The Song of Achilles(60)

The men gathered eagerly. They knew what her presence meant—Agamemnon was giving us permission for camp followers, for spear-wives and bed slaves. Until now, the women had simply been forced in the fields and left. In your own tent was a much more convenient arrangement.

Agamemnon mounted the dais, and I saw his eyes slide over the girl, a slight smile on his lips. He was known—all the house of Atreus was—for his appetites. I do not know what came over me then. But I seized Achilles’ arm and spoke into his ear.

“Take her.”

He turned to me, his eyes wide with surprise.

“Take her as your prize. Before Agamemnon does. Please.”

He hesitated, but only a second.

“Men of Greece.” He stepped forward, still in the day’s armor, still smeared with blood. “Great King of Mycenae.”

Agamemnon turned to face him, frowning. “Pelides?”

“I would have this girl as my war-prize.”

At the back of the dais Odysseus raised an eyebrow. The men around us murmured. His request was unusual, but not unreasonable; in any other army, first choice would have been his anyway. Irritation flashed in Agamemnon’s eyes. I saw the thoughts turn across his face: he did not like Achilles, yet it was not worth it, here, already, to be churlish. She was beautiful, but there would be other girls.

“I grant your wish, Prince of Phthia. She is yours.”

The crowd shouted its approval—they liked their commanders generous, their heroes bold and lusty.

Her eyes had followed the exchange with bright intelligence. When she understood that she was to come with us, I saw her swallow, her gaze darting over Achilles.

“I will leave my men here, for the rest of my belongings. The girl will come with me now.”

Appreciative laughter and whistles from the men. The girl trembled all over, very slightly, like a rabbit checked by a hawk overhead. “Come,” Achilles commanded. We turned to go. Head down, she followed.

BACK IN OUR CAMP, Achilles drew his knife, and her head jerked a little with fear. He was still bloody from the day’s battle; it had been her village he had plundered.

“Let me,” I said. He handed me the knife and backed away, almost embarrassed.

“I am going to free you,” I said.

Up close I saw how dark her eyes were, brown as richest earth, and large in her almond-shaped face. Her gaze flickered from the blade to me. I thought of frightened dogs I had seen, backed small and sharp into corners.

“No, no,” I said quickly. “We will not hurt you. I am going to free you.”

She looked at us in horror. The gods knew what she thought I was saying. She was an Anatolian farm-girl, with no reason to have ever heard Greek before. I stepped forward to put a hand on her arm, to reassure. She flinched as if expecting a blow. I saw the fear in her eyes, of rape and worse.

I could not bear it. There was only one thing I could think of. I turned to Achilles and seized the front of his tunic. I kissed him.

When I let go again, she was staring at us. Staring and staring.

I gestured to her bonds and back to the knife. “All right?”

She hesitated a moment. Then slowly offered her hands.

ACHILLES LEFT TO SPEAK to Phoinix about procuring another tent. I took her to the grass-sided hill and had her sit while I made a compress for her bruised face. Gingerly, eyes downcast, she took it. I pointed to her leg—it was torn open, a long cut along her shin.

“May I see?” I asked, gesturing. She made no response, but reluctantly let me take her leg, dress the wound, and tie it closed with bandages. She followed every movement of my hands and never met my gaze.

After, I took her to her new-pitched tent. She seemed startled by it, almost afraid to enter. I threw open the flap and gestured— food, blankets, an ewer of water, and some clean cast-off clothes. Hesitating, she stepped inside, and I left her there, eyes wide, staring at it all.

THE NEXT DAY Achilles went raiding again. I trailed around the camp, collecting driftwood, cooling my feet in the surf. All the time I was aware of the new tent in the camp’s corner. We had seen nothing of her yet; the flap was shut tight as Troy. A dozen times I almost went to call through the fabric.

At last, at midday, I saw her in the doorway. She was watching me, half-hidden behind the folds. When she saw that I had noticed her, she turned quickly and went to leave.

“Wait!” I said.

She froze. The tunic she wore—one of mine—hung past her knees and made her look very young. How old was she? I did not even know.

I walked up to her. “Hello.” She stared at me with those wide eyes. Her hair had been drawn back, revealing the delicate bones of her cheeks. She was very pretty.

“Did you sleep well?” I do not know why I kept talking to her. I thought it might comfort her. I had once heard Chiron say that you talked to babies to soothe them.

“Patroclus,” I said, pointing at myself. Her eyes flickered to me, then away.

“Pa-tro-clus.” I repeated slowly. She did not answer, did not move; her fingers clutched the cloth of the tent flap. I felt ashamed then. I was frightening her.

“I will leave you,” I said. I inclined my head and made to go.

She spoke something, so low I could not hear it. I stopped.

“What?”

“Briseis,” she repeated. She was pointing to herself.