all wonder why he ever wanted me.”

“It would take worse than that to disgrace Achilles,” she answered soothingly. “And they won’t wonder why he wants you, when they see you in your finery.”

She pulled me towards the chair. When she saw me shrink away from the wooden seat, she silently found a cushion to place there. This made it barely possible for me to sit, as long as I kept my hands beneath my thighs, between the chair and my bruised backside. I would, I knew, be sitting on cushions this way for the next two days at least. What’s more, I knew that Iphis knew it, from my gesture, so I no longer had any reason to keep from speaking of the matter.

“He must be angry enough already to punish me again,” I said, “and this time I would deserve it, even if he used a horsewhip.”

“When Achilles is angry, he does not try to hide it. And you could never make him angry while you are trying so hard to please him.”

As she spoke, she reached into the chest again and pulled out a golden cap with dangling earpieces of golden beads. With no time to fight my hair, she pushed the cap on top of it to hide the worst. Three gold chains were quickly draped around my neck. The face paint went on even more rapidly. Seeing that I still shrank back, she added, “It will really disgrace him if you refuse to return.”

When I returned to the hall, I had good reason to thank Aphrodite for Iphis’ skills. Agamemnon said, in all seriousness, “Charming, indeed.” I bowed my head slightly in thanks with a slight smile. It faded when he went on, “Perhaps, Achilles, I should not have let you have her so easily.” Then he smiled, to show he meant it merely as a compliment. Achilles did not smile in return.

Because of things that happened to him much later, Agamemnon is now widely seen as some great and tragic hero. At the time, he seemed to me like a fop, with his black ringlets, short curly beard and even a jeweled earring. None of these adornments did anything to hide his marked resemblance to a goat, with his too-high cheekbones and sharply pointed chin.

“Achilles deserves no less of a gift from us,” said the man beside him, in a tone of mild reproach. “The lovely girl seems happy with him.”

“Are you saying that I do not make the girls happy, Menelaus?” his brother said with a laugh. I realized that, despite all the evidence, Agamemnon thought he was as attractive as Achilles.

In fact, Menelaus was much more attractive than his brother, although he never seemed to know it. He resembled not a goat, but a great shambling bear, with his curly red beard, powerful shoulders and

surprisingly mild blue eyes.

If he does not make the girls happy, I thought, they must be very hard to please. Then I remembered the girl he had not kept happy, and I was stunned by the veiled cruelty of his brother’s words.

For the first time, I found myself wondering why Helen had not been happy with him. Perhaps, I thought, he should have thrown her across his lap and strapped her backside even redder than mine had been the first time he saw her looking at his rival too long.

Failing that, I wondered why he had not simply let her go. There must have been plenty of women, much younger and just as beautiful, who would have been happy to take her place. My mind ran through the list on his behalf. Renegade though he was, Prince Moses had a sister named Miriam with a fine dowry of Egyptian loot, along with renowned musical talent and a reputation for the highest morals besides.

As it was, Menelaus was conspicuously without a woman of his own. This was not for any shortage of candidates, I assure you. Working-women were constantly brushing their bosoms against his arms when they bent down to serve him his dinner. Our stewardess Diomede did so that very evening, and I am sure she had chosen a gown so sheer that he could see her nipples through it, just for the occasion. I am just as sure that he often accepted such invitations for a night or two. But having an official companion would have made it harder for him to play his role as the injured husband, whose injuries were great enough to justify the war.

I mentally shook my head as I wished, not for the first time, that the men were as practical as we are. But then, I realized, if they had been, I would never have met Achilles.

Once again, my thoughts were interrupted by the scent of the sheep that Patrocles was roasting in the courtyard.

“Your dinner will be ready soon, my lords,” I assured them.

“About time,” Achilles grumbled.

“But your lovely girl was caring for our wounded,” Menelaus reminded him mildly. “That is a good

reason to forgive her.”

“No doubt as clever as she is beautiful,” Odysseus joined in. “I can assure you, gentlemen, that many women are just as clever as we. Are you one of them, girl?”

I squinted to make him out in the shadows. He seemed a simple man, with a heavy, rugged face. Beneath those shaggy brows, though, I thought I saw a cold amusement and a dark intelligence that mocked us all.

As honestly as I could, I answered, “I hope I have learned enough to help your men survive their wounds, my lord.”

He bowed, as if in surrender, with a pleasant smile that prickled my skin as his dark eyes probed into mine.

“The women have their own hard work, just as we do,” said Menelaus, in the same mild tone. “And they must also eat. I see that Iphis had brought our dinner in for us. Shall we let the women finish serving us so they can have their dinners, too?”

Wondering, again, why Helen had left him, I gratefully took my cue and directed Diomede to fill the men’s plates with roast lamb from the platter that Iphis handed me. Yet another plate brought the bread, cheese and grapes that Diomede placed beside the crusted meat. I was glad enough to flee from them when I was finished, carrying my own dinner to the women’s hall.

I was even happier to hear the guests leaving, and I forgot everything else as I returned to Achilles in the central hall. Patrocles was waiting there for Iphis. As tired as she was, she smiled eagerly as he took her wrist to lead her out to the sleeping porch.

As soon as the door had closed behind them, I reached up to help Achilles pull his tunic over his head. He stood straight to let me do it, but then suddenly asked me, “Are you tired of doing this, after doing your hard work all day?”

My fingers stopped on his shoulders. “How could I ever be tired of serving you, my lord?”

“I know you are not,” he assured me, stroking my wild hair. “I know you are trying to care for me by caring for my men. But now you must care for me in a better way.”

As though I had doubted what that way was, he slid both hands around my backside to press me against him. Seeing me wince with pain although I tried to hide it, he raised his hands to my waist instead. We stood there rocking back and forth together as he thrust into me.

***

When he spoke of my tardiness again the next morning, I was pleased, I admit, that he had decided to blame the blameless Patrocles. Obviously, Achilles told me, Patrocles should have come to fetch me when Machaon failed to have me escorted home by sunset. I wisely refrained from reminding Achilles that the chief physician had neither men nor women to spare as escorts.

When Patrocles came in from the sleeping porch, Achilles accordingly ordered him to be sure I had left Machaon’s house by sunset or else to come after me. With shame, I noticed Patrocles’ downcast expression as he silently accepted the blame. I felt equally ashamed as Iphis fed us all in total silence, her own dark eyes carefully cast down as she accepted a share of Patrocles’ disgrace.

As Patrocles and I entered Machaon’s hall, I nerved myself to offer an apology. Our chief physician’s voice stopped me from speaking. Coming from the small side room that held the medicines and bandages, he sounded as irritable as ever as he used words that I had never expected to hear from him.

“Do you think I am satisfied with the way we are going now, meeting in the early morning, so I will have time to bend you over the supply table among the powders and bandages, before the day’s first wounded are brought in?” Machaon demanded. “I want you to sleep beside me and walk with me proudly to our work. The army needs me a great deal more than it needs old Nestor. I am worth a thousand fighting men, as Agamemnon has told me often enough. He will give you to me gladly enough. I

deserve no less.”

Hecamede’s voice, as ever, was so calm, I could not imagine even one of her well-combed hairs falling astray. “And does Nestor deserve this humiliation?” she demanded. “And will any man let his women serve with us, if this is his reward?”

Patrocles raised his voice to be sure they heard us as we came through the door. As though he himself had heard nothing amiss, he said to me, “Just be sure to remind Machaon that you must leave by sunset. Achilles will not want to wait for his bath and dinner again.”

“I am sorry I was late last time,” I replied, in the same raised tone. “It was not Machaon’s fault. I should have reminded him that I had to go.”

“I’ll be sure to remind him tonight,” Hecamede responded just as smoothly, as she emerged from the little side room. While she pinned back a stray strand of hair that had fallen over her still-spotless white robes of Apollo, she went on just as calmly, “Now, Briseis, you came here at just the right time to help me light the fires beneath the bathing tubs, since none of the other women are here yet.”

“Then I will leave you to your work,” said Patrocles.

Left alone with her, I felt compelled to witness once more to my goddess, no matter how awkwardly I did it. As I bent to help her, I said, “I prayed to Aphrodite for her gifts, when I never thought I could have them. She found a way to give them to me, and I know she can do the same for you.”

As calmly as ever, not seeming to understand, she answered, “Thank you, but we serve Apollo the Healer here.” But, I thought, even Apollo cannot stop his divine sister from having her way.

My religious musings were interrupted by Machaon’s voice, giving urgent orders to two men who were supporting a third between them. As I moved forward to help them, I saw that the patient was barely breathing and so pale he almost seemed green, with a strange cold sweat coming from him, but without any wound that could have explained the symptoms.

Obviously, our chief physician had seen the same thing. “No, Briseis!” Machaon shouted, holding out his

palm to stop me. “This man is sick, not wounded. Whatever it is, you must not carry it home to Achilles. Hecamede, you stay back, too. You, men, take this man to the women’s hall, but first tell the women to leave it and not go back again. They can move back to the ships for now. If any others come here looking like this, take them there, too. You have already been with them, so you stay there and care for them.”

The next patients were a relief to us in comparison, with a problem we were well used to treating. Some of our men led in two Trojan prisoners, with one, who was wounded, leaning against his comrade. Their captors introduced them with the usual joke, “Fix them up so we can sell them.”

“That won’t be too difficult,” I answered, mostly for the prisoners’ sake. “Neither one is badly hurt.” The wounded prisoner was, indeed, well enough to stay standing, as I poured water over his torn shoulder. His head was lowered as mine was, so that we did not have to face each other and the shame on both sides.

“You, Briseis!” at the sound of my name, my patient almost jerked his arm away. I pretended not to hear him as he muttered, “Achilles’ whore!” It was easy enough to pretend to that, because his whisper was almost drowned out by the shouting that came from the doorway. “Briseis, come here!”

It was neither Machaon’s voice nor Achilles’, so I saw no reason not to finish with my patient. When I was finally able to turn towards that voice, I was glad to have a reason to leave the contempt in the Trojan prisoner’s eyes.

Then I was racing towards my new patient, because he was King Menelaus himself. The braying voice belonged to his brother, the king of kings, who was supporting him with his shoulder.

It was a bad wound, I could see, with the bronze arrowhead still buried in his thigh and the blood pouring out around it. Amazingly, though, his brother Agamemnon could still find something else to think of, and his thoughts were as base as ever.

“You were treating Trojan prisoners along with our own men, even my own royal brother,” Agamemnon accused me. “We have no love for those people, so you must stop doing it.”

Your men brought in these prisoners so they could earn a ransom for them. I stopped myself just in time from making that sharp answer and remembered instead, what Hecamede had instructed us to say if the

need arose.

“We take our commands from the chief physician,” I answered.

Agamemnon was so shocked at my reply, for a long moment he could only glare silently. “This slave wench learned her manners from her master,” he muttered finally.

Menelaus somehow managed a smile. “I wish you would not insult her,” he said, “since we want her to save my life.”

Trying to ignore both their voices, I concentrated on examining the wound more closely. It was both wide and deep. Just as frightening, Menelaus’ ruddy face was almost green with pallor, all the more notable against his red beard.

“There’s too much blood for me to wash away,” I decided. “Let’s get him into a tub.”

I slipped my shoulder beneath Menelaus’ left arm, taking half of his weight on myself, as his brother supported his right side in the same way.

“I am very heavy for you,” Menelaus whispered through clenched teeth, his blue eyes closed in pain.

“I am used to this work, my lord Menelaus,” I assured him.

He leaned more heavily on me as he tried to climb into the tub. I stopped him long enough to pull his blood-soaked shirt away, as gently as I could do it, as he moaned through his clenched teeth.

“What do you think you are doing, girl?” a familiar voice roared form the door. I turned quickly towards it.

“My lord Achilles, I am bathing the blood out of my lord Menelaus’ wound, so my lord Machaon can pull the arrow out,” I answered.

“I am aware of that!” he shouted. I flinched, as did the other women, when he slapped his thighs in anger. “I see that he is naked, too.”

“I must be sure that the fabric will not stick in the wound while I bathe him,” I explained, wondering why Achilles, himself a trained physician, did not know that.

“You will do no such thing!” he shouted. “You will stop your work right now!”

Seeing that the other women were too busy to take my place, he looked around helplessly for a moment, seeking someone else to take my place. Then he found the usual solution and gave the inevitable command.

“Patrocles!” he shouted. “You take care of it.”

Having, as always, followed him, his cousin sprang silently to the wounded king’s side. Achilles grasped my wrist and pulled me outside.

“But the sun is still shining,” I objected. “I am not supposed to be home yet.”

“You are not supposed to be hugging naked men, either,” he answered shortly. “That’s the last time you’ll come here.”

“But the physicians need me,” I protested. “You said I could learn to help them.”

“I never said you could take other men’s shirts off,” he said, as he half-lifted, half-threw me into his chariot. The sudden, violent gesture startled the well-trained horses so badly that I had to grasp the sides of the chariot to keep from being thrown to its floor.

“I was trying to care for your friends!” I exclaimed indignantly. Then I flinched away from him, fearing that I had earned myself another beating by answering him that way.

“I know that,” he answered more gently, obviously seeing my fear. “I came to do the same. I had heard that King Menelaus was wounded, and I came as a physician to help him. But I see that you were helping him well enough without me.”

If I had only stayed silent, he might have gotten over his rage. I could not help trying to defend myself, as I had never done with the husband whose rages had meant nothing to me.

“Nestor lets his Hecamede do the same,” I reminded him. “You said he is a wise man.”

“Nestor is an old fool, trying to please a young sweetheart,” he answered. “He may regret it yet.” I opened my mouth to defend her, but remembered what I had overheard her and Machaon saying to each other.

“But you said I could go to help Machaon,” I insisted. As soon as I had spoken, I knew, with a sinking heart, what his answer would be.

“And now I say you cannot,” he declared, grasping my arm. “It’s no use crying about it, either, this time. You must swear not to go there again. If you refuse to obey me as you did before, I will chain you up all day.”

For the first time, I shrank back from his grasp, remembering those other men who had locked me up and left me to burn. He dropped my arm, almost in shame, and his voice grew milder.

“If you will stop being so eternally stubborn and do as I tell you for once, you can come and watch me fight all day,” he promised. “You like that, don’t you? And I will not even ask you to pray.”

I tried to smile again.

“As you say, my lord,” I agreed. “I swear by Aphrodite that I will not go to Machaon’s house again.”

“Or anyone else’s house, unless I give permission,” he added sternly. “I won’t have you going off to help one of the other physicians, then saying you kept your word by not going to Machaon.”

“Or anyone else’s house,” I assured him. And them, anticipating what his next provision would be, I added, “and I will not help the physicians outside their houses, either.”

***

So I went back to climbing the platform every morning, with Patrocles’ help, to watch Achilles fighting. Within two weeks, I was so accustomed to it, I could use my hands to shield my eyes as Chryseis did, rather than grasping the railing while squinting against the sun.

He no longer climbed up to ask me to pray. It would have been hard for me to pray to anyone but Apollo now, in any case, because I could not help thinking of how much work Achilles was making for the healing god’s servants in Machaon’s hall. I wondered if Achilles, who had been trained as a physician, ever thought the same.

But Achilles had not been wrong in saying I enjoyed watching him fight. I had forgotten, while assisting Machaon, how beautiful Achilles was in battle, how surely he moved and struck. His surgeon’s hands were trained, as I now knew, to find the fatal veins unerringly, thus aiding his natural power and grace.

On my first evening after watching him, I could not wait to let the women bathe me. Having sent the others to the women’s hall, I greeted him alone at the door. There, I made him stagger backwards with the violence of my own assault.

He laughed and lifted me lightly into the air, freeing me to wrap my legs around his waist. My fingers traced his face beneath his red-plumed helmet, and his cheeks were hot and damp. He smelled of leather, metal and sweat, mingling with the fine, delicate fragrance that Iphis had given me. My skirt fell like a pale-blue cloud around us, and he impatiently brushed it away.

As that great spear filled me with thrust after thrust, I learned again how huge, how hard, how magnificent he was. I grasped his long red-gold hair, pulled his head back and thrust my tongue between his lips, like a tiny spear of my own. His own thrusting became even harder and faster in response.

The next evening he told me, in a note of triumph, that I must now thank him for having taken me from Machaon’s house. That illness I had seen was spreading. The physician would soon have sent me away in any case, to keep me from carrying it back to Achilles himself.

When I saw that Chryseis looked worried, I assumed that she, too, had heard about the plague. I noticed that change in her expression at once, as we stood on the platform together. It was so far from her usual look of cheerful mockery. Her full lips were pressed together, with no smile this time. For once, she stood motionless, with her arms crossed before her, as though she were chilled more deeply than the brightest sun could touch. It was so unlike her that I could not help asking what the matter was.

“My father,” she answered shortly, without turning away from Agamemnon. She watched him with a new intensity now, as though fearing she might not be able to do it much longer. For the first time, it struck me that she might love him as I loved Achilles.

“What about him?” I asked, knowing how much trouble fathers could make.

“A man wants to marry me,” she answered. “He has offered a good bride price.”

“But…” I let my voice trail off, sure that she knew the objection. She shook her head ruefully in response.

“He says he’ll forgive me, since I was a helpless captive, if my father gives him my hand.”

“An old man?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t ask,” she said. “I believe he is another priest, who wants to rise high in the priesthood, with my father to help him.”

“Did you tell him you would rather stay with Agamemnon?” Not that my father would have asked about my wishes in such a matter, but I hoped against hope that Chryseis had better fortune with hers.

Again, she shrugged impatiently. “I haven’t even spoken to him. Agamemnon sent me to the women’s hall when he came.” For a moment, she smiled proudly, without mockery, as she added, “I heard what they said, though. Agamemnon refused to send me away.”

Both her voice and her smile grew soft as she added, “He told me he would keep me with him right along with his wife, coming to my bed until we grew old together.”

In that moment I was almost envious, wondering if Achilles would say the same about me.

“Then what are you worrying about?” I asked. “The priests of Apollo will not fight the army.”

“My father told Agamemnon that Apollo himself would fight for him,” she answered. I heard the growing fear in her voice. “He said that his god had sent the plague, and he would pray to make it fatal to us all.”

Despite myself, I shuddered. What sort of priest would pray for illness? And worse, what if Apollo heard him? If he was the god of doctors and healing, could he not send sickness as well?

The same question must have occurred to Agamemnon. As Chryseis told me later, he went to the chief physician for advice. Machaon assured him that plagues, like wounds, had a human cause and that Apollo used his power only to cure the sick. Chryseis’ father, he added disapprovingly, was obviously no physician and not much of a priest, either, based on that blasphemous prayer.

Still, Chryseis sounded worried as she repeated that conversation to me. Agamemnon seemed convinced by Machaon’s reasoning, but she knew her lord well enough to read his doubts on his suddenly distant face.

***

When the plague continued, as plagues will, Machaon went on assuring the king that all such diseases were often seen in war, with the men living so close together. The true cure was to keep the healthy men away from the sick ones. But the very fact that Agamemnon sent for his chief physician so often to hear his reassurances, showed that he had his doubts

Chryseis’ face reflected those doubts, as she grew increasingly silent. One morning she burst out suddenly, through gritted teeth, “If they take me away from him, I will find a way back, I swear it.” I told her I was sure she would.

But her fears aroused my own. Having dreamed of a war god when I lived with an old man, now the old man lived in my dreams. He was coming to take me away with him, to listen again to his harsh voice complaining about my hair, my weaving, my embraces, my childlessness. I prayed to Aphrodite that she would keep those dreams from coming true, from letting my husband or father or anyone else come to drag me from the warm sunlight, back to an eternal winter’s chill. I had thought myself safe with my lord, but Chryseis had thought the same.

On a morning that was too cold for even the leopard cloaks to warm me, I was pleased when Achilles told me that there would be no battle. Such days had always been given over to long hours of lying together. Today he did not seem pleased by the prospect. I soon learned why when he told me that he was going to meet with all the kings. From his grim expression as he threw a leopard skin over his shoulders, I knew that the meeting would be no happy one.

The shouting reached us all the way from Agamemnon’s house. We women ran out to the courtyard, straining in vain to hear what they were shouting about. Sly Diomede offered to sneak off there to try to find out. Sneaking is what she is best at, I thought, as I agreed to send her.

By the time she returned, the sun was down, and a cold rain had forced us back inside the shelter. Iphis lit a fire in the stone hearth and we gathered around it, despite the smoke. As she approached the fireplace, Diomede was trying to hide a happy smile, which should have been warning enough.

Iphis also knew her well enough to realize that her smile boded no good. “What are you grinning about?” Iphis shouted into that sharp little fox face.

Diomede normally jumped to obey her. This time, she only smiled more broadly and said, “You would never believe me.”

“Tell me, girl!” Iphis shouted, shaking her arm. Diomede pulled it away indignantly as Patrocles strode into the room.

“Ask your lord, Iphis,” Diomede told her, tilting her head in his direction. “You’ll believe him when he tells you.”

Iphis and I both opened our mouths at the same time to do so. We fell silent as he approached me and silently pulled me into his arms.

“Achilles is dead,” I wept, too terrified to realize that that news would not have made Diomede smile. “Agamemnon had his men kill him!”

Without releasing me, he shook his red-gold mane of hair that was so much like his cousin’s.

“Achilles is as well as ever,” he assured me. “But you must go and stay with Agamemnon now.”

For a moment, his words had no meaning. Then I felt as though the earth were falling away under my feet. I tried to pull away from him, but it was like pulling against iron bands.

“If my lord Achilles does not want me any more, why does he not tell me so himself?” I wailed.

“He loves you as much as ever,” Patrocles assured me, stroking my hair in comfort. “But Agamemnon is saying that he gave you to Achilles and has the right to take you back.”

“Why would he want to do that?” I cried. “Chryseis loves him.”

“Achilles told him to give Chryseis back to her father, for the good of all. Agamemnon finally said he would do it, but you had to take her place.”

“And Achilles agreed?”

“Achilles jumped on him and almost broke his neck, but Odysseus came between them and persuaded Achilles to give Agamemnon his way. He promised that the king of kings would send you back, unharmed, soon enough.”

“Achilles should have killed Odysseus, the liar,” I whispered.

Patrocles managed a thin smile. “I promise you that he spoke truly this time. It will only be for a little while. The king of kings will learn that he can’t do without Achilles and his men soon enough. But you must come with me now. Agamemnon has sent his messengers. They are waiting on the porch for you.”

“Why doesn’t Achilles take me to them himself?” I demanded, pulling my head back to stare at him. “It’s always Patrocles, take care of this, or Patrocles, do that. Can’t he do his own dirty work for himself?”

He was silent, leaving me sorry that I had attacked him, when I knew he was not to blame. For once, though, I was in no mood to ask for any Argive soldier’s pardon. Just as silently, I let Patrocles throw my fur cloak over my shoulders and lead me by the wrist into the cold rain.

Achilles stood in the courtyard with his arms folded and a cold anger that was more frightening that his fiercest rage. I ran towards him, crying out his name, and the sudden motion broke Patrocles’ grasp. I stopped short when Achilles turned away and refused to turn his head again to look at me.

Agamemnon’s men approached me, their head bowed in well-earned shame. Silently, I waited as they took their places at either side of me, to keep me from escaping. The man to my right grasped my wrist and would not let me pull it away. An hour earlier, no man but Achilles would have dared do that to me. So this, I thought, this is slavery.This helplessness and humiliation, where Achilles had always made me feel strong and proud.

Grateful, at last, for the rain that kept them from seeing my tears, I walked between them with my head held high to the courtyard gate, where Achilles men were stationed. They hesitated until, still without turning towards me, he gestured for them to raise the bar.

Chapter Five

When the soldiers opened the door to Agamemnon’s house, I saw that every sign of Chryseis was gone. If she had not taken her weaving with her, it must have been put away. I wondered if she had been able to take his gifts of jewelry. I saw none of hers that I recognized in the piles of gold and gems overflowing the treasure chests on the floor.

Agamemnon, as always, wore his own jewels around his neck and in his earlobes, above his freshly curled and perfumed beard. He was dressed like a suitor, I realized with revulsion, trying to impress his promised bride. And, yes, I had been right about him, at our first meeting. He sat back at his table leering at me as my old husband had done.

Still, I saw that he was trying to play the courteous host, as he gestured me towards an elaborately carved wooden chair across the table from him. The table was spread with the finest black-and-orange pottery in yet another attempt to impress me.

“Welcome, Hippodamia Briseis,” he said cheerfully. “Did you know that Hippodamia was my mother’s name? It’s a sign that we will get along very well. But for now, you must be as hungry as I am,” he said. His friendly voice held an unmistakable second meaning.

Turning his head, he cried, “My guest is here, and now we can dine.” At once, two women appeared carrying trays of roast meat, bread and honey cake, with pitchers of wine. One of them took my leopard cloak, leaving me grateful to be so near the fire on this cold night. I did my best to eat my portion, so he would not see my fear.

“You heard me call you my guest,” he said, in his friendliest tone. “That is just how I see you. Others may call you my captive, but I always become my captive’s captive, you may be sure. No doubt Chryseis told you so.”

“She said she would find some way to get back to you.”

“I only wish it could be true,” he said with a sigh as he crunched a crust of bread between his teeth. “She was as generous as she was beautiful, especially with her mouth. Did you see that big wide mouth of hers? She knew how to use it.”

“She was certainly very witty,” I answered carefully.

His eyes narrowed, burning straight into mine. His voice grew harder as he went on, “I mean that her mouth was generous in a different way. Do you understand me, girl?”

“No, sir, and I do not wish to,” I answered in a tone as hard as his own, meeting his gaze head-on.

“I would rather you called me your lord,” he said, managing a smile. My silence enraged him more than any words of refusal would have done.

Like a striking snake, his hand reached across the table and seized my wrist.

“Honor would be satisfied for both of us that way,” he said. “I would have had you, just as I said I would, but not in the natural way, which is probably the only one that Achilles cares for.”

Seeing my stunned gaze, he shook his head with a great show of sympathy.

“No doubt you wish you could get back to him, as I wish I could have my Chryseis back again. But things are as they are, and we must take what the gods send us, gratefully. You don’t imagine, do you, that Achilles will not replace you?”

I thought of Diomede, and I wondered how often the stewardess would accidentally brush her bosom against Achilles’ upper arm, as she had brushed it against Menelaus’ arm so often.

“Aphrodite gave me to Achilles, and she may do the same for Diomede,” I told Agamemnon firmly and shrank back before the anger that blazed in his black eyes. “I am sorry that I cannot serve you in the way you mean.”

“But you would serve Achilles in that way, if he wished it.”

“I would serve Achilles in any way.”

“I gave you to Achilles, and I have taken you back again,” he told me. “But you will have nothing to be sorry for, unless you choose to defy me as you defied him.”

I shrank back even further at that open threat. He jumped to his feet, knocking a platter of meat to the floor. Ignoring the mess before him, he seized my wrists and pulled me to my feet. Knowing it was hopeless, I could not stop myself from trying to pull my wrists away.

“You told Chryseis how it was his spear that won you,” he went on, leaving me to curse the way I had confided in her.” But I assure you, my spear is as fine as his, and I use it as skillfully. I’ll teach you to use that tight little mouth of yours skillfully, too. You might come to enjoy it as much as she did.”

I fought to pull my head away as his lips pressed onto mine, his coarse beard scraping my face. His hand was on my head, holding it steady against his. Held so close to him, I knew that his perfume was mixed with the smell of raw wine. He must have taken a great deal of it, to nerve himself to take Achilles’ woman.

Relentlessly, he forced my head downwards, towards his lower parts. I pulled away, clawing desperately at his bare hands.

“You will take my spear in your mouth,” he ordered, in a low voice that was like an animal’s growl. “You will close your mouth tight around it and suck as hard as you can until I finish inside your mouth. Then you will swallow what I shoot there.”

He pushed me to the ground and fell to his knees beside me, I clawed at his face with my nails seeking his eyes, as he pressed my head ever closer to the place between his legs.

Then I saw my weapon. Grasping the opportunity, I went limp and helpless for a moment. He closed his narrow eyes as he raised his tunic, and my lips moved up his legs, to the base of his spear, my head bowed in seeming surrender At the same time, my fingers reached up to stroke his face, and his entire

body relaxed beneath their feather touch. It caressed his chin and his cheeks until they reached his earlobes. When they did, I seized the gold ring and pulled it from his ear.

Howling, he reached for the injured spot, then stared disbelieving at his bloody hand. The world exploded, as he seized my hair and banged my head against the floor. Then he slapped me with one hand and then the other, over and over again.

But even as I suffered, I knew Achilles was still protecting me. This king of kings did not dare to close his fist, afraid to leave marks of his brutality that Achilles might see on me. Instead, he reached up to the table, pulled down his meat knife and held it against my throat.He was thus determined to enforce my submission.

I could not believe my good fortune when I saw his brother Menelaus limping into the room as fast as his wound would allow. My relief was so great I did not realize that he must have been waiting there in case he was needed for just such a crisis as this. I felt him pulling his brother, the king of kings, off of me.

“What are you doing?” Menelaus cried. I saw, again, the kindness in those pale blue eyes. “Have you forgotten why we fight this war, because Prince Paris stole Helen from me? Would you take another man’s woman the same way?”

“I’ll kill this Trojan bitch instead!” his brother shouted.

“Is that the way you will thank her for saving my life when I was wounded, and she brought Achilles’ anger down on herself by helping me?”

Agamemnon hesitated, long enough to let Menelaus pull me from the floor.

“Now off you go to the women’s hall,” Menelaus told me, pointing to the side door. “Agamemnon will not send for you again.”

***

But I found little comfort there. Instead, the other women stared silently at me while one of them, who seemed to be their leader, led me to my bed. This was not the carved wooden couch I had shared with Achilles, beneath the soft purple blanket, but a straw pallet with a thin homespun cover. It stood in a row of five such beds crowded together and facing five more.

“You’ll earn your keep here,” she promised me, in a brazen shout that, as I soon learned, was her normal tone of voice. “And you needn’t think you can put yourself above us, because you are the famous Briseis. I hear that your given name is Hippodamia, and that is what we will call you. Hippodamia: horse woman.” She emitted a coarse, mirthless burst of laughter.

If anyone was a horsewoman it was obviously my tormenter, and she seemed to be daring me to say so. Her coarse red-brown hair flew around like a horse’s chestnut mane, even more wildly than mine did, and her face was as long as any old mare’s. Her voice was even less attractive, sounding more like a donkey’s bray than the whinny of a noble steed.

I dared say nothing, though. Instead, I looked around at her minions, hoping that one of them would defend me. They stayed silent: as I thought, in fear of her. But I soon realized that they disliked me for reasons of their own. When they thought I was asleep, I heard them whispering about it.

“No wonder they are fighting over her,” our leader told her companions. “I served Helen, and I tell you that this Briseis is almost as beautiful. Or if not that, then she looks sweet, soft and helpless, which the men like even more.”

“She looks a lot sweeter than she is, Alcestis, I’ll tell you that much,” another woman replied. “She’ll make as much trouble as Helen ever did.”

Alcestis agreed, in her braying voice, “Helen may have started this war, but this Hippodamia Briseis could lose it for us.”

The next morning they would barely even speak to me, but I heard them whispering to each other often enough while glancing in my direction. It seemed to me that the ones in line before me lingered in the bath, to be sure that my water was neither warm nor clean. I remembered vividly then how my women, Achilles’ women, had bathed me, dressed me and even called me 'mistress'.

They did not take my fine Egyptian cotton gown away but neither did they replace it. Soon it became even shabbier than their coarse linen clothes. I would not ask for a new gown, though, because I knew that they would take my old one in return. I would not see any of these creatures mincing around in the gift that Achilles had given me.

I must have been a strange, sad sight, spinning wool in my worn finery, squinting to catch the pale sun that found its way through the narrow windows. I have confessed to having no talent for weaving, even the simple warm cloaks and blankets that the working-women made for the soldiers. Alcestis took great pleasure in pointing that out to me, in her loudest bray, while all the others were listening. Then she tore my work apart so I would have to do it all over again.

At last, as though she had lost all hope for me, Alcestis threw me the spinning to do. I was at it hour after hour, my fingers bleeding while the days spun out as slowly as the thread. It seemed to me that they all took a malicious joy in making sure I was never without a spool of coarse sheep’s hair.

Many times, I felt someone walking behind me and tweaking my hair. When I turned around, no one was there. Finally, I reached back and pulled without turning around, so that I surprised her. Charis’ shriek rewarded me. Then she tore at my hair with both hands, as hard as she could, and I tugged hers in return. It seemed an eternity before Alcestis stamped between us, with her horse’s mane flying behind her, and grasped us both by the arms.

“I have a mind to slap you both,” she roared. “Get back to your work at once.”

The others started turning back to their looms and worktables with barely concealed smiles, but I finally burst out at them, tears of pain still filling my eyes.

“Why are you angry at me?” I demanded. “Chryseis was my friend, so should I have fallen into bed with her lord the moment she was gone?”

“Is that why you injured him?” Charis demanded. “And he let you do it. Do you know what he would have done to any of us who had attacked him?”

With her fists thrust against her hips, she raced angrily on. “But, no, he did nothing to you. The name of Achilles still protects you, even if he no longer cares to do it himself.”

“That’s enough, Charis,” Alcestis snapped.

“But it’s true, isn’t it? If he cared about her, would he have let them bring her here? So why shouldn’t she go with Agamemnon, instead of making all this trouble for us.”

“What do you mean by trouble?” I wailed. “I am locked up here spinning wool, what trouble could I make?”

“Don’t you know?” she cried.

“Know what? How could I know anything, when no one will talk to me.”

“Achilles has taken his men out of the war.”

Stunned by her words, I looked from one to the other, to see if she could possibly be lying or making some fool’s joke.

“And now we are losing,” Alcestis added quietly, making it clear that it was the simple truth. “Without them, we’ll be lucky if we don’t wind up being Hecuba’s slaves. The gods and goddesses only know how she will treat us for having been Agamemnon’s women, and she won’t care that he captured us. They say she’s become a real old bitch, and she’ll prove it on us. We’ll be set to cutting flax out in the sun, even my lady Hippodamia Briseis.”

“But I don’t see how I am to blame,” I cried. “If I had gone with Agamemnon, Achilles would be angrier yet.”

“He could not be any angrier,” said another woman with a shudder. “Iphis says that only Patrocles dares go near him.”

“And Diomede,” said Charis, a smile spreading across her plain face. Then she grinned even more broadly, seeing from my expression that this was the most terrible thought of all.

If Charis had no pity for me, though, her superior did.

“I told you, that’s enough,” Alcestis ordered.” Briseis has work to do, and so do you all.”

They scattered at her words, and I turned back to my spindle. Surprised at Alcestis’ sudden kindness, I would have been even more content if I had known what the next day would bring.

***

Hecamede came to beg Agamemnon for my services. Machaon needed all the trained women to help him, she said, with so many wounded coming in every day, and Briseis was one of the best-trained women they had. Other women were being brought from the ships, but there was not even a moment to teach them.

Her voice was raised so urgently, I could easily hear her through the door that divided Agamemnon’s great hall from the workroom. That was the measure of her desperation, I realized: She had always been so calm and quiet, even when facing the wounded and dead.

Just as urgently, I prayed to Apollo the Healer, begging him to move Agamemnon to grant her request and let me back into his service, where my life might still be useful.

Apollo must have anticipated my prayer. Menelaus was with his brother when Hecamede arrived, and I had started regarding Menelaus as my friend. In a tone of reproach, he was reminding his brother that I had helped save his life once and might have cause to do it again. With this encouragement, Agamemnon grudgingly told her that I was welcome to go with her. I might be of some use at Machaon’s house, he said, even though, as Alcestis had told him, I was no use at all in his.

Hecamede ran so fast to get back to her work that I had to run beside her. Her hair, always so neatly groomed before, was now almost as wild as mine. That alone should have told me how badly the war was going. I did not realize that, though, until I saw that wounded men were lying outside the house on rickety makeshift platforms, because there was no room for them inside. Almost all were Argives now: The Trojans were taking the prisoners, rather than being taken.

They grabbed at my skirts as I passed them, pleading for care, for help, for water. Hecamede pulled me behind her into the house, not even waiting for a man to open the door.

Inside, the screaming was even louder, as the women raced from one bedside to another. They were not merely washing the wounds and the physicians’ hands now. The trained women were pressing the medicines into the wounds. The most skilled physicians, like Machaon, were too busy to deal with medicines now. They spent all their time pulling out arrows and cutting off limbs, after we women had helped the victims to swallow the drugs that would still their pain. Still without taking time to talk, Hecamede pressed a pitcher and cloth into my hand.

Wash the wound, press on the medicine, then wrap the bandages, tie them and go on. But always feel the neck first, to be sure the patient was still alive. I mouthed these orders to myself as I carried them out, time and time again.

Always the cries for water tore at me. Finally, I saw that other women, not trained, had been sent here to carry the pitchers around and fill the cups that the men held out to them. When the men were too weak to do even that, the women cradled their heads and held the pitchers to their lips.

The work went on for two days. They were marked only by the coming and going of the sunlight, with no one daring to sleep or eat, except for the bread and water that the untrained women brought us. We held the food in one hand while we kept working with the other. The same untrained women were also set to holding down the wounded men while the physicians cut the arrows out or sawed the limbs off. We

trained women had always held the patients down before, but now there were not enough of us to do it.

And always, we heard the unending cries, as the men called desperately for the first women who had tended them: “Mother, mother, mother—nurse, nurse, nurse!”

The worst, the most frightening moment came when Nestor led Machaon into his own house. “He was shot while trying to rescue me,” Nestor explained.

For a moment, that surprised me. The chief physician had needed only to rescue someone else instead, while leaving Nestor to his fate, and then he could have claimed Hecamede for his own. Then I remembered the oath we had taken, to do our patients no harm. Nestor had not been his patient then, but Machaon had gone beyond the words to the very heart of the oath.

Nestor must have seen the bond between them when Hecamede ran to bathe Machaon’s wound. Then the chief physician worked the barbed arrow out of his own shoulder, his teeth set tight to muffle his screams. “Now you must lie down and rest,” she begged him, as she quickly applied the medicine and wound the bandage around it. Instead, he ordered her to give him drugged wine to dull the pain so he could go back to work.

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 armrests, 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.”

“Do you think she should be alone in that house now?” I shouted. “She lived with Patrocles there.” It was no use. No matter what happened, we must all belong to someone. It seemed I still belonged to Agamemnon and she to Achilles.

“At least send one of your men to guard her on the way,” I said, with a sigh.

“Do you think any of us would harm her?” he demanded.

“I think she might wander off somewhere. Look at her, she does not know where she is going.”

He nodded sympathetically. “I’ve seen men go like that, too,” he said. “We’ll make sure that she gets home.”

He took her by the wrist to lead her away. She shrieked and jumped back as though his hand had been on fire, because that was the way Patrocles had led her. The man seemed to know it, because he held up his hands to show how harmless he was and beckoned her to follow him. She followed him blindly, stumbling on the stone path that she had walked so surely before.

I turned to follow the other men back to Agamemnon’s house. They formed a circle around me, as though fearing I would escape.

“You needn’t be afraid that I will run back to Achilles,” I told them bitterly. “He has already refused to take me.”

“Well, the great king is going to offer you again,” one of them consoled me. “He may have better luck this time, now that Patrocles is dead.”

And that, as I soon learned, was just what the great king had counted on.

As soon as we had passed through Agamemnon’s doorway, I sank back into the heavily carved armchair, covered my face with my hands and wept. I barely glanced up when I realized that the great king was standing over me.

“It seems your plans have gone astray,” I told him bitterly.

“Not at all,” he answered, smiling faintly. “They are proceeding perfectly.”

I wondered about that for a moment. Then I remembered the curses that the soldiers had shrieked under the physicians’ knives, in the unbearable pain that not even the strongest medicine could quiet. Then, I had tried to forget their curses. Now, I was glad I had failed to do so. As calmly as I could manage, although with a shaking voice, I said, “You miserable misbegotten bastard son of a whore. You knew Patrocles was going to die out there. You sent him out to do it, to get Achilles fighting again.”

He was so pleased with his success, he did not even seem annoyed with me. Or perhaps he merely realized that he could not send me back to Achilles with a bruised face.

“Your kind feelings do you credit,” he assured me. I noticed, with no kindness, that he was wearing a rich ruby in his uninjured ear, to replace the one I had torn away. “But would you even ask Achilles not to avenge his friend, who died in his place?”

“What if I told him that his friend wanted his woman in return?"

“I do not think you will tell him that,” he assured me. “He would not believe you, and he would blame you if he did. As it is, Achilles merely knows that his cousin was adding to his glory. That’s true enough, isn’t it?”

In vain, I searched my memory for more soldiers’ curses. Then I realized that the truth was worse than any of them.

“That is exactly what you planned for,” I accused him.

“But it was not my idea,” he assured me, afraid of how much I might tell Achilles, after all. “Nestor told Patrocles that he could lead the army in Achilles’ place. He is a very wise old man.”

As he spoke, I remembered what I had seen earlier that morning: a much younger man, with a look of cold amusement darting from beneath his shaggy brows.

“That was not old Nestor’s idea,” I said. “He still has some sense of honor. The idea came from someone else, who did not dare make the offer because Patrocles knew better than to trust him.”

“Odysseus is very wise,” Agamemnon cheerfully agreed.

“Treacherous is more like it.”

“You can tell him that yourself, if you like,” he assured me. “He’ll be in Achilles’ house when I take you back there. This time, your lover has agreed to accept you, along with those seven working-women I promised. They’ll all be very beautiful, I assure you. Perhaps Achilles might even send you back to me willingly after he sees them.”

His threats and taunts barely touched me. I knew only that I would see Achilles soon. The rest would be up to Aphrodite and to him, my goddess and my lord and master, master and lord.

“When are we leaving?” I asked.

“Right now, unless you want to put on more cosmetics and jewelry,” he answered. “Not that I think he will notice.” He shook his head in mock sympathy. “He’s in such a terrible state, I feel very sorry for him.”

“No, you don’t,” I answered.

Once again, he was too cheerful to protest. He even patted my hand before he went off to his ships, where he would select Achilles’ gift from among the women still waiting there.

When he returned with those women I wished, with a sinking heart, that I had taken the time to let Agamemnon’s servants deck me with more jewelry and paint. Just as he had threatened, they were very beautiful. And they were studying me as carefully as I studied them. Each was obviously wondering if she were more beautiful than I was, with the best chance of winning the pirate prince. All of them could offer the lure of novelty, which I had lost weeks earlier, the night after Lyrnessos fell.

The king gestured us all outside and told me, with an ironical bow, to walk in front of the others. His men fell into line, forming an escort on either side, so that their helmets would have hidden us from any

observer.

***

By now the afternoon was growing cold. We gathered our shawls around us as we followed the great king to Achilles’ house. Agamemnon entered before us. Waiting on the front porch, we heard him loudly swearing that he had never been with me. “For which he has me to thank,” I muttered.

We jumped back quickly as the heavy door swung outward and Agamemnon finally gestured us into the hall. My eyes desperately sought for Achilles in the torchlit room. I could only glimpse his red-gold head rising above the ring of kings who surrounded him. All were begging him to eat something to keep his strength up before he tried to fight. Scornfully, his voice rang out, saying that he would taste nothing until he had avenged Patrocles. The sound brought me running across the room to comfort him. The throng of men stood between us. Odysseus pushed me away, no doubt fearing I would find some way to win Achilles back from his madness.

“Not now, girl,” he snapped. “Wait until he comes back from the fighting.”

How could he fight without his armor? I wondered. Then I remembered the fine suit his mother had given him for a decoration. He would find a much more practical use for it now.

“Do you want to see him?” a voice asked at my elbow. Turning to see Iphis, I realized that, for the first time, someone had said 'him' in this house without meaning Achilles.

Desperately, I wanted not to see Patrocles, but I knew it would comfort Iphis if I did. I let her lead me to the side sleeping porch she had shared with him. The men were filing by to show their respect but parted to let us through.

The women had washed Patrocles and dressed him in a fresh white shirt. He seemed to have fallen asleep, with his red-gold hair falling around his shoulders. They had put a sword in his hand, and I remembered that same hand covering my eyes so that I would not see my brothers dead.

He should have what he paid for, Iphis had said. I gathered his body in my arms, held it against my shoulder and kissed his cold cheek. During those days in the chief physician’s house, I had touched enough dead men’s cheeks so that these did not revolt me.

“You are my prince, just as you wanted to me,” I told him, “because you were always kind. You would never let me grieve before, but you are not here to stop me now.”

Then I heard Iphis sobbing behind me. “But he loved you, too,” I told her. “You made him very happy.”

“I could not give him what he wanted,” she answered. “He wanted Achilles’ woman.”

“He wanted to be Achilles, if only for a day,” I told her. “That is what he died for.”

“Mistress.” We both turned at the sound of Diomede’s voice. She rose in my estimation when I saw that even her fox face was tear-stained.

“They are putting his armor on him,” Diomede said. “Patrocles always helped him do it before.”

“Why don’t you help him now?” I demanded. She shrank back, thus giving me her answer even before she spoke. They all feared his rage now, and he was giving them good reason.

“He was crying and shouting about killing Trojan captives,” she whispered. “He is calm now, but he still says he will do it.”

The seven new women shrank away. “He’s gone mad,” one of them murmured, and another nodded assent. They no longer seemed so eager to win the attentions of the famed pirate prince. We now

remembered that we were all Trojan captives, no matter what else anyone called us.

“He doesn’t mean it,” I said, for my own assurance more than hers.

“Even if he does mean it, he will not kill Briseis,” Diomede said bitterly. “I learned that much when I was with him and he called me by her name.”

That would have pleased me greatly once, but now what difference did it make, either way? If Achilles, my lord, now wanted to kill me with his other Trojan captives, then why should I want to live? All I felt now was a desperate desire to be near him, bringing whatever comfort I could. Leaving the others behind me, I returned to the main hall and strode towards the circle of kings.

Odysseus moved to block my way, but this time I faced him.

“Do you want to help him on with his armor?” I demanded.” It’s hardly a job for a king, but you may have it if you want it. Otherwise, please move aside.”

With a glance that was almost admiring, he pulled back, giving me room enough to squeeze past him to Achilles’ side. He was trying to tie the leather straps on his own shoulders, impatiently waving the other men away.

He gave no sign that he even recognized me but stood still, stretching out his arms, as I raised myself on tiptoe to buckle the shoulder straps. Then I knelt to fasten the bronze armor around his legs and stood again to fasten the grieves around his arms. Still without seeming to notice, he held out his arms to help me.

I stood on tiptoe again to fasten the belt behind him. Finally, I held out the red-plumed helmet towards him. The great shield was too heavy for me to even think of lifting.

At last, I put his sword into the sheath on his back, but first I held the sword between my hands and bent to kiss the cold iron blade. I barely heard the others murmuring approval at this final benediction.

Only Achilles did not seem to have noticed my gesture. He had stood like a statue, letting me arm him. Then he lifted the shield from the floor. In the same incredibly graceful motion, he reached back for his sword and raised it into the air.

“They feel as light as feathers,” he assured us.

“They won’t seem that way to Hector,” Odysseus assured him.

Achilles’ face darkened at the name, leaving me to wonder if that had been Odysseus’ reason for saying it.

“You’ll soon have Hector’s head on your spear,” Agamemnon promised, in soothing tones.

“I’ll do worse than that,” Achilles answered. His cold voice was more frightening than the most violent rage.

“You will do nothing against your own honor!” I cried. “Patrocles always promoted that above everything.”

At last he seemed to notice me and peered down with distant amusement.

“My dear Briseis,” he said, with the same mirthless grin. “My fragile little flower with the solid iron stem. My beloved little captive who gives orders to me.”

Leaning down, he whispered, in a voice so soft I had to strain to hear him, “Do you know what I will do now, little Briseis? I will capture seven noble Trojans alive and then cut their heads off. I only hope to hear them pleading with me to spare them before I do it.”

He does not mean it, I thought. Then I looked at his cold face and realized that he did.

“Why don’t you kill me, then?” I demanded, staring straight up at him. “I am a Trojan captive and the reason for everything that has happened here today.”

“Perhaps I should," he agreed, smiling fiercely down at me. He chose his words as carefully as he chose his weapons, to cut and wound. “I have already told the others that I wish you had gotten sick and died before you made all this trouble for us.”

At first his words had no meaning, because they had stunned me like a blow. Then I turned and ran blindly, past the men, past Iphis. Past the porch and into the courtyard I ran, still blinded by my tears. I did not even look up when I felt a man’s warm, heavy hand on my shoulders.

“I heard what he said, but he did not mean it,” Menelaus told me. “He said far different things to my brother and me, when we were begging him to come back and fight for us. He told Agamemnon that he could not forgive him for taking you away because he loved you with all his heart, even though it was his spear that won you. Both of his spears, he should have said.Especially the one below his waist.”

His little joke made me smile, even through my tears.

“I do not think he would say that now, my lord Menelaus,” I answered.

“Love does not die so easily,” he answered softly. I lowered my eyes, remembering how his love for Helen had lived through everything. I thought again what a fool she must have been to let this man go.

We both wheeled at Achilles’ voice as he came towards us.

“Are you planning to take Briseis from me, now, Menelaus, after your brother has given her back to me?” he demanded, in the same deadly cold rage.

Menelaus stared straight back at those terrible bright blue eyes.

“Only if you are fool enough to let her go.”

His tone made even Achilles pause.

“Never,” Achilles finally assured us. “Have you both forgotten that she is the living reflection of my glory? She must be on the platform watching again tomorrow, during my greatest fight.”

“I don’t think it will be anything that she should see,” Menelaus answered sharply.

“Thank you, my king,” I said. “But I must look at anything my lord wishes me to see.”

“A very good answer,” Achilles sneered. “Now you must rest, so you will be bright and beautiful tomorrow.”

“And we must go, so you can both rest,” Menelaus said. Raising his voice, he called towards the house, “Let us all go now, gentlemen, so Achilles can rest for tomorrow.”

That sent them out quickly enough. Just as quickly, the women scurried after Diomede to the women’s hall.

I was left alone in the room I had shared with Achilles. After lying awake with my eyes wide open for half the night, and realizing that I still could not sleep, I pulled the red woolen shawl over my shoulders and went out to the courtyard. One of the men on night guard duty told me that Achilles was out walking on the beach.

“In the dead of night?” I demanded. For answer, the soldier pointed west. I shivered, but not from the cold, at the sight of the figure I saw there. He was not eating, he was not sleeping, he was pacing back and forth as he threatened horrible things. He was going mad, and no one in this world would even try to help him. To my shame, I did not go to him either, fearing that he would send me away. And I, Briseis, who had felt men die under my hands—to me, being abandoned by him was still the most terrible thought of all.

***

What happened next morning, I would never tell anyone were it not that others have told the world already. That story has been told, I add, by bards who would sing any song for pennies, just as long as they did not have to earn them on the battlefields that they describe so vividly, where they might have seen the things that drive men mad. This time I admit, though, that the bards spoke truly

It started in all decency. Achilles led his men in charging the wall of soldiers standing before the yellow stone walls of Troy. Naturally, they fled before him, so quickly that I wondered if there had been some truth in Odysseus’ words: He always won because we all believed he would. His spear struck his man in the shoulder, bringing him down. When Achilles rolled him over, we saw that it was Lykaon.

All too clearly, I heard him pleading for his life. The great Achilles had spared him once before, he sobbed. The great Achilles had even eaten with him, thus taking on the sacred obligations of a host. His father would pay double the ransom he did before, if only the great Achilles would spare him once again. Knowing, as well as Lykaon did, that it was all in vain, I still breathed a silent prayer that Achilles would return to his right mind.

“I used to enjoy showing mercy, but not now,” he answered, in the same cold tone he had taken with me. “So, friend, you die, but you don’t have to cry about it. Everyone dies, even me, and you see how huge and magnificent I am.”

“Does he never talk about anything but himself?” I wondered, awed by the sheer purity of his selfishness.

“Will you at least get it over with quickly,” the poor boy wailed.

Achilles answered, with a faint smile. “You forget, I was trained as a surgeon. I know how to show that

much mercy.” He cut his throat with one quick surgeon’s stroke. Still, I heard the terrible gurgling and saw the last convulsions, and I wondered how even Achilles’ killing could ever have seemed beautiful to me.

This happened so quickly, the other Trojans did not have time to run very far away. Hector was shouting at them, rallying them to stand, until Achilles and his men were almost on them.

Once again, the other fighting pairs fell silent, watching the two great adversaries. All knew that those two men’s fates might very well decide the battle and the war. The field was silent, except for the cries of the wounded and the screaming of three women rising over it.

Across the field, on the walls of Troy, I saw the women who were screaming: Hector’s mother, wife and sister Cassandra. This sister was reputed to be mad, but all three seemed that way now, driven mad by grief and fear. Together, they wept and pleaded for Hector to lead his men to safety behind the walls, because even he could not fight the great Achilles. Only his other sister, Polyxena, was silent, pressing her lips hard together. Hector did not even look at them, keeping his eyes fixed on the enemy who was bearing down on him.

At the last moment, though, Hector’s resolve broke, and he fled. Again, I prayed hopelessly that Achilles would let him go, for his own honor’s sake. Instead, Achilles raced in pursuit, like a man hunting wild game, coming ever nearer to his exhausted pray. At last, Hector turned to face him.

Because Hector had once been my protector, I was glad that he refused to beg for mercy. Instead, he merely asked Achilles to agree that the victor would return the other’s body. Even this plea Achilles rejected, shouting that he would shame Hector by feeding his body to the dogs. He was too far gone in madness now to realize that he was shaming only himself.

Facing Achilles head-on now, Hector threw the spear that stuck fast in Achilles’ shield. Achilles answered by hurling his own spear, then leaping from his chariot and racing in with his sword.

What the world has almost forgotten was that Achilles, even now, would not cause needless pain. Once again, those surgeon’s hands sought the big neck vein where his blade would bring death most quickly.

What he did next, with Hector’s women watching, is something I can only explain by saying that he was mad, just as the great Hercules, the son of Zeus himself, was mad when he slew his wife and son.

Achilles’ own men saw his madness and muttered to each other against it.

Achilles—but, no, not Achilles, rather the madness consuming him—tied Hector’s feet to his chariot and dragged him away from the walls, westward toward the Argive camp, across yellow sand soaked with red.

Climbing down the ladder, I heard Odysseus say, in his most innocent tones, “Won’t you stay longer, to reflect his glory?”

“He has won no glory today,” I cried, as I strode back home.

***

The scene that greeted me there was as bad as I had feared it would be. Patrocles’ body had been taking out of his sleeping porch by now and laid for burning on the pile of logs. Around and around it, Achilles—or, rather, not Achilles, but Achilles’ madness—drove his chariot at a gallop, dragging Hector’s body behind the wheels. I waited for him to wear himself out, so he would finally stop and come home. I had reckoned without the endurance that kept him riding hour after hour, until it grew dark. When it became too cold for me to stay there, I gave up and went inside.

He stumbled home at last, early the next morning. His eyes were bleary with exhaustion, and I hoped that this was the end of it. Instead, he told me that I would lead the seven women mourners at Patrocles’ funeral. I did not like the way Achilles stared at me, with his blue eyes glittering above the unshaven red-gold stubble, but I still hoped that the madness was starting to fade. The service would be an honor for me, I assured him.

“Shouldn’t that honor be given to Iphis, though?” I asked.

“Those seven women will follow you. You may all see what kind of master you have. I would rather Iphis did not see it, because she was good to Patrocles.” He bared his teeth in a grin more frightening than his rages.

Accordingly, I led the other women out to the funeral pyre. When the ceremonies had started, they followed my lead in the ritual chanting. It was more than a ritual, though. As the flames turned Patrocles’ body to ashes and the women wept for him, I realized that they were all mourning their own private griefs. I could hardly blame them, now that they found themselves at the mercy of a master who seemed to be mad. They had good reason to think so, with Hector’s pale corpse still lying beside the funeral pyre.

If his new women were starting to fear him already, I cannot imagine what they felt when he led seven sobbing prisoners to the pyre, their hands tied behind them. I hoped against hope that he meant merely for them to join in the mourning, until his men led them to him one by one and he cut their throats.

When he was done, he sauntered over to me.

“You see now, my Briseis,” he said, with his horrible mockery of kindness. “You must learn who is master here and not try to give me commands.”

I would never try to command a madman. I pressed my lips together to keep those words from escaping. And still, I would not have left him, even if I could, and even to save my own life.

“It is very cold out here,” I finally said, pulling the cloak closer around me. “Will you let us go home now?” For once, I did not add 'my lord', because he had ceased to be that to me. He did not seem to notice my discourtesy.

“Of course,” he answered. “I would never keep my women standing out here in the cold, when I have no use for them." But now, not even these words could hurt me.

The others were glad enough to scurry back to the women’s hall, where they could find their dinner. I was about to join them when he came home, having been driven inside at last by the cold. I slipped out to the courtyard, to avoid seeing him as he was now.

I found myself walking towards the cold grate filled with ashes, where Patrocles had roasted our supper over the coals before higher flames had devoured him. I remembered how happy the four of us had been then. My tears flowed again, more freely than they had done during the ritual mourning.

Then I made out a young man’s form in the flickering torchlight. I jumped at the sight, wondering if it could be Patrocles’ ghost. Realizing that a living assassin was much more to be feared, I opened my mouth to scream.

As he came limping towards me, I recognized him as one of my first patients, whose friends had brought him to me with a wounded leg.

“What are you doing here, and how did you get in?” I asked.

“Some others helped me, mistress,” he answered, in a tone that told me he was a well-bred young man. “You took good care of all of us when we were brought to Machaon’s house. We will not let anyone hurt you now, not even our prince.”

“Achilles would never harm me,” I objected. But saying the words made me wonder if they were still true.

He shook his head in denial. “Not in his right mind, he wouldn’t, but he’s gone out of it now.”

“Only because of his grief and guilt,” I insisted. “He blames himself for the death of Patrocles.”

“No matter what caused his madness, I don’t think anyone is safe from it now,” he retorted impatiently. “We have all talked it over and we agreed. If you want to escape, we will help you.”

“Do you know what he would do to you, if he knew you had offered to do that?”

“If you hadn’t taken such good care of us, we might not be here to talk about anything,” he answered shortly. “We will not let him hurt you now.”

For a long moment, I was tempted, thinking of how it could be done: a small suit of armor with a helmet to hide my face as I left with my companions. For the first time, I realized that my training might help me earn my own living in any city where physicians used their skills.

Then I shook my head. I could not let my would-be protectors run into that kind of danger. Even more, I still could not imagine, even now, my life without its bright, warm sun at the center.

“Thank you,” I said, “but I cannot do it.” Looking around for some way to thank him that would not sound too intimate, I said, “Your parents should be very proud of you.”

That brought a faint smile. “Well, I hope so, mistress. But I still think you should try to get away.”

He could not hide his relief, when I shook my head firmly again.

“Very well, then,” he said. “But I am leaving the gate open. If I hear you screaming I will come and try to save you, no matter what he does to us. Just you yell for Argophontes, and I will be there.”

“But now, you really must go,” I told him. “He could come out and see you.”

That thought sent my new friend hurrying back to the gate that led out of the courtyard.

***

At last, too cold and hungry again to stay out here any longer, I turned to go into the house. I turned back again when I heard the courtyard door creaking open behind me.”

“It’s me again, it’s Argophontes,” he called out. But this time, I saw, he was not alone. An old man walked behind him, so disheveled and dusty that I thought he might be another old beggar poet who had gotten up his nerve, for once, to come and see the war he sang about. I almost shouted that he would find no scandal here to report, until I saw that his robes were trimmed with gold. They were torn, though, in sign of mourning, and his eyes were fiery red above his sunken, unshaven cheeks.

With sickening certainty, I knew who I was looking at. Bowing low from the waist, as I had never bowed to the Argive kings, I said, “Your Majesty.”

“He insisted on coming here,” Argophontes said quickly, stepping between us as though to protect his charge. My heart sank even further as I realized what the old man had come to ask for and what Achilles' answer would be.

“Did you tell him that your prince is—ill?” I asked.

“I told him that Achilles has gone mad,” he answered. “But he still refuses to go until Achilles sees him.”

“I can pay you if you will help him,” the old man added, in a timid tone that tore at my heart. “I brought a cart filled with gold as a ransom.” It was heaped high with both coins and jewelry. Seeing those adornments piled there, I could picture the Trojan women’s hands, tearing their treasures from their throats, wrists and fingers, to help bring their hero home.

I quickly assured him that I had no need for either jewelry or coins. My lord Achilles was most generous, I added, except that now he was not himself.

“Then I will sit on the ground until he sees me,” he declared, with a hint of his old tone of command.

“No, you will not!” I heard myself saying. “You will come in with me.”

Argophontes opened the door for me. I strode towards it, with King Priam behind me, before I had time to change my mind.

I need not have feared Achilles’ anger at me. He was so amazed at seeing the enemy king right there in his own stronghold, he dropped his spoon onto his plate. I was able to slip quietly into a shadowy corner.

I turned my head away when the old man threw himself at Achilles’ feet and kissed his hand. I saw that scene all too clearly through the dim, smoky torchlight. For both their sakes, I wished I had not seen them at all.

“Great prince, think of your own royal father,” King Priam begged. “He has no one to defend him with you gone. Just let me ransom my son’s body with the gold I brought you. If that is not enough, look at what I am doing now—kissing the hand of the man who killed my son.”

I shut my eyes tight as I started to glimpse him kissing Achilles’ hand and closed them even more tightly as the old man started weeping.

Then I opened my eyes wide, because I heard that they were weeping together. Achilles was leaning down to put his arm around the old man’s shoulder.

“How can I be there to protect my father?” my prince demanded. “I must be here making trouble for your sons and you. Please stand up, and I will have a seat brought for you.”

“How can I think of sitting when my son is lying in the dirt?” he demanded.

I shuddered as Achilles flared up again.

“Don’t make me angry,” he cried, slapping his thighs in his all-too-familiar gesture of rage. I knew that he had meant to say, “Don’t drive me mad again.”

Then he pulled the old man to his feet, to show that he had granted his request.

“I will have his body washed before I bring it to you,” he said. “My women will see to it.

“Briseis!” he called, making me jump. “You show the others how to do it. You learned how in Machaon’s house.” I tried to stammer an apology for having spied on him, but he seemed not to have heard me.

***

As I hurried into the women’s hall, I called for Diomede and the seven new working-women who had come there that day.

“We must bathe Hector’s body,” I told them. “His father is here, and Achilles is returning it.”

“I can’t wash a naked corpse!” Diomede wailed.

I waited for my own rage to subside before I answered, “I have just heard a king beg on his knees for that corpse. He was once your king and mine. Washing his son’s body is not beneath you.”

More calmly, I added, “I will show you how to do it. I was trained to bathe the wounded in Machaon’s house. This will be no different.”

Two of us hauled a bucket of warm water while others carried rags, as we went on to the cold pyre where Patrocles’ body had burned. Hector’s body still lay on the ground beside it.

Fighting my own unreasoning revulsion, I knelt on the ground beside him showed them how to wash the wounds, just as they would have done for living men. Patiently, again and again, I went over the deep gash at his throat until it was clean. Because he was dead, it did not start bleeding again. The others timidly came forward to wash away the sand that had become embedded in the body while it was dragged behind Achilles’ chariot wheels.

Achilles watched us soundlessly. When we were done, he picked the body up in his arms and carried it to Priam’s cart. It was empty now, waiting for its new burden, with the ransom gold lying on the ground. Taking the old man’s elbow, Achilles helped him into the seat.

Just as the old man took the reins, Achilles said, “King Priam?” When the old man turned his head to hear him, my prince added, “You have more courage than I do.” I knew then that my prince was a man to love.

I led the others back to the women’s hall, where we sank down onto the benches.

“That was hard work,” sighed Diomede. Her words reminded me how hungry I was. I was wondering which of the women to send looking for dinner leftovers when the door swung open, admitting the bright torchlight from the main hall. Achilles strode into the women’s hall with the light behind him, wearing the light, just as he had the first time he came to me.

His gaze circled the benches, going from one of us to another. I gazed steadily down at my dusty sandals, willing myself to accept the fact that, in the moment of winning him back to his sanity, I had lost him to Agamemnon’s latest gifts. They, too, now saw that he was a prince to love, and he must see them as new measures of his glory.

I must still thank Aphrodite for the time with him that she had given me, I reminded myself. She had given me that miracle, did I dare to demand any more? Had I forgotten how great and famous he was, when I was just a country girl?

“You ladies are all welcome here,” he said, fixing each one in turn with his bright blue gaze and faint

smile. “You will continue to help us fight our enemies, who are now yours as well.” In misery, I waited to see which lady he would choose for his personal welcome.

But even as I struggled to accept her will, my goddess showed me even more of her mercy and greatness.

Once his gaze had passed across the others, it came to rest on me.

“Briseis,” he said.

“My lord?” I will call for Iphis again, no matter how deeply she is mourning, I thought, if he wants me to bathe his new favorite. I will not prepare her for him.

He nodded towards the main hall, signaling me to follow him. I tried to keep from running as I did so. He had proven that he loved me, as no words could ever do. With seven beautiful new women to choose from, he had still chosen me.

And he proved his love in other ways as well. He had never been so gentle as he was at that moment, when we had been gone from each other for so long and we were both so eager.

Almost reverently, he lowered my bodice with both of his hands. His lips sought my nipples, and I writhed beneath him as his tongue caressed them in turn. Then he spread the lips that guarded my sheath and his powerful, gentle hand caressed the secret place, under I was pressing myself towards him urgently in my longing for his spear. The thrust, when it came, sent me into even more violent spasms of delight, growing ever stronger until they burst into the ultimate moment of delight.

But when we were finished his face grew dark again.

“Agamemnon swore that he did not have you, but I am not sure I believe him,” he said. “Did he take you? If he did, it was by force, I know. I would never blame you, but I must know the truth.”

I prayed to Aphrodite for a way to make him believe me. Then I asked, “My lord, did you see the wound on Agamemnon’s ear, where he used to wear his gold hoop earring?”

“What about it?”

“I made that wound, when he tried to force me. I pulled his earring off. That stopped him quickly enough.”

After staring at me for a long moment, he began to laugh so helplessly, I had to catch him to save him from falling onto the floor.

“You did that to Agamemnon?” he howled. “By all the gods and goddesses, I could marry you just for that.” More soberly, he added, “I always knew that all of the gods would have to help the man who ever tried to take you against your will.”

“You could marry me?” I asked carefully.

“We are married already,” he said. “I knew it, when Agamemnon came begging me to take you back and marry one of his daughters. I told him that I would not have any daughter of his if she were Aphrodite herself, because he had already taken the bride of my heart. And Menelaus as much as told me he would himself steal you if I gave him half a chance. I suppose I must make it official, before one of those two brothers tries to take you away again.”

I could only stare at him, my mouth hanging open.

“Well,” he said, with his teasing smile. “It seems that for once I have left you speechless.”

Chapter Seven

He slept through half the next day as I held him in my arms. I knew he had not slept that way since his cousin had died. I was determined to hold onto these precious hours in the same way, fearing that he would have forgotten his promise when he awoke, refreshed and calmed.

Instead, his first words on awakening were that he had to send for his mother to perform the ceremony, as a priestess of Zeus. He would present me to her as a captive princess, which I had never claimed to be. I was forced to wonder about this formidable woman who could make even Achilles care about her good opinion.

So I lived through six days filled with the hope of the happiness I had not even dared to dream of. In my dreams, I saw the Argive island where Achilles and I would reign together.

Since I had never seen the real Argos, this one was born in my dreams. Grass and flowers grew there in abundance, beneath green mountains, in a perpetual mist of dew. And Achilles and I stood there together, beneath stone arches, as strong as our love. And since here I usually saw him in his armor,

clutching his sword, I imagined him looking the same way once we got home. And we stood alone there together. It was a wonderful six-nights’ dream.

On the seventh day, Thetis arrived.

Achilles led me out to meet her ship. Again, I wondered at how eager he was to please her. As her servant tied her little boat between two of Achilles’ great ships, I was amazed at first to see how small and slim she was. Then I wondered that she was still so beautiful.

Her golden curls were tight against her head, interwoven with a few silver strands. Her eyes were the same bright blue as Achilles’, with a few small lines beneath them.

She reached up both of her arms to embrace him, and he obediently lowered his head for her kiss. Then she pushed him gently away and clutched me to her. I felt her little hands pressing into my shoulders and caught her delicate, costly fragrance, like a breeze from a lily field. Finally she stood back, regarding me with her bright blue eyes.

“You were right,” she pronounced, and I was startled to notice that her voice was harsh and grating. “She is a lovely girl. A lucky one, too, since she will not be living with her mother-in-law. Did Achilles tell you that I left his father?”

Lowering my eyes, I murmured that I had, indeed, heard that she had her own household.

“My own island, dear,” she corrected me gently. “You must come visit me there and bring the children.”

There had been no children yet for me, and I felt that she must have known it. Her next question made me even more uncomfortable.

“Have you arranged for me to meet her family, Achilles?”

My family had unfortunately been casualties of the war, he told her hastily. Even more quickly, he added,

“Her late husband was king of Lyrnessos.”

“Lyrnessos is not a kingdom, dear,” she responded sweetly. “He was merely the chief man of a little town. You must not think that I live so far away from the world that I do not hear what is happening in it.”

Then she took my hands again and turned her gaze on me.

“But no matter, as long as you make my son happy,” she assured me. “He already has one son. If he had any more, there might be fighting between them.”

As though to seal the bargain, she reached behind her slim neck, pulled off her strand of fat pearls and handed them to me, carrying her faint scent of lilies.

“A gift for the bride,” she said.

As I draped them over my own head, I answered apologetically, “But I have nothing to give you, or your son, in return for all he has given me. I can’t even weave well enough to make you some pretty thing.”

“I can’t either,” she confided, with a smile. “I just never bothered to learn. Aren’t we terrible?”

Soon enough, I would learn that she could weave very fine webs indeed. Now, though, she said only, “Achilles, will you take us to our room?” It was Achilles’ room, of course, but she did seem at all concerned that she was putting him out of it.

When Thetis’ servants had carried in her possessions, her jewel chest covered the small table and her cosmetics case took up the chair. All we could do was sit on the bed beside each other. To clear more space for us, I sent for Diomede to put Thetis’ belongings away. Things became even more awkward, with Diomede listening to our conversation.

“You know, of course, that Achilles’ cousin Patrocles is dead,” I told her.

“As I told you, dear, even on the White Island we hear what is happening in the world,” she replied, with a cold smile. “Hector is dead, too, and that is why you are having a truce. Diomede, I want you to go to Hector’s parents with a message of sympathy from me.”

“But, mistress, how can I go there, without being taken prisoner again?” Then Diomede shrank back, waiting for Thetis to flare out at her for her insolence. She thought seriously about the problem instead.

“We’ll return some Trojan prisoners with you,” she decided. “Besides, I think Priam will be pleased with my message. Who knows, you may be pleased with it, too.”

She smiled at Diomede, in a way that clearly told the girl to raise no further objections. Her smile also made me very glad that Thetis had her own island to live on. It made me think, somehow, for a moment, of the smile a Harpy might give her prey before dragging it down to eternal torment. But the moment passed almost instantly, and she was the soldier’s worried mother again.

“Such a dreadful war,” said Thetis with a hearty sigh, shaking her gold-and-silver head, when Diomede had gone. “I would do anything to end it, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course, if I could, who would not?” I asked in confusion.

“That’s what I thought,” she said gently. “You really are a lovely girl.” And she patted my hand just as tenderly. Then, more briskly, she added, “Now I’m very hungry. Shall we rejoin Achilles and order the women to bring some dinner for us?”

He was as relieved as I was that my first meeting with his formidable mother had gone off so well. As he sat between us, he took our hands and pressed them both in his great ones. We leaned forward to smile at each other across his massive chest, pleased to know that we had made him so happy.

Naturally, I slept with her in Achilles' room while he went elsewhere. It was just as though I really had been a captive princess whose virtue must be preserved, even though we were all aware that she knew better. No matter, I thought, soon I can lie with him as his bride, which I had barely dared to dream of.

Sitting with her day by day, listening to her tales of Achilles’ childhood, was a small price to pay. She mentioned in passing how he had sired his son at the age of twelve, when he was starting his studies in the house of learned women. Some of them came up with the theory that they could breed heroes like dogs or horses, and Neoptolemus was the result. But that, of course, only meant Achilles had no need to sire another son, she quickly said, as she patted my hand to reassure me. Nor had I any need to worry about his mother, because Deidamia had long since married another man.

“And Neoptolemus himself is now thirteen,” she mused. “How old are you, dear?”

I was three years older than Achilles, but I saw no reason to tell her so. “I am twenty-three,” I said, making myself one year younger than he.

***

My happiness grew the next day, when we were interrupted by the news that I had a visitor in the courtyard. We went out to find Chryseis, who was smiling triumphantly, obviously radiantly happy and even more obviously a few months away from giving birth. I thought about it for a moment, then burst into laughter as merry as her own.

“You swore you would find a way to get back to him,” I remembered. “This is how you did it.”

Her embrace smothered me in waves of rose perfume that seemed overpowering after Thetis’ subtle lily scent.

“The husband he had found for me didn’t want me this way, so my father had no choice but to send me back,” she crowed. “My lord Agamemnon was happy to see both of us.” She patted her belly

triumphantly.

“And after all the trouble he caused.”

“Yes, especially for Achilles and you.”

For once, I had almost forgotten that Achilles’ lady mother was there. Now, to keep Chryseis from telling the whole sordid story, I put in hastily, “Have you met the mother of Achilles? She is here to marry us.”

“I heard, and it’s wonderful,” Chryseis answered, kissing me again. “It’s just too bad that Agamemnon is married already.”

Over her shoulder, I saw Thetis’ eyes narrowing. She was wondering, understandably, what sort of company this was for her son’s bride. Wishing that Chryseis had not decided to share her good news with me so publicly, I cast about for a safer topic. With her customary good manners, Achilles’ mother saved the day.

“Have you chosen a name for the child?” she asked.

“I thought of Atreus, after his father,” Chryseis answered. “But that might be too—presumptuous.”

“What about Chryseus, after your father?” Thetis suggested. “That should please both of them.”

Chryseis clapped her hands together.

“What a wonderful idea!” she said. “Briseis, what a wonderful mother you will have.”

I was starting to believe it, too. Until I went into dinner with Thetis one evening, after another day of

listening to stories of Achilles' childhood. Achilles had been waiting for us and stood there glaring down at her with his arms crossed.

“The messenger has come back from Troy,” he said. “King Priam is very pleased with your offer to marry me to his daughter Polyxena.”

As the earth fell away beneath me again, I sank into a chair.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded, echoing my thoughts.

“I wanted no arguments,” she said, with a shrug.

“Well, you’ve gotten them, mother or no. What if I don’t agree to marry her?”

“Even to end the war? Of course you will agree.”

“I have promised to marry Briseis.”

“And she can certainly hold you to your word,” she answered, with a slight bow towards me, barely masking her coldest Harpy’s smile. “But will she do it, when it will keep the war going, and the war will probably kill you? Just think about it, dear.”

There was nothing to think about.

“I will not hold you to your word,” I managed to answer, through frozen lips. “Your mother will see you married to a princess, as she wishes.”

“And my mother can stay in the women’s hall, while you come back to me.”

“Of course, my dear,” she answered. “I would not want to keep you apart any longer.”

Until he is ready to marry his princess. Her unspoken words screamed between us. We made love in the same deafening silence, sure that our time together was coming to a close. My lovemaking had a kind of desperation that could not even wait for him. Instead, as his fingers reached towards my lower lips, I seized his spear and forced my body upwards to impale myself on it, eager even for the pain I would feel as it stretched my sheath beyond its normal limits.

***

The truce ended within three days, while the marriage negotiations continued. On the first day that fighting resumed, two incidents convinced Achilles that the war must end at any cost.

Thetis prayed for his victory with added authority as a priestess of Zeus. Standing beside me on the platform, her voice rang in my ear as she called on the father of all the gods. She poured the wine onto the ground with an expert hand, from a silver goblet trimmed in gold, making a crimson splash in the yellow sand as his men cheered.

As it turned out, Achilles had need of her prayers that day.

Men had come from all over the world to fight in this war. All the states of Argos had sent their soldiers to fight for Menelaus, and all the nations on Troy’s side of the ocean had sent their men to Priam.

King Memnon had come from fabled Ethiopia, where even the gods find their treasure, and its unlimited gold had paved his way here.

The sight of those black warriors impressed even Achilles. They were an impressive sight indeed—riding forth from the walls of Troy, as stern as ebony statues beneath their many-colored plumes, which seemed even brighter in the sun. Beneath the platform, I heard an Argive exclaim that the foreign king, Memnon, was almost as beautiful as Achilles himself. I could only nod agreement. Even Thetis leaned forward in admiration, carrying her faint lily fragrance.

They must certainly be very advanced in knowledge, I thought. They had traveled a distance that not even Odysseus, the great sailor, ever dreamed of crossing, even after his journeys had become the talk of Argos.

I had feared that Achilles might disgrace us all, Argive and Trojan, by behaving as he did when Hector died. The black men would then return to their own country with the report that we were nothing but savages. I need not have feared: On that day, Achilles was everything he should have been. Driving as close as he dared to the black king’s chariot, Achilles bowed his helmeted head and said, “My lord Memnon.”

“My lord Achilles,” the Ethiopian replied, making his plumes nod in return. He spoke just as formally as though Antilochus, Nestor’s son, were not lying nearby with Memnon’s spear through his chest.

“You have traveled a long way to die,” Achilles told him, with his faint smile.

“Have I traveled too far to fight for safety and honor?” Memnon answered, just as gently. “Should I wait until you Westerners invade my own home?”

Achilles bowed his red-gold head again. “Then let us do what we came here for,” he said.

Reaching back, he pulled his sword and raised his spear in one swift gesture. With the next motion, he leapt from his chariot and was facing his adversary head on.

He did not have to wait long for him. Memnon moved with the same lightning grace, winning another brief bow from the Argive champion. Thetis clutched my hand and, forgetting everything that was between us, I clutched hers in reply. Zeus would have to bless Achilles indeed, if he were to prevail against this foreign king.

Achilles threw his spear, but it was a ritual gesture. Neither he nor his spectators felt any doubt that the Ethiopian would avoid it.

We were all their spectators now. The other fighting pairs had stopped to watch these royal adversaries, who were well worth watching.

Achilles lunged with his savage grace. Memnon spun away out of the reach of his sword, then lunged in turn.

His only flaw was his well-earned confidence. His final spin brought him too close to Achilles’ sword for an instant. That was all my prince needed. His weapon found Memnon’s chest.

Once again Achilles bowed, to acknowledge a great enemy, as the light faded from the Ethiopian’s eyes. But, to our amazement, that was not the end of it. One of the Ethiopians jumped from his chariot and impatiently pushed Achilles aside. Falling to his knees beside Memnon, he placed his ear to the fallen king’s chest. From his satisfied expression, I could tell that the heart was still beating because the spear had missed its mark. Then the physician motioned to his chariot driver, who raced over carrying an ivory box.

You may not believe what happened next, because you have never seen it. But then, you have probably never seen a black man either, so you will have to take my word for it that both things exist.

From the ivory box, the foreign physician took a bottle of water. He used one hand to pour it over the other. Then he took out a vial of a black fluid and poured it down the patient’s throat. A few moments later, he started working the spear out of his chest. The medicine not only dulled the pain, it let the king sleep through it, as his chest rose and fell.

Everyone stared at them in amazement. Achilles leaned over for a better view.

“Get out of my light,” the physician ordered. Achilles obediently pulled away.

“Will you give us a litter to return him to Troy?” The physician asked.

Achilles could only nod, speechless. He saw, as we all did, that the king’s chest had started moving rhythmically again. Some of his men were shouting that it was Zeus’ miracle, but Achilles shook his head, ashamed of their ignorance.

“Will you teach our physicians?” he finally managed to ask. Then, incredibly, he asked in a humble tone, “Will you teach me? I am a physician, too.”

The Ethiopian managed to smile, not unkindly. “It would take us years,” he said. “Perhaps when the war is over.”

“I could be a great physician too, with that knowledge,” Achilles said. It was the first time I had ever heard him talk about doing anything after the war. I realized, too, that as a trained woman, I might help him do it.

“Will you give me some of that medicine?” he asked. “We have nothing like it here.”

“I should think not,” the physician replied. “But I will give you enough to let you try to copy it for your own wounded men. The wounded are no one’s enemies.”

By now, his men were shouting, “The gods have made him immortal!”

Achilles glared at them impatiently, then turned back to the Ethiopian physician.

“Our people have never heard of such skill,” he apologized. “What can they say about it, except that the gods have sent a miracle?”

“All wisdom comes from the gods,” the Ethiopian answered. It seemed to me that he took a patronizing tone, but Achilles was too awed to protest.

When the litter arrived, Achilles tried to help lift Memnon into it, showing again his respect for his adversaries. The physician waved him off.

“You have done quite enough!” he snapped. Then he added, more tactfully, “Merely lifting a man in this condition requires some skill.”

Achilles accordingly called for his men to stand back as the Ethiopians carried their king from the field, back towards the walls of Troy.

Already shaken from that encounter, which had left him, with all his vaunted medical knowledge, seeming like an ignorant barbarian, Achilles was forced to face an even more shameful episode that same day.

While the Ethiopian was carried from the field, a troop of archers started firing from the Trojan walls, obviously thinking that they needed to cover his escape. Looking up, I noted that they seemed to be smaller and slimmer than most soldiers are, but I assumed that the best and biggest men were out here on the field with their swords and spears.

Whoever they were, Achilles had little regard for these archers with their cowardly new weapon that let them shoot from behind their walls. He seized his spear again and hurled it back up at one of the archers, who dived from the wall, turning a half somersault in the air. The helmet fell to the ground during the fall, revealing a woman’s long red hair. Racing to the body, Achilles saw her freckled face.

First shamed by a foreign physician and now tricked into killing a woman, Achilles was finally overcome by the day’s events. Falling to his knees beside her, Achilles wept openly.

How desperate the Trojans must have been to train their women to fight for them is something he never thought of. Knowing only that they had tricked him into shaming himself, he wept, “What have they made me do?”

His men looked away, sharing his shame. But one of Agamemnon’s followers raced forward. Ugly, bald and misshapen, he naturally envied the beautiful men, but this does not excuse him.

Pointing his crooked finger at Achilles, who was kneeling beside the woman’s body and sobbing, Thersites shouted out a joke so vile, to describe what Achilles was really doing to that corpse that I will not repeat it, even here among friends. Achilles heard it, leapt up and sliced his head off, but I fear the vile joke remains.

He was not sorry for killing that disgraceful man, as why should he have been? The other incidents had obviously upset him, as he told his mother and me that evening.

“That poor woman,” he sighed. “But no, I must not call her that, because she had a name. Pentheselia should have been safe in the women’s hall.”

The women’s halls in Lyrnessos had not kept us safe, I remembered, but said nothing.

“And that Ethiopian physician,” he added. ”That’s what I could have been: bringing men back from Hades instead of sending them there. Asklepius used to tell us students that we must fight Zeus himself for men’s lives. That is a worthy battle.”

“You could fight it,” I assured him, “once this war is over.”

Once he was married to Polyxena, I thought.

To my secret regret, he nodded. “Yes,” he said. “It has gone on long enough.”

I could only nod my head to agree.

“In that case, you must both rejoice,” said Thetis. “Priam has agreed to send his daughter here secretly, so that Achilles may meet his bride.”

Knowing that this deathblow had been coming, my heart was still torn because it had come so fast.

Whenever it came would have been too soon, I knew, but it would also be too late for so many brave men on both sides.

***

So I stood respectfully behind Thetis in the role of her maidservant when the four Trojan soldiers carried the curtained litter into the great hall. As the princess emerged from behind her litter curtains I bowed my head, not only in respect to her but in acceptance of my own fate. This was, indeed, a princess for a true prince to marry.

She had not painted her face, in any effort to hide what the sun had done to it as she stood on the wall to watch her army. The sun’s ravages were even more apparent in the gold streaks running through her brown hair, with only a leather band to hold it back from her regal square jaw and high forehead. Her gown was just as simple, with only its purple color showing her royalty. Her jewels had gone towards Hector’s ransom. She had shown her true beauty and royalty by not trying to display either one. They showed only in her queenly bearing, which she had no doubt been trained to show from the moment she took her first steps.

I saw that Achilles was excited by her elegance, as any man would have been.

“My lady Polyxena, you are welcome here,” he said.

Her lips barely parted, as she replied in a steady tone that gave no emotion away, “My lord Achilles, it is my honor to be here.”

Thetis took my wrist and pulled me forward. I felt like a harlot in the fine, almost transparent pink Egyptian gown, with the deeper pink garnet jewelry, which she had insisted that I wear.

“This is my servant Briseis,” she said. For the first, time, I realized how grating and brazen her voice really was.

Polyxena’s thin smile gave no notice that she had ever heard the name before. She bowed as politely as though I had been a captive princess indeed.

Her words, contrasting with her manner, surprised us all.

“You are the prince’s famed companion?” she asked.

“Yes, mistress,” I admitted, ashamed of that fact as I had never been before.

“Well, then,” she said, with the smile that barely parted her lips, “we will soon be in the same position, you and I.”

“You will have the honor all to yourself, mistress,” I responded, meeting her gaze. “Once the treaty is signed and the marriage”—I strangled on the word, but forced myself to go on—“and the marriage is formally arranged, I will go away, wherever you like. I am sure that you and your husband will be generous to me. Perhaps he will buy me an island, like the one his mother has. It is little enough for me to do to end this war.”

It is everything I have to give, I thought, but how could a princess understand that?

“Why should you go anywhere?” she asked with a show of surprise. “My father has nineteen secondary wives. My husband is entitled to his share.

“Of course,” she added, just as cordially. “I have heard that you Argive men have secondary wives as well, no matter what they call them. Powerful men always seem to get them, do they not?”

At that moment, I was more inclined to kiss her than even Achilles could have been. She smiled more

warmly at my obvious gratitude. Then her voice hardened, as she went on, in a tone of command that she must have learned from her father, the king.

“There is only one thing I must demand, though. I must be the one to stand at his side before the people, as my mother stands beside my father. He does not embarrass her by showing his other wives in public. They all stay within the women’s hall, and I trust you will do the same. My husband must show me that much courtesy. If he does, we will all get on very well indeed.”

“His people will love you as he does,” I assured her. And, I thought, as I almost love her now.

“But tell me one more thing, princess,” he said, as she turned back towards her litter. When she turned to him again, he asked, in a mocking tone, “Have you always been petted, pampered and spoiled?”

“I suppose so,” she answered, startled.

He answered, with his broadest grin, “Me, too. Isn’t it wonderful?”

Things seemed to be going wonderfully well indeed for everyone the following week, when another truce was declared and the men were told that they would assemble on the field the next morning. Knowing what was to be announced there, I knew there was barely time left to make this night even more memorable than any other had been.

We did not mention Polyxena any further. She would not talk about me to him, and I would not talk about her. That was the secret pact among us. None of us could have imagined how violently the silence would be shattered.

Lying in bed beside him, then, I bent to reverently kiss his spear and joyously performed the act that Agamemnon had tried to force on me in vain. Now it was Achilles’ turn to writhe beneath me. As my lips and tongue caressed the sculpture of his spear, with its risen pattern of even harder veins, and I tasted its subtle salt, I felt that I knew more pleasure than he. For once, I was almost grateful to the king of kings for telling me this secret. I doubted that Polyxena would ever care to learn it. She was, after all, a royal princess, not a spear-won prize.

***

I was ashamed of my jealous thoughts the next morning, when the gates of Troy opened wide, for the first time after so many years. Polyxena came forth with the sun rising behind her, and two guards on either side.

A hush of amazement spread over the field. All eyes turned to watch her, as everyone barely dared to hope what her appearance might mean.

If anyone glanced up at me now, they doubtless saw only a figure standing silently beside his mother on the wooded platform, as befitted her servant girl.

Achilles held his arm up, as though to warn off any of his men who might think of seizing the enemy princess. Then he rode forth to meet her in the middle of the field and extended his hand to lift her into his chariot. At that moment, everyone understood, and the field rang with cheering.

Her remaining brothers, the royal princes, stood above the gate. So did her sister Cassandra—reportedly mad, but brought out for this momentous occasion. Since her madness consisted in claiming to know the future, I found it rather unsettling that she remained stonily silent amidst the celebration. Paris was glowering openly, making it clear what the terms of the treaty had been. Helen would return to Menelaus. Later, I heard that Agamemnon had offered to give her Trojan partner one of his daughters in return and I wondered, with contempt, how a father could use his children as currency. Paris was obviously not satisfied with the exchange.

Helen herself was tactfully absent. The world would concentrate on the lady who would end the war, not the one who had caused it.

As Achilles and Polyxena rode around the field together, smiling and waving at both sides impartially, the cheers rang on and on. Even I heard myself cheering, for such a princess beside such a prince and the

peace they brought with their union.

Then the happy clamor started to fade, as the first sign came that something had gone terribly wrong.

It came when Achilles dropped the reins and slumped over, leaving us all concerned that he might have been taken suddenly ill. Polyxena grasped the reins and tried her best to hold them, until one of her men was able to jump onto the chariot and take them from her hands.

We still did not know how wrong things had gone until her driver stared hard at Achilles, pushed him out of the chariot and left him lying in the sand. The driver then raced back towards the gates of Troy, with his princess desperately clutching at the chariot rail.

The royal family was quickly withdrawing from their places above the city gate, but we saw that Paris still held his bow as he fled. Many of Achilles’ soldiers threw their spears at once. Their shafts stuck out of the assassin’s back like the feathers of some fowl shot down in flight. However mad he had been to steal Helen, he must have been even further gone in lunacy to imagine that he could shoot his arrows at Achilles from ambush and escape.

Achilles’ men were also racing after Polyxena’s chariot. They fell back when the Trojans peppered them with arrows from the walls, to cover the princess’ escape. Paralyzed with terror, I barely noticed Thetis beside me, gripping my hand until the bones were sore. Her grasp grew even harder as we saw Machaon race on to the field and kneel beside my prince. Thetis ran down from the platform, and the soldiers caught her as she fell from the middle rung. I followed as quickly as I could.

Achilles was unconscious, but his chest still rose and fell. My trained eye raced over his body, looking for the wound, until it reached the heel beneath his sandal strap, and I saw the arrow there. But why should he be unconscious from that glancing wound?

“Poison,” I whispered.

Machaon was gazing at the same spot. As our eyes met for one terrified moment, I knew he had reached the same conclusion.

Then he was on his knees in the sand, pulling out the arrow and then sucking and spitting out the blood. He is fighting Zeus himself for his patient’s life, as his father Asklepius taught him to do, I thought, but my terror told me he was doomed to lose.

When Achilles still failed to regain consciousness, Machaon ordered his men to carry him to the physician’s house. As they moved forward to obey him, Thetis waved them back. “No, carry him to his own house,” she said. “The physician will care for him there.”

***

By the time we reached Achilles’ house, the other kings had already gathered: Agamemnon, Menelaus, Odysseus. My terror grew as they took their places around his bed. That gathering told me all too clearly how serious the matter was, but I noted that only Menelaus was weeping.

“They will pay dearly for this,” Agamemnon muttered, and the others nodded abruptly. “There will be no further truces now.” Without thinking, I found myself nodding agreement.

The three kings parted to make way for Machaon as he came towards them, carrying his chest of tools and medicines. They brought their strange mixed sweet-and-bitter smell that mingled hope and healing with suffering and death.

Taking a vial of brown fluid in one hand, he managed to pry Achilles’ mouth open with the other hand as he poured the medicine down his throat. Everyone sighed with relief and new hope as Achilles sputtered and came awake.

“What happened?” he demanded, in a harsh whisper.

“You were shot by a poisoned arrow,” Machaon abruptly told him. With a great show of confidence, he added hastily, “I got enough of it out so that we can save you, I am sure of it. I need only get rid of that leg. It must be burning from the poison now.”

“No,” gasped Achilles. He almost managed to sit up in alarm before falling back again.

“It’s the only way to save your life,” the chief physician answered, still trying to sound calm. “Otherwise, the burning will keep climbing up until it kills you.”

“I am sure of that,” Achilles rasped through gritted teeth, his face pale and wet with pain. “I know what that poison does. I am a physician, too.”

With another great effort, he managed to say, “But I am Achilles, the greatest warrior of all time. Do you think I want to live on as a cripple with one leg?”

“Please do it,” I wept, as I fell across his chest. “Please do it, my lord and master, master and lord.”

His hand reached feebly for my hair. With a visible effort, he commanded his failing hands to stroke it.

“My Briseis,” he said. “I was your war god Aries. You will not have to live with a crippled Hephestos instead.”

This, at last, is Hephestos' revenge on Aphrodite’s servant, I knew with sickening certainly. But I could think of that for only a moment before I burst into sobbing again.

“Oh, I will, so willingly,” I pleaded. “You are my daylight, my sunlight, my only hope, my protector.”

“Then that is how I want you to remember me, my lovely girl.”

Turning at last from him, I screamed, “Thetis, do something!”

“Why are you listening to him?” his mother demanded, in a harsh tone that sounded beautiful to me. “Can’t you tell that he is delirious? Stop wasting time, hold him down and cut his leg off.”

“Mistress, I cannot do that against his will, even for you,” Machaon exclaimed, daring, as few men would have done, to look straight at the cold fury in her eyes.

She glared at him for a long moment, willing him to obey her, as I prayed she would succeed. At last, she sighed in obvious surrender, dashing my last hopes and hers.

“Then at least give him something to make him sleep,” she said, in her most ringing priestess voice. “There is no need for him to suffer.”

“Of course,” the chief physician said.

“And please give him the very strong medicine that the Ethiopians gave us.”

“He does not need it,” Machaon assured her. “Our own medicine will dull his pain.”

“But I do need for him to have it,” she begged him. “Then I will be sure he will not suffer when the end comes.”

“No!” I wailed, but of course they all ignored me. Menelaus pulled me gently away.

Achilles looked up at us and said, “Menelaus, you are a kind and generous man. You take care of my Briseis and all my other women, too.” He managed a faint smile as he added, “You are also as rich as Zeus, so you can afford to be generous. And I have seen you looking at my lovely girl. I know that you will enjoy being generous to her. She may even come to love you.”

“No!” I shouted again, fighting to free myself from Menelaus’ grip. “I never loved any man but you, my lord, and I never will. If you must die, my lord, let me die with you.” I lunged for Machaon’s tool box, hoping to find a sharp knife there, but Menelaus pulled me even further away from it.

“I will, Prince Achilles,” Menelaus promised. His voice broke as he added, his hands still firm on my shoulder. “It is the least I owe you.”

Machaon had been rummaging through his box of medicines. Now he produced a dangerous-looking black liquid, as heavy as tar and with the same sinister smell.

“Drink this, my lord,” he directed.

He held Achilles up to help him drain the vial, as I fought in vain against Menelaus’ grasp. “You will be getting drowsy soon,” Machaon promised, as he gave him water to help wash down the drug. “Then you’ll sleep, and there will be no more pain.”

“Sleep well, Achilles,” Menelaus said, in a voice thick with tears.

“Have you any message for Polyxena?” Odysseus asked.

It seemed an innocent question, but Odysseus never did anything in innocence. Before I could warn Achilles to speak carefully, he managed a last faint smile and said, “Tell her that I hope we may meet in a better place.”

They are kind and harmless words of courtesy, I told myself, but a glance at Odysseus’ narrowed eyes told me better. He would never seek a comforting message for anyone else, I was sure, only a weapon that he could use when the time came.

“But now, you must think of Briseis and your other friends who are here with you,” his mother told him gently, and I wondered how her eyes could still be dry. “It’s time to send them all away. You don’t want them to see you die.”

“No, you are right,” Achilles answered. “Let me embrace Briseis once more and then take her away from here.”

“No!” I wailed, but my cries were unheard once again.

When Menelaus released me, I threw myself across Achilles’ chest. His arms reached out to embrace me, but so feebly that I knew he had summoned all of the little strength he had left in order to do it. Then he slowly nodded to Menelaus, who grasped my shoulders again.

Achilles’ bright blue eyes were starting to close now. “All of you leave,” he said.

His orders obviously did not apply to his priestess mother: No one dared drag her away. Again, my struggles were in vain as Menelaus lifted me off the ground and carried me outside.

I will tell Achilles how roughly Menelaus is treating me, I thought wildly. Then Achilles will be angrier with Menelaus than he ever was at his brother. Then I remembered that I would never tell Achilles anything again.

As from a great distance, I heard Odysseus’ gruff voice saying, “He’s dead.” The answering wail from the throng of men ringing the shelter seemed to rise from the depths of my own heart.

Then the world fell away from me, taking with it the knowledge that was too much for me to bear. I felt myself sinking towards the ground and barely felt Menelaus’ hands lifting me up again.

Part II: Menelaus, My Friend

Chapter Eight

Achilles came through the door and climbed into the bath beside me, sending the water splashing in waves over the floor. My arms and legs reached wide to surround him. The warm water enhanced our pleasure, making it slower and more languorous, as his spear swam into my sheath. We were married now, just as Patrocles had predicted.

Over his shoulder, I saw the startled looks of the seven new women who were now my servants. I glared a warning at them, knowing that he would have to leave me if they told him he was dead. I awoke alone, in my new bed in Menelaus’ house, as bitterly disappointed as I always was after dreaming of Achilles.

Now I lived in that bedroom. It was all I could do to reach for the food and water that stood, on Menelaus’ orders, beside my bed. I knew that I needed them so I could live long enough to sleep and

dream again. In another bedroom near mine, Iphis lay in her bed the same way, but I could not even get up enough strength to go to her so we could console each other.

I would have managed to rouse myself for Achilles’ funeral but was denied even that comfort. His all-powerful mother had decided to bury him on her White Island. She accordingly sailed home the next day with all her boxes, including the one that held her son. They buried a wooden statue of him instead as a tribute, but I saw no need to go out to see them bury an effigy. Nor would I go to see the simple tomb they had built for him. It could only be a hideous parody, with that wooden image buried within.

“He’s dead,” I told myself, again and again, through my waking hours. “Achilles is dead.” Always, the words brought the same sickening shock. They could not be true, they had no meaning, they had to be some terrible mistake, I knew, even as the waves of truth washed over me and drowned me. Men had died in war, I knew, but not he, not the great Achilles, who had seemed the god of war himself, come down among us.

Menelaus had me carried me to his house, where he directed his men not to let me harm myself. He could not trust Achilles’ soldiers to follow that command: They were so overcome with grief that they seemed half ready to die with him themselves.

Lying in Menelaus’ house, I barely heard the commotion outside, when Odysseus came to claim Achilles’ armor. He had convinced the men to award it to him, he shouted, and Menelaus could not refuse it now.

“I can and I do,” Menelaus answered, in his most regal tones. “Achilles left his possessions in my keeping. Get out and leave us alone, or his men will throw you out.”

With much angry muttering, Odysseus finally shambled off. I was grateful to Menelaus and dragged myself out of bed long enough to tell him so. I would not, as I said, have wanted to see Odysseus preening in Achilles’ beautiful armor.

“Wearing his armor?” Menelaus asked. “Do you mean the decorated bronze? That is not what Odysseus argued for. You, Briseis—you are the armor of Achilles.”

As I gasped out my true gratitude, he told me it was time to repay his kindness. I must return to Machaon’s hall, he said. The wounded men on both sides needed me to tend them, just as I had cared

for him when he was wounded. Achilles’ other women were already serving there.

I still could not imagine going out in the world that Achilles had once made so bright with promise when it was now so dark and cold again. “I cannot leave this house now,” I said and returned to my room. He came there long enough to say that he would be back to ask again soon.

The only time he spoke sharply to me was on the night when I awoke and went to his bed. He, too, I thought, was a prince like the one I had lost. As he awakened, I stood silently waiting for him to throw back the bright red woolen covers for me.

Instead, he pulled them closer around himself and demanded, “Briseis? Do you want to close your eyes and pretend I am Achilles?”

When I nodded silently, he replied, “Even the poor cuckold Menelaus has more pride than that. Go back to your own room.”

I fled, my tears of grief now mingling with tears of shame.

***

Hating to let Menelaus think that Achilles had given him only a useless harlot to feed, I told him the next morning that I was eager to return to my service in Machaon’s house. The king seemed to have forgotten our humiliating encounter of the night before, as he told me he was sure that my skills were sorely needed there.

As it turned out, I arrived just in time. Hardly had the day’s first wounded arrived than Odysseus poked his head inside and ordered Machaon to take all the wounded to the ships.

Were we really leaving so abruptly? I could hardly believe that the kings had decided to give up so suddenly, but who knew what they had been discussing among themselves.

They all sent their men to help us carry the wounded, their beds and supplies. We were soon back at work on the deck of Achilles’ ships.

I still could not believe it as the ships pulled away. I was more confused than ever when they stopped dead in the water, just over the horizon from Troy. Clearly, we were waiting for something, and I realized that our hasty retreat must have been a ruse to cover an attack.

Odysseus had prevailed, with a secret weapon born of his devious mind.

Pretending to retreat, the Argives left a great wooden horse behind them, apparently as a sacrifice to placate the sea god Poseidon, who was much worshipped in Troy. Granted, out of decency the Trojans should have left it out on the beach for the god to enjoy. Instead, they dragged it into their city, to be the center of their own celebration. It was soon cut short, when the Argives who were hiding within the wooden horse came out and opened the gates to their comrades. The Trojans, who had put their arms away, were now locked with their fully-armed enemies inside the city walls.

We did not all know that at first, because we were too busy tending the men who had been wounded in an honorable fray. The first we heard about the final battle was when a soldier raced aboard our ship, all smiles, shouting that the war was over.

Even the most seriously wounded men cheered. Those who were able jumped out of their beds and hugged every woman in sight. The women were more restrained, and with good reason. Yes, the killing had stopped, but so had their own days of service, dignity, worth. Now they were no longer war’s captives but slaves indeed, often to their masters’ true wives. How could they expect those ladies to treat them kindly?

In particular, I thought of Hecamede. She now had to leave her true lord and lover to return to old Nestor’s home.

Naturally, she said nothing about this to me. Her face as calm as ever, she was helping to hold down a wounded man so Machaon could pack the powder into his wounds. Their eyes never looked up from their patient, but their hands moved in such harmony that they might have been directed by one mind. She glanced up only briefly when she saw old Nestor, with the breeze ruffling his white beard.

“My lord,” she said, “if you will merely allow me to finish this procedure, I am ready to go to your ship so we can go home together.”

“Yes, my dear girl, I know that you have never shirked your duty,” the old man answered gently. “But I still see a problem, because I have a wife at home. My dear Euridice is too old to need a nurse for our children, so I don’t think she would welcome you. No matter what you are willing to do for me, it’s far better that you stay with Machaon and go on serving him. Thetis is building a fine healing temple of Apollo in Argos to thank him for the care he gave Achilles. You can help him with his healing there.”

“As you will, my lord Nestor,” she answered, keeping her eyes fixed on her patient. “I will do my best to be useful.”

Still busy binding the man’s wound, Machaon seemed not to have heard. When he looked up, his voice was a steady as hers. “I thank you, my lord king,” he said. “Hecamede is sure to be useful to the brave men in my care.”

No doubt she and Machaon were both thinking, in that moment, of a sleeping chamber in that healing temple, with a bed for two. It would be much softer than the table, and they would not have to share it with the medical supplies.

When Nestor had hobbled down the gangplank again, I found a moment to whisper to her, “Do you think he knows?”

Still without looking up from her task, she responded, “If you have nothing to do but ask foolish questions about matters that do not concern you, I can find some work for you.” Ashamed, I turned to walk away until her voice stopped me. “I will, however, give you some coins for a garland,” she said, “to sacrifice to your goddess Aphrodite on my behalf.” Then she returned to her work.

There was work in plenty, but it was no longer the sort I was proud to do. Now women were coming to us, as the only place left to care for them. Too many of them had been raped by our men and beaten for

resisting. Too often they brought their children, who had been wounded trying to protect them. They silently accepted Hecamede’s willow and rue, without questioning their purpose, along with her washing and salves.

And they brought even more terrible stories with them. Priam had been murdered at the very shrine of Athena, who was especially sacred to the Argives. Priam’s grandson, the son of Hector, had been hurled off the city walls. Odysseus had committed both crimes.

***

At last, unable to bear it, I asked Hecamede to let me go to Agamemnon. He would stop these outrages, I told her, if only because it was his right to distribute the prizes of war. To guard me, she sent two wounded men who had almost recovered, leaving me to realize, once again, how meekly these captors obeyed this captive. Obeying her orders once again, they walked me through the ravaged city, which still stank of burning, and waited outside Agamemnon’s house as he received me.

He was seated beside his own prize, King Priam’s mad daughter Cassandra.

She looked perfectly sane to me. Neither as regal nor as beautiful as her sister Polyxena, she was now dressed far more richly than that true princess had ever been. Strands of gold and pearls spilled down from her neck to her thigh, where Agamemnon rested his hand. Her face was so heavily painted, it could barely be seen through the vivid white and pink, and her fragrant oil made the hot room seem stifling.

I kept glancing towards her, hoping for support, as I described the fates of her former subjects to her new lord.

“We’ve got more than that to worry about,” she said, before he could even answer. “My sister Polyxena. Odysseus is going to kill her.”

“You mean, he will enslave her,” I responded. “Why should he do any more?”

“Because,” she answered patiently, “if she has a child, he could be hailed as the new king of Troy. He could even be hailed as the king of all Argos, if she says Achilles sired him. That is not the reason Odysseus will give, of course, he would never be so honest about anything. He’ll say she betrayed Achilles to her men.”

“That can’t be true!” I gasped.” Even Odysseus is not that cruel.”

“Isn’t he?” she asked, as she fought to keep her voice from trembling. “He has already thrown Hector’s baby son off the walls, because he could have rallied the last Trojan survivors some day. Now he’s scouring the countryside for our last brother, Aeneas. I just pray to the gods that he has gotten away.”

I glanced at Agamemnon for his reaction, expecting an outburst against her or Odysseus or both. Instead, he spoke up proudly, as he squeezed her thigh with an owner’s confident hand, “She predicted all this before it happened!” he exclaimed. “She is a true prophetess. Do you wonder why I have become my captive’s captive?”

He glared a warning at me, to stop me from telling her that I, too, had once earned this precious flattery. His arm left her thigh to encircle her shoulders, displaying this rare possession, which presumably possessed him in turn. In that posture, he could not see the cold hatred suddenly flare in her eyes. Can he imagine, I wondered, that he sees his glory reflected there, as Achilles saw his glory in my eyes?

“But of course, she needs the same thing any woman does, priestess or not,” he said smugly. “And I am giving it to her. Naturally, she gives me what I need, too, believe me. Apollo may open her mouth in prophecy, but his sister opens it wider yet, so that mouth can hold my spear. Then she sucks it hard enough to pull my soul out through the spearpoint.”

I looked away from Cassandra, shocked at his words, but she did not seem to share my feeling. She responded by gazing up at him with a radiant smile, as he clutched her against him briefly.

“To be a sage and a slave girl, both at the same time,” she sighed. “What woman could ask for more?”

“With a master who appreciates them both,” he exclaimed, pressing her to him again. And that, I realized, however reluctantly, made him a master worth having.

“Not that you have so much to appreciate, at least where the prophecies come in,” she said. “I only predict what anyone could have predicted, if he thought about it clearly. That’s what I have always done, from the moment Paris brought Helen to Troy and I said her husband’s armies would follow her. And did it take a prophetess to know that Achilles might be an assassin’s target, riding around and waving that way? Naturally, my predictions are so unpopular that people choose not to believe them. And they do not thank me when my warnings come true. But my lord Agamemnon is proud of them.”

“And I thought Chryseis was clever!” he said, even more proudly. “But tell me, my dear, what do you foresee for the two of us?”

By her prompt answer, I knew she had thought of that before.

“She will not be pleased to see me,” she said. I needed no prophetic powers to know that she spoke about Agamemnon’s queen. He dismissed his wife’s opinions with a flip of his hand.

“But what about those other women and children?” I urged. Agamemnon looked to Cassandra for an answer. This came promptly, too.

“The rapes will stop soon,” she said, with a shrug again. “The men will be ready for a fair distribution. But they were not all rapes, Briseis. There is almost no food left outside of the Argive camp.”

Dismissing that thought with a shudder, I thought then of another woman who had been distributed before. “Is Chryseis here, too?” I asked sharply. He told me that she and her baby were in the women’s hall, where I was welcome to visit her. Clearly, she was no longer half so interesting as this new pet prophetess of his.

I had another question for Cassandra, though. I asked her to see me to the door so I could ask it privately.

“If you knew Troy was doomed, why did you stay there?” I asked. “Were you so eager to feel a king’s spear?” And, in his case, to taste it, too, I thought with a secret smile.

Her answer wiped all smiles from my mind. As coldly as Polyxena could have done, she answered, “I will bring down the house of Atreus. They will kill Polyxena but I will kill them. More, they will all kill each other for my sake.” And once more I saw that hatred burning in her eyes.

Truly, I realized, she must be mad. “But you have no weapon,” I reasoned.

“I have the same weapon you did,” she said, with a crooked smile. “And I let my lord Agamemnon believe that his weapon is winning everything it touches.”

“But how can that bring down your master, who is also the master of all Argos now?” I demanded desperately, praying for a way to break through this latest madness of hers.

She smiled again, in a way that Agamemnon would never see.

“My sister Polyxena said that she would overlook your presence, Briseis,” she answered. “I will make sure that Clytemnestra cannot overlook mine. I have heard that she is not a very forgiving wife. Did you hear that Agamemnon wants me to replace her as his queen and send her into exile? No, you did not? Well, I didn’t, either. But Clytemnestra will hear it, all right.”

“Then she will kill you, too.”

“Probably,” Cassandra answered, with a shrug. “But the world will know that people here fought to the end.”

“How long do you think the world will remember?” I demanded.

“A war for love and a love for war?” she answered, with her mad smile again. “Fighting and fucking

combined? What could be more memorable than that? This war will be rememberedfor a long time, I think. But for now, are you going to warn Agamemnon? He won’t believe you, you know.”

“I refused to pray against you, even when it made Achilles so angry that he beat me three times,” I told her. “I will not inform against you now. But this is madness!”

“But, Briseis,” she answered, in a sweetly reasonable tone. “Haven’t they told you that Iam mad?”

There was only one thing left to say, even though, in the face of her courage, I was ashamed to say it.

“Cassandra, listen to me,” I said. “He is not the worst man in the world. You could be happy with him.”

“I know that,” she answered. “And sucking on that spear of his is not the worst thing to do. But then, I could not have my revenge.”

***

That, I knew, would be no consolation to Chryseis. She did not look ripe and inviting now, only drained from having the baby that she now held to her breast. A strand of her limp dark hair fell over its face.

“It was kind of you to come see me,” she said and smiled bitterly, a ghost of her old smile. “Everyone else wants to see the royal prophetess.”

“You need not envy her,” I answered. “She seems quite mad.”

“Perhaps he will tire of her, too,” she shrugged. “But at least he’ll let me earn my way with weaving or he’ll give me to some other man who will.” With a trace of her old spirit, she added, “She could never earn her keep with her prophecies, because no one ever wants to hear them.”

As I was leaving, she called after me, “Perhaps you were luckier than I was, Briseis. Achilles died before he could get tired of you.”

I did not need Cassandra’s powers to tell me that. Nor did I need them to warn me that Polyxena’s situation was desperate indeed.

***

With an uneasy heart, I went next to ask Odysseus what he planned to do with Polyxena, hoping against hope that he would prove Cassandra wrong.

He received me graciously and answered me the same way.

“I will do nothing to Polyxena,” he told me, with a great show of surprise, still playing the simple man, as he toyed with one of the carved wooden hounds from a board game he had undoubtedly stolen from the player’s house. “How could I do anything to her? Achilles’ son must be the one to take revenge.”

“For betraying his father, you mean?” I demanded. “Did you tell him she did that?”

“Everyone knows she did it,” he answered with a show of confusion.

“I know no such thing, and I saw them together!” I cried. “His mother, not her father, arranged their meeting. She will demand a trial in Argos, and no one can prove anything against her.”

“She is not going back to Argos,” he told me. “I have brought Achilles’ son here. He is living in his father’s old house.”

Every time I thought I had measured the depths of his cruelty, I had proven to be wrong, I realized once again. This time was no exception.

“You will ruin his name and Achilles’, too,” I gasped. “Is that part of your plan?”

“Do you think I am that clever?” he demanded, with a short laugh.

“I think,” I said deliberately, “that you are more clever and crueler than I ever believed.”

For once, he let his cold intelligence shine through his eyes. “And I wish I had taken the armor of Achilles,” he answered. “I would enjoy having a woman who knows what I am. But if you want to try to save Polyxena, you had better hurry. Achilles’ son wants no delay.”

My hopeless journey thus led my weary escorts and me to Achilles’ house, where our red faces no doubt showed how far we had walked that day, under the glaring sun. That log shelter had also been my home, but I had no time for memories. Instead, I asked Neoptolemus’ guards if he would speak to his father’s old captive. Having been Achilles’ men, they assured me that he would. He will listen if he wants to or not, their shamed voices said.

He was sitting at his father’s old place at the table, where his feet barely touched the ground. To his credit, he held his hand out for me to be seated beside him when the guard announced my name.

He could be no more than thirteen now, but I remembered that his father had been the same age when he first went to war. I could see the resemblance, even though the sun had not touched the boy’s fair face. Partly for that reason, he was a paler copy of Achilles than Patrocles had been.

“Prince Neoptolemus,” I said, in the whispering voice that had pleased his father so much. “You know that I had the privilege of serving as the reflection of your father’s honor.”

“I know you were his favorite slave girl,” he said impatiently. “You need not try to spare my feelings. I am not a child, and I know about the world.”

And you know the hurtful words to say, I thought, like the child you are.

Aloud, I said, “Forgive me. I know that you are a powerful prince. Now you have power over a royal princess.”

“She betrayed my father,” he said, glaring, as his high boyish voice strove for a manly tone. “Now she must die for it.”

“I am sure that that is not true,” I answered, still fighting for calm. “And you cannot execute her without a trial. She must have a chance to prove her innocence. Your honor and your father’s depend on it.”

Obviously, Odysseus had foreseen that objection.

“If she is innocent,” he assured me, “she can walk with him in the Elysian Fields. He asked for that on his deathbed, did he not?”

Tell her that we may meet in a better place, he had said. And I had feared, even then, that Odysseus would twist that courteous message to his own devious ends. But, for me, it was even crueler to think that Achilles’ last wish might be granted.

“Then let me walk there in her place,” I pleaded, seizing his awkward arm. He looked down at my hand in amazement, but did not pull it away.

“I miss him so much,” I whispered, ashamed to weep before him but unable to stop my tears. “He was the daylight of my life, and there is nothing left now but cold and darkness there If anyone is sent to be with him, let it be me, so that my world might be warm again.”

For a moment he considered it, seeming old beyond his years. Then he shook his head with its thatch of red-gold hair. With some regret, he answered, “You belong to my lord Menelaus. I doubt he would permit that.”

Then he smiled at me, and it was so like his father’s faint, fleeting smile that it ripped my heart. Seeing this in my eyes, he said, “Perhaps he would return you to me if I swear to keep you alive. Would you like that, Briseis?”

He is only a child, as I sternly reminded myself. He wants what his father had. Still, that resemblance, however faint, beguiled me. I could pretend that this boy was Achilles, and this pretence would have some truth to it. It was with difficulty that I gently took my hand away.

“As you say, Prince Neoptolemus, I belong to Menelaus now,” I answered. With a sudden flash of hope, I added, “unless you would spare Polyxena in return for me. I am sure Menelaus would allow that exchange.” And, I thought, if you agree, you will have proven to be so much like your father that I will go to your bed proudly. But Odysseus had anticipated me, like the crafty game player he was.

Achilles’ son stood so quickly that he knocked over the table, leaving one of his guardsmen rushing to set it right.

“Odysseus warned me that you might try to tempt me,” he cried, in a shrill voice that reminded me how young he was. “But I have a slave girl even more famous than you. Andromache!”

At his shout, she emerged from the women’s hall. Her face was as completely empty of expression as a wall of stone, until he said my name. “Briseis, you must meet your former princess.”

In a tone close to wonder, he said, “I am still a boy, I know, and she is a woman who would have been queen, but she still belongs to me. I can have her any time I want. And,” he added, his voice rising boastfully, “I have her often, sometimes twice a day. She’s like a toy I can always play with, like a doll with a string I can pull to make her dance. But she’s better than any toy, because I don’t even have to go

get her. She must come to me when I send for her.”

Ignoring his childish coarseness, I tried to stammer out my sorrow at her loss, but I drew back when she looked at me. Hector’s widow’s red-rimmed eyes were the only living thing in her dead-white face, beneath her coal-black hair. Those eyes filled with hate as her lips formed the words, “Traitor whore.”

In vain, I waited for him to reproach her.

“Andromache does not approve of women who marry their husband’s killers,” he told me cheerfully. “She told me as much the first time I took her. Of course, I did not kill her dear Hector, my father did, but that was close enough for her. I said that one night with me would make her forget all that. Everyone knows that any woman will forgive any man for anything after their first night together. You, Briseis, should know that better than anyone.”

But, I remembered, Andromache had lost more than a husband. Would she or any woman forget and forgive a murdered son? Not even Achilles could have made me do that, let alone this leering child, who had stood by while Odysseus threw her baby off a wall. My horror must have shone in my own eyes. Almost in apology, he added, “Perhaps I will give her another son, to replace the one who was lost.”

I dared not stop to think about that proposal, for fear he would see my revulsion in my eyes.

“Then why not spare her husband’s sister instead?” I asked quickly. “Think how grateful she would be. And I would be grateful, too. Do you imagine I would even ask for this, if I suspected she might be guilty?”

He actually seemed to consider that, until, by some misfortune, a wandering priest started shouting outside.

“Woe, woe, woe to the merciless men!” the priest cried. “Even the gods who favored them will turn against them now. Even their own Athena will avenge the victims of their crimes!”

“On your way, Helenus!” shouted one of the soldiers. “We have our own priests to pray for us.” Just in case this priest spoke truly, though, some of the men threw coins at him.

He threw them back, shouting, “Give them to your own priests. You’ll need their prayers!”

For the first time, Andromache showed interest and even admiration. Neoptolemus, though, was so angry, I knew that the foolish priest had unwittingly crushed Polyxena’s last hope.

“No mad Trojan priest can stop me from doing justice to my father,” he said. Then, fearing that he had offended the priest’s god, he added uneasily, “especially not when the priest is Polyxena’s own cousin, with good reason to lie to protect her. I will do my father’s will.”

“If you think that was his will,” I flared, “then you know nothing about him.”

***

There was one last justice to do for Polyxena. That was to attend the execution, so that she would see at least one face that did not condemn her. Menelaus had agreed that I owed her no less, even though he refused to attend the murder, as he called it, for fear of seeming to condone it.

As it turned out, my sympathetic face was not needed there. Standing around the cold ashes of the pyre where they had burned his effigy, Achilles’ men were stonily silent, their heads bowed in shame. Many, no doubt, remembered their prince and this princess riding together across the suddenly quiet battlefield to proclaim that peace had come. They knew that she had never betrayed him to his assassin’s arrow there.

When she was led out of the ship where she had been held captive, many of them strained forward, only to be stopped by a larger force of soldiers, whom Odysseus had sent. She climbed the ladder leading to the pyre as proudly as though she had been walking to her wedding with Achilles, mounting regally

towards the last bright yellow sun and blue sky that she would ever see. Neoptolemus climbed after her and drew his sword with a flourish. Then the boy stared down at it, as though he could not believe what he was about to do.

“You seem confused,” she said, in her most cordial tones, through barely-parted lips. “It is really very simple. You may either stab me in the heart or cut my throat. It’s murder, either way.”

He stared down at his sword, up at her face and then down again.

“Since you can’t make up your mind,” she said, just as calmly, “let me do it for you.”

She placed her slim hands over his trembling fists, which held the knife. Realizing what she was trying to do, he let her hands guide his in thrusting the blade into her heart.

“Woe, woe, woe!” I heard Helenus shouting again, from as close as Odysseus’ outer ring of guards would allow him. He did not sound foolish now. I heard myself whispering an echo to his words, “Woe to the merciless men.”

And woe to me, I thought, if she is with him now. That was a gesture worthy of Achilles’ bride, who would be slain by no hand but her own. It was worthy of such a princess, who was worthy of such a prince. And Odysseus, I realized, was worthy of the foulest Harpy that Hades could send him.

Achilles’ men, not merciless, groaned in horror and shame, when they saw her blood spread over her gown. My screams rose over their groaning, louder and louder, again and again and again.

***

Then I turned and ran back to Menelaus’ house, so quickly that my guards could barely keep up with me, and I could hardly see the way there through my tears. My only desire was to throw myself into bed again and pull the covers over my head. Instead, Menelaus met me at the door.

“They have found Helen,” he said.

“What has that to do with me?” I demanded.

“I want you to come with me to attend her when I bring her back. Everyone must see her as a queen.” In a voice that was almost a plea, he added, “I do not want to see her killed before I decide what to do.”

“Neither do I,” I agreed bitterly. “I have seen one woman die today, and that was more than enough.”

He flinched at that and said, “Odysseus will not decide my wife’s fate.”

“Of course not,” I retorted. “He sees no advantage in doing it.” No, I thought, and if you do decide to spare her, Odysseus will try to take the credit for himself. Helen might become an ally, which Polyxena would never have been.

But there were many others, I knew, who wanted Helen dead. She must have realized the same thing, because she had been hiding on the highest floor of an apartment building in the poorest section of the burned town. A soldier’s widow recognized her and alerted the Argives who were still searching the empty shops for the last traces of loot. She also alerted the other Trojan women who had remained there because they had no place else to go.

Those women stood before the remains of the house which still stank of burning ashes, shouting for Helen to come out and face their revenge, as they picked up the stones of their burned homes and anything else they could find to throw at her. Fortunately for her, the soldiers had followed her husband’s standing orders by surrounding the house and sending for him as soon as they knew they had her. He came with more men and a litter to carry her away.

We found her cowering beside the chimney, the last part of the house left standing, where she tried to hide. This is Helen of Troy, I thought, this pitiful creature who looks like a terrified child. As she should be terrified, I thought grimly.

Then I heard her whimper through lips that were a tiny painted Cupid’s bow. And I, Briseis, a slave woman, wanted only to protect the Queen of Sparta from these howling women and brutal men. Without even knowing it, I had felt, at last, the true power of Aphrodite. It made me long to safeguard her favorite daughter and to believe that I was the only one who could.

Kneeling beside her, as though she had been the frightened child she seemed, I said gently, “Mistress, your husband has come to take you home. He desires only your happiness.”

“He is going to kill me,” she wept, burying her head in my shoulder. “Look, he has drawn his sword.”

Glancing up, I saw that he was indeed grasping his weapon. To this day, I believe that he himself did not know what he was going to do with it. Quickly, I decided for him.

“That is only to protect you,” I assured her. “Now he is going to lead you home again.”

At last she dared look up at him from the shelter of my arms with a naked plea in her eyes, tears still running down her painted cheeks. Reluctantly, he extended his hand and raised her to her feet. Sobbing openly, she pressed her head against his shoulder as he awkwardly stroked her hair, which was now flying out as wildly as mine ever had.

“But they all hate me!” she wailed. “Listen to them shouting and waiting to stone me.”

“What if they do shout?” I demanded. “The soldiers can fight off these poor widows easily enough.” And don’t you deserve to be shouted at and worse, I asked silently.

“The soldiers may join them in the attack,” she sniffled. That thought sent her bursting into tears again.

“Very well, then,” I said in exasperation. “I will put on your clothing and lie in the litter with the curtains drawn. Then that mob will shout at me You may walk behind me with a veil over your face, as my innocent faithful servant. No one will see anything but our blond hair.”

“Why should you take her just punishment?” her husband demanded, glaring at me over her bowed head.

“Because I have seen enough suffering today,” I answered. “And, at any rate, I am much too tired to stand here arguing all afternoon. It is getting colder already.”

Having never ridden in a litter, I was surprised at how uncomfortable it was, as the soldiers jounced and jostled it down the stairs that were now open to the sky. That made it all the easier to play my role as I kept whimpering, “Don’t leave me here, please take me home.” Keeping up the pretense, Menelaus led the way while Helen walked behind us.

Just as we had feared, the ragged women in the streets hurled insults, spittle and even stones at me, despite the soldiers who surrounded us. Luckily, the men kept the missiles from reaching their target.

Those missiles made me wonder, though, for the first time, why I should be taking Helen’s punishment. Then I realized it was my just punishment as well. Once I had seen Achilles, I would have become an adulteress as wanton as she, had he not taken my disgrace on himself by making me his captive. And still I shared the shame, as Andromache had told me. What might they have shouted at me, if they had known I was Achilles’ traitor whore? Then I heard that some were actually begging Menelaus to kill his wife, and I shuddered. At least they would not be calling for Briseis’ death.

There was another, less admirable reason for defying these human harpies, I realized. Those harridans all looked to me like my mother, who had assured me that my best hope was the bed of an old man who would pay four oxen for me. I hated the thought of her, or her surrogates, getting her way again.

Still keeping up the deception in case some assassin had managed to board the ship, I went aboard with a veil on my face and asked to be shown to Menelaus’ cabin. After all the day’s events, it was all I could do to pull off my gown and fall face down on his bed.

***

Menelaus woke me with the harsh whisper, “Helen.”

He had seen only my golden hair in the dark. Before I could reveal myself, he clasped one hand over my mouth. With the other, he jerked my gown to my shoulders and then brought his leather strap down across my bare back. Trying desperately to cry out and writhing to dodge the blows, I felt the leather strike my backside and thighs. Back, backside and thighs, each bringing its own angry hiss and burst of searing fire. This was his terrible rhythm, until he had counted out ten blows on each, leaving me almost numb to the pain.

Then pulled me over onto my back, still silencing me with his hand. He pulled it away only to force his lips onto mine, as his free hand held my wrists over my head. Struggling against him, trying to free myself long enough to tell him his mistake, I felt his rage and passion and gave myself up to them, despite the lingering burning.

His knees shoved my legs apart as he angrily rammed his spear between them and plunged it deep into my sheath. “Tell me that you are thinking of Paris now!” he snarled, as he pushed and pounded into me. His red beard was rough against my face. As my lips parted beneath his demanding tongue he released my hands. They slid around his broad shoulders in an eager caress.

We rocked together, in the ship’s own rhythm, as it rocked against the wooden dock. His thighs locked around mine. My body arched up to meet him as I gasped my commands, “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.”

He pulled back at that, peering at me closely with eyes now accustomed to the dark.

“Briseis?” he demanded.

“Yes, My Lord Menelaus.”

“By all the gods, girl, why didn’t you tell me who you were?”

“You would not let me speak, my lord,” I told him gently.

With a gasp of horror, he gathered me into his arms.

“It is not all my fault, though,” he told me, as he kissed the top of my head. “You should not have tried to shield her. I should have known you would try it, because you are as brave and generous as she is cowardly and selfish. Now she must be hiding somewhere else on the ship, waiting for my rage to pass.” And, as I knew from his tone of voice, it had passed indeed, released on me.

But I did not mind that, I wanted to tell him: He had given me so much more pleasure than pain. I was not trying to shield her, I wanted to say: I did not tell him of his mistake because I did not want to. Nor did I want to pretend he was Achilles or any other man. His next words stopped me.

“Well, then, you have made up my mind for me,” he said. “She will be punished as she deserves. If I want to show mercy, I will do it by selling her into slavery. Then I will be free to marry you, just as that fool Achilles should have done.”

For a long, long moment, I could see myself sitting beside him on a golden throne. Then I shook my head and whispered, “I hope not, my king.”

He drew back even further, in surprise.

“Why in the world, girl? Didn’t you hear me say that I will marry you once Helen is dead?”

“Yes, my king,” I answered. “But then you would no longer be a man I wish to marry, the kind and generous man Achilles gave me to.” And then, I thought, this war for love would have been a senseless butchery.

“Then I could banish her,” he offered. “I could buy her an island, like the one Achilles’ mother rules. I can afford five islands like that. I am the richest man I know. That would be the modern way. And,” he added bitterly, “we must all try to be modern.”

For another long moment, that seemed the perfect answer for everyone. Then I shook my head again.

“And where would she be safe anywhere, without your protection?”

He swung up to sit beside me.

“That is indeed a problem,” he said, with a short laugh. “Very well, then. I will return to my wife, assure her that all is forgiven and have her the way I had you.”

I sought the words to advise him, until Aphrodite sent them to me.

“You treated a slave girl like a queen, once you knew she was not one,” I told him. “Now treat a queen like a slave girl.”

“But not as I treated you,” he said, gently touching the reddened stripes on my back. “I am no longer angry enough for that.”

That may be unfortunate, I thought. But I would never have wanted to serve a master who would beat his wife after his anger against her had gone.

Aloud, I said, “Then go to her thinking only of your pleasure and hers. Treat her as a slave girl you were winning with your spear. There is a secret place on women’s bodies that Achilles showed me, and I can show it to you.”

He laughed bitterly again. “No, Briseis, she is not you. No matter how many secret places I fondled for her, I could not win her that way. She would still despise me. You worship men and their power and she does not. Sometimes I think she hates us all.”

“But you have all been kind to her.”

“Not all,” he told me. Then he hesitated, wondering if he should share her secret. “One was too kind, when she was only ten.”

Too kind in what way? I wondered. Then my mouth fell open at the horror of what he had said. I had heard of such monsters, as I had heard of murderous men with bull’s heads and nine-headed snakes, but never thought to come so close to their victims.

“Who was this creature?” I demanded. “It must have been some madman, and I hope her brothers cut off his head!”

“It was Theseus, who was her father’s guest.” In even more bitter tones, he added, “Theseus was fifty at the time, so perhaps he was no longer strong enough to force grown women, or perhaps he had had so many that they no longer excited him.”

Now I could only gape at him.

“Theseus is a famous hero!” I cried.

“Why else do you think that her family did not slaughter him on the spot? He blamed Helen and her beauty, and her family had to agree.”

“A hero? Theseus violated little children! Do you mean that famous people can do whatever they please?”

“Achilles could and did.”

Before I could protest against that comparison, Menelaus added, with a sigh, “And that also includes Helen, obviously. She is as famous as anyone.”

But there is one thing she will do,” he said grimly. “She will put on all her finery and thank the good kings of Argos for rescuing her when she was longing to escape from Troy. They will not believe it for a moment, but they will pretend to, and she may have the decency to feel ashamed.”

“Command Iphis to adorn her,” I said. “It will help them both.”

He nodded as he stood up to go, but leaned down again to touch my hair. “I will tell her to adorn you, too. You must rest, now, because tomorrow evening I will want both you and Iphis standing beside her, to show that she still has her rank. But that will not be all she has, Briseis, I warn you. I am not like my brother. I do not believe in this modern practice of taking first and second wives. If I am with Helen, I must be with her only.

“And you must, my lord,” I answered, with no gladness this time. “That is what a war was fought for.”

Iphis did not mention Patrocles to me, as I sat in the chair before her. She did tell me, though, that I had done a good job of keeping the space between my eyebrows shaved. I knew that this was her way of telling me that she no longer blamed me for Patrocles.

Aided by Iphis’ cosmetics, Helen seemed to display a beauty that was the gods’ own gift, as she stepped into the dining hall, clinging to Menelaus’ arm.

“My lord has commanded me…” she quavered, glancing around at the assembled rulers before she burst into helpless tears and buried her head on his shoulder. Once again, Aphrodite was with her. They all glared at him for his brutality in having forced her here. Only Odysseus seemed unmoved and even close to laughter. Biting down hard on my lip, I glanced towards him long enough to show him that, for once, I shared his feelings.

The next morning, we sailed back to Sparta.

Officially forgiven by her husband, Helen was every inch the queen again. I had seen and pitied her at her lowest and did not think she would forgive me for that. Sure enough, she sent me time and again back to her cabin to fetch her comb, her cosmetics, her embroidery box, her medicine chest and anything else she could think of, as she sat motionless on the deck in the sun, watching the ruined walls of Troy as they receded beyond the glittering blue sea. Then she went below decks.

When I could, I strained to see the last horizon, where Achilles’ log house was fading into the distance. Now I could only hope that it would shelter some Trojan family. I knew I would never again be as happy as I had been there.

Chapter Nine

Fearing that the war had forced him to neglect his foreign allies, Menelaus took us to Egypt on the way home. He joined us in admiring the royal palace, where carved lions guarded the throne and painted falcons spread their bright red and blue wings above it. An impressive sight it made, too, even compared to the royal palaces I would soon see in Argos.

In Pharaoh’s house, the grey stone walls soared so high above the throne that the lowest pinion touched the shaven head of the ruler seated there. The height would have made the walls gloomy, were it not for the sun pouring through the open space above them. One beam gave an especially brilliant gleam to the brightly painted birds and to the wide lapis collar adorning the throat of the king beneath them.

We did not have long to enjoy the splendid sights. At dinner, our king mentioned to Pharaoh that one of his queen’s attendants had originally come from Egypt.

“A slave woman from Egypt?” the bald king demanded. “A Hebrew?”

Iphis naturally kept silent, as she stood behind her mistress with Diomede and me. Menelaus answered that he believed so.

At that, Pharaoh grasped the arms of his chairs and pulled himself to his feet. All Hebrews had been banished from Egypt forever, he shouted. Did King Menelaus know why?

Without giving him time to answer, the Egyptian was quick to explain. When the renegade Prince Moses incited them to a mass escape, the Hebrew rebel slaves ran half naked into the sea. The soldiers who pursued them were weighted down by their heavy armor, so the slave mob pulled them off their horses and drowned them.

“A strategy worthy of Odysseus,” Menelaus murmured over his shoulder to me. For my part, I wondered silently how any soldiers could be foolish enough to charge into the sea in full armor.

Turning back to the Egyptian king, Menelaus said loudly, “A tragic story, certainly, but it has nothing to do with our Iphis. She belonged to my friend Patrocles at the time and showed him only devotion and gratitude. Now she serves my queen just as loyally.”

“Nevertheless, she must be gone by tomorrow or die,” Pharaoh proclaimed. “Were it not for my respect for you, King Menelaus, she would be thrown to the crocodiles this moment.”

In alarm, I glanced at Iphis. Taking her duties seriously, as always, she kept gazing at her mistress with her hands folded serenely before her, as though she had not heard.

“Then we must all go,” said Menelaus, rising from his chair. “We all thank you for your hospitality.”

Helen asked permission to say farewell to Polydama, an Argive woman who was an old friend of hers and now one of the Egyptian royal wives. The lady had taken Helen to the women’s hall and given her many fine gifts there, in return for the war news. They included a silver sewing box on wheels, which Helen had admired, and a box of medicines. Helen appreciated this gift all the more, since Polydama told her that they could cure not only pain but even grief. That seemed hard for me to believe, but proved to be all too true.

Menelaus waited impatiently, then led us all back to the ships to spend the night. I heard him ordering his men to be ready to defend our vessels on a moment’s notice if the Egyptians tried to board them.

Some of you might be surprised that he went to such lengths to protect a slave woman, but I was not. I knew that my lord Achilles would have done the same, especially for the one who had served Patrocles.

Iphis soon showed that she was angrier than she had seemed. With good reason, too. She had finally dragged herself out of bed to do her duty and been rewarded by Pharaoh’s insults and threats. That night in our cabin, she whispered a song to me that she had heard from another Hebrew who had reached Argos:

Rejoice, rejoice exceedingly,

The horse and his rider are thrown in the sea.

As dreadful as the words were, I could hardly blame her for relishing them. Not even a king should have spoken so rudely.

By this time, I was starting to wish that Helen would be thrown in the sea as well. Everything I did seemed to annoy her, whether I was threading her embroidery needle too slowly or handing her the wrong color thread. Once, while Iphis was resting, I was pressed into service combing the queen’s hair. She cried that I was doing it too roughly and sharply tugged my own hair for revenge. It was just like Charis back in Agamemnon’s house, I thought, and just what we had all feared from our master’s wives.

I had no chance to weep, though, because Helen started sobbing loudly enough for us both, covering her face with both hands.

“Look what you made me do!” she wailed. “I never acted this way before. You must be trying to provoke me. Now I’m going to have to take my calming medicine and lie down, after the way you upset me.”

“Please don’t upset yourself, mistress,” I begged her, sincerely sorry that I had gotten her into such a state. “You don’t have to take those drugs.”

But nothing would do but to go looking for the potion she had gotten from her friend in Egypt. I searched for it only reluctantly. The black tarry stuff looked to me too much like the medicine that Machaon had used to ease Achilles’ dying.

At least Iphis could no longer spend all her time in mourning. Perhaps without meaning to, Helen had given her a better cure than any medicine for grief. Having availed herself of Iphis’ skills to prepare for the Egyptian visit, Helen now kept her jumping all the time, with a curl to arrange to full advantage or a lip to repaint. Seeing the results of her efforts, Helen would often grasp her hand and exclaim that she could never survive without her Iphis at her side. Helen gave her beautiful gifts to prove it, but Iphis always wore them with the golden girdle that came from Patrocles, and I knew she would be buried wearing that.

At other times, Helen would call Diomede to her cabin. They would talk behind the closed door for hours, saying, I feared, no good things about me.

In a better mood Helen stared at me with strange speculation and told me that I seemed to be a big, strong girl who could work hard. That alarmed me enough to tell King Menelaus that I feared she wanted to send me out to harvest flax, out of his sight. He assured me that she would do no such thing, if she

valued the life that she owed me. I don’t know what he told her, but she never mentioned that plan again, and she never once spoke of the night that Menelaus and I had spent together.

***

As her attendant, then, I walked behind her, with Diomede and Iphis, when our litters had carried us from the sea to the Spartan royal palace.

Even though the day was cool and cloudy, a large crowd had gathered at the palace gates, curious to see their famous queen and decide for themselves if she was as beautiful as everyone said, even after so many years. Once again, Iphis’ skills helped Helen make sure that they were not disappointed.

The throng parted as a lovely golden-haired girl of twelve or thirteen ran toward us, followed by her own attendants. She held out her arms to Helen, who merely stared at the group of girls and asked blankly, “Which one of you is my daughter Hermione?”

For the first time, I really thought that Menelaus might strike his wife as the girl burst into tears. How could Helen have missed the resemblance to herself, I wondered, unless she never really saw anyone else in the world. Quelling his anger, Menelaus embraced the child. Then he reached out his free arm towards his wife until he was pressing them both to his chest.

“You have grown so much, she could not recognize you,” he assured the weeping girl. “Now you are almost as beautiful as she.” Hermione ran into Helen’s arms as they were finally opened to her.

The girl’s tears had dried by the time our litters reached the palace. The sight cheered me, too.

Having little acquaintance with Argos’s royal palaces, I had expected this one to be a larger version of

the kings’ log houses on the Trojan beach. Instead, I was amazed at how bright and beautiful it was. On the wall of the great hall, painted lions ran across green fields beneath white clouds in a bright blue sky. Even my little room in the women’s hall was the finest I had ever slept in, with golden stars painted on a dome of rich lapis blue.

It was pleasant to sit in that great hall, helping Helen with her embroidery. Prodded by her constant complaining about my big, clumsy stitches, I did learn to do a few simple floral patterns without any visible mistakes. She seemed pleased with me when I told her that she had been a good teacher. I must, she responded, embroider some work as a wedding gift for Hermione. She was to marry her cousin Orestes—her double cousin, since Menelaus was his father Agamemnon’s brother and she herself was the sister of his mother, Clytemnestra.

Nor was Hermione the only promised bride.

Menelaus sent for Diomede one day to tell her that one of his royal guards, a war veteran, had asked his permission to marry her. As considerate as ever, the king asked Diomede if she agreed. She did not hesitate long before deciding it would be an advancement from her current task of waiting tables.

“Does he know about you and Achilles?” I asked her, when she had told me her good news.

“Why do you think he wants me?” she retorted. “And there are plenty of men who would marry you for the same reason. Don’t you know that you are famous?”

I had started considering the idea when I suddenly had much more pressing problems.

***

When I first missed my monthly bleeding, I did not notice. When the second month came and went, I thought at first that old age might be arriving early. Then I feared that I might have a growth in my womb. I only realized the truth on the morning when I had to race from my bed to the necessary room, where I fell to my knees vomiting.

How could it have happened in one night with Menelaus, when neither Mynes nor Achilles had gotten me with child? Perhaps it was because we had both been waiting so long: Who knows how these things happen? Under Helen’s suspicious stare, I walked up to Menelaus in the great hall and asked if I could see him alone.

To my relief, his eyes shown at the news. “Perhaps it will be a son!” he exalted. “We will raise him as my heir.” That 'we' did not include me, I knew, but I knew, too, that my son would be a king.

As for Helen, she pretended not to notice what was happening to me until my time came. Then she insisted that I sit on her lap, so the baby would fall through her legs and thus be hers. Her hands tore into my shoulders with each wave of terrible, tearing pains, and I heard her echo my moans. I heard her cry of triumph, too, telling me what I had given her even before I opened my exhausted eyes to see the infant’s tiny spear.

Iphis helped me into my bed as Helen carried the child away to his wet nurse, not looking back at me. As I glimpsed the top of the tiny head beyond her arm, I struggled up and reached out helplessly to him. “Let me see him, in the gods’ name!” I cried. Iphis gently pushed me down again.

“What could you give him but a life of slavery?” she whispered urgently. “They will make him a king. Helen is his mother now,” she told me, while the blood of his birthing was still running down my legs.

“Will she really love him?” I demanded, through my tears.

“Menelaus will,” she assured me.

At least I was allowed to glimpse him, in his nurse’s arms, as I stood behind Helen at dinner. I heard her call him by his name, Megapenthes, as she occasionally turned to coo and cluck at him.

My own breasts swelled and ached for him. As I watched the nurse suckling him, I could barely keep my tears from pouring like my wasted milk. Helen would not have nursed him, I knew, even if he had been her own. But, as Iphis had said, he was Menelaus’ only son, and they would make him a king.

***

Ten years piled up the way my embroidery piled up on the shelves. Each piece emerged slowly and carefully from under my hands, but when they were finished, they formed a stack of gowns and tapestries that seemed to have always been there.

My greatest joy was seeing Megapenthes growing to be as handsome, strong and kind as his father. I dared not look for him too often for fear that he would see the truth in my eyes. Often enough, though, I glimpsed him and Menelaus going out hunting together, or sitting down to dinner. Those glimpses were as precious to me as water to a thirsty man.

And, I admit, I gave myself pleasure in other ways. Lying alone in the dark, I often used my forefinger to caress the secret place that Achilles had shown me, then thrust my middle finger into the sheath. As I pressed it in and out, I could imagine that it was Achilles’ spear inside me. At times I could even finish that way.

But my greatest joy came on the nights when I dreamed of Achilles. Always, I knew it was a dead man who came to my bed, but I feared only that someone would tell him so and he would have to leave me. Those dreams were enough to make me happy for an entire day or so.

One night, less happily, I dreamed that it was Polyxena who had married him and I had borne their son. In that dream, Achilles and I played happily with the child. Polyxena carefully turned away, so that she would not see us together while we, in turn, would not see the blood spurting out of her heart.

But Achilles himself, I admitted, could not have done any more for his child. Having declared him as his

heir, the king easily arranged a marriage for Megapenthes with a great Spartan princess.

Knowing that Helen had not borne him, the boy was too well bred to ask either of his royal parents which slave woman had done that service for them. That was just as well for me: Helen would have burst into tears, taken to her bed, accused us both of upsetting her with our ingratitude and, of course, swallowed more of her calming medicine. She did that so often, there were times when I wondered if she could stop if she wanted to. But gifts kept arriving from Egypt, to be repaid by Trojan treasure, so she had no need to try.

If people wondered about it, they must have decided that Iphis had borne Helen’s son, because Helen seemed so fond of her. Iphis knew, though, that Helen was only fond of her skills with cosmetics and hair combs. They became more and more vital to Helen as the years passed. And, I admit, I took advantage of them as well.

***

Although Hermione had much less need of her talents, Helen insisted that Iphis must use them to beautify the girl for her wedding day. As we listened patiently to her prattling about her perfect sweetheart over her embroidery needle, I fought back tears, remembering that my sweetheart had been so much more than she could even imagine hers to be.

No one could have imagined the wild stories that started reaching us about him from Mycenae where he lived. The tales were brought by the jugglers, tumblers and bards who stopped by to entertain us. We even heard them from the army veterans who came asking Menelaus’ aid, never in vain. Whatever they asked for, his reply was always the same, that he owned them so much more than he could ever repay.

Wherever we heard those rumors, they were always essentially the same, and they always seemed too terrible to believe. Menelaus reproached the visitors who repeated them, so that soon we stopped hearing them at all.

When the heralds finally announced Orestes’ name and he strode into the great hall, we knew at once that some small part of those stories, at least, were true. He walked into this throne room with tangled hair, wild eyes, nails so long they almost curved into his palm and the rank smell of feces all over him.

We all knew, that is, except his sweetheart. Seeing only that he had traveled hard to reach her and that these filthy markings were the stains of his trip, she rose to greet him with her heart in her eyes. It was all her mother could do to grasp her arm and hold her back, sensing our danger.

Only Menelaus seemed calm, as he greeted his guest from his throne.

“Prince Orestes, you have come a long way,” he said. “No doubt you would like to bathe and rest before dinner.”

“My father is dead,” the boy replied.

Helen started forward to give him a consoling embrace. His next words stopped her in her tracks.

“My mother is, too.”

She fell back with a little scream that the other women echoed, believing all the stories at last. Before we could react any further, Orestes smiled with a skeleton’s show of teeth that I hope never to see again.

“I killed her,” he repeated cheerfully, in a horrible parody of fun. “She killed my father when he returned and his captive Cassandra, too. So naturally I had to kill my mother and her lover for revenge.”

“Is this true?” Menelaus asked, his voice shaking as he gripped the arm of his throne. “I refused to even listen to it before.”

But I had heard that family’s fate predicted in advance, I remembered, and from someone who always foretold the truth.

“Very true,” the boy assured us. Stunned, we barely noticed when he drew the long knife from his belt. Then we recoiled in terror as he advanced towards us.

“It wasn’t really her fault, though,” he said. “It was the woman who started all the trouble by taking him from us. It was her sister who is worse than she is: Helen of Troy.”

As he spat out the last insulting word, his head turned from one to the other of us—Helen, Diomede and me—then back again. We sat frozen with our embroidery forgotten in our hands beside Menelaus’ throne.

“Which of you is she?” he demanded. “I know that Helen has golden curls, but I see three ladies of that description. Which is she?”

“The ladies are going to their own rooms now,” Menelaus answered calmly. “You have frightened them enough.”

The madman answered with a harsh laugh as his eyes continued raking across our faces.

“Two will go,” he said. “One will lie dead at my feet.”

The king left his throne then, and stood before us. As he shielded us with his folded arms, he stared straight into our enemy’s eyes.

“Ladies, leave us!” he ordered again, not taking his eyes from Orestes. “Go to your own rooms.”

Helen and Diomede scrambled towards the door, dragging Hermione after them, and Iphis quickly followed. I remained rooted in my seat.

The king turned his head briefly to see if he had been obeyed.

“You must go too,” he said to me.

Instead, I rose and walked towards him.

“No, my lord,” I answered. “I will not leave you with this madman.”

Clutching his knife more fiercely, Orestes strode towards me.

“You must be Helen,” he proclaimed. “You are the one who loves him.”

Chapter Ten

Orestes grew bigger and bigger as he sprang towards me, until that uncombed, unshaven creature, wielding his knife, filled my world. Then it was Menelaus’ face I saw, because he had leapt on top of the mad boy, knocking him to the ground.

They lay struggling there until Helen finally managed to start shrieking for the guards. They rushed in from the courtyard in time to overpower the intruder.

Hermione tried to rush towards him, but Helen held her back.

“In the name of all the gods, girl,” Helen wailed, “he’s gone mad.”

“Then I must care for him,” wept his bride.

“You must go to your room!” her father shouted. “How many times must I send you there?”

We all fled to Helen’s room, where the walls were, not surprisingly, covered with pictures of Helen. The centerpiece featured “Helen, Briseis, Diomede and Iphis leaving Troy with Menelaus.” He was, however, no place in the picture to be seen. Instead, the rest of us stood around her chair, admiring her. The painter had made her seem much more serene and regal than she looked now.

For once, I thought that Helen had earned the half-glass of calming medicine that she immediately poured for herself. Then she poured one for Hermione. The girl shook her head in refusal at first, but finally accepted the drug as her mother kept thrusting it towards her. She choked and sputtered at the foul taste, but fell asleep soon after drinking it, not being as accustomed as Helen was to its effects.

“She can’t marry him now, that’s for sure,” said Helen, as she looked down at her bed where her daughter lay asleep.

“I should hope not,” I agreed—forgetting to call her 'mistress', after the danger we had shared.

“Menelaus drove him away and good riddance,” she said. I nodded agreement, but still had the uneasy feeling that the affair was not yet over. Her next words did not quell my fears.

“Neoptolemus also wants to marry her,” she mused.

“Achilles’ son,” I said. I was amazed at the rush of memories Achilles’ name brought flooding back, even to the light licorice scent of the fennel he had bathed in.

“What was his father really like?” she asked. She tried to sound like a mother who naturally wanted to know about a son-in-law’s lineage. Instead, she sounded like a woman who still dreamed of the lover she had never met. And how strange it was, I realized: Achilles, the great hero and Helen, the great beauty, doomed never to meet, like shining roads running beside each other.

“Was he as beautiful as they say?”

“He was even more beautiful,” I answered, wondering how to explain it. “If you never saw him, you can’t believe how beautiful he was. But it was more than beauty—he lit up the world. He filled the world when you looked at him, and there was nothing else to see.”

“Men have said the same about me,” she answered, in a wistful tone. “I wish I had known him.”

“Forgive me, mistress, but I am glad you did not,” I responded. “Then he never would have looked at me.”

“I am not so sure of that,” she said, as her eyes grew cold. “Orestes said that you are the one who loves my husband. Perhaps that’s because he loves you.”

“Orestes is mad,” I reminded her quickly. “Perhaps he confused us. Your own husband did the same, on our one night together.”

“No,” she said, with even colder eyes. “There was no confusion, either time. I opened my mouth to answer, but she quickly silenced me. “In any event,” she said, “we agreed not to think about that, ever again.” But her gaze took on the same cold speculation that I had seen before, when she asked Menelaus to send me out to the flax fields.

“In any case, Achilles was a hero, and I do not like heroes,” she went on, leaning back in her chair, which was the same one shown in our portrait. “Menelaus is a hero, and Paris was not: That was our entire problem. But you worship heroes, much more than you worship Aphrodite. I suppose that pleases them, just as you are sure it will, which shows that you are as arrogant as they.”

And she regarded me even more coldly, through suddenly slitted eyes.

“But, mistress, not all heroes are like Theseus, who was no true hero at all.”

Her eyes blazed with anger as she answered too quickly, “I know nothing about Theseus, and I have no idea what you mean.”

Fortunately for me, on this occasion her calming medicine soon took hold, restoring her gentle smile. But I knew the resentment simmered beneath it.

She might have resented me even more bitterly, if she had known that Hermione would turn to me in her grief. She came into my room at night, clutching my hands and pleading with me to intercede with her father.

“They say your Achilles went mad, too,” she urged. “You stayed with him, and he recovered his wits. I know Orestes will recover, too. My father will believe that, if you tell him.”

Servant though I was, I pulled my hands away.

“Achilles never harmed a woman.” Then I remembered the female archer he had killed and added, “not

knowingly. Now you are going to marry his son, and you should be grateful.”

At least, I thought, you should be grateful that you will not marry Orestes.

“But I love Orestes,” she insisted. “He loves me.”

“He killed his own mother,” I retorted, “or else he imagines he did, which could be even worse.”

Madmen often imagined things that they wished were true, I reminded her. Visitors had told us how Achilles’ poor old father wandered around saying that his son was now ruling a magical island, which the gods had created for him. At times, he even said that Thetis was a goddess herself. Those reports always drove me from the room in tears. If, instead of this merciful delusion, Orestes chose to imagine the horror of killing his mother, was there anyone he would not kill?

He could murder his sweetheart’s husband without flinching, I was sure now. I was the one who flinched, as the thought struck me. As cruel and childish as Neoptolemus had seemed to me, he was still Achilles’ only child.

The thought was almost enough to make me grant Hermione’s wish and beg Menelaus to cancel the marriage to Neoptolemus, for his own safety. Then I thought of Cassandra, whom no one had believed. I had no wish to be known as a madwoman.

It would have made no difference, in any case. Menelaus was determined now and sent his envoys to Thessaly with the happy news for Neoptolemus. That young man sent good news in return. He had kindly freed Andromache, he said, because the famed Trojan priest Helenus had asked to marry her. In this way, he was making sure that Hermione and Andromache would each have her own husband, rather than serving as first and second wives.

Secretly, I suspected that kindness was not his motive. Helenus was attracting a following, including both the survivors of Troy and the Argives who were repenting of their crimes there. Together, they were furnishing him with a fine temple. It would be graced by the presence of Hector’s widow, since even their former enemies were starting to say that he had been a great hero, while she was the very model of a devoted wife.

For good reason, then, Neoptolemus did not want either Helenus or Andromache praying against him, not to mention the thousands of veterans from both sides who admired them both.

In any event, her rival’s new situation made no difference to Hermione. She kept weeping that she would have no one but Orestes, no matter how many wives he had. She stayed in her room wailing for him, until her father, in exasperation, charged up there with a leather belt in his hand, swearing that he would give her something to weep about. Helen and I both looked down silently, as we heard the leather striking her bare bottom with the resulting shrieks.

“She would not listen to reason,” Helen sighed, shaking her head, as we sat with our work forgotten in our hands. “So now she must be forced to obey.”

But I still did not know my goddess’ true power. It was Hermione who showed it to me.

She howled piteously all through her beating, and I well knew how much cause she had to do it. Still, she swore that she would only have Orestes, every time that she was able to stop crying long enough to speak. At last, her father was angry enough to shout that her mother, Helen, had married him for love, as the man of her own choosing, for all the good it had done them.

Hearing that, Helen and I both studied our embroidery more carefully than ever before. She was still staring down at a particularly complicated bird figure when she said, “I chose him because I knew he was the finest man I had ever seen, even if he was a hero.”

He might not have been so angry with his daughter, except for the tension of waiting for more news to come from his brother’s kingdom, telling him whether Orestes had raved in a mad fantasy or told the truth.

Helen’s medicine must have been very effective. She showed no horror or even grief when the messengers returned from Mycenae with the terrible news: Orestes had indeed done the dreadful deeds he had boasted of. She merely told Iphis to cut off one of her golden curls in the mourning ritual, being careful to take one from the back of her head, where it would not show.

“Can that medicine stop her from grieving for her murdered sister?” I asked Iphis.

“From what she tells me,” Iphis answered, “that medicine could stop you from grieving if your mother and father had both been murdered on the same day.” And, I thought, it keeps Helen from grieving over her shame.

Not that it always succeeded. There were nights when we heard her shrieking that the Furies were coming for her, to avenge the dead at Troy. She always kept a glass of medicine at her bedside, to drive the Furies away. Secretly, I suspected that the same medicine was bringing them there instead. Such drugs were meant to dull the pain of the body, not the soul.

Instead of her medicine, Helen shared her theory with me. “There is a curse on their whole family, you know,” she confided, as we sat working together. She spoke as calmly as though she had been saying that their hair was red. That terrible calm warned me again to avoid her medicine, even if she offered it. “The gods hate them.”

But the gods showed mercy to Menelaus, I thought, because he showed mercy to you. I wondered, once again, how she could have failed to love and appreciate him.

***

Thinking of that, I was in no mood to resist him that night, when he came to my bedroom wearing only his linen shirt. He was as grimly determined as he had been when he gave his daughter to Neoptolemus.

“Death can come quickly, even for a king,” he said, as he stood over me. “I learned that today from Orestes. We must enjoy what life give us.”

I opened my mouth to ask him to leave, to remind him that his life had given him the world’s most beautiful woman. He cut me short by saying, “Orestes said that you are the one who loves me.”

“Orestes is mad,” I reminded him.

“There are times when madmen see the truth,” he retorted.

While I searched for the words to deny it, he climbed into my bed.

Grasping my hands in one of his, he held them above my head while his free hand lifted my skirt to my waist. My legs spread wide as my body arched up to greet him and his spear thrust deeper and deeper into me.

Now, in peacetime, he smelled of scented oil, with a fragrance like leather rather than flowers, so faint and subtle that I knew how expensive it had to be. And he was Menelaus now, not just a man who was not Achilles. Now I loved him for himself, and mad Orestes had known it before we did.

***

If Helen knew where he had spent the night, she gave no sign the next morning. She smiled at me more warmly than ever as I joined her with my embroidery. For a moment, I wondered if the medicine had truly stolen her wits.

She showed how sharp her wits still were when the visitor came from Ithaca.

I disliked Telemachus on sight, because he reminded me so strongly of his father Odysseus. He, too, pretended to be a shambling simpleton, but this was belied by the anger and malice that peered out from

under those shaggy brows. But he was also thin, angular and awkward, like Orestes, of whom he also reminded me, in some subtle and dangerous way.

Because he was a stranger, he dined alone with Menelaus while we ate in the women’s hall. When we came down to join them after dinner, Helen recognized him at once as Odysseus’ son and raced towards him with arms outstretched. She owed his father so much, she simpered, for having rescued her from Troy. Standing in our usual places behind her, Iphis and I were careful to avoid looking at each other, for fear that we might burst into unseemly laughter.

To further celebrate the visit, Helen had brought her medicine to spice the wine.

She pointed out chairs for her attendants, knowing that we could not have remained standing, once the drugs had done their work, and knowing too that we were not free to refuse them. And it proved to be blessed work indeed. The great hall seemed like an enchanted place. Helen was the queen of the enchantment, Aphrodite herself, bringing down her blessings to us.

There was a way to repay his father now, Telemachus said, if it wasn’t too much to ask. Menelaus did not hesitate before insisting that he owed Telemachus’ father more than he could ever repay. He had said the same to every veteran or veteran’s orphan who came here asking for help, he reminded us, so how could he say any less to Odysseus’ son?

With the same great show of reluctance, Telemachus said that his father had not yet come home. Helen asked how his poor mother was bearing up.

This was just the opening that he and Helen had waited for. It fitted his needs so perfectly, I have often wondered since then if they had planned the whole scene in advance, starting with the drugged wine that addled our judgment.

Unwanted suitors from all over Argos tormented his mother, he said. They ate all her foot, drank all her wine and kept the palace in a constant uproar, while demanding that she choose one of them as her husband.

Half rising from his chair, Menelaus exclaimed that he would send his army to drive them away. Helen reached over and put a placating hand on his arm. Before starting another war, she asked gently, would it not be better to send a trusted servant there, to see how bad the situation really was.

Then she gazed at me with a helpless appeal in her great blue eyes, and I knew who the trusted servant would be. Please leave us alone together, her eyes were pleading: I know that Orestes spoke the truth, I know that you love my husband, but please give me a chance to be his wife again.

Once more, I felt the need to help and protect her, because I was the only one who could. I knew by now that this was the true power of Aphrodite, and I submitted to the goddess’ will.

“May I go with Telemachus, my lord?” I asked. Before the king could refuse me, Telemachus was chiming in that he would be eternally grateful to Menelaus. Believing that he owed so much to the boy’s father, Menelaus found it impossible to refuse.

This plan seemed even more brilliant to me. So far from harming me, those noble drugs had made the trip to Ithaca suddenly seem to be a wonderful idea to us all. I would enjoy a sea voyage, visit a new city and come safely back to tell my monarchs what I had seen. The medicine had made the whole project seem not only easy but also exciting, allowing me, at last, to play a heroic role.

What’s more, I could stand against a man who had disgraced the name of hero. You will not harm Helen any more, dead Theseus, I vowed: Achilles’ woman, who knew a true hero, stands against you. The time would come when I would stand against an even more famous hero, who was all too much alive. Now, however, I could hardly wait to be off for Ithaca so my adventure could begin. Menelaus’ dreamlike smile showed that he felt the same way.

***

Next morning, when Menelaus’ head was clear, he came to the women’s hall at breakfast. He had sent for Megapenthes, he said, to bid me farewell.

“But we thought it was best that they not see each other,” Helen protested, dropping the grapes from her hand. “We said it would be too confusing for him.”

“Megapenthes will say farewell to Briseis,” he answered. “She is going to Ithaca in order to pay our family debt.”

And so, at last, in the great hall of Sparta, surrounded by the painted lions, I came face to face with my son.

He was sitting beside his father as I approached them.

“Megapenthes, we are sending our Briseis to Ithaca,” Menelaus said. “I want you to wish her well on her journey.”

If he wondered why he was being told to say farewell to his mother’s attendant, he was, as always, too well bred to ask.

“Have a safe journey, Briseis,” he said. And then, perhaps fearing that he might lose his opportunity forever, he let his curiosity get the better of him.

“Briseis?” he asked softly. “May I ask you a question?”

“Of course, my lord Megapenthes,” I answered, with a smile, realizing that he would ask the same question I had heard so many times before.

“What sort of man was Achilles, really?”

Usually, I tried in vain to explain how great and beautiful he was. This time, my answer came much more easily. “He was a great hero, but your father is a better man.”

When I was packing for my travels, Menelaus came to see me for a private farewell.

“Thank you for your kind words to my son,” he said. “I am sorry they are not true.”

“But they are, my lord Menelaus,” I insisted.

“They are not, but they will be,” he said. His hands dug into my arms as he pulled me away from my packing to face him. “When you return, I will declare that you are the mother of the heir, as I should have done on the day he was born. I would tell the world so on this very day, but you must be able to move among Odysseus’ people freely, without your own servants and guards calling attention to you.”

“But Helen is your queen!” I protested.

“And she may go on being so,” he said, “but you will sit beside me as my wife.”

Part III: Odysseus, My Foe

Chapter Eleven

Hours after landing in Ithaca, I was ready to go right back to Sparta, make my report to Menelaus and take my place as his second wife. Things were even worse than Telemachus had said, and his mother was in urgent need of rescue.

In that cool but bright afternoon, the courtyard was full of young men practicing their marksmanship by hurling javelins at the stone lion above the palace gatethat Telemachus had pulled shut behind him. They seldom managed to hit him, but were constantly chipping the yellow stone walls below.

Turning towards Telemachus, I wondered why he was not trying to stop them. Instead, I saw him race through the palace gates without a backwards glance at me as they hooted at him. After letting Menelaus believe that he would protect me, Telemachus was leaving me to face these rowdies alone at the first sign of danger to himself. How very like his father, I thought. What’s more, he was carrying my traveling box, leading me to wonder if I would ever see my jewels and garments again.

As that pack of bullies turned towards me, I pounded on the palace gate.

“Please, someone, let me in!” I shouted.

“Please let me in,” one of them mimicked, coming towards me in a sickening wave of floral bath oil.

“Please let me into your cunt, pretty lady.”

Turning towards my tormenter, I both saw and smelled the fragrant oil gleaming on his curly black hair. Ignoring him as best I could, I kept pounding on the door as he approached me and squeezed my breast. As I screamed and drew backwards, one of his cohorts seized my rear, sending them all into gales of laughter. In tears of humiliation and pain, I pressed myself against the wall, screaming, “Help me, someone, please help me!”

At last the door swung open and a lady came outside. Even through her white veil, I could see the sadness on her white face beneath her heavy black brows, reminding me too clearly of Andromache. The crowd of men fell back before her, telling me clearly who she was.

“Please come inside, mistress,” she said to me. With a bitter smile, she added, “I don’t think you will want to linger out here.”

I was afraid to move for fear that it would set them off again. She firmly put her arm around my shoulder and pulled me after her through the door.

“We’ll come in soon to join you for dinner, dearest Penelope,” my tormenter assured her.

“Is there any way to keep you out?” she asked. They laughed as though she had made a joke.

“Are those the men who want to marry you?” I asked, as she guided me into the great hall.

“A charming lot, are they not?” she asked, with the same sad smile.

‘Do you think King Menelaus will believe it?”

“How did you know that Menelaus sent me?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” she demanded. “Telemachus went to Sparta to find help, he came back today and you were with him. Judging by your fine clothing, you are not some slave or peasant girl he found along the way.”

And you, Queen Penelope, are as shrewd as your husband, I thought.

“You are partly right,” I said ruefully, looking down at my pink cotton gown. “I am Queen Helen’s attendant.” More proudly, I went on, “Before that, I belonged to my lord Achilles. I am Briseis.”

Most strangers were rather impressed by that.

It was a sign of her desperation that, instead, she looked quickly around, afraid that someone had heard.

“In the gods’ names, don’t tell anyone else that,” she warned me. “If they are so hot for Odysseus’ woman, what will they do to Achilles’, even if she has no treasure for them to steal. What is your given name?”

“Hippodamia,” I answered reluctantly, having happily forgotten it during those years as Briseis.

“Well, Hippodamia, you had better stay close to me,” she said. “They will not behave too badly as long as I am with you. Will you play the role of my servant?”

“Gladly! But I ask one favor, my queen. Will you remind your son to return my traveling box? He must have forgotten that he had it.”

“Of course,” she replied, with an even sadder smile. “Just as you say, he must have forgotten to return it to you.”

Even as queen and servant girl, we were no better off inside the palace than we had been outside. More of the vandals were throwing darts at the painted murals in the great hall, using both the hound and the

boar as targets. Penelope tried to hurry past them, but one blocked the door to the women’s hall. He leaned his elbow against the frame as he stood smiling down at me.

His vague resemblance to Achilles, with his blond shock of hair, made his behavior all the harder to bear. He was Achilles with neither beauty nor grace, with only a hawk’s beaked nose in a thin face and an insolent swaggering pose even as he stood still.

“Let us by, Antinoos,” Penelope sighed patiently. Her tone made it obvious that she had said the same thing many times before.

“Oh, mistress, you take things too seriously,” a girl’s voice chimed in from the great hall behind us, where she had started to set the dinner table. “You should be kinder to your suitors.”

“You are kind enough for both of us, Melantho,” the queen answered, in the same resigned tone. The girl merrily refused to be ashamed as she came towards us. She seemed made for merriment, with her plump little body, her cherry cheeks framed by tousled black curls and a smile so broad it reminded me of Chryseis in her happiest days. I would have found her much less amusing if I had known that she would soon be standing beside me while we fought for our lives.

“You get back to work, girl, and stop bothering the queen,” an elderly woman cackled as she hobbled up to us. Melantho did as she was told, but stuck her tongue out as soon as the old woman’s back was turned. The young men laughed at the sight, and I admit that I had to bite my own lip to keep from smiling. Antinoos’ sly smile told me that he had seen my gesture.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us to this new girl, Penelope?” he asked.

“She is Queen Penelope,” I reminded him in outrage.

He grinned, his smile cold on his thin hawk’s face. “Oh, no, she is my sweetheart. She is going to marry me, aren’t you?”

Swaggering towards her, he grasped her wrist, to show that he would soon be leading her in marriage. She slapped his hand away.

“With your delightful manner, how could she resist you?” I retorted.

He turned to me with new interest.

“Well, she is a bold little creature, isn’t she?” he demand. “And what might your name be, girl?”

“My new servant is named Hippodamia,” the queen responded carefully.

The young man’s eyes narrowed, showing an intelligence I had not expected to find there.

“Hippodamia,” he said slowly. “The given name of the great Achilles’ favorite slave girl. They say she had wild blond curls like yours.”

He wound one of them around his fingers. I pulled away, not minding that I was pulling my hair in the process.

“Lout!” I snapped. I barely stopped myself from demanding to know how he dared even mention Achilles’ name, let alone use such filthy words about us.

“You really should teach her some manners,” he told the queen. “Doesn’t she know that my friends and I are princes from the finest families?”

“Then I would hate to see the worst!” I retorted, knowing that I was only setting him on again but unable to stop myself.

“Let us go, Hippodamia!” the queen said sharply and walked straight towards him as though he had not been there. At the last moment, he stood aside with a mocking bow, but I felt his blue eyes burning into my back as I walked away.

***

Now the women’s hall became a prison, as it had never been even for Agamemnon’s captives. They had always been free to wander about as they chose, in and out of the ships. Now we dared not open the door, for fear that those gallants (as we ironically called them) would burst inside. Whenever I ventured beyond the door, they stopped me with their sneering voices and grasping hands. Whether they did it to amuse themselves or because they suspected I would go for help if they let me slip outside, the effect was the same. I was effectively imprisoned upstairs. If this was the modern world, I thought, I preferred the old days.

So instead of taking our work downstairs, as the women had done in Menelaus’ house, we now sat upstairs all day with our weaving and embroidery. The only visitors we admitted were the palace cats, who came up to rub against our legs after getting their milk in the kitchen.

At dinner, the queen kept Melantho and me on either side, as her only protection. Her face was always veiled then, and I thought of how disgraceful it was that she had to hide herself in her own home as though she had been out on the street.

The saddest thing of all, though, was the way the poor woman kept talking about her husband as though he were still alive and likely to come through the front door at any moment, driving the suitors away. It reminded me of poor Peleus, talking about Achilles’ magical island. Perhaps I am more fortunate that she is, I thought, because I know my lord is dead. Until it was almost too late for me, I pitied her for giving way to this fantasy. I only wished her husband had been more worthy of her faith.

Our only amusement was Melantho. At least she amused me with her bold joking, just as Chryseis had done. The queen seemed to endure her cheerful insolence only because she had no choice.

For my part, I could hardly keep from smiling at the way Melantho kept praising Eurymachus for his

good looks, his jolly nature, his sweet smile. When she praised him one day for his sweet fragrance, I asked if he was the youth with all the floral bath oil in his hair. Yes, indeed, she agreed, and wasn’t it a delightful scent?

“If you think he’s so delightful, why don’t you marry him yourself?” I asked her. I was pleased when the queen was forced to smile.

“Oh, no, Hippodamia, it’s our queen he loves, I’m just a diversion for him,” she insisted hastily.

“You seem to be winning him away,” I went on, mostly in the hopes of seeing Penelope smile again “I don’t see how even our queen can prevail against you.”

Oh, no, Melantho insisted again. She herself was only his way of consoling himself while he waited for his true love, the queen.

“Then why doesn’t he go to her father and offer a bride price and ask for her hand properly?” I inquired.

Obviously, the girl had heard that question often enough so that she was ready for it.

“How can you ask him to do such a thing?” she wailed. “Having to go away and not see her, that would break his heart. She might even turn to one of his rivals while he was gone.”

“I have it, then!” I cried, clapping my hands in delight at my sudden inspiration. “Why doesn’t he tell her that he will have her without any of her money or property, just for herself. That would prove his love.”

Penelope and I glanced at each other in amusement as Melantho fell silent at last. This lasted only for a moment, though, before she started up her protestations again.

“Oh, no!” she exclaimed, throwing her plump hands in the air. “He would never do that to her majesty, making her live like some poor country housewife. My brother Melanthus is a poor farmhand, and I was lucky he found me my place here. You must never live that way. Your sweetheart cares nothing about

wealth for its own sake, you understand, but he could never endure to see his queen in poverty.”

When the queen finally burst out laughing, Melantho seemed so pleased that I suspected this had been her purpose all along.

***

There were times, though, when the queen was momentarily absent, and Melantho was very serious with me.

“I know he is a rough fellow, like all of them,” she said. “But I am not the only woman here who likes them. The one who really frightens us is our prince, Telemachus. His mother says he isn’t old enough to give us women orders now, but may all the gods help us when he is.”

I had thought she was only echoing her friends, the suitors, who openly disliked Telemachus. I soon learned that she was shrewder than I had thought.

I learned that on the night when I heard a piteous mewing, almost like a human cry, coming from his room, across the hall from the women’s quarters. I pulled open to see a sight I will never forget or forgive. He was hanging five kittens from a little gallows with five nooses.

“What in the name of the gods are you doing?” I gasped, expecting him to order me out in a rage. Instead, to my horror, he smiled proudly.

“It seems I forgot to lock the door, but no matter,” he said. “What do you think of my little invention?”

I tried to race past him, to the choking, writhing, clawing little figures dangling from their nooses, but he was too strong and blocked my way. Desperately, I clawed at his face as, still laughing, he held me off until their struggles had ceased.

“I think,” I said, through my tears, as he finally released me, “that if there is one god on Olympus he will punish you.”

“Are you going to tell my mother?” he asked, apparently fearing her more than he feared the gods. “I will say you are lying about me.” He moved closer to me then, his eyes like burning black coals under his heavy brows, reminding me all too much of his father’s.

“I will say you are like those other slut maids of hers, who push me away and go with her suitors,” he said. Then he grasped my wrists and whispered, hot in my ear, “But if you will be kind to me, I would remember it when I am ruling this place. Then I will be kind to you in turn. It won’t be long now, my beard has started growing, I am already almost a man.”

What you are, I thought, not even the wounded soldiers had words for. Unable to make even that answer, with those pitiful little corpses dangling there, I twisted out of his grip and ran blindly downstairs. Wanting desperately to tell his mother as the only one who could deal with him, I wanted even more to spare her from further grief. I was still struggling with that dilemma when I reached the foot of the stairs and ran headlong into Antinoos.

“I knew you’d come running after me, Briseis,” he said, grasping both my wrists.

“Will you let go of me?” I shouted, trying to twist away.

“You don’t really want me to,” he told me, gripping harder, making the small bones ache. “From all I have heard about you, you were every man’s dream of an adoring slave girl. You still are, even with those few lines around your eyes, above those famous soft cheeks of yours. That means you enjoy a bit of force.”

“From the great Achilles, not from you,” I told him in outrage.

“He was every girl’s dream of a master to adore.”

“Then just imagine I am him,” he answered. For just a moment, I was so blinded by his arrogance, his vibrant youth and his blond hair that it seemed possible to do it. When he grasped my shoulders and pulled me towards him, I did not resist his embrace but lifted my lips to his, and his were rough against mine. I remained locked within his right arm, even as he thrust his left hand between my legs. His spear was hard and promising, I saw, between his fine shirt and my blue gown, and I pressed unthinkingly against it.

Then he reached down to lift my skirt to my waist. At last, I tried to push his hand aside, but he slapped my hand away. I let it fall to my side.

“You will have more later,” he whispered into my hair.

“What are you doing, you little slut?”

We jumped apart at the old hag’s shrieking, which had echoed my own thoughts. It was the same old woman who had scolded Melantho.

He smiled and shrugged. “Later, Briseis,” he said, as he left.

I wheeled on the hag in a rage.

If she had been the queen or one of her ladies, I would instead have stammered an apology and fled. There was something about this harridan that made me want to rage against her, just as it had made Melantho stick out her tongue. Perhaps she reminded me of my mother and her surrogates, those vengeful women of Troy. Then, too, it was the time of my monthly bleeding, when I was most open to both rage and desire. I only know that, even while speaking, I was sorry for what I said.

“What business is it of yours, old woman?” I demanded. “I am no slave of yours. Who are you to question me?”

“I am Euryclea, our king’s nurse,” she quavered. Then, more boldly, she went on. “You will suffer for your insolence when he comes home, along with your worthless lover.”

“I don’t care whose nurse you are,” I shouted. “What I do here is no business of yours.”

She drew back, frightened at my tone. I saw then how fragile she was, with her wispy white hair and her bony arms that I could have snapped between my fingers. I wanted more than ever then to beg her pardon, but I was too proud or stubborn to do it.

***

I had even more reason to beg her pardon at dinner that night, for having denied her judgment. Antinoos showed us all then how worthless he really was.

Penelope had told me that we always had to dine in the great hall, or her suitors would come to drag us there. Once there, we could hardly eat in all the noise they were making. Two newcomers made it worse.

The first was one of those traveling bards who, for a penny, will add your name to any great event in their songs. Naturally, all of the young men clamored to be listed among those who had fought at Troy. Perhaps they admired him, because he had found this way to earn a living, even though he was blind. For my part, I forgave the bards for putting these names beside Achilles’ Even if they did it only to earn their pennies, they were keeping his name alive that way. For that matter, they often mentioned my name favorably, too, and I admit that that pleased me.

The second man was a beggar, apparently less ingenious. He pleaded for his pennies as he shambled among the tables. You can imagine the charity that those gallants gave him.

“No wonder we can’t find a man to clean the stables!” shouted Eurymachus, shaking his oiled hair, as he threw a chunk of bread at the bowed head of the old beggar. “They can all find free food here.”

Just as you are finding it, I thought in outrage. To my shame, Antinoos’ greeting proved to be even worse.

“Go stay in the public shelter!” he cried. Then he threw a table at the beggar’s shoulder, knocking him down as the others laughed.

Had I ever, for even a moment, felt attracted to this man? Now I felt only contempt for him, since he actually imagined that he could win my regard by abusing a beggar, who depended on our generosity for his very life.

I walked boldly to the table where Antinoos sat. Reaching out both of my hands, I helped haul the beggar to his feet. Then I deliberately lifted one of the garnet-studded gold chains from around my neck and dropped it into his dirty, cracked palm.

He gazed up at me with eyes like black coals from beneath his shaggy brows. “May all the gods bless you, mistress,” he said. Too stunned to reply, I realized that I was staring at Odysseus.

Chapter Twelve

My lips half parted to say his name. He lifted a finger in a gesture of warning, and I quickly shut them again. As much as I disliked Odysseus, I did not want to see him beaten, or worse, by those young bullies, here in his own throne room.

Fearing that my constant glances would give him away, I left the great room and headed towards the women’s hall. As I reached the stairs, Antinoos’ hand gripped my shoulder and pulled me into the corner.

“I promised you more,” he reminded me. “You will have it now.”

Once again, he lifted my skirt to my waist. This time, I grasped his hand with both of mine, trying to pull it away. He dropped my garment long enough to imprison my wrists in his right hand, before his left raised my skirt once more. Its fingers then fumbled to lift his tunic, showing me the spear that was ready to thrust.

But this time, I really fought him, kicking frantically at his legs until he looked up from his task, knowing at last that I was in earnest.

“Stop it, or I will scream!” I cried

He laughed abruptly at that. “Who will hear you, with all the noise they make?”

“I don’t want you, Antinoos. Aren’t there enough maidservants here who do?”

“Plenty of them,” he assured me. “But none of them was ever Achilles’ woman. You are, so you want a bit of force. And who am I to refuse you?”

He laughed briefly, as a thought struck him. “I will have both of these heroes’ women,” he exclaimed, “Achilles and Odysseus both. That is worth a bit of force, don’t you think?”

“I do not want a bit of force from you,” I shouted, as loudly as my whispery voice would allow. “I do not want you at all! I want you to go away! If you don’t, I will tell the queen that you are forcing her ladies, and we will see if she wants to marry you then.” And I struggled so desperately, with such a wild fury in my eyes, he knew at last that I meant every word.

As he fought to hold me, he kept glancing back towards the great hall, afraid that someone would hear us and come to help me, after all. Yet with both hands busy fighting me, he could not silence my cries. Seeing his quandary, he finally threw me into the corner and started to walk away.

“Very well, then, creep up to your lonely bed,” he told me, with a great show of indifference. “I should be going back to Penelope, to save her from having to do the same. Perhaps I’ll make your old beggar friend amuse us both again.”

As I fairly flew up the stairs, I realized that I was looking forward to seeing that old beggar reveal himself as King Odysseus and drive these suitors away. I had underestimated—or, perhaps, overestimated—his cunning and cruelty once again. This final miscalculation almost cost me my life.

***

We all know that the gods reward a generous giver, and I had been generous to Odysseus that night. They must have been the ones who sent Melantho fairly flying past me to her room the next morning. She threw herself onto her bed, sobbing and shaking.

When I went in to ask what the matter was, she said through her tears that the old beggar had threatened to kill her, “and all the other sluts, too,” along with the men they had slept with. What’s more, he had glared in a way that made her believe him.

And, I thought, thank all the gods she had.

Menelaus will save us, I thought, now that Achilles is gone. I have only to send him a message. Not even Odysseus would dare offend him. Then I knew I had no way of sending to him and certainly no time to do it in. Odysseus would never believe me if I told him that Menelaus had promised to make me his second wife: I could still barely believe it myself. That meant I would have to face Odysseus, that dreadful man, alone, as I had somehow always known I would, with no ally but this foolish, flighty girl.

I barely heard Melantho sniffling about how she had gone down to the great hall after breakfast—where she should not have been, I thought absently Seeing the gallants dancing in a circle, she had joined some of the other girls who were laughing and clapping their hands in time.

The old beggar had still been around, after sleeping by the door. He had dared to tell the girls that they must go upstairs and entertain their mistress, instead of amusing themselves this way. All she had done, in answer to this insolence, was to tell him that he should go sleep in the public shelter and stop bothering decent folks. I could imagine how pertly she had said it, too, as though she really had been the daughter of the house, rather than merely a servant. In return, he had actually threatened to tear her limb from limb.

Having said that, Melantho sat up with a final sniffle and reached down for the fringed hem of her pale green skirt to dry her eyes. Now that she had told me about her fears, she said, she realized how foolish they had been. How could she have feared an old beggar? As her smile started to return, she invited me to go down with her to watch the gallants dancing.

“Melantho,” I answered, as calmly as I could, while I fought down the terror that clawed me. “We must get out of here now. That beggar was King Odysseus. He is going to kill us both.”

She gaped at me, as amazed as I would have been in her place.

“That can’t be,” she said. “He must be dead by now.”

As patiently as I could manage, with time running out so quickly, I replied, “Do you think a beggar would have dared speak to you that way? That man you saw was the king. Part of you must have known it, because you knew enough to be frightened. If you want to live, you will leave this palace this moment with me.”

And thank the gods she believed me, as she had believed him.

“Can’t we take anything with us?” she asked.

“Yes,” I answered shortly. Going next door to my own room, I hastily seized the curved knife I had used to cut my embroidery thread and thrust it into my sash. Then I scooped up a fistful of jewelry from my traveling box, my gifts from Achilles and Menelaus, and pushed them into my pocket.

Running back to Melantho’s room, I said, “Now let’s get out of here while we can.”

“He didn’t mean it,” she assured me. I sighed, realizing that, in my absence, she had convinced herself of what she wanted to believe so desperately.

“He did.”

“The queen would never allow it,” she said. “I am like a daughter to her, and she loves me. When I was a child she gave me toys to play with.”

“I don’t care how many dancing dolls she gave you,” I answered, as my hands twitched to shake her.

“You are her servant. The king told you that he is going to kill you. Believe him. He has already killed an old man, a woman and a child—a king, a royal princess and an infant prince—because they might have made problems for him. His son will gladly help him. Telemachus tortures animals for pleasure. He will probably advance to human beings today, and I am not going to be among them.”

“But where can we go?” she asked me, sinking down onto her bed. “My brother has a little house, but they’d be sure to look for us there.”

“It doesn’t matter where we go. We have to leave right now. Somehow, we’ll get back to Menelaus later, my gold and garnets will pay for our passage. Right now we’ve got to get as far away from here as we can.”

My head swiveled towards the door of her room, as I heard the great wood-and-bronze door of the women’s hall slowly creaking shut behind us. Achilles, help me, give me your swift feet, I thought wildly, as I raced from my room towards the end of the hall, holding my skirts high. Old Euryclea was pulling the door closed, the lock in her hand.

“Mistress’ orders, Hippodamia,” she told me, as I approached her. I could see the look of triumph in her eyes. “I am to lock you all in.”

Then she shrank back in fear, just long enough to save me. She shrank back because it was Achilles she saw running towards her, Achilles in his battle rage, Achilles in me, with me, through me. She shrieked in pain as I grasped her bony wrist. She had the sense not to struggle, or I would have snapped her wrist like a rotten twig.

“I am not Hippodamia!” I shouted in her face, so close I felt her moist old breath. “I am Briseis, I was the great Achilles’ woman, and you will not dare stand against me!”

Hearing the commotion, the other girls had come to their doors along the hall.

“We’ve all got to get out of here!” I shouted. “Or else we are going to die.”

“No one is going to die,” Euryclea whimpered. “He only wants to know the names of the ones who

disgraced him with those suitors, like Melantho and you, Hippodamia Briseis, so he can scold them for it. You have to admit you deserve it.”

I almost released her arm, until I remembered what Melantho had told me. And I remembered, too, Telemachus’ group gallows.

“He is going to kill us,” I shouted, frantically turning from one of the doomed women to the other, willing them to believe. “Telemachus will hang us on a gallows with five nooses. We have to get out of here now.”

The other women stood near their doorways, staring at me as though they were sure I was going mad. With a sinking heart, I saw that my friend Melantho was starting to join them, because she so much wanted to.

“You may be making too much of it,” she assured me. “He is only going to scold us, and who cares about that?” More reluctantly, she admitted, “All right, then, the queen once promised me a whipping when he gets home, but I suppose I deserve that, too, just because I was so cruel to that poor old beggar. Euryclea said it would be no worse than that. I might even benefit from it,” she said. She was willing herself to believe it, even as the tears ran down her face, and I knew I had no time to win her over again.

“Very well, then. Stay here and die,” I snapped and pushed past the old woman to the door. She was lifting the key to lock it behind me when Melantho shouted, “Wait, Briseis!” I shoved the old woman back again, letting her see Achilles’ rage in my eyes, while Melantho ran to join me.

“I am coming with you, Briseis,” she said. “I believe you. I saw his face. You are right about him and his son.”

As we ran, we heard the lock click shut behind us, shutting ten other girls in with their murderers. My hands covered my ears for a moment against the sound, then reached down again to hold up my skirts as I ran.

***

Like two madwomen, we raced down the back stairs that led from the women’s hall to the rear courtyard.

“But what about Antinoos and Eurymachus?” she gasped, as we ran. “We have to try to warn them.”

Before I could answer, I heard the door of the great hall clanging shut. Either the suitors were locking Odysseus out, or he was locking them in. Knowing him and his craftiness, I was sure it was the latter. Either way, it was much too late for a warning, but I did not tell her so.

“They will have a better chance to defend themselves if they don’t have to worry about us.”

Even as I said this, I felt sure that they had no chance at all. Odysseus, that cruel and crafty man, would make sure of that before he faced them: No doubt he had waited until the hall was empty and then taken their weapons away. And this king and his princely son would kill the unarmed men first, just as every common robber did, so they could not protect the women who had loved them. Melantho and I had been among those women, and saving us was all I could even pray for.

There was only one thing I knew for sure. If the time came, Melantho and I would both die by my own hand, under my own knife, as Polyxena had died by hers. Then I, too, could be Achilles’ worthy bride in the Elysian Fields, if there was any such place, as I had always wanted to believe. Right now, I believed only in a gallows that had been built to hang five kittens.

The courtyard held a shrine to Athena, but there was no time to stop there either, even to pray. Melantho asked if we should take sanctuary there.

“He dragged King Priam of Troy out of Athena’s sanctuary and killed him,” I answered. We kept racing on.

We stopped short for a moment as we heard the first screams. They came all too clearly through the windows that were open in the warm day. Then we heard the voices of Eurymachus and the other young men, promising to return everything they had taken, pleading for their lives.

Only one voice was not pleading. I was proud that the lover I had chosen, if only for a moment, would die fighting like a man, as though some of Achilles had gone into him through me and he had donned, for a moment, the armor of Achilles.

“Arrows, you sneaking cowards!” Antinoos shouted. “And you’ve locked all the javelins away. Why don’t you go get a javelin and give me one too, so we can fight like men!” His words gave way to a scream of agony, soon lost among so many other screams and groans. My impulse was to care for the wounded, but I knew there would be none left alive.

At the sound of her own lover’s pleading, Melantho had burst into tears.

“They are killing everyone,” she sobbed.

“No tears now,” I told her. “Only anger. Nothing else can help us. Keep running.” I grabbed her sleeve and pulled her after me.

“But where can we run to, Briseis?” she wailed.

Desperately, I looked around for the answer. I had thought vaguely of hiding in the woods, but I saw no trees along the path. There were only rocks with patches of grass between them where a few goats grazed. Seeing these rocks, I knew with fierce clarity just what had happened at Troy.

Living in this rocky land, the great kings of Argos could only maintain their state by piracy. This land had created all of them, both these casual killers and my own great pirate prince. Helen had been merely the excuse for their looting, although not even she knew it. And what would my Achilles do if he were here? There could be no question: He would stand before us and kill Odysseus and his son, most likely in one swift blow.

We could not stand and fight them, but then I remembered the name of another prince. The Egyptians had called him a renegade, but he was our only hope of salvation now. He and his god, who unlike all the others, stood against princes for slaves.

“We must get to the sea,” I told her.

“We will drown!” she wept.

“No, I don’t think so. And if we do, we will have died fighting for our lives.”

This prospect did not console her. But, having no other ideas, she reluctantly came after me as I raced towards the shore.

The men’s screaming stopped. Then we heard something even more horrible: the shrieking of women.

“They are mourning for their lovers,” Melantho pleaded. “Perhaps we should go back and mourn with them. No decent man would harm us then.”

“These are not decent men,” I told her patiently. And then, worse than anything, their screaming stopped short, as though cut off by a rope. I remembered the dying kittens.

“He hanged them all on one gallows, five at a time,” I said. “Do you still want to go back there?”

“Oh, gods and goddess,” Melantho whimpered, falling to her knees.

“Aphrodite, in the name of your own great love, send the great Ares to protect us!”

I hauled her up beside me. “We will pray later. We have to protect ourselves now,” I said. “Keep

running.”

“They killed everyone,” she repeated helplessly. “Everyone is dead.”

“Everyone but us.”

“Euryclea must have told him who to kill—and who had escaped. You should have killed the old bitch, Briseis.”

“Yes, I should, but there’s no sense thinking about that now.”

We had almost reached the shore when we heard another shriek, of rage this time. “Two of the nooses are empty,” Telemachus screamed, as he galloped after us. “But you won’t get away again.”

He was so close I could smell the sulfur he must have used to try to purify the house, as though he ever could. And rejoice, rejoice exceedingly—he was wearing armor.

Melantho turned towards him and started calling loudly on the gods to help us. But would any god stand for rebel slaves? I wondered. Yes, I remembered once again, there was one, and he had forced the sea itself to fight for them. My voice rose over Melantho’s screaming: “We must get into the sea!”

Telemachus had almost overtaken us when we splashed into the warm blue water and tasted the salt that splashed up to our lips. We stumbled over the rocks but always picked ourselves up and waded farther, farther into the sea, holding our gowns high even as the water started dragging them down.

So far, I had been helped by Moses and his god of rebel slaves, or at least by the story that Pharaoh and Iphis had told us about them. Now I prayed to my own Aphrodite to help me.

Melantho was waiting for my lead, gaping at me in desperation. It turned to dismay as I laughed loudly, hauled up my wet skirts and threw them into the air, flaunting my secret parts at him. Surely, she must have decided now that I truly had gone mad.

“Come get me, boy,” I sneered, circling my lower body slowly, in the most vulgar invitation I could send. “Come take me, if you can make your little spear stand up for anything but killing women and cats. Come take me, the way every beggar in Ithaca took your mother before you were born, you misbegotten bastard son of a whore.”

Even Melantho seemed horrified at my words. She stayed silent, having finally grasped what I was trying to do.

“I killed all the others,” he shrieked back. “My father killed most of the men himself, but he left the women to me.”

A horrible smile spread over his lips as he tossed back his shaggy hair and went on, “He told me to stab them, but what fun would that have been. They would have fought back if they had known what we planned. With ten of them and two of us some might have gotten away, and at least they would have scalded us with their buckets of hot water. But my father was too smart for them. He did not tell them they were going to die, he only commanded them to wash their lovers’ blood off the floor. Then we trapped them in a corner.

You should have heard them then. Some begged for mercy, some called on their lovers to wait for them, and one even cried that she was innocent. Another one even spat in my face! No matter, I made them all forget Aphrodite before they died.”

Forget Aphrodite? That made no sense to me. Could he really have been so far gone in madness that he was killing people because they preferred a different goddess to his own? I shook my head: There were things that sane people could not believe, and I needed all my sanity now. I had to stay calm, while making sure that he did not.

“They died like birds in a snare,” he went on, obviously relishing the memory, “except that birds don’t die with their tongues hanging out. And they didn’t kick as long as the kittens. They didn’t suffer enough to please me, but you will. I’ll make sure that the rope doesn’t kill you too quickly. Perhaps I’ll cut you down a few times and hang you up again. It should last long enough that way.”

Melantho shrieked in terror and seemed about to run farther into the sea.

“Not yet,” I whispered urgently, as I grasped her wrist to stop her. “Don’t move. Stay calm.”

Raising my voice as high as I could, I shouted, “It is Aphrodite who has forgotten you, with your tiny baby spear. Come up and have me first, if you can, little boy—or would you rather have me there?” Turning, I waggled my hind parts at him.

Melantho and I splashed on together until we were standing where the water would reach his horse’s neck. As I turned to face him again, I saw, with a sinking heart, that he was hesitating for a moment, having sensed the trap. Then rejoice, rejoice exceedingly! he drove his horse splashing after us into the brine. The first time the horse stumbled on a rock, my embroidery knife sawed through his bridle. Telemachus grabbed for the horse’s mane, but I desperately slashed at his hand.

“Now!” I shouted. She joined me in pulling his skinny body down from his horse’s back, which was slick with water. We fell across his head, holding it firmly under water, where the bronze armor became an anchor, pulling him down. I saw the look of horror on his face as I forced it beneath the salty waves that I knew must be burning his eyes. Even in my deadly danger, this was a very happy moment for me.

And I, Briseis, who had been every man’s dream of an adoring slave girl—my voice was no sweet whisper now. Instead, I was shrieking at my master’s son, “Die, die, you murdering bastard son of a whore, die!” At that moment it was all that I wanted, having forgotten my plan to save us. And in that moment, I knew Achilles’ battle rage and was one with him at last.

I was screaming in rage at all of them, the men who were supposed to care for us but could kill us if they chose. And, yes, I was screaming at Achilles, too, because he had chosen to die out of vanity, and leave me alone with them. Did the world still speak of the anger of Achilles? I thought. Very well, let it know the anger of Briseis now.

This man at least would die with me, I vowed, even if I had to die by my own hand in the next moment. In the same battle rage, I slashed the strap of his helmet to expose his neck. Then I pulled my knife into my left hand as my right hand expertly sought for his big neck-vein. As desperate as his struggles became, Melantho managed to keep his skinny body pinned beneath her plump one. Woe, woe to the merciless man. And woe to the fool whose vanity had led him into the trap that Prince Moses had invented.

Then I saw that an older man and woman, who were not fools, were racing after us, just as I had hoped

they would. For once, Odysseus did not lower his face to hide it or its naked terror.

“In the name of all the gods, Briseis, don’t kill him!” Odysseus pleaded.

“Why not?” I shouted back. “Give me one reason to spare your murdering bastard son.”

The insult actually struck at Penelope, but none of us cared at the time.

“You have taken an oath to do no harm,” he reminded me.

“I am doing none,” I said, as my fingers reached the vein. They probed firmly despite Telemachus’ desperate struggles, as the chief physician had taught them to do. Then my left hand laid the knife against the vein, as my right hand moved to grasp his hair.

“You need have no fear of death!” Odysseus cried desperately.

For a moment, but only a moment, I thought he had said the words I needed to hear. Then I remembered Chryseis’ warning that this was his favorite form of treachery. He would keep a vow to Athena, but only if there was no way out of it.”

“I have none,” I told him. “You can only send me to Achilles, where I want to be. But you will have to send me this way, fighting you to the end.”

“The blind bard!” he shouted, holding his hands up as though they could delay me, while yet another inspiration came to him. “I let him live, so he could tell my story as I wanted it told. You can write the ending of this song for us, and I promise that the ending will come true.”

A good answer, but, coming from this great trickster, it was not yet good enough. I could, indeed, write an ending that saved my life, but Odysseus could command the bard to add a further poem that would end it.

“Your bard will never be able to say that Achilles’ woman died like a bird in a snare,” I answered. “He will have to say that she died killing her enemies. And in any case, how long will the stories of a blind old bard be remembered?”

A war for love and a love for war,Cassandra had said.Fighting and fucking, the two things that most interest us all . But I could not worry now about how, or for how long, Odysseus or I or even Achilles would be remembered.

“Am I your enemy, Briseis?” Penelope’s desperate voice came to me. “Can’t you spare him for my sake?”

I almost lowered my knife for a moment. Then I said, “I only wish he were the son you deserve, mistress.”

“But he is!” she cried. “We have raised a race of feral children in this modern world, without their fathers, without honor or restraints—Orestes, Hermione, Telemachus, all of them who kill without thought. We are the ones to blame.”

And Neoptolemus, I thought. The son of Achilles, too.

“Perhaps you do deserve him, mistress,” Melantho asked her, in a voice that was suddenly as cold as mine. “Did you stand for the victims?”

“The menfolk waited until I was asleep before they killed my maids. I knew nothing about it,” she pleaded. “Otherwise I would have begged for your lives. I knew you all, remember. I gave you toys to play with.”

“You did not know me,” I reminded her. “Those merciless men would have killed me, too.”

“Not you!” Odysseus shouted. “Do you think I would let him punish the great Achilles’ woman like a common servant girl?”

“You killed Polyxena. ”

“She was not yet Achilles’ woman, and his son killed her, and let us not rake up the past!”

As always, he was splitting hairs. Hadn’t I played that game myself, to the very brink, when I had prayed for Achilles while staunchly refusing to pray against his enemies? Odysseus was close, so close, to saying the right words at last. But I had to drive him further before he would say them.

“Do you think that I care if you would let him kill me or not?” I shouted. “He will kill no more women, whoever they are.”

Then I realized that he had distracted me, so that my fingers had lost the vein. Telemachus was struggling desperately. At any moment, I knew, his head might come plunging out of the water, free. Quickly, I found the fatal spot again and placed my knife against it. His parents’ screams meant no more to me, at that moment, than the cries of a wounded man begging the physician to stop probing.

His lips emerged long enough to cry “Mercy!”

“I used to enjoy showing mercy, but not now!” The words came unbidden, because they had been Achilles’ words, as I was now Achilles and Achilles’ woman both.

“Briseis,” his father screamed as he held out both hands, a beggar now indeed. “I can give you what you want most of all.”

“What I want most of all, is to see the blood of your murdering bastard son spreading over the water.”

“No, it isn’t!” he cried.

My life and Melantho’s, I thought, gripping the blade even more tightly. He is ready to offer us our lives and swear to Athena to spare them.

He offered me even more.

“What you want most of all,” he told me, “is not my son dead, but your Achilles alive.”

Part IV: The White Island

Chapter Thirteen

Every few moments, Telemachus managed to pull his lips out of the water long enough to gasp for air. Melantho and I pushed him down again.

She had once been noted for her pretty black curls that won men’s hearts. Now they looked more like a nest of snakes, transforming her into Medusa, who turned men to stone.

And now she was screaming, “Don’t listen to Odysseus, he’s trying to trick you. Make him promise to spare our lives.”

I barely heard her. “Go on, Odysseus,” I said.

“You have heard how his father wanders around saying that Achilles is still alive with his own island to rule? Well, he’s right, except that it’s his mother’s island, not his own.”

Beneath my hand, I could still feel Telemachus thrashing under the water, but I barely remembered to hold him there.

“Do you remember how they told us that a wooden effigy was being burned in his place, because Thetis insisted on taking his body to her White Island for burial? She took him, right enough, but not to be buried. After she got Machaon to drug him senseless with that Ethiopian medicine, she sent everyone away and made Machaon cut her son’s leg off, after all. She told our chief physician that he could choose between having a great new healing temple and waiting for her assassin’s knife in his back. He was clever enough to believe her.”

“But you buried in him Troy,”I objected. “Some day someone will open his tomb, and then they will see that an effigy is buried there.”

“They will see that the tomb is empty,” he answered.

“Thetis, do something!” I had screamed, and she had, she had.

“She must be as ruthless as you are,” I mused. “Praise the gods.”

He bowed his shaggy head ironically, as though to thank me for the compliment. “Almost as ruthless, but not quite,” Odysseus answered. “She didn’t have the heart to keep the truth from his father. She knew that if he told anyone they would think he was mad. And they did. Not even you believed it.”

Wanting desperately to believe it now, I dared not do so yet.

“How did you find him?” I demanded.

“I traveled to many places trying to get home,” he said. “One place I went to was the White Island, hoping Thetis would help me. I saw him there. He isn’t what you remember, but he’s alive, all right. I will swear to tell you how to get to him, if you let my son go.”

“You will swear to send me to him in Hades, you mean?”

“I will swear to send you to him on the White Island, where he is still alive.”

“Swear it on your son’s life and your own,” I told him.

“I have already told you, you need have no fear of death.”

Again, I felt for the big vein in Telemachus’ neck and placed my knife against it.

“By all the gods and goddesses, woman! Achilles should have beaten you to death when he had the

chance! Very well. I swear it on my son’s life and my own. I pray that Athena may strike me dead and send Harpies to torture me forever if I break my vow, is that enough for you?”

“You swear to what, Odysseus?”

“By the gods, Athena has sent me one Harpy already. Very well, I swear that I will let you go, on a ship with directions to Achilles’ island, and he is welcome to you! ” His eyes grew crafty again as he said, “Won’t you leave Melantho with me in exchange?”

She shrieked in terror. I replied, “Is that what Achilles would do? Would I be worthy of him if I did it? Melantho is my Patrocles.”

He opened his mouth then closed it again, knowing that, to this, there was no argument.

“Oh, very well,” he said with a sigh, as though humoring a demanding child. “I swear by my life and my son’s life and my fear of Hades and my goddess Athena that I will send Melantho with you.”

“We will both be sent alive, well and unharmed.”

“You don’t trust me, Briseis? No, you need not answer that. Very well, I will send Melantho with you, and you will both be alive and unharmed. Is that enough for you?”

“And you will never afterwards try to kill or harm us. Do you swear that, too?”

“What do you think I am? No, don’t answer that, either. I swear it by Hera.”

I moved the knife closer to the fatal vein.” Try again.”

“I swear it by Athena.” And these, as Chryseis had told me, were the words I could trust.

The blade was starting to move from Telemachus’ throat when I saw that Odysseus still had one way out of his oath.

“Of course, you will also swear that you will never send anyone else to harm us or help anyone who does.”

“Are you sure that is all you can think of? Very well, I swear that, too, by Athena.”

I stood back from Telemachus, and Melantho reluctantly did the same. He splashed back to the shore gasping, sputtering and crying to his father for revenge.

“Let me kill them both!” He shouted. “I took no oath to spare them.”

“You are talking like a fool, boy,” his father answered. “That is Achilles’ woman. He can probably still take your head off, even with one leg gone. And if he doesn’t, Menelaus will. The fool should have married her when he had the chance.”

And thank Aphrodite he did not, I thought. And thank every god on Olympus for Thetis’ iron will and unconquerable selfishness. If she was not a goddess, she was close enough for me.

“Then let me have Melantho,” the boy whined.

Odysseus sighed, as though praying for patience. “Did you hear Briseis say that Melantho was her Patrocles?” he demanded. “Do you want Briseis to drag you behind the nearest chariot, or convince one of her gentlemen to do it for her? The list includes all of the wounded men whose lives she saved, plus all the others who fought for Achilles. In any case, I swore by Athena to spare them both. Briseis arranged the oath so well, I don’t see how I can get out of it.”

“I had plenty of time to think about it,” I called to them, “while I was trying to keep you from hanging me.”

Telemachus pretended to ignore me. “Will you admit that a woman is so much more clever than you are, father?”

“Boy,” Odysseus answered patiently, “whenever I am doing very well, it’s because I am being as clever as a woman. Why do you think I refused to let the suitors’ women stay alive to plot revenge against me? But I’m afraid that these two have escaped us. I was just clever enough to look at Briseis and see your death in her pretty blue eyes. Following only Helen and Cassandra—plus another lady named Circe, whom I met during my travels—Briseis is the most dangerous woman I have ever known.”

“But they are still only women!”

“How can I explain this so that even you will understand?” Odysseus asked, with a sigh. “Let me put it this way. In my travels, I heard about Eastern warriors who turn a man’s own strength against him. That’s what these women do, and no legendary Amazon was ever more dangerous.”

Looking anything but dangerous as we held up our sodden gowns, we two women splashed back to shore. He raised his voice for our benefit as he said, “They may stay in Melantho’s brother’s farmhouse until I can hire a ship. We will take them there and leave them. The house is empty now, and we’ve had enough of them at court.”

He had had enough of us? I had to smile at the sheer effrontery. Melantho was not amused.

“Do you think I would set foot in your palace again?” she flared. Then the importance of his words struck her. “Did you kill my brother, too?” she asked, her voice rising to a scream. “He was only a goatherd, what harm could he do to you?”

“Let us say that the house belongs to you now,” Odysseus replied. “He was serving the suitors.”

Shrieking with rage and grief, she sank to her knees, mindless of the jagged rocks beneath them. I kept my eyes steadily on Odysseus, still fearing some last trick. Instead, he said to me in his friendliest tone, “Just remember to give my regards to Achilles.”

“If you like,” I retorted, with a shrug. “But he never liked you.”

“I never thought he did,” he answered, with a thin smile. “But he might be wrong about that. When he asked me about his son, I said that Neoptolemus had become a great hero, too.”

“That may be the only kindly lie you ever told.”

Again, he bowed his head ironically.

“Did he ask about anything else?” Did he ask about me, I meant. And Odysseus’ sly smile told me that he knew it.

“He asked if he is still famous.” It was my turn to smile at that. It told me that my Achilles had not changed so much, after all. “And I told him that he would be famous in lands that we had never seen. But you, he never mentioned. Do you still assume that he will want to see you, Briseis?”

“Of course.”

“By all the gods, you are as arrogant as he. You deserve each other.”

Then, knowing that his wife would not understand, Odysseus added, “Still, I wish that I could have worn the armor of Achilles.”

In an equally innocent tone, I answered, “Before I allowed that, I would have thrown it off a cliff.”

For a frightening moment, his rage flared in his eyes. Then he was the simple man again. “But you owe me much of your happiness,” he objected, with a deceptively friendly smile. “When Achilles said that you were all he wanted from the spoils of Lyrnessos, it made Agamemnon wonder if you were worth as much to him. Fortunately for you, I knew that its ruler, your husband, had spent eight years with you but had no

children to show for it. That meant Achilles could screw his brains out, the few he had, without producing a new king of kings. When I told Agamemnon that, he was happy to agree that Achilles could have you. Polyxena was another question: an undiscovered territory, as it were. And of course none of that applies to our Melantho here, because who cares about some slut of a housemaid and her bastards?”

As Melantho’s lips parted in fury, I grasped her arm to silence her.

“He has sworn to spare us for the things we did before he pardoned us,” I warned her. “Don’t give him a chance to say that we earned new punishments afterwards. That’s the chance he’s looking for.”

She parted her lips again, more calmly this time, no doubt looking for some conciliatory remark to make.

“Melantho, say nothing!” I warned her. “He can twist any words you say. If you merely call him master, he will claim the right to punish you as a slave. But not even he can punish you for your silence.”

He bowed his head with that, in real admiration. “Haven’t I always said that women were at least as clever as we are?”

“So you will let them get away?” Telemachus howled.

“Boy,” his father told him, struggling for patience again. “Let me try to explain this again. The name of Briseis means ‘she who prevails.’ She just did. Now go get back on your horse before he runs away, most likely to avoid the shame of carrying a fool like you.”

Chapter Fourteen

That night, I kept watch sitting beside the door while Melantho slept on the straw pallet. We both feared that Odysseus would think of one more trick to play. I was glad I had done so when she woke up screaming, with the dreams that I did not yet have to share.

But for once, Odysseus was as good as his word. For one thing, he had more pressing problems than Melantho and me. The suitors’ outraged families were moving against him, so quickly that he had to leave their bodies unburied in that house he had tried to purify. Now he would have to face armed opponents with no tricks to save him.

We were mildly curious about the outcome, but not curious enough to keep us from boarding the ship when it arrived four days later. By that time, I had traded one of my gold earrings to replace our ruined gowns.

It would, I admit, have been more suitable to have the merchants come to our house, as they usually did for ladies with this much gold to spend. Now I wanted to be among decent people, though, and surrounded by pretty things, even if they were displayed for peasants on rough wooden shelves. Among them, I was happy to find a pale blue gown and silver headband, to remind Achilles of the first gifts he had given me. The silver headband had no pearls and the gown was only linen, but they were the best I could find in that small town. Above all, I felt the need for Iphis’ services, so I looked for the cosmetics that were closest to the ones she had chosen for me.

Melantho naturally used up the first gold chain I gave her within her first half hour in her first shop. I gave her another, knowing that I owed her my life as surely as she owed me her own, and also feeling glad to see her old high spirits returning.

As I searched the shelves for the shade of pink face paint that Iphis had used, the shopkeeper asked me, “Have you heard, mistress, that our true king has returned?”

“I can’t imagine,” I replied, “what you did to deserve him.” The other shoppers nodded solemnly. Only Melantho heard my ironic tone and could not keep from smiling, however feebly, as she searched for the brightest shade of red.

We also heard a fellow shopper say something that made us more cheerful.

“Poor things,” she told the shopkeeper. “Those girls did not deserve to die that way.”

“They were disloyal to our king,” she replied, without much real conviction.

“And what could they have done to him?” the shopper demanded, her fists on her hips. “It wasn’t right to kill them. The bard who came here to sing us the story called them poor things, too.”

So not even Odysseus could rule the bards completely. Despite him, they had stood for the victims. Their story would not be forgotten. The thought was comforting. And so, for Melantho, was the fact that the bard had not listed her among the dead.

“I owe that to you, Briseis,” she told me. “You saved my life.”

“Perhaps not,” I replied. “You might have gotten out anyway, because you knew enough to be so frightened.”

***

Even now, we were both still frightened enough to get clear out of Ithaca, as quickly as we could.

At the cost of one of my gold bracelets, the ship captain was glad to detour towards Sparta. Melantho departed, with a message in my handwriting, telling Menelaus what had happened and commending my friend to his care. Odysseus had, as I told him, dismissed her from his service because he disliked her sweetheart, which was certainly true enough. I also asked her to find my friend Iphis and assure her that her Moses was just as great a prophet as Tiresias. And, as I hinted to Melantho, Menelaus would no doubt earn any gratitude that she cared to show him.

Two of my gold chains hired two sturdy war veterans to guard her, in case Odysseus had any tricks left. It was well worth the price, and not only because she had stood beside me against Telemachus. I did not want Achilles to see her next to me, with her cherry cheeks, her merry jokes, her high spirits, which were quickly returning, and her youth, which no cosmetics could restore to me.

There was no sense worrying about that, as I knew too well. His mother must have provided him with abundant young girls by now and perhaps even a royal bride.

As terrible as that thought was, I still had to face it squarely. All I could really hope for was a chance to see him again and know he was alive, before I retreated to Sparta.

The more I thought of it, the more tempting that prospect seemed. I could return to the kind and generous man who loved me, rather than throwing myself at the selfish boy who had not even cared enough to let me know he was alive. But to see him again, even for a moment—that was, indeed, as Odysseus had told me, what I wanted most of all.

***

So the captain left me on the White Island. As the sails grew smaller in the distance, I realized with a sinking heart that he had left me there alone. I did not even know if there were any inhabitants here. Could this be another one of Odysseus’ tricks? I wondered. Had he left me stranded here, as he had been stranded so often during his long voyage? Was it his idea of revenge?

It seemed all too likely. Beyond the blue sea that glittered beneath the bright yellow sun, I could see only stones and grass, the usual Argive landscape, where only goats could thrive. There was no turning back now, so I hitched my skirts under my belt and started trudging inland.

Beyond the rocks, I finally saw a waving patch of white. It resolved itself, as I approached, into the well-tended field of white lilies that had given the island its name. Looking at them, I knew that this would indeed be the garden I had dreamed about, if only Achilles were there. The flowers were a reassuring sight, because clearly they belonged to someone with plenty of time and money to tend them. Someone like Achilles’ mother.

A stone path led through the lily field. I stumbled over it as quickly as I could, sure that it led to the owner’s house. My feet slowed as I approached the yellow stone wall surrounding the courtyard and saw the house rising beyond it. Did I really have any idea who lived there? I demanded of myself. Then I shrugged: What did it matter, when that house held the chance of seeing Achilles again. In any case, I had no place else to go.

The door creaked open as I lifted my hand to knock. Behind the doorkeeper, Thetis stood in the courtyard, wearing the scent of the lilies from her own garden.

“Briseis, my dear,” she said, in her harsh voice, holding out her arms to me. I stood where I was, staring down at her, until she dropped them to her sides. How odd, I thought, that I had never realized how small she was, next to me.

“Odysseus told me he was alive here. Is that true?” I demanded. Once again, there was no need to explain who 'he' was.

“Yes,” she answered, steadily meeting my eyes. “I knew you would find him and come here some day. It’s what I would have done.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I demanded, trying to keep my voice just as steady as hers.

“You can’t imagine what he was like when I brought him here, or you wouldn’t ask” she answered, with some resentment. “I had to keep him tied to his bed and drugged half unconscious until he promised not to kill himself. Even then, I kept enough guards nearby to stop him if he tried. And even with the guards there, I was the only one who dared go close enough to bring him food. And he told me that he did not care what he had sworn before: If you ever came here and saw him as he is now, he would find a way to kill himself.”

“The way he is now?” I demanded. “What could he ever be to me but the great Achilles, my lord?”

She nodded, satisfied with my answer, and gestured to the servant to open the door to the house. The great hall was painted with armed soldiers, larger than even Achilles had been. My eyes filled with tears, thinking of him surrounded by these torturing memories.

Having cared for wounded men, I knew the sound of a man on a crutch. As I heard that sound now, I wheeled toward the stairway, bracing myself for what I would see when he reached the great hall.

At first, I saw a stranger with a red, cracked, bloated face, who squinted at me suspiciously out of bleary blue eyes. They revealed years of drinking, as clearly as his odor of wine. Who is this old serving man, I wondered, and why is Thetis keeping him here in this sodden state? As she went to stand between us, I raised both hands to stifle my gasp of horror, realizing who he was.

Ten women had died for their worship of Aphrodite, and I had tried to stand for them. Perhaps now they stood before our goddess in turn, begging her to show her mercy and power to me. If so, she heeded their pleas. My hands dropped to my sides as I gazed into that drunkard’s ruined face and saw the great Achilles behind it.

But he had seen my horror, and it had filled him with anger and shame.” So, Briseis,” he said. “You have found me after all. Did Odysseus betray me?”

“He had to tell me where you were,” I answered shortly. “It was the only way to keep me from killing his son.”

The blue eyes came to life as they widened in amazement. “You got the better of Odysseus? How I would have loved to see that!”

“He was going to kill me,” I explained. “So I used Telemachus to bargain with him for my life.”

That brought a laugh of real amusement. With it, more of Achilles returned from behind that ravaged face.

“He should have known better,” he told me. “I always knew that the gods would have to help the man who crossed you, my flower with the iron stem.”

Hearing those words again, I found myself racing towards him. My heart fell when he pulled away.

Turning on his mother, he said coldly, “I told you I would kill myself if she ever saw me as I am now.”

“But she does not see you as you are now,” his mother answered reasonably. “She sees only the great Achilles.”

“You argue as she and Odysseus do,” he grumbled. “But I still want her to go.”

“Well, dear,” his mother retorted, “We might all be tired of hearing what you want. What about what Briseis wants? She has come far enough to ask for it.”

“Does she want to see my leg now, or the place where it used to be?” he demanded. “Then, look.” And he lifted his long robe.

My heart turned over with pity for him as I looked at the smooth round stump. To keep him from seeing my feelings in my eyes, I quickly turned towards Thetis.

“You have cared for it well,” I told her, trying for the same calm tone that Hecamede would have used. “I see no redness here.” Turning back towards him, I added, “Do you forget that I was trained to help the physicians? Do you think this is the worst I have seen?”

“You have seen it, and you can go,” he told me, letting the robe fall again. “I do not want you here.”

Thetis jumped back as I strode towards him. She had no need to do so. I could have easily squeezed past her, as I would have done before. Now I was amazing us all at the sheer amount of space I was taking up in the bright spacious room. They both watched me closely, wondering what I was about to do.

They did not have to wait for long. I reached back and slapped him across the face with all my strength. He almost fell then but, instead, he steadied himself on his crutch and struck me so hard that I fell to the floor. His mother rushed to steady him as I struggled back to my feet.

“Oh, so you do not want me!” I cried, ignoring my stinging cheek. “Do you think I wanted to live for ten long years of mourning for you? How could you have done that to me? And if you did not care about me, how could you do that to your father, with the world thinking he was mad?”

“It was enough for him to know that I still lived,” Achilles replied uncomfortably.

“But Polyxena is dead, murdered on your funeral pyre, to avenge your death that you made us all believe in!” I cried, in growing rage.

“We learned too late to stop it,” Thetis quickly put in, shaking her silver-and-gold curls for emphasis, as she helped me to my feet. “And we agree that that was a dreadful, dreadful thing. It was all Odysseus’ fault, of course, no one can blame Achilles or his son, but it can only blacken Achilles’ name.”

It also ended Polyxena’s life, I thought in outrage. That was, for Thetis, a minor complication. Did these people never think about anything but themselves? I remembered how Lykaon begged for his life and Achilles tried to console him by talking about himself and the fact that even he must die. There was something almost sublime in so much self-absorption. In its way, it was comforting. There could be no shame in being bound to a family that thought the entire world existed to serve them and, what’s more, to be grateful for the chance to do so. Perhaps they had earned our gratitude, for the way they lit up our world. And, in coming here, without caring what Achilles wanted, was I not proving to be as selfish as they?

I would have been grateful for the chance to serve them now, but it seemed I would not have it.

“I don’t want you to stay here pitying me,” he repeated stubbornly.

“Why should she do that?” his mother asked cheerfully. “You do a good enough job of pitying yourself. It’s about all you do all day, besides drinking wine.”

He gazed at her in amazement. He had obviously never heard such words before, but now, he knew, Thetis had support in saying them, from the other woman who loved him.

“That is hardly all I do,” he retorted. “Don’t you remember how you let your dear old friend Medea come to visit you? I entertained her, too.”

“Medea?” I gasped. “You mean,that Medea?”

“That Medea. We famous people are naturally fond of each other. And of course, she is too old to have any children of mine whom she could kill for revenge. So you have no need to pity me.”

“And why should I pity you, when you had no pity for me or anyone else?” I chimed in, while wondering how lonely, sad and bored he must have been, to comfort himself with Medea. “But you need not pity me either. I have learned to live without you, and I can do it again if I must.”

Trying in vain to fight back the tears, I wound up angrily brushing them off my cheeks. He obviously saw them.

“I still have pain in the leg that is gone,” he said, as close to apology as he would ever come. “But that is far from being the worst thing. The worst, is knowing that nothing I do matters any more, when I used to matter so much. I feel that I’ve fallen off the edge of the world. I told Odysseus I would rather plough a field than live this way.”

Tears stung my eyes at his words, but Thetis had obviously heard them too often before.

“Of course, he never ploughed a field in his life, ” she put in. I ignored her.

“You matter to me,” I cried. “You matter to Thetis. You matter to the world.”

For an instant, I saw that faint smile again. “You reflected my glory,” he said. “But I no longer have any to reflect. I would not have you here to reflect my shame.”

It was over, then, and I was defeated. My shoulders sagged as I asked him, “Can you arrange a ship to take me back to Sparta?”

“Whenever you like,” he said. “You called me away from a good flask of wine. I would like to go back to it now.”

With a last desperate hope, I said, “And I am going back to King Menelaus, who has said he would make me his second wife.” I was remembering Achilles’ famous rage when Menelaus’ brother took me from him. Now I hoped to arouse it again.

“I entrusted you to Menelaus,” he said with a shrug. “I knew he would care for you. He is a generous man.”

“He can afford to be. He is richer than Zeus,” I shouted. “And he has good reason to be generous with me. I have borne his son, the next King of Sparta!” And, I thought, Menelaus looks a lot better than you do now, because you look older than old Mynes, who bought me in marriage so many years ago.

Thinking of Menelaus, I could see myself happily sitting on his left side, across from Helen. Both Helen and I would be dripping with jewels: He was, as we all knew, richer than Zeus and twice as generous. More generous, I realized, than Achilles would ever be.

“And Iphis is now Helen’s favorite handmaid, and Diomede married a royal guardsman, and it was kind of you to ask about them,” I went on.

“I am glad to hear it,” Achilles answered. His voice told me that he really was glad to hear it, even though he would not have thought of asking about them.

Menelaus would have asked about such faithful servants, I knew. He had only one flaw that I could think of. He was not Achilles, and did not light up the world.

But there was no sense thinking about that now. Rather than jealousy, I saw only admiration in Achilles’ eyes.

“Well then, you have done well for yourself,” he said. “It shows that Menelaus is not a complete fool, after all. I am glad to hear it. So you’ll go back to your good king and your royal prince as soon as I can arrange it. They still matter in the world, and I really do not want you in mine. Or do you think that I am sacrificing my own desires for your benefit?”

“I would not insult you that way, my lord. If you say you do not want me, it is true. And if you really do not want me here, then I must go.” And I could no longer hold back my tears.

We had said all there was to say.

Thetis, however, had not.

“There is something that she must see first,” She said. He moved to block her but she brushed past him, took my wrist and led me up the stairs.

“No!” he shouted, hobbling up as quickly as he could in his effort to stop her. She moved too quickly for him. As she pushed open the door to his bedroom, I saw a mural showing a woman fastening a warrior’s sword to his back. The caption described the painted couple: 'Briseis arming Achilles.' Another painting stood on the side wall, depicting a woman pouring out a libation beneath a warrior’s watchful eye. Even without reading the caption I knew who they were: 'Briseis praying for Achilles.' The third wall showed a more crowded scene: 'Briseis being returned to Achilles.'

He had remembered us so long and so well, and he had never ceased to love me. His pain must have been as great as mine during all those years. My eyes filled with tears again at the thought.

“You have loved me for so long?” I asked in a shaking voice. “And was I ever really that beautiful?”

“The artists could not capture it,” he said, behind me. “They could not capture your beauty now. You have not changed as I have.”

“Do you think you could ever be anything else but beautiful to me?” I demanded as I raced to throw my arms around him.

His chest was hard beneath my cheek, a stone wall holding me away. It did not curve inward to let his arms enfold me, the way they had done so often before. This truly is the end, then, I thought, in the unending instant before his right arm closed around me.

“But I gave you to Menelaus,” he said, even as he embraced me.

“Actually, you did not, my lord,” I retorted, as I returned his embrace. “You merely asked him to care for me. I am still your captive, as I was when you promised to make me your wife.”

“Then do you wish to be my slave girl again? No one else has lasted in the position for more than a month or so.” With a faint smile, he added, “For one thing, they would all have prayed to the Titans to

cover the world with ice again, if I had ordered them to do it. I would not have had to bruise their backsides to make them.”

“Helen herself would be proud to be your slave girl,” I told him once again. Only this time, he did not call them ugly words. No more did I: Being his slave girl was more happiness than I had dared to expect for more than ten long years.

“But I promised to marry you,” he pointed out. “So, girl, I suppose I must keep my promise. Otherwise, you might change your mind out of sheer stubbornness and refuse to stay unless I do it. You really are stubborn, you know.”

“It is a fault, my lord,” I agreed, looking down. “I admit it.”

So, friends, he married me. The ceremony was rather a makeshift affair. Thetis had to press a handful of grapes into service to take the place of the absent pomegranate. As I ate the grapes I took from his hand, I realized that at that moment I could have ended my life happily. I also realized that he was scented with fennel again, not wine.

In my gratitude, I told Thetis that her former husband, Achilles’ father, called her a goddess. She replied that she would at least consider inviting him to see Achilles and even to live with her again.

“I might even tell him that we will be a god and goddess together,” she said with a smile. I smiled happily for both of them in reply. Then my smile faded.

“But he may bring bad news about Neoptolemus,” I warned her.

“Well, I never knew my grandson,” she answered, with a shrug. “And from what I heard, he does not bring any honor to Achilles’ name. It seems you really can’t breed heroes, after all.”

I almost shuddered at her ruthlessness, but remembered it had saved her son.

But once a hero, like Achilles, had been born, he was a hero forever, no matter what life did to him.

If my life had ended as she married us, I would have been satisfied. But then, I would have missed the night that followed.

As befits a wedding night, he did something to me that he had never done before. After he had pushed my gown to my waist, he lifted my knees and pushed them apart so he could caress my secret place with his tongue.

I gasped with amazement at the tidal wave of pleasure that washed over me. Then I was writhing and moaning even more violently than I ever had before, as his new assault ravaged all my senses. I learned forward with my own mouth open, eager to repay my debt, but he pushed me back gently again. He plunged his spear, it seemed, into my very depths, then pulled it out and pushed it back even more deeply than before.

“But tomorrow, I will return the favor,” I assured him, as I lay back beside him, completely content.

“Why wait so long?” he responded, leaning up on one arm to gaze down at me. His hand guided mine to his spear, showing me that it was ready for service again. And I served him by spreading my lips around it, pulling them back and forth almost as far as he had pulled and thrust his spear.

Just as I was falling asleep, he woke me by asking, “Is it different for a wife than a captive?”

That took so much thought, I came fully awake again before I answered, "It is the best of all for me, because I am both at once.”

So, friends, now you know the part of my story that the bards never learned. Why should I care what they say, though, when I, Briseis, live here on the White Island with Achilles, as bride and captive to my lord and master, master and lord?

The End

About The Author

Living in Northern Virginia, Jackie Rose indulges her passion for history by touring restored colonial homes. A resulting newspaper story on historical re-enactors led to a Virginia Press Association first prize. This was the first of five VPA prizes she earned during her ten years of feature writing for the Connection and Times Community Newspapers.

Her husband David shares her love for history, cruising, Walt Disney World and their son Frank. He is less enthusiastic about her other hobbies: working out with Jazzercise and buying the latest Vera Bradley pattern handbags.

Jackie is especially proud of her volunteer efforts to help our Armed Forces by working at Fort Belvoir

with the American Red Cross.