A Thousand Ships(23)

But he was a priest who knew his worth to the god he served. Humility had never been in Chryses’ character, and although he was a suppliant for his daughter’s freedom, he would not beg. As Agamemnon stood before him, he bowed his head, but only briefly. He did not drop to the ground. Instead, he spoke as though they were transacting business.

‘King Agamemnon, I ask you to return my daughter,’ said Chryses. His tone was reasonable, mild even. But Agamemnon – as Chryseis knew but her father did not – would not respond well to quietness. He was a man to whom shouting came more readily than talking, and he distrusted anyone who behaved differently.

‘I don’t have your daughter, priest. Who told you I do?’

‘Apollo told me.’

A murmur ran through the crowd. Some of the men were openly derisive of her father, a crazy old priest with an inflated view of his own importance and his safety. But some of them stood still, trying to hear more.

‘Then you misread Apollo’s message, old man,’ said Agamemnon. ‘Sacrifice another goat or two and see if it improves your accuracy.’ Again, men laughed. Everyone knew that Troy had few animals left for sacrifices. A besieged city was limited in her offerings, which only added to the Greek belief that the gods favoured them over the Trojans.

Chryseis felt the shame on her father’s behalf. Her cheeks flushed red, she could feel the heat creep up her face. Why could he not be more – she searched in her mind for the word but could not find it. Why could he not be less like himself? That was what she wanted to ask. He had demanded that she change her behaviour countless times (though she had rarely obeyed). But he – she saw it with the newfound clarity of an outsider – was the same. The same as her. She held her fingers up to her cheek. Perhaps not all of the heat came from shame.

‘You cannot deceive the Archer and you will not deceive me,’ replied her father, anger shading into his calm voice. Chryseis had heard this tone many times before. ‘You have Chryseis, and I demand her return.’

At the mention of her name, the Argive soldiers looked less comfortable in their derision. Agamemnon did have a Trojan girl, didn’t he, from that last division of spoils? And hadn’t someone called her by that name?

‘You dare to demand anything of me?’ Agamemnon laughed. But there was no mirth in his voice, and though she could see only the back of his head, Chryseis knew there would be no merriment in his eyes. ‘You are an unwelcome guest in this camp,’ Agamemnon continued. ‘It is thanks to my good will to your god that you do not already lie dead on the ground. Do not try my patience further.’

‘Apollo will punish any man who injures his servants,’ Chryses said. Chryseis found herself almost pitying Agamemnon, having been faced with her father’s immovable nature many times before. She knew that, desperate as she was to leave the Greek camp and return to her home, the punishment from her father would be so terrible that she could not imagine what it would be. He had beaten her for disobeying him in the past when the scale of her misdemeanours had been relatively minor. What would he do if Agamemnon suddenly softened and allowed Chryseis to leave with him? Chryseis wanted nothing more than to return to Troy. But she could not deceive herself about the consequences her father would demand for this humiliation of his priestly self before an invading army.

‘Apollo will not punish any man who has you marched out of this camp for your impudence and folly,’ Agamemnon said. ‘No man can offend the patience of his enemies in this way, and expect nothing to happen in return.’

‘Very well,’ said Chryses, standing a little taller. He looked almost relieved, Chryseis thought. Her father preferred conflict to compromise, preferred a battle to a discussion. ‘That is your answer? You will not return my daughter, as Apollo demands?’

‘I will not return your daughter. I think you blaspheme, old man: you are not as pious as you would have us all believe. They are not Apollo’s demands you throw around my camp, they are your own.’

‘If you prefer to believe that, of course I cannot convince you otherwise.’ Her father was almost whispering now. This quiet part of his anger had been the most frightening for Chryseis as a child. ‘I cannot. But Apollo will.’

Agamemnon barked orders at two of his men. ‘Take him to the other side of the fortifications. I will not kill a priest, even when he deserves it. Do you hear that?’ he shouted at Chryses. ‘You will leave my camp unharmed, even though your arrogance is intolerable.’

Chryses stood for a moment, until the two soldiers came up behind him and seized him by the arms. As they manhandled him away, his eyes suddenly flicked to Chryseis, almost hidden behind the fabric of the tent. She felt the colour suffuse her cheeks once again, as surely as if he had slapped her. ‘I will take you home,’ he said to her, and in that moment it sounded (even in her humiliation) not like the threat of a chastising parent to his wayward child, but like the promise of a father to a daughter. When she thought of it at night, as the Greek king slept like the dead across his filthy tent, she could not have explained how Chryses had known she was there, or how she could hear him, when no one else seemed to notice that he had spoken.

*

Briseis sat on the low couch, and combed her hair. Achilles’ friend, Patroclus, was staring at her, as he had every night since she arrived in the Myrmidons’ camp.

‘I’ve never seen hair that colour,’ he said quietly. ‘It looks like honey being poured from a jar.’