Warrior’s Prize

Back along the ships

they took their way, and the girl went, loath to go.

Iliad, Homer, Book I

(Fitzgerald’s translation)

I took a step toward him, and my knees gave way, hitting the ground painfully. I stretched out my arms to him and opened my mouth, but no words came.

He said, “It turns out you got what you prayed for, after all.”

The gibe hurt more than I could have imagined. “No! Achilleus, I beg you! Don’t let them take me!”

“It’s out of my hands.” He reached for me, then changed his mind and let his arm drop. “Don’t fuss, Briseis. Don’t make this harder. Go with them now.”

The two men drew me to my feet and started to lead me away. I resisted but was so weak I feared my legs would give way again. Without my will, the heralds pulled me away from him.

As we reached the gate, I heard Achilleus give a wordless, drawn-out bellow so full of pure rage that my insides shivered. It sounded almost inhuman. I looked back. He hadn’t moved; wasn’t looking at me.

The two strangers took me through the gate. One of them banged it shut behind us. They led me up the shore, leaving the Myrmidon huts and ships far behind. This wasn’t real. My legs felt as if they didn’t belong to my body.

I kept looking back, hoping he was merely taken by surprise, and when he recovered his wits he’d jump up and stop this madness from happening.

But he didn’t.

We reached Agamemnon’s quarters in the center of the camp. The two men took me to a small, windowless hut. There was a bar on the outside of the door. I flung myself backward, trying to break their hold. “No! Don’t lock me in!”

One of them said, “We were ordered to leave you here until the king sends for you.” They pushed me in, closed the door. I threw myself against it just as I heard the thud of the bar on the outside slamming into place.

My legs gave way, and I slid to the ground. I knelt, leaning against the wall in darkness. For a long time I howled and sobbed, until, at long last, worn out from weeping, I staggered to my feet. I paced the rough hut and tried to think how this could have happened. At that terrible assembly, the chieftains must have forced Agamemnon to give Chryseis back to her father to appease Apollo. And this had ensued.

But why had Achilleus let them take me?

The answer whispered itself relentlessly in my head. Because of that prayer. He believes you betrayed him. The irony was that my confession had been unnecessary. I could have wept if I’d had any tears left.

Still, even if he couldn’t forgive me for that prayer, I was his prize. He’d refused to give me to his dearest friend. Even if he were indifferent to me, his pride mattered above all. If Agamemnon had robbed him of a horse or an ox, a bronze caldron, or his precious silver lyre, he would have fought him to the death. So why hadn’t he killed the king for taking me?

I remembered his anger last night, and what he had said about giving me up. The only way that could happen is if I were somehow humiliated in front of the whole army. Or dead. That is what you prayed for, Briseis.

He had been dishonored before all the men. He must hate me for it.

But he had also said, Maybe I can be merciful. His smile, his hand caressing my hair. Surely he knew how much I cared for him. Yet a cold voice whispered in my head. He hasn’t forgiven you. My mind was going around in panicky circles. I would go mad.

I had to believe he would come in force to take me back. He just needed time to muster his men. Only by telling myself this could I continue to breathe.

I sat down, striving for calm, though a dreadful fear tore at my gut. Before too long, Agamemnon would send for me.

The light coming through the cracks in the door grew dim. Smells wafted in: the sea breeze, scents of sizzling meat and warm bread. It was the hour of the evening meal, and I should be outside our hut, preparing the bread with Diomede. The passing time made me frantic. I got to my feet and inhaled deeply to calm myself. It did no good. Why had Achilleus waited so long?

He’s never going to come, whispered the insidious voice in my head.

I heard a noise. Shuffling footsteps. The dragging away of the beam that locked me in. Abruptly, the door opened. A small, gray-haired woman stood there with a lamp. “Come,” she said. “The king wants you.”

The blood stopped in my veins. Silently I asked the gods for strength. As I reached for my shawl, my hair came loose and tumbled down. I groped on the floor, looking for my clasps. Delaying as long as possible.

“What are you doing?” the woman asked.

“I’ve lost my clasps. I need to bind up my hair.”

“Never mind that!” She grabbed my arm. “He mustn’t be kept waiting.”

I straightened slowly, my hair unbound like a young girl’s. Dragging my feet, I followed her to a large, well-appointed hut. She pointed to the door. “He’s in there.” Then she scurried away like a scared rat.

I stood frozen. What if I didn’t go in the door? What if I turned and ran back down the shore? But I couldn’t. I’d be caught. And Achilleus had rejected me—sent me away. There was no escape. I drew a deep breath. My stomach sickened and my hand shook. I opened the door.

Inside, it was dim, yet with the glow of sunset behind me I could see quite clearly. When a hulking man lurched toward me, I recognized Agamemnon from my first night in the camp.

But the setting sun must have blinded him. He gave a hoarse, startled cry. “Iphigenia!”

I froze. His daughter! Only last night, Achilleus had spoken her name tenderly, and Patroklos had mentioned a grudge.

Agamemnon pulled me into the room, shutting the door, trapping me like an animal in a snare. He lit a lamp with a burning twig from the hearth. Over its flame his bloodshot eyes stared at me. Heavy wine fumes wafted from his breath. I shrank back, from the stink of him as much as anything else, but he grabbed a strand of my hair to study it, holding it so near the lamp I feared it would catch fire.

“Your hair,” he murmured, slurring his words. “Black as the sea at night. Her hair.” Then he lifted the lamp to my face. “I thought she had come back. But you’re not so like her, after all.” He scowled. “You’re older—not as pure. Who are you?” he asked, suddenly angry.

“Sire—” Stunned, I let out my breath, realizing I’d been holding it. “I am Briseis, whom you took from Achilleus.”

“Of course. Forgot for a moment.” His look turned smug. “His prize! He must be raging! But he can do nothing. Come, sit by the hearth.”

I took a seat uneasily, while he stood. There were chairs around the hearth, spilled food, bones, and the remains of a meal. An inner door led to another room, probably his sleeping quarters. I shuddered. It hurt to breathe. Then I noticed a timid, middle-aged serving woman in the corner, wiping some goblets. Thank the gods, I wasn’t alone with him—yet. She poured her master more wine and began to clean up the food.

Agamemnon stared at her as if he’d just become aware of her presence. “Make haste with that! Begone!”

She hurried out. He took a seat, sipped wine. My dread grew. I noted his disordered tunic. His mantle, dark red with a finely woven border, was rumpled and dirty. Gold armbands decorated his arms, and a gold chain hung around his neck. He was about to speak when there was a sudden sharp knock, and the door opened.

My heart toppled off a cliff. He’s here! I leapt to my feet and swung around.

But it was only a man of medium height with brown hair. My disappointment was so bitter I had to lean against the wall steady myself.

“Menelaus!” Agamemnon said.

I’d heard that name. He was Agamemnon’s brother, the king of Sparta, and husband of the beautiful Helen, who had been abducted by Paris of Troy, or had run off with him. This man’s wife was the cause of the war—or so they said.

Menelaus was younger than Agamemnon. His hair and beard were more neatly trimmed than his brother’s shaggy mane. His eyes, the same tawny brown, struck me with their lack of expression. He was ordinary looking, yet his face was hard to read. A worried frown creased his brow, though that might have been put on for Agamemnon’s benefit. When he saw me, his look wavered and shifted. He cleared his throat and addressed Agamemnon. “Good evening, brother,” he said. “I came to see if you needed me tonight.”

I sensed he was lying. There was another reason. Whatever it was though, I was glad not to be alone with the king.

Agamemnon frowned mightily. “Why now? I’ve got her here, can’t you see?” As both men’s eyes came to rest on me, Agamemnon forced a note of heartiness into his voice. “You were curious, weren’t you? Well, behold Achilleus’s prize. Mine, now! Have a goblet of wine and tell me if you think her fair.”

The men took the chairs before the hearth. Agamemnon motioned me brusquely to a stool in the corner, deep in shadow. I scurried there and sat, pressed against the wall. I felt I would go mad. O gods, let Achilleus come soon. I formed my words into a prayer, a litany repeated over and over. O Aphrodite, make him come. Before Agamemnon takes me into that inner room.

As the king filled two goblets, he avoided looking at me. I sensed he wanted to forget that moment when he had mistaken me for his daughter Iphigenia. Certainly he did not want Menelaus to know. I wondered if my resemblance to her might protect me in some way.

Menelaus stared into his cup for a moment before drinking a large swallow. Then he said, “You shouldn’t have done it, brother.” I listened intently. Would this man oppose the king? Could he be of help to me?

“Taken Achilleus’s prize? Why should he keep his when I had to give up mine?”

Menelaus spoke mildly, almost meekly. “But it was foolhardy, don’t you think?”

“Foolhardy? You heard how he insulted me! I hate that man. He thinks he’s above us all. I had to put him in his place.”

Menelaus swirled the wine in his cup. “So now we’ve lost his help in the war.”

Lost his help? I gulped in air. Achilleus had withdrawn from the war?

“D’you think I need his help to take Troy?” Agamemnon growled.

“Aye, I do,” Menelaus said. “But he’s sworn this oath. And he’ll never go back on his word.” I clenched my hands around the edges of my stool, my heart pounding. Patroklos and Automedon had talked about an oath in ominous tones. What had he sworn? If only I knew. It might mean he was far from indifferent. Maybe he would fight for me after all.

“What of it?” Agamemnon demanded. “I care not what he chooses to swear!”

Menelaus shot him a baleful look and quickly dropped his eyes. My thoughts raced, trying to remember what Patroklos had told Automedon. What oath had Achilleus sworn? This is no good, Automedon had said, I might as well start packing. Did Achilleus intend to leave? To sail for home?

Without me?

But if he meant to leave, the Myrmidons had to break camp and load their belongings into the ships. Perhaps when all was ready, he would come to spirit me away.

“But without Achilleus we’ll never—” Menelaus began.

“Silence!” Agamemnon roared. He gulped his wine and splashed more into his cup. “Don’t plague me with your doom talk, Men’laus.” He slurred the words. “It’s ’cause of your whore wife that we’re here at all.”

Menelaus sent his brother a look of anger, quickly veiled by a worried frown, but he remained silent while Agamemnon took another swig.

When they’re ready to sail, he’ll come for me. He must. But how long would it take?

The king turned and motioned to me. “Bring that stool close. Lemme look at you.” As I obeyed, my movements heavy with dread, he inspected me through glazed eyes. “You’re fair, very fair, Briseis. Diff’rent from what I remember. When he brought you to camp, you were so dirty and ragged I didn’t realize—” He shot me a sudden look of suspicion. “Why, you did it on purpose! A sly harlot’s trick.” His eyes narrowed with rage. “You tried to look ugly so I wouldn’t notice you. Why? Because of him?”

I felt the blood leave my face. Drunk though he seemed, he saw too much. As I pushed my stool back into the shadows, he came part way out of his chair toward me, his fist clenched. Menelaus started to rise, but Agamemnon subsided with a muttered curse. Stealthily, Menelaus leaned across and lifted the wine skin from where it hung by a strap on the back of the king’s chair. Agamemnon snatched it back, breaking the strap, spilling a gush of wine on the floor.

“I think you’ve had enough,” Menelaus said tentatively.

“Don’t you dare order me! You forget yourself, brother.”

It was a snarl, and Menelaus recoiled, saying, “I was only suggesting. Remember the last time. When you drink too much, you get so—”

“Enough!” the king bellowed. “Out of my sight!”

Both men were on their feet, breathing hard. Agamemnon swayed. “Very well. Good night,” Menelaus said. Don’t leave, I thought, but he backed toward the door.

I leapt up in panic. I clung to a desperate hope. Could I enlist Menelaus’s aid? Could I even trust him? Seeing that Agamemnon was busy refilling his wine goblet, I rushed to Menelaus’s side. “Don’t leave me alone with him!” I whispered.

“I must.” For a moment, his eyes showed a weak sympathy. Then his gaze fell away from mine. “Humor him,” he said. “But don’t let him drink any more wine. He gets violent when he’s drunk.” He glanced over at his brother, who had gulped his goblet and was lurching toward us. Menelaus opened the door and leaned toward me. “Whatever you do,” he warned, “don’t let him talk about his dead daughter, Iphigenia, because if he—”

But before he could finish, Agamemnon slammed the door in his face and yanked my arm. “Come ’ere,” he slurred. “Come with me.”