Warrior’s Prize

“I never laid a hand on your Briseis!”

—Agamemnon (Iliad, Homer,

Book XVIII, Fitzgerald’s translation

Everything went dark. I fell and lay on the deck of the ship. Sobs tore me. My body curled itself around the pain. Oh, Patroklos—it can’t be!

He was the dear friend who had saved my life, made it bearable, comforted me when I would have died of grief.

I heard footsteps, then Ianeira’s voice. “Briseis—” she said breathlessly, “a messenger came. Patroklos has been killed! It was he who went forth in—“ She stopped. “You were calling out his name. You knew.” I nodded, unable to speak. “Now they’re fighting over his body,” she said, “just outside the wall of the camp.”

I struggled up. In my befuddled state, her words made no sense. “His body?”

“Hektor has threatened to cut off his head and feed the corpse to his dogs,” Ianeira said.

“Oh gods!” I pressed my hands over my eyes. Hektor was as savage as any marauder.

“The Achaeans got it back, brought it almost all the way here, but now they’re losing it again. Someone’s gone to break the news to Achilleus.”

Achilleus. The grief would slam him into the ground, break his heart into pieces.

At that moment a great howl of anguish arose from our side of the wall. I knew that voice. And I knew that the world had changed irrevocably.

Odios called up to us, “A messenger brought Achilleus the news. He’s shouting to scare off the Trojans because without armor he can’t go rescue the body.”

As Achilleus shouted twice more, the Achaeans surged forward with renewed courage.

“It’s working!” Odios cried. Moments later a messenger ran up to him. “They’ve recovered the body,” he shouted to us. “Patroklos will come home for his funeral rites.”

I was gripping the rail so hard that my knuckles were locked around it. I forced my fingers loose.

Evening was falling as a great group of bloodied Achaeans trudged down the shore behind somber men bearing a litter. Their burden seemed intolerably heavy. A mantle covered the body, but I saw a limp arm dangling, streaked with blood. The right arm of Patroklos, who had set out so fiercely and proudly earlier today.

Darkness came. I lay on the deck, wrapped in a blanket. Though my heart was unbearably heavy, I slept. At first light I awoke to a voice coming closer, calling out repeatedly in urgent tones. “Awake, Achaeans! Come to assembly! I have something to say!”

Achilleus. I struggled up to the rail, but he was gone, his voice fading in the distance as he ran up the shore.

Men emerged from huts and ships. The cry was taken up. “Achilleus is back! He wishes to speak in assembly!” They started to make their way to the gathering place.

A man came to Odios with a message. Odios climbed up to the deck. “Briseis, make ready. You’re being given back to Achilleus.”

I couldn’t speak. I longed and dreaded to see him.

Ianeira scrambled off the ship and came back a short while later with a clean gown, a comb and a bronze basin filled with water, which Odios carried up the gangplank. I clambered down to the hold to wash and change, my hands fumbling in haste. When we climbed down the plank to the shore, my knees wavered and I stumbled.

“Steady.” On the shore Odios put a hand under my elbow. “Come.”

My legs refused to move. I clung to Ianeira. She embraced me. “You must be strong. I can’t go with you. I haven’t been summoned. Only you and—” She cast her eyes down. “—the other women.”

“Other women?”

Odios gave her a stern look. “You don’t know if that agreement still stands.” He turned to me. “She means the seven other women Agamemnon promised Achilleus when he sent us to him the day before yesterday. He offered him many treasures, a dozen horses, seven captive women from Lesbos—and you, my lady.”

I remembered Ianeira telling me of it, but I had forgotten—had barely noted it. Those other women meant nothing to me. My heartbeat was saying his name, the very sound of it piercing my insides. I embraced Ianeira and bade her farewell.

Odios took me to an open place with an altar, where the Achaean chieftains and many of their men were gathering in a vast half-circle. Those in front seated themselves on the ground. “This is the place of assembly,” Odios said. Nearby was a small hut. “You will wait in here.” The door was open, and several women were sitting inside. The women of Lesbos. As I stood in the doorway, they stared at me. I took a step forward, then stopped. I didn’t want to have to speak to them.

“I’d rather not go in there,” I whispered.

“Very well.” Odios pointed to a spot just outside the hut. “You can watch from here.”

More men assembled until I couldn’t see the edges of the crowd. Achilleus was nowhere in sight. When at last he appeared, I almost didn’t recognize him. His tunic, always spotless before, was rumpled and streaked with dirt, his hair dulled. His face, translucently pale, distorted by grief, had a kind of terrible, alien beauty. As he stood still before the crowd, the entire assembly of men fell silent. My heart hurt. I felt Odios’s hand on my arm, restraining me. Without realizing, I had taken several steps forward. I was in plain sight, no more than fifty paces from where Achilleus stood, seemingly unaware of my presence.

“My lord Agamemnon, son of Atreus!” He turned, evidently facing the king, whom I could not see. His voice rang out. “I wish the woman Briseis had died in Lyrnessos, before I ever laid eyes on her! What good was it that we fought over her? Look what harm it has done.”

My knees buckled. I must have cried out, for Odios hissed, “Be silent, Briseis, or you’ll have to wait in the hut with the others.”

“But he said—”

“Never mind, he’s possessed by grief—I’m sure he didn’t mean it.” Odios’s hand on my arm was steadying. “Hush now, and listen.”

“We can’t carry on our resentment forever,” Achilleus went on in a harsh voice. “Here is the end of our quarrel. Tell the army to get ready for battle. I will fight now, I will meet Hektor face to face. I will make him pay—”

A roar drowned out the last of his words. Cheering and shouting men leapt to their feet, brandishing spears, pounding on their shields. Long moments passed before they quieted. Then a raspy voice strove to rise above the clamor.

“Brave Achaeans, hear what I have to say! Be silent and listen—none of what happened was my fault!” It was Agamemnon, seated among the chieftains. He addressed the crowd without rising. The men were restive, stirring and muttering, interrupting as he told some long tale about how the gods were to blame for what he had done. Then he pointed at Achilleus. “Go, then, lead out your men to fight. Or stay back if you choose—I don’t care! But all the gifts I promised you will be delivered to your quarters, that all may see how richly I reward you.”

Achilleus made a brusque gesture. “My lord King Agamemnon, the gifts are yours to give or to keep. I don’t care. We’ve wasted enough time. To battle!”

The men cheered again. Then a man with reddish hair announced that the men needed to eat before fighting. “But first,” he said, “let the king give the treasures to Achilleus and swear before all, that he has never gone into the woman Briseis’s bed, nor had anything to do with her.”

There was a buzzing from the men. Many were looking at me. I stood rigid. My face burned. The king rose and came forward. He issued some orders. A group of men hurried off and returned laden with the promised gifts: tripods, cauldrons, ingots of gold. The Lesbos women were summoned forth from the hut and stood behind me. The audience made appreciative sounds. Two men kindled a fire, and someone brought a young boar and laid it across the altar at the front of the crowd.

Agamemnon lifted the ceremonial knife. “Let Zeus be my witness, before the sun and earth! I never touched Briseis—never brought her to my bed nor took her for any other pleasure. If any word of this is false, may the gods punish me for perjury.” And he slit the boar’s throat.

Never touched me! Even though he had not completed the act, rage filled me as I remembered that terrible night in his bed. Still I should be glad of the oath he had sworn, for he would be believed.

Achilleus’s glance slid over me. “It was all folly. Now it’s over. Go to your meal, men, and then we will fight!”

As the men dispersed, Achilleus turned and came in our direction. My heart jolted. But he walked right past us without looking my way. His profile was ravaged, gaunt, his mouth bracketed in new lines. There were streaks of dirt on his face and in his hair.

Odios said, “Come. I’m to escort you to his camp.”

We took the long trip down the shore, followed by the men bearing the treasure, and the seven women from Lesbos. When we reached the courtyard gate, Odios went to look for Achilleus so that he might formally present us, but he came back saying Achilleus was busy with armor and horses and was not to be found.

“Well, my lady, he knows you’re here—you and the others.” Odios took my hand and pressed it between his. “I wish you well.”

As he left, a voice called my name. Diomede came rushing up and caught me in an embrace. “Briseis! They said you were coming back. Are you well?”

I shrugged. “And you?” I barely waited for her answer. “Where’s Achilleus?”

“He’s getting ready for battle.”

“Diomede, I must see him.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t seek him out just now. But if you’re determined, I’ll go with you. He’s either in the stables, or—” She led the way into the courtyard.

I froze. A bier stood near the door of the hut, and on it lay Patroklos.

The cold finality of his death swamped me. And a horrifying fear as well. Oh, gods! Did he die because of what Hektor learned from me? All at once I understood Achilleus’s dreadful words. If he had never laid eyes on me, Patroklos would still be alive. My worthless life had brought nothing but trouble and grief.

“Diomede—” Tears choked me before I could finish.

She put her arms around me, and I sobbed on her shoulder. “Leave me with Patroklos, please,” I whispered.

“As you wish.”

His body had been washed, his hair combed. There were deep gashes and scrapes on his face. He was draped in his familiar brown mantle. How alone he was, beyond my reach, beyond the reach of anyone, cut off from any human comfort. I sank to my knees before the bier and touched his cheek, finding not flesh but some hard, alien substance.

“Oh, Patroklos!” I spoke aloud, hoping my cry could reach his spirit. “When I first came here, you comforted me. You were my only friend. And all I brought you was pain and trouble. I brought you death.” I raked my cheeks until they were bloody. Then, burying my face in a corner of his mantle, I wept.

A sound made me look up.

Achilleus entered the courtyard, dressed for battle in shining new armor. He held his helmet under his arm. I stood, aching to comfort him. Then I saw his face, hard as adamant, the blazing blue-green eyes rimmed in red. Death was in those eyes. He paid me no more heed than if I’d been a rock in his path. He went straight to the bier and looked long into the face of his dead friend.

“Why did you do it, Patroklos?” he cried out softly. “I told you not to challenge him—only to drive the Trojans away from the ships—” He straightened, squared his shoulders, lifted his helmet to his head. “You will be avenged, I swear by the gods.” His breath was ragged, his voice broken. “Before the sun sets, I will bring Hektor’s body back to you!”