Warrior’s Prize

Pyres of the dead began to burn up everywhere,

and never ceased.

Iliad, Homer, Book I

(Rouse’s translation)

I awoke at first light, not remembering where I was. Then I saw his head next to mine, eyes closed. Warmth stole through me. I wanted to lie here forever. But the women would be fetching water and starting the fire to bake the bread. I sat up.

Instantly he was awake. “Where are you going, Briseis?” When I told him, he said, “Nay, stay. There is no battle today. Come.” He held out his arms. “Let the other women fetch water. You can bring me breakfast later.”

I returned eagerly to his embrace.

Some time after, he got up, saying he was going for a quick dip in the sea. He left, but before I could go fetch the men’s breakfast, the outer door opened. It was Patroklos returning from wherever he had spent the night. When he saw me, he stood still, wary and irresolute, as if ready to bolt outside again. I felt a deep shame at what I’d tried to do, the more so since I’d spent the night in Achilleus’s bed. Patroklos was an exile who had nothing save his bond with his friend. My coming between them must have rent him apart.

I had to try to make things right, and now was my chance, before Achilleus returned. I said, “Patroklos, what I did yesterday was wrong.” His face looked strained. My next words were difficult to say. “I’ve told Achilleus it was my fault alone. He never blamed you. He has forgiven me. Can you forgive me too?”

He hesitated, then said, a little stiffly, “Aye, of course.”

“Patroklos, I’ll never again do anything to hurt you. Can we still be friends?”

He smiled with the old warmth. “Always, Briseis!”

With that, I went to fetch breakfast. The women were baking the bread over the fire in our courtyard. They went silent as they looked at me, their eyes full of questions. I greeted them, and then lowered my head. I did not know what to say.

Aglaia stared at me with venom in her eyes. “You shameless harlot!” she snarled. “What wiles and ruses did you use to win back his favor?”

I ignored her. “I’m to bring the men’s breakfast,” I said to the others.

Diomede got up to help me prepare a tray. “I hope things are well with you,” she said in a tone of concern.

I nodded. “All is well.”

“I’m glad,” she said.

Achilleus was back when I brought the tray into the men’s hut. “Sit and break your fast with us,” he said. They were hungry, and as we ate without speaking, I wondered what my role would be, now that everything had changed.

At last he said, “You don’t have to carry water, Briseis,” he said. “Leave the harder work for the others. That was always my intention for you.” He gave a teasing grin and whispered, too low for Patroklos to hear, “I want you to save your energy for me!”

“But working with the women is important to me, Achilleus. Especially fetching water from the spring. There are barely enough of us as it is.” I didn’t add that Aglaia always skipped out of this duty. She already hated me, more so now that I seemed to be back in Achilleus’s favor and his bed. If I tattled about her shirking, she would find a way to harm me. “Besides,” I added, “I am strong. I don’t want to grow soft.”

He looked as if he might object, but then gave an appreciative grin. “Spoken like a warrior! Very well, you shall have your way.”

I felt Patroklos’s eyes on me. Remembering how he had carried water with me to help me restore my life and my strength, I returned his look with a smile of gratitude.

Against all logic, now that things were well with Achilleus and Patroklos, my prayer to Apollo kept coming back to haunt me. At odd times during the day I would envision the wrathful face of the god as he lifted his bow and shot deadly arrows. Much as I tried to dispel it from my thoughts, it would return when I was alone, when my mind was not on other matters.

It was only a dream, I told myself, as Achilleus said, a nightmare that meant nothing. And nothing has happened. All is well. I could ignore it much of the time, I could put it out of my mind, but I could not forget it entirely. If only I could unsay my prayer!

In the late afternoon, as we women began preparing the evening meal, I went into the men’s hut to look for a cooking pot and found Achilleus and Patroklos sitting before the hearth, Achilleus plucking the strings of his lyre with great concentration, trying to perfect a melody. He glanced up at me, distracted, then turned again to his instrument.

“Briseis,” he muttered, “fetch me a goblet of wine. And one for Patroklos too.”

I poured two goblets. Achilleus took his without even a grunt of thanks. On sudden impulse, I gave a deep, mocking bow. “My pleasure, sir! Always your compliant servant!”

Patroklos looked startled, but Achilleus burst out laughing. “Compliant servant! I would hardly describe you that way. You’re more like an untamable mountain lion!”

I remembered when he had called me that in Lyrnessos. I was indignant then. Now an answering laugh bubbled up inside me. As I turned away, I sent a wordless thanks to Aphrodite for transforming my fate.

But the gods are capricious. Just when life seems good, it turns out they have other plans.

The next morning I went early down to the shore, taking last night’s cooking pots to scour in damp sand. Couching at the water’s edge, I was enveloped in an almost unearthly stillness, broken only by the whisper of small, limpid waves against the pebbles of the shore, and the gritty sounds I made in my scrubbing.

Without warning my vision of Apollo came back vividly, making my heart pound. A moment later a movement made me look up. A black speck appeared in the sky. A hawk that had wandered far from the hills? But when another appeared and the two came nearer, I saw their wide wingspan and ugly, naked heads. Vultures. An omen? Goose bumps skittered along my arms. I felt a pervasive sense of doom that I could not shake.

I told myself I was surely making too much of too little. But that night, as I lay wakeful in Achilleus’s bed, my anxiety returned. Watching his restless, uneasy sleep, I guessed with a sinking heart what that meant: tomorrow the men would be going to battle.

When I heard the trumpet call from the center of the camp at daybreak, the call to arms, I went outside to watch the men muster for battle. I’d never done this before, and Diomede, Helike, and the others who often watched, gave me looks of astonishment. I realized what an upheaval had happened in me that I accepted my place in this world and was watching warriors go out to kill or be killed.

I didn’t belong here. None of us did, for that matter, not even the men. Yet we were all trapped here by the Fates, who were surely madwomen.

I forced my attention back to the Myrmidon army gathering under a pearly sky. The cool air carried the odor of male sweat and horses as swarms of warriors worked efficiently, wheeling out chariots and harnessing restive steeds whose war finery was as splendid as the men’s. I could feel tension building as the men prepared for battle. The air rang with sharp commands, whinnies, thudding hooves on hard-packed dirt as horses were yoked in pairs to the fifty or so chariots that would lead the charge. There were two men in each chariot, the charioteer and the one who wielded a spear. Foot soldiers, spears aloft, formed into rank behind the chariots.

Diomede pointed. In the lead was a chariot with two magnificent horses, a piebald and a bay. My eyes clung to the man standing next to it. Achilleus’s helmet masked his face, its golden crest tossing in the breeze. His corselet flashed in the sun’s first rays.

Then I saw his charioteer, the reins looped around his waist. “Patroklos,” I whispered.

“He’s returning to battle today,” Diomede said. “Didn’t you know?”

“It’s too early. He’s not strong enough.”

“He will be safe,” Diomede said. “Achilleus won’t let him out of his sight.”

Achilleus. Everyone seemed to think he was invincible. I watched him spring lightly into the chariot. As his men grew quiet, waiting, he lifted his spear and gave a shout. The charge began.

Chariots, beasts, and men crowded through the gates, their excitement rising like the wind. On the other side of the wall, they joined the swelling ranks of the entire Achaean army. Men from various camps shouted greetings to each other. The plain was a sea of glinting bronze with brightly colored waves of horsehair.

“To battle!” the chieftains shouted. “On to Troy!”

The answering roar of the men blended with the thunder of galloping hooves. The earth quivered under my feet. I stood silent and shaken until the tumult dwindled and the plain was quiet, and we heard only distant shouts like specks of sound.

“Time to be about our chores.” Diomede took my arm. Helike was at her side.

“How far are the gates of Troy?” I asked.

She shrugged. “A fair distance. If you stand high enough, on one of the ships for instance, you can see the walls and towers of the citadel, but the men are as ants.”

“Those ants you speak of—they’ll be killing each other.” I wished I had not watched.

Diomede said, “It’s not always a heated battle with many casualties. Sometimes it’s just a skirmish, where they shout insults and challenge each other to duels.” She shrugged. “But each day there is no telling what will happen. So it does no good to dwell on it.”

I could only pray that Achilleus and Patroklos would come back safely.

Helike, stolid as ever, turned away. “Let’s go feed the livestock.”

As we walked toward the pens, seabirds circled overhead, drawn by the return of quiet. Then I saw two black specks, the vultures again. Despite the warmth of the early sun, I shivered.

At the pens, an overpowering stench assaulted our nostrils. At first we could see nothing but milling goats and sheep. As we dumped armloads of dried marsh grass into the feeding troughs, the animals surged about us, bleating, nudging, butting. Then I spotted the trouble. Two dead goats lay on their sides, stiff legs outstretched, bellies distended, flies all over their glossy black hides. Their tails and rear legs were covered with excrement.

“Some kind of a flux from the bowels,” Diomede said. “They must have died during the night. I hope none of the others catch it.” We looked at each other, silenced for a moment by the thought of a sickness that could sweep through all the flocks.

“We have to get them out of here,” Helike said.

The chore took the combined strength of the three of us. Diomede and I pulled the legs while tall Helike, with her superior strength, pushed each body from behind. As we dragged both beasts to the refuse pit, I held my breath often to keep from gagging. Flies buzzed as we shoveled dirt over the carcasses. It was a nasty job. With the men gone, we allowed ourselves the luxury of stripping naked and bathing in the sea.

Then we went on to other chores, thinking no more of the dead beasts. But by sundown, after the men came back from fighting, two sheep and a donkey had died in the same manner. That night a woman in one of the other Myrmidon huts sickened. By morning she was dead and several more men and women were ill. As that day and the next passed, more people fell ill, and almost without exception, died.

The Achaeans stopped going to battle.

Covertly, I watched the others in our group for signs of the pestilence. Fear was a sick taste in my mouth. Among the women there were many silences, convulsive swallows, uneven breaths, and I could tell they were thinking the same as I. Each time our paths crossed, we asked each other, “Are you well?”

As more days passed, the plague worsened. I went around with Diomede and Helike tending the other stricken women, those belonging to the lesser soldiers of the Myrmidon ranks, those who lived in poor, crowded hovels, those whom I came to know only as they died. We learned that the illness was widespread through the whole encampment, and many were far worse off than the Myrmidons.

Those who were stricken lasted only a day or two, sometimes just hours. The men who hadn’t succumbed to the sickness were busy disposing of animal carcasses and building funeral pyres for their comrades and their women. An odd, heavy stillness, a pall of smoke hung over the camp. The air smelled of burning and rotting flesh. All the normal activities of the camp, save those needed for subsistence, were halted. Death ruled, and life existed timidly on its perimeters. Along with the others, I ate, drank, slept—but with a sick feeling that I had no right to do so—that darkness would come upon my eyes and death would snatch the cup from my lips. Helike, Diomede and I stayed close to each other, and I drew comfort from their presence.

As the plague worsened, I barely saw Achilleus. He did not summon me to his bed. Often he was out half the night tending men who had sickened. I saw little of Patroklos either. Sometimes I glimpsed Achilleus from a distance on the shore or heard his voice in the adjoining room. Each time I would close my eyes and think, thank the gods he’s safe. Patroklos too.

During those first few days, busy and weary, tending the sick, with the constant fear that assailed us all, I scarcely had time to think. I actually did not make the connection. Then, on the fifth day, I heard Diomede tell one of the others, “They are saying this is the doing of Apollo. It’s his arrows that are striking down the men and women and beasts. I wonder what the Achaeans have done to anger him?”

My skin froze. The god’s deadly arrows—this plague! Apollo had sent me a warning, a vision, and it was coming true before our eyes. This was his answer to my prayer: Make Achilleus give me up. Was Achilleus going to die? Invincible in battle but brought down by a fever and a bloody flux from the bowels? And would Patroklos die too, weakened by his wound and therefore more susceptible to those swift, silent, deadly arrows from the god? And the women? All their deaths would be on my hands. What would Diomede and the others say if they knew I had prayed for this? I remembered my mother in my childhood saying, “Be careful what you ask the gods for. They just might grant it.”

The next morning I went down to the shore to try to unsay my prayer. I offered grain again. On my knees I pleaded, Lord Apollo, I didn’t mean it! I want to be with Achilleus. And I don’t want anyone dead. Please desist from your anger against the Achaeans—against us all. But the god’s answer was a cold inner silence.

On the eighth day of the plague, when Helike, Diomede, and I were returning from the deathbed of a woman we had tended, we chanced to meet Achilleus. He stopped us, his brows lowering, his gaze traveling swiftly over us. “Where have you been?”

My heart pounded. I couldn’t speak. Helike, as usual, held her silence, and it was left to Diomede to answer. “Tending a dying woman, a captive of one of your men.”

“I don’t want you to tend the others.” A curved furrow appeared at the inner edge of one eyebrow. “There’s nothing you can do. I’ve tried every remedy. And I’ve noticed something. The arrows of the god strike those close to the ones who have died. Don’t touch the belongings of anyone who has died. Stay in your quarters. So far the arrows have not reached our hut.”

“Then it is Apollo?” I blurted.

“Aye.” His face, drawn and weary, turned toward me. His eyes had the bleakness of winter seas. “I plan to offer sacrifice tonight, but I haven’t much hope.” He added, “Apollo has never been favorable to me.”

Turning abruptly, he walked away. Helike and Diomede hastened back to our hut, but I stood motionless, certain that I’d heard fear in his voice.

If the god was indeed against him, here was an enemy greater than any he had faced, who could destroy him utterly.

An enemy I had summoned.