The Song of Achilles(71)

She knew, then. She felt it in the way I took her hand, the way my gaze rested on her. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

I shook my head, but could not think of what more to say.

Her shoulders crept up, like folded wings. “I know that you love him,” she said, hesitating a little before each word. “I know. But I thought that—some men have wives and lovers both.”

Her face looked very small, and so sad that I could not be silent.

“Briseis,” I said. “If I ever wished to take a wife, it would be you.”

“But you do not wish to take a wife.”

“No,” I said, as gently as I could.

She nodded, and her eyes dropped again. I could hear her slow breaths, the faint tremor in her chest.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Do you not ever want children?” she asked.

The question surprised me. I still felt half a child myself, though most my age were parents several times over.

“I don’t think I would be much of a parent,” I said.

“I do not believe that,” she said.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Do you?”

I asked it casually, but it seemed to strike deep, and she hesitated. “Maybe,” she said. And then I understood, too late, what she had really been asking me. I flushed, embarrassed at my thoughtlessness. And humbled, too. I opened my mouth to say something. To thank her, perhaps.

But she was already standing, brushing off her dress. “Shall we go?”

There was nothing to do but rise and join her.

THAT NIGHT I could not stop thinking of it: Briseis’ and my child. I saw stumbling legs, and dark hair and the mother’s big eyes. I saw us by the fire, Briseis and I, and the baby, playing with some bit of wood I had carved. Yet there was an emptiness to the scene, an ache of absence. Where was Achilles? Dead? Or had he never existed? I could not live in such a life. But Briseis had not asked me to. She had offered me all of it, herself and the child and Achilles, too.

I shifted to face Achilles. “Did you ever think of having children?” I asked.

His eyes were closed, but he was not sleeping. “I have a child,” he answered.

It shocked me anew each time I remembered it. His child with Deidameia. A boy, Thetis had told him, called Neoptolemus. New War. Nicknamed Pyrrhus, for his fiery red hair. It disturbed me to think of him—a piece of Achilles wandering through the world. “Does he look like you?” I had asked Achilles once. Achilles had shrugged. “I didn’t ask.”

“Do you wish you could see him?”

Achilles shook his head. “It is best that my mother raise him. He will be better with her.”

I did not agree, but this was not the time to say so. I waited a moment, for him to ask me if I wished to have a child. But he did not, and his breathing grew more even. He always fell asleep before I did.

“Achilles?”

“Mmm?”

“Do you like Briseis?”

He frowned, his eyes still closed. “Like her?”

“Enjoy her,” I said. “You know.”

His eyes opened, more alert than I had expected. “What does this have to do with children?”

“Nothing.” But I was obviously lying.

“Does she wish to have a child?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“With me?” he said.

“No,” I said.

“That is good,” he said, eyelids drooping once more. Moments passed, and I was sure he was asleep. But then he said, “With you. She wants to have a child with you.”

My silence was his answer. He sat up, the blanket falling from his chest. “Is she pregnant?” he asked.

There was a tautness to his voice I had not heard before.

“No,” I said.

His eyes dug into mine, sifting them for answers.

“Do you want to?” he asked. I saw the struggle on his face. Jealousy was strange to him, a foreign thing. He was hurt, but did not know how to speak of it. I felt cruel, suddenly, for bringing it up.

“No,” I said. “I don’t think so. No.”

“If you wanted it, it would be all right.” Each word was carefully placed; he was trying to be fair.

I thought of the dark-haired child again. I thought of Achilles.

“It is all right now,” I said.

The relief on his face filled me with sweetness.

THINGS WERE STRANGE for some time after that. Briseis would have avoided me, but I called on her as I used to, and we went for our walks as we always had. We talked of camp gossip and medicine. She did not mention wives, and I was careful not to mention children. I still saw the softness in her eyes when she looked at me. I did my best to return it as I could.





Chapter Twenty-Five

ONE DAY IN THE NINTH YEAR, A GIRL MOUNTED THE dais. There was a bruise on her cheek, spreading like spilled wine down the side of her face. Ribbons fluttered from her hair—ceremonial fillets that marked her as servant to a god. A priest’s daughter, I heard someone say. Achilles and I exchanged a glance.

She was beautiful, despite her terror: large hazel eyes set in a round face, soft chestnut hair loose around her ears, a slender girlish frame. As we watched, her eyes filled, dark pools that brimmed their banks, spilling down her cheeks, falling from her chin to the ground. She did not wipe them away. Her hands were tied behind her back.