The Song of Achilles(77)

The first thing I see is Briseis. Her hands have been tied, and she is shrinking in a corner. Agamemnon stands with his back to the entrance, speaking to her.

He turns, scowling at the interruption. But when he sees me, his face goes slick with triumph. I have come to beg, he thinks. I am here to plead for mercy, as Achilles’ ambassador. Or perhaps I will rage impotently, for his entertainment.

I lift the knife, and Agamemnon’s eyes widen. His hand goes to the knife at his own belt, and his mouth opens to call the guards. He does not have time to speak. I slash the knife down at my left wrist. It scores the skin but does not bite deep enough. I slash again, and this time I find the vein. Blood spurts in the enclosed space. I hear Briseis’ noise of horror. Agamemnon’s face is spattered with drops.

“I swear that the news I bring is truth,” I say. “I swear it on my blood.”

Agamemnon is taken aback. The blood and the oath stay his hand; he has always been superstitious.

“Well,” he says curtly, trying for dignity, “speak your news then.”

I can feel the blood draining down my wrist, but I do not move to stanch it.

“You are in the gravest danger,” I say.

He sneers. “Are you threatening me? Is this why he has sent you?”

“No. He has not sent me at all.”

His eyes narrow, and I see his mind working, fitting tiles into the picture. “Surely you come with his blessing.”

“No,” I say.

He is listening, now.

“He knows what you intend towards the girl,” I say.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see Briseis following our conversation, but I do not dare to look at her directly. My wrist throbs dully, and I can feel the warm blood filling my hand, then emptying again. I drop the knife and press my thumb onto the vein to slow the steady draining of my heart.

“And?”

“Do you not wonder why he did not prevent you from taking her?” My voice is disdainful. “He could have killed your men, and all your army. Do you not think he could have held you off?”

Agamemnon’s face is red. But I do not allow him to speak.

“He let you take her. He knows you will not resist bedding her, and this will be your downfall. She is his, won through fair service. The men will turn on you if you violate her, and the gods as well.”

I speak slowly, deliberately, and the words land like arrows, each in its target. It is true what I say, though he has been too blinded by pride and lust to see it. She is in Agamemnon’s custody, but she is Achilles’ prize still. To violate her is a violation of Achilles himself, the gravest insult to his honor. Achilles could kill him for it, and even Menelaus would call it fair.

“You are at your power’s limit even in taking her. The men allowed it because he was too proud, but they will not allow more.” We obey our kings, but only within reason. If Aristos Achaion’s prize is not safe, none of ours are. Such a king will not be allowed to rule for long.

Agamemnon has not thought of any of this. The realizations come like waves, drowning him. Desperate, he says, “My counselors have said nothing of this.”

“Perhaps they do not know what you intend. Or perhaps it serves their own purposes.” I pause to let him consider this. “Who will rule if you fall?”

He knows the answer. Odysseus, and Diomedes, together, with Menelaus as figurehead. He begins to understand, at last, the size of the gift I have brought him. He has not come so far by being a fool.

“You betray him by warning me.”

It is true. Achilles has given Agamemnon a sword to fall upon, and I have stayed his hand. The words are thick and bitter. “I do.”

“Why?” he asks.

“Because he is wrong,” I say. My throat feels raw and broken, as though I have drunk sand and salt.

Agamemnon considers me. I am known for my honesty, for my kindheartedness. There is no reason to disbelieve me. He smiles. “You have done well,” he says. “You show yourself loyal to your true master.” He pauses, savoring this, storing it up. “Does he know what you have done?”

“Not yet,” I say.

“Ah.” His eyes half-close, imagining it. I watch the bolt of his triumph sliding home. He is a connoisseur of pain. There is nothing that could cause Achilles greater anguish than this: being betrayed to his worst enemy by the man he holds closest to his heart.

“If he will come and kneel for pardon, I swear I will release her. It is only his own pride that keeps his honor from him, not I. Tell him.”

I do not answer. I stand, and walk to Briseis. I cut the rope that binds her. Her eyes are full; she knows what this has cost me. “Your wrist,” she whispers. I cannot answer her. My head is a confusion of triumph and despair. The sand of the tent is red with my blood.

“Treat her well,” I say.

I turn and leave. She will be all right now, I tell myself. He is feasting fat on the gift I have given him. I tear a strip from my tunic to bind my wrist. I am dizzy, though I do not know if it is with loss of blood or what I have done. Slowly, I begin the long walk back up the beach.

HE IS STANDING OUTSIDE the tent when I return. His tunic is damp from where he knelt in the sea. His face is wrapped closed, but there is a weariness to its edges, like fraying cloth; it matches mine.

“Where have you been?”