The Song of Achilles(82)

In the silence, I can hear Phoinix’s breaths, labored with the exertion of speaking so long. I do not dare to speak or move; I am afraid that someone will see the thought that is plain on my face. It was not honor that made Meleager fight, or his friends, or victory, or revenge, or even his own life. It was Cleopatra, on her knees before him, her face streaked with tears. Here is Phoinix’s craft: Cleopatra, Patroclus. Her name built from the same pieces as mine, only reversed.

If Achilles noticed, he does not show it. His voice is gentle for the old man’s sake, but still he refuses. Not until Agamemnon gives back the honor he has taken from me. Even in the darkness I can see that Odysseus is not surprised. I can almost hear his report to the others, his hands spread in regret: I tried. If Achilles had agreed, all to the good. If he did not, his refusal in the face of prizes and apologies would only seem like madness, like fury or unreasonable pride. They will hate him, just as they hated Meleager.

My chest tightens in panic, in a quick desire to kneel before him and beg. But I do not. For like Phoinix I am declared already, decided. I am no longer to guide the course, merely to be carried, into darkness and beyond, with only Achilles’ hands at the helm.

Ajax does not have Odysseus’ equanimity—he glares, his face carved with anger. It has cost him much to be here, to beg for his own demotion. With Achilles not fighting, he is Aristos Achaion.

When they are gone, I stand and give my arm to Phoinix. He is tired tonight, I can see, and his steps are slow. By the time I leave him—old bones sighing onto his pallet—and return to our tent, Achilles is already asleep.

I am disappointed. I had hoped, perhaps, for conversation, for two bodies in one bed, for reassurance that the Achilles I saw at dinner was not the only one. But I do not rouse him; I slip from the tent and leave him to dream.

I CROUCH IN LOOSE SAND, in the shadow of a small tent.

“Briseis?” I call softly.

There is a silence, then I hear: “Patroclus?”

“Yes.”

She tugs up the side of the tent and pulls me quickly inside. Her face is pinched with fear. “It is too dangerous for you to be here. Agamemnon is in a rage. He will kill you.” Her words are a rushing whisper.

“Because Achilles refused the embassy?” I whisper back.

She nods, and in a swift motion snuffs out the tent’s small lamp. “Agamemnon comes often to look in on me. You are not safe here.” In the darkness I cannot see the worry on her face, but her voice is filled with it. “You must go.”

“I will be quick. I have to speak with you.”

“Then we must hide you. He comes without warning.”

“Where?” The tent is small, bare of everything but pallet, pillows and blankets, and a few clothes.

“The bed.”

She piles cushions around me and heaps blankets. She lies down beside me, pulling the cover over us both. I am surrounded by her scent, familiar and warm. I press my mouth to her ear, speaking barely louder than a breath. “Odysseus says that tomorrow the Trojans will break the wall and storm the camp. We must find a place to hide you. Among the Myrmidons or in the forest.”

I feel her cheek moving against mine as she shakes her head. “I cannot. That is the first place he will look. It will only make more trouble. I will be all right here.”

“But what if they take the camp?”

“I will surrender to Aeneas, Hector’s cousin, if I can. He is known to be a pious man, and his father lived as a shepherd for a time near my village. If I cannot, I will find Hector or any of the sons of Priam.”

I am shaking my head. “It is too dangerous. You must not expose yourself.”

“I do not think they will hurt me. I am one of them, after all.”

I feel suddenly foolish. The Trojans are liberators to her, not invaders. “Of course,” I say quickly. “You will be free, then. You will want to be with your—”

“Briseis!” The tent flap is drawn backwards, and Agamemnon stands in the doorway.

“Yes?” She sits up, careful to keep the blanket over me.

“Were you speaking?”

“Praying, my lord.”

“Lying down?”

Through the thick weave of wool I can see the glow of torchlight. His voice is loud, as if he is standing beside us. I will myself not to move. She will be punished if I am caught here.

“It is how my mother taught me, my lord. Is it not right?”

“You should have been taught better by now. Did not the godling correct you?”

“No, my lord.”

“I offered you back to him tonight, but he did not want you.” I can hear the ugly twist in his words. “If he keeps saying no, perhaps I will claim you for myself.”

My fists clench. But Briseis only says, “Yes, my lord.”

I hear the fall of cloth, and the light disappears. I do not move, nor breathe until Briseis returns beneath the covers.

“You cannot stay here,” I say.

“It is all right. He only threatens. He likes to see me afraid.”

The matter-of-factness in her tone horrifies me. How can I leave her to this, the leering, and lonely tent, and bracelets thick as manacles? But if I stay, she is in greater danger.

“I must go,” I say.

“Wait.” She touches my arm. “The men—” She hesitates. “They are angry with Achilles. They blame him for their losses. Agamemnon sends his people among them to stir up talk. They have almost forgotten about the plague. The longer he does not fight, the more they will hate him.” It is my worst fear, Phoinix’s story come to life. “Will he not fight?”