Warrior’s Prize

“You will eat your heart out,

raging with remorse for this dishonor

done by you to the bravest of the Akhaians.”

—Achilleus, Iliad, Homer, Book I

(Fitzgerald’s translation)

My first thought at daybreak was to wonder how matters stood with Achilleus. I couldn’t ask him, because the assembly that would take place today absorbed his whole being. But if I took the morning bread to the men, I might know by the look in his eyes.

The assembly worried me. Why had Patroklos tried so urgently to stop him from convening it? I arose before the other women, took an empty hydria and headed for the spring.

When I returned, Diomede had started the fire in our courtyard and was rolling out the flat cakes of barley bread. I joined her and watched her covertly as we worked. In the cold morning light, her face was pale and etched with sharp lines, showing the old woman she would become. The slow movements of her hands betrayed her sorrow. I would have done anything to lessen her pain. I debated telling her about Achilleus’s action last night and Patroklos’s fears, but I sensed that the men’s concerns were far from her mind. When we finished putting the bread on the hearth, I took her hands and pressed them in a silent offer of comfort.

While the bread was baking, I fretted. It was taking forever, and I had to see Achilleus before he left. When at last the cakes turned brown and the smell of cooked bread filled our nostrils, I scooped a handful into a basket, picked up the jug of fresh goat’s milk, and headed for the men’s hut. With a hand that shook, I opened the door.

Silence. Emptiness. They had gone.

Stopping only to set down the bread and the jug, I raced to the shore. There I saw them, already small in the distance, walking with others toward the center of the camp. Achilleus’s gait was as determined as if he were setting out to meet an enemy instead of his king. His blue mantle hung from his shoulders, its ripples catching the first sunlight. For an instant that mantle was blown aside, and when I saw his sword belt under it, I felt a cold foreboding. I wanted to run after them, to reach Achilleus, to grasp his hands, to say— it didn’t matter what. The urge was so strong I actually ran a few steps forward.

I stopped. He would be furious if I behaved so before all the camp. I watched them, my eyes blurred with tears, until they vanished from sight.

He’ll be back before evening. But my dread did not lessen.

A hand grasped my arm. Diomede stood beside me, watching me intently. “So—you care for him.” A deep pain tore through me, and I couldn’t answer. When I turned to her, her face gave no clue as to her feelings, but she saw the truth in mine. She shook her head pityingly and said, in her brusque way, “Best harden your heart.”

Too late for that! I wondered what her feelings were, she who had known him far longer than I. “You?” I asked in a choked voice. “Do you care for him?”

“There was a man once, in my past life. There will never be another.” She paused, and I let out the breath I had been holding. “I like our master well enough. He’s kind and fair, though I would sooner rest in my own bed than go to his. When he’s summoned me, it’s a duty, like grinding the grain, washing the clothes. More pleasant, but still a duty.” She gave a small smile. “You and the other women, your friendship,” she continued softly, “they matter more.” Her voice faded to a whisper, and I knew she was thinking of Helike.

I put my arm around her shoulder and said, “Come, Diomede. The men are gone on some business of their own. Let’s go wash the clothes and bathe in the spring. Then I’ll dress your hair. How long since you’ve looked after your own needs?”

Her responding smile was a valiant effort. As we went to the hut to fetch the washing, I told her briefly of last night’s events and the assembly that Achilleus had convened. I did not mention my prayer. After that we spoke no more of the men. At the spring, we bathed and washed our hair, trying to cleanse away the pain and fear, the death stench of the past few days. When we had washed many lengths of cloth and spread them in the sun to dry, we combed each other’s hair, and as I dressed Diomede’s, weaving wildflowers into it, I told her tales of my childhood exploits in the hills near Lyrnessos with my brothers and even coaxed a few weak laughs from her.

Around mid-afternoon we had word that the men were returning. Diomede and I left our chores and went down to the shore to see if we could catch sight of them.

When I saw a group of men led by two familiar figures approaching from afar, I knew at once that something was wrong. Patroklos’s movements were stiff, and he glanced often at Achilleus, who walked in long strides looking neither left nor right. I could tell that something was building inside him, a rage or grief that found no outlet. When they were still far, Achilleus turned suddenly, headed for the shore, and sat on the sand, staring out to sea. Patroklos made a move to go to him, but Achilleus, with a rude, savage gesture of his arm, signaled his need for solitude.

All my strength drained from me. Patroklos walked toward the hut, passing close but making a pretense of not seeing us. But when the corner of his eye met mine, his head jerked. His face was as white as on the day of his wound. He entered the hut and shut the door hard.

“Diomede,” I said, “what do you think happened?”

“Take the clothes we washed and put them away in the hut,” she suggested. “Then you can ask Patroklos.”

Picking up the basket near our feet, I entered the hut. Patroklos was in his chair sipping from a goblet. He started violently. “What are you doing here?”

“We washed clothes,” I said. “I’ve come to put them away. What happened in the assembly?”

He ran a rough hand through his hair. “Don’t ask, Briseis!” he muttered. “You’ll know soon enough.” He drained his cup and sat staring into the hearth.

I couldn’t speak. Going to the corner behind the chests and storage bins, I began folding the garments. When I was half done with my chore, I heard footsteps—someone fumbling with the latch. I peered over the lid of a chest. The door opened, and Automedon, who for some reason had not gone to the assembly, burst in. “Patroklos, what happened?” he demanded.

Patroklos rose swiftly and went to meet him. He frowned in my direction. Then he put his lips against Automedon’s ear and said a few words I could not hear.

Automedon drew a sharp breath. “That’s what I heard. It can’t be!”

Patroklos gave a grim nod. “Take a cup of wine with me. I’ll tell you how it happened.”

I resumed my work, but my stomach was knotted with dread. I made a shambles of the garments I was trying to fold.

Patroklos, pouring wine, said, “I told him he should not have been the one to call the assembly. Only I never guessed it would come to this.” He handed Automedon a cup and led him toward the door. “It was an outrage!” he said in a low voice. “Agamemnon humiliated him. And no one spoke up—”

I did not hear any more, for he stepped outside. Automedon followed, his profile turned toward me, a tight-skinned brown face, impassive, with a slitted eye. I flew to the door and peered out. They were standing all the way across the courtyard with their backs to me. I heard Patroklos’s low voice but I could not distinguish the words.

I returned to the clean clothes and dumped them into the chest. My hands shook so that, even clumsily done, the task took longer than it should have. Then I went outside and crept along the fence, close enough to eavesdrop.

“This oath Achilleus swore,” Automedon was saying. “He meant it?”

“Can you doubt it?”

“By the gods, this is no good! No good at all. But if that is how matters stand, I’d better start packing.”

Packing? What had Achilleus sworn? The cold shadow would not leave my heart. Something had gone terribly wrong in that assembly, but what? I pictured Agamemnon as I had seen him my first night in camp, the un-kingly king with his greedy eyes and gloating smile. What had he said, what had he done to Achilleus? I’ll find Achilleus, I thought. Perhaps he’ll tell me. As I started across the courtyard my foot struck a loose rock. Patroklos and Automedon saw me and fell silent. We all stood frozen. They seemed to be waiting for me to leave.

As I made for the courtyard gate their eyes followed me. The hairs on my arms and neck lifted. I fled down to the shore. When I reached it, I searched everywhere for Achilleus, though I was afraid of what I might see in his eyes. Afraid to learn what had befallen, I had no idea what I would say to him. Though it made no sense at all, I ached to offer him comfort.

He was nowhere in sight.

I smelled fire and burning flesh. In both directions, as far as I could see, lines of smoke rose to the sky. Sacrificial fires. The Achaeans of every clan must be slaughtering bullocks and goats, burning them as offerings. To make peace with Apollo, I guessed. Every clan but the Myrmidons. Whatever had happened in the assembly had set our camp apart.

A breeze stirred, as if the angry god breathed on my neck. I looked up at the pall of smoke. “Apollo,” I whispered, “lift your wrath from us, too!”

I was standing close to the spot where I had prayed before. And just as I had then, I saw a ship, closer this time. It came from the center of the camp, a black-hulled Achaean ship. In the bow stood a broad-shouldered, red-bearded man, and, at his side, a slim, dark-haired girl I suddenly recognized. Chryseis. Was she going home after all?

I watched until the ship faded from sight. The sun had dropped more than halfway from its zenith. A haze lay over the sea, dark with smoke. The breeze whipped up sand against my ankles. I turned away, started back.

Two Myrmidon warriors were standing near one of the ships. When they saw me, their heads drew together, whispering, watching me. As I passed them, they fell silent and stared. A cold shiver prickling down my back told me that they had been talking about me.

Impossible, I thought. Why would they be? Yet just behind them I stopped, and I was almost sure one of them said my name: “—her. Briseis.” For a long moment I couldn’t move. What about me? What did they know that I didn’t? A frightening thought came to me. Perhaps the seer knew about my prayer to Apollo and had revealed it before all the men. For a long moment I couldn’t move. At last I forced myself to walk, footsteps dragging. Just a few paces later I encountered Automedon. He gave me a narrow-eyed, penetrating look and hurried past as if he were afraid I might speak to him.

I had to reach our quarters. Surely by now Diomede would know what had happened at the assembly. Twenty paces from the hut, I encountered her carrying a large caldron with Iphis. Iphis’s eyes slipped away from mine.

“Diomede!” I called out.

She looked at me, her eyes bright with tears. Then her gaze dropped. She turned away. Iphis was tugging on the caldron, and Diomede had to follow. She shook her head pityingly, it seemed, and went on her way to the waste dump.

“Diomede!” I cried.

My unease was full blown now, a hundred insects swarming up my skin. A hundred eyes everywhere watching me, secretive with some knowledge I didn’t share.

What was it? Why would no one tell me? Quickly I went into the women’s quarters, but I could not escape my growing fear.

The room was empty, thank the gods! Someone had brought a spindle and a pile of wool inside. A mindless task. Crouching on the floor, I picked up the spindle. As I spun, my fingers slippery with sweat, I could only pull out thick, lumpy strands of wool.

Suddenly I heard the outer door open, slamming into the wall. The hut shook. A voice shouted, “Patroklos!”

Achilleus had returned. His words, heavy with defeat, went through me like hammer strokes. “They are here, Patroklos. Fetch her.”

The spindle fell out of my hand. I got to my feet as Patroklos’s footsteps crossed the outer room. The door opened, and he stood in the entrance. “Briseis!” His stricken eyes held mine. “I wanted to tell you earlier, but I couldn’t— Agamemnon was the one who offended Apollo and caused the plague, because he wouldn’t give the girl Chryseis back to her father. Now he’s had to yield, but he was mightily angry, and—” Then he couldn’t look at me, couldn’t finish. “You must come,” he said at last. He took me by the hand. “Briseis—I’m sorry.”

“What’s happened?” He didn’t answer—only led me through the hut toward the courtyard. My legs were numb as we went outside.

Achilleus was sitting on the bench. Before him stood two strangers, fidgeting uncomfortably, their eyes downcast. When he saw me, he sprang to his feet. His eyes were bright and hard. “These are Agamemnon’s heralds,” he said, indicating the strangers. “You’re to go with them.”

My mouth fell open. “Go with them? Why?”

He made a harsh sound, something that was perhaps meant to be a laugh but wasn’t. “Because Agamemnon had to give up his prize, and he insists he must have another. You.”

My heart seemed to stop. The words had no meaning. I could only stand there stupidly, not moving.

But he spoke roughly. “Go, Briseis. You belong to Agamemnon now.”