Warrior’s Prize

Nine days the god’s arrows fell on the camp, and on

the tenth day Achilles summoned all to a conference.

Iliad, Homer, Book I

(Rouse’s translation)

Helike, silent and withdrawn, ate nothing at supper that night and went at once to lie on her pallet. Diomede sat at her side, one hand on Helike’s brow, the other clasping her wrist. A while later, Diomede came to where I sat with the other women. Her face was rigid, pale. “Helike seems ill,” she whispered.

We gathered at Helike’s side. Her eyes looked up at us, filled with terror. But she said, “I’m so tired. All I need is rest.”

I reached out to touch her brow. The heat of her skin filled me with a ghastly certainty. She would die through my fault, just as surely as if I had plunged a knife in her heart. And others would follow. As I withdrew my hand, letting it fall to my side, I whispered, too low for Helike to hear, “She’s burning with fever.”

Diomede sat motionless. No one spoke. Then Iphis asked, “Should we fetch Achilleus?”

Diomede shook her head. “He said there was nothing we could do. He would just order us to stay away from her.”

“We can make her more comfortable. Bring water,” I urged. “We’ll sponge her down.”

Iphis and Kallianassa went off into the darkness. Diomede and I tore a clean cloth into rags to use as compresses. When the others returned, we worked over her frantically, pressing dampened cloths against her face and body. Her fever burned through the wet rags. Sores broke out on her skin. She soiled herself, and we cleaned her and changed her bedding. When the cloths were used up, we tore up gowns. We fetched buckets of water from the sea. All our efforts brought her no relief. She twisted from side to side, crying out in a voice I didn’t recognize. At last she fell into a torpor, beyond our reach. The other women went to sleep, but Diomede and I stayed by her side holding her hands. Her breathing was fast and shallow. At times she muttered incoherently. Then she sank into a silence, a great depth. Just after dawn, her eyes took on a glazed stillness, as if a fly could light on them and not cause her to blink. I touched her brow, but she was far away, beyond our help. Don’t leave us! I begged her silently.

A deep, rolling rattle came from her chest. The tortured body lay still. Diomede cried out and began to sob.

I stared at Helike’s face. I had barely known her, and now she was gone, taking all the stories and secrets of her life. “Who was she?”

I didn’t realize I had spoken aloud, but Diomede answered in a muffled voice, “She was my dearest friend.”

The poor, unseeing eyes were open. I closed them and pulled the cover over her face. I put my arms around Diomede. Her body was limp. Her head buried itself against my shoulder. I stroked her hair. “Rest now, sleep,” I said. “There is nothing you can do.” I led her unresisting to her own bed and tucked her in as if she were a child.

Then I went into the men’s hut. Achilleus was kneeling by the hearth trying to coax a fire from last night’s embers. There were harsh lines about his mouth, and his face was pale, as if he too had spent a sleepless night. He looked up, questions flickering in his eyes. “Helike’s dead,” I told him. As I spoke the words, all my strength and resolution ebbed, and I began to cry.

He got swiftly to his feet. His hand on my elbow propelled me blind and stumbling into the women’s quarters. “Never mind your tears. Quick! We must get the corpse out of here.”

I cringed at the word, but he was right—we must stop the contagion from spreading, though it tore my heart when he lifted her as unceremoniously as a piece of refuse. “Come with me.” His voice was rough. “Bring her bedding, her clothes. We’ll burn them too.”

I nodded. Everything she touched must go. Numbly I obeyed and followed him to a pyre piled high with wood, awaiting the day’s victims. Already a Myrmidon warrior lay there. Achilleus froze when he saw him. “Erymas!” he said. “That makes thirty-six of my men.” In the fierce glitter of his eyes there might have been tears. He laid Helike down. As he straightened, his hands closed into fists. His face was without softness when he turned to me. “Come.”

We went back to the women’s hut, and from then on there was no rest, not even for poor Diomede. He flung open the door and windows, and ordered us to sweep the hut and scrub the walls and floor with seawater. “Everything belonging to Helike must go on the pyre. Also Diomede’s bedding, which was next to hers. Also your own clothes. Then go bathe in the sea.”

I knew we must do this to be spared contagion, but Aglaia demanded coyly, as if this were some sort of game, “All our clothes?”

“Don’t question. Do it!”

I shot her a look that she ignored. She cocked her head saucily at him. “We won’t have anything to wear, my lord.”

“Zeus the Thunderer! Do you think I care?” Then he relented. “In the storage hut there’s a chest with extra gowns. Wear those. There must be nothing left around that Helike touched or wore,” he told her. “Then perhaps the god’s arrows will not strike this hut again.”

It was many hours before we were done. The day was hot, the air heavy, smoky. As we toiled, sweating, our backs aching, our eyes stinging, I had little chance to think about Helike. I only prayed we had taken actions swiftly enough to avoid becoming ill. But Diomede went about her work listlessly and hardly spoke. She did not eat all day. I was so worried about her that after the evening meal I went uninvited into the men’s hut again.

Achilleus was seated before the hearth. Patroklos, cross-legged on his bed, was polishing some armor. Achilleus looked up. “What do you want?”

“It’s Diomede. She’s wasting with grief. I’m afraid she’ll lose strength and the god will strike her down.”

He nodded. “You can fix her a posset.”

In the corner where the stores of food were kept, he directed me in its preparation and watched as I grated goat’s cheese into barley water, adding herbs. But although his eyes rested on me I sensed he did not see me. He was brooding, distant, his brow furrowed. At last he turned away and went to his seat in front of the fire. As I brought the posset to the hearth, I passed close enough to breathe in the warm, smoky scent of his body. It distracted me for a moment, but when I held the cooking vessel over the heat, my head filled suddenly with the vision of Helike’s shuddering, twitching body. Tears blurred my sight. As I brought one hand up furtively to wipe my cheeks, Achilleus’s eyes focused on me.

“Why do you weep?” He spoke with impersonal gentleness, as if to a crying child or a frightened horse. “You can do nothing, Briseis, until the god has worked out his will.” I flinched, hoping he would never learn that I was to blame. He got to his feet and came to where I crouched. He reached out and grazed my forehead with his knuckles, testing my skin for fever. “Are you well?” he asked. The furrow at the inner edge of his brow deepened. “Perhaps you should fix a posset for yourself—and for the others.”

Then he turned his back and began to pace the hut. I was forgotten. Patroklos looked up anxiously. The silence was broken only by occasional clicks and clatters as I stirred more ingredients into the cooking vessel, and the sound of Achilleus’s bare feet on the wood floor.

At last he spoke. “Why is Apollo angry? There is some treachery or blasphemy afoot, and I intend to find out what it is.”

Treachery. I felt a clutch of fear. “How?” Patroklos asked.

Achilleus stopped in front of the fire, narrow-eyed. “I’ll consult the seer, Kalchas. I’ll get him to speak up.” He resumed his pacing. “I’ve an idea already what the trouble may be. Agamemnon is behind this, take my word for it.”

I let out a shaky breath. So he thought it was Agamemnon! But when he probed for an answer from this Kalchas, he would learn that the treachery was mine.

“Careful, my friend,” Patroklos murmured. “Remember, Agamemnon has a grudge against you going back nine years. Remember his daughter—”

Achilleus paused before the hearth and stared into the flames. “Iphigenia!” he said softly. His voice caressed the name. I felt a shock of jealously. “How could I ever forget? That poor, brave girl! I did nothing for her. I could not even save her.”

What was she to you? I wondered. And what did you try to save her from?

“Still, you tried, and Agamemnon has never forgiven you for opposing him,” Patroklos insisted. “Don’t speak out against him now.”

Achilleus swung around. “Oh, I have no intention of accusing him myself. But Kalchas will find a way to bring it to light before all the men.” Slowly he sank into his chair before the hearth and leaned forward, chin resting on his hand. The reflected flames danced across his brooding face.

What would he do when the seer revealed that I was the real culprit? All at once I knew I had to tell him. Now, tonight. I must spare him the humiliation of learning it before all the chieftains. Then perhaps he himself could find a way to appease the god. If I could get him to listen, many lives might be spared.

A cold, heavy lump settled around my heart. Telling him would destroy the tenuous new love between us. He would never forgive me. And who could blame him?

But I had no choice.

I lifted the vessel from the flames and set it on the hearthstone. At the same moment, Achilleus straightened in his chair, as if he too had reached a decision. His shoulders squared, and a smile touched his mouth. “I’ll call all the chieftains to assembly. And I’ll say—”

“No!” Patroklos interrupted sharply. “Not you. Why should you convene the assembly? Leave it to Odysseus or Nestor or one of the other chiefs.” He went to Achilleus, laying a hand on his shoulder. But Achilleus shook it off impatiently.

“The other chiefs are too laggard. My men are dying! I won’t wait. I’ll summon them myself—tonight. If I go around to all the camps now, we can meet early in the morning.”

“Don’t do it!” Patroklos snapped. I had never heard him speak so to Achilleus before. He senses danger, I thought. But Achilleus was already at the door, one hand on the latch, a hard, reckless smile on his face. A challenging smile. Patroklos changed his tone. “Don’t do this, my friend,” he pleaded. “At least wait until tomorrow. If you challenge Agamemnon—”

“Agamemnon!” As if the name had filled his mouth with gall, Achilleus spat.

Now was the moment, whether I was ready for it or not. “Achilleus, wait! Please stay.” My voice came out cracked and thin, out of place in this argument between them. Patroklos turned in surprise, and Achilleus went still, as if they had both forgotten I was there. “Perhaps there’s no need to call an assembly. You see, perhaps I— I—” I faltered. My throat was tight and painful. “Perhaps I am to blame for this.”

“You?” Achilleus stared in astonishment. His hand fell from the latch. He took quick steps toward me. Patroklos backed away and sat on his bed, watching. “How?” Achilleus demanded.

I tried to rise, but my legs were trembling too much. “I prayed to Apollo.”

“When?” The question came like a lash.

“A while ago,” I muttered, not meeting his eyes. “When I felt—differently.”

I ventured a look at him. He stood before me unmoving, and I could not read his face. “What did you pray?” he demanded. “Did you make an offering?”

Under the force of his gaze I could only bring myself to answer the second question. “Just a few barley grains. And—” I fell silent. At my evasion his eyes blazed. He swung away to the hearth, picked up a stick, and stirred the glowing coals furiously, then stood staring off into space. After a moment he asked, “Then what?”

“I looked up and saw the ship with the painted sail. Apollo’s ship.”

A huge breath escaped him. A release of tension. “That ship!” He smiled, but it was a bitter smile. “What makes you think this plague has anything to do with you?”

“Some days later—that night with you—I had a vision—of Apollo shooting his arrows.”

He shot me a look. “I remember!” His tone gave nothing away.

“It frightened me.” I lowered my eyes. “I thought it had to do with my prayer.”

He was silent for a long time. At last he shook his head. “This has nothing to do with you, Briseis. You think this plague is Apollo’s answer to your prayer? That for a few words of yours, a handful of barley grains, he would kill off half the army? Nay, my foolish one, he wouldn’t listen to a mere woman!” He laughed shortly. “Apollo is a man’s god. This is something else. He is angry.” He turned away, still holding the twig from the hearth, and resumed his pacing. “That’s why I must go now to call for an assembly,” he said, as if to himself. “And tomorrow Kalchas must speak up.”

I sank down limply, with a relief so enormous I was faint. Surely he was right, and my prayer too small and insignificant to be worthy of the mighty god’s notice. Just when I’d begun to hope Achilleus would question me no further, he leaned over me, a hard glitter in his eyes, and I felt the grip of his hand under my chin, turning my face up to his. He said with deceptive, dangerous softness, “But you never told me, Briseis. What did you pray?”

My stomach dropped sickeningly. I considered lying but knew I could not. “I—I prayed that you would be made to give me up.”

He let go of my chin and went still. His eyes never left mine. His knuckles whitened, and the stick he was holding suddenly snapped in two.

I fumbled for words. “That was before—I didn’t mean—”

He cut me off. “Why?”

“Because you had said—” I began, stumbling. “You said I’d only ever be your slave.”

“I did say that,” he conceded. He walked a few paces away. His back was to me when he said, “So you want to be taken from me.”

“Nay, Achilleus, that was before—when you led me to believe I meant nothing to you. But now—” I broke off, and added in a whisper, “You know how I feel about you.”

“Do I?” He cast me a glance over his shoulder but kept his back turned. Then he said in an oddly flat tone, “The only way you could be taken from me is if I were somehow humiliated in front of the whole army. Or dead. That is what you prayed for, Briseis.”

I gasped, horrified. “I didn’t wish you harm!” He was silent. “I tried to unsay my prayer.” My voice broke. “Why won’t you believe me? Achilleus, look at me!” I sprang up, took his arms and turned him to face me. I dropped to my knees. “Please forgive me!” My eyes were full of furious tears, and without meaning to, I said it too fiercely. He will never take me back, I thought. “All I want is to be with you. Can you let the past be in the past?”

“Stand up, you silly girl!” He pulled me to my feet. “Don’t you see I have important matters on my mind just now? I’ll deal with you later, after all this is settled.”

Tears rained down my face. I said again, “Achilleus, I beg you!”

His eyes softened, and he said, “Maybe I can be merciful. Briseis, all you are is trouble to me!” But he said it teasingly. He gave a small twitch of a grin and gently mussed my hair. My scalp warmed from the touch of his fingers. I let out my breath, feeling a wild hope. Did this mean I was forgiven? Oh, please gods! I thought.

“Now go to bed, in your own quarters, and don’t wait up for me. I’ll be back quite late.”

Abruptly, he straightened, all business again, and I could tell I was gone from his mind as if I had never been there. He grabbed his mantle, glanced at Patroklos, and once more was at the door, his hand on the latch.

“Achilleus, don’t go!” The other man’s voice, sharp and urgent, came from the corner.

A rectangle of black night appeared as the door swung open, sending in a whiff of sea air. Patroklos sprang out of the shadows, but the door slammed shut and Achilleus was gone.