Warrior’s Prize

“In sea raids I plundered a dozen towns,

eleven in expeditions overland

through Trojan country, and the treasure taken

out of them all, great heaps of handsome things,

I carried back each time to Agamemnon.”

—Achilleus, Iliad, Homer, Book IX,

  (Fitzgerald’s translation)

A plank rested against the hull. I dug my feet into the sand. I couldn’t face this trip into the unknown. Yet for the sake of my baby I must.

Patroklos nudged me forward. Picking up my skirts, I splashed into water and climbed onto a steep plank that shifted with the rocking of the ship. Strips of wood served as footholds. As Patroklos steadied the plank, I pulled myself up with difficulty. My knees shook. My skirts caught and tore. I almost fell. At the top, Achilleus’s shadow fell across me. He lifted me over the rail onto the stern deck and did not release me.

A gangway ran down the center of the ship, across thwarts where the rowers sat. Between the thwarts it was a sheer drop to the depths of the ship.

I tried to pull away. His hands dropped. “There are others below in the hold,” he said, “the women from Thebe. But there’s space for you up on deck.”

I faced him squarely. “I’ll travel with the other captives.”

“It’s much better up here. You can see where we’re going, and—” I shook my head vehemently. He shrugged. “Very well. But if you change your mind—if you need anything—call me or Patroklos.” I turned away without answering, and stepped too close to the inner edge of the deck. “Be careful!” Grinning, he pulled me back. “If you insist on going down there, you’d best use this!” He indicated a ladder that dropped from the deck to the bilge.

I backed onto it and descended awkwardly. Below was a world of shadows striped with sunlight from above. Thirty or so dark shapes huddled on timbers that lay across the bottom of the hull. I stood still, eyes adjusting to the dimness. A voice said, “Here,” and I saw a vacant spot. Stepping from plank to plank, I made my way over. Dank-smelling water sloshed in the bottom of the ship, black as the River Styx. As I reached the place and sank down, I saw the faces of the Theban women more clearly, their rigid features and blank eyes, their cheeks bloodied with the marks of mourning.

I found no words. I didn’t know anyone from Thebe. My only visit there had been two years ago when all in the surrounding villages were bidden to the wedding of their king’s daughter Andromache to Hektor, the prince of Troy. Though I was only one in the crowd, I remembered how fair she looked and how the love shone in her eyes when she gazed at Hektor.

Above, Achilleus shouted an order. With a shuddering, grating sound, the ship was pushed off from the sandy bottom. I heard shouts as the remaining men scrambled aboard. Free of the bottom, the ship moved and rocked. The great oars were thrust into position, and bilge water sloshed around us as the men began to row. Looking up, I saw the undersides of oarsmen’s legs, muscles straining, feet braced on the thwart in front of them. Every man sat by an oar except Achilleus and Patroklos. The rowers’ rhythmic efforts were synchronized by Achilleus’s shouts: “Pull! Pull—together—pull!” When the ship was underway, someone took up the rhythm by beating a drum, and Achilleus called out orders for the raising of the sail. As he and three other men hauled on the ropes, hand over hand, with furious effort, an enormous sail of white and wine-red canvas stripes unrolled against the blue sky. The sail bellied out and took the wind. The ship’s progress became fast and smooth. Gradually I grew used to the rocking movement, the splash of waves against the outside of the hull.

I looked around at the other women. “Are you all from Thebe?”

A chorus of cries broke out. “Aye, our city fell!”

“The marauders killed all our men. Even our king, Eetion.”

“And his sons, the princes!”

The Theban women fell silent, their gazes focused on the center of the hold. A pallet had been placed across the planks, and a pale-faced woman lay on it, motionless, eyes half open, glazed, staring at nothing. Her dark hair was streaked with gray, her thin hands half clenched. Only the slight rise and fall of her chest betrayed that she lived.

I looked around at the women. “Who is she?”

“Our queen,” someone said. “King Eetion’s wife.”

“Andromache’s mother!” I’d seen her at the wedding but hadn’t recognized her in this gray, corpse-like shade. Now, in the high cheekbones, the strong, dark brows, I glimpsed a resemblance to her daughter.

“She saw her husband slain,” another woman said, “and all of her sons.”

“How many sons?” I asked in a hushed voice.

“Seven. The Achaean leader, Achilleus, slew them all.”

“What of Andromache?” I asked.

“She is safe in Troy. But she’s lost all her family. All she has left are her husband Hektor and their baby boy.”

I asked, “What will become of the queen?”

“The Achaean leader will ransom her,” one of the women answered. “When he saw she was stricken, he promised to send her to her father’s house as soon as we reached their camp.”

Another woman said, “She’s been like this ever since we left Thebe.”

I crept to the queen’s side. Someone had seen to her comfort. There was a pillow under her head and a blanket over her. A stoppered water jar was within her reach, but the woman lay like one already dead. The left side of her face was distorted, her mouth slack. Saliva drooled from her lips and pooled under her cheek. I gasped. My mother had died like this. I felt again the unendurable pain of her loss. I took one of the queen’s cold, unresponsive hands, and the pain of her sorrow assailed me as if it were my own. I whispered, “My lady, you will soon be going to your father’s home. You will be cared for there.”

Her eyes did not even flicker. From her mouth came a sound like dry rustling autumn leaves in the wind. “They’re all gone,” she whispered, and said no more. Very gently I arranged the covers about her. My pain seemed insignificant next to hers. “I’ll be nearby,” I said, “if you need me.” I returned to my place against the hull.

One of the women said, “We’ve all tried. We can’t reach her.”

“I’m afraid she’ll die,” I said. Like my mother died.

A voice answered, “Perhaps it’s better so.”

“At least she has a chance,” someone else said. “She’ll be ransomed.”

“But no one will ransom us,” added a thin, older woman.

A silence met her words, heavy with dread for what lay before us as slaves in the marauders’ camp. Then a voice spoke beside me, light and crisp, out of place in this underworld of grief. “I shall be ransomed.”

I looked, and saw a young girl three or four years younger than I. Her smooth, pretty face bore no marks of mourning. I realized the others were as perplexed as I.

“She’s unknown to us,” the woman next to me whispered. “We never saw her before we boarded the ships.”

Someone asked the girl, “Why you? Who are you?”

“My name is Chryseis,” she replied. “I’m from Chrysa. I went on a journey to Thebe with my brother, who escaped when Thebe was taken. My father’s the high priest in the temple of Apollo at Chrysa, and he’ll ransom me.”

That explained why there were no scratches on her cheeks. The others were looking at her with envy and bitterness.

The ship gave a sudden heave. The prow dipped and leaped. Spray rained down on us. We must have left the calm waters of the Adramyttenos Gulf and entered the rough seas beyond. With every rolling surge, I was afraid the ship would tip over. The women began to sicken, and soon my empty stomach convulsed. I leaned forward between the planks, heaving up mouthfuls of bile. The smell of sickness filled my nostrils.

Next to me, Chryseis began moaning plaintively. “I feel so ill! I’m not used to this. I’ll die! I must have fresh air—” She seemed oblivious to everyone else’s suffering.

I was about to answer sharply when an idea came to me. “Do you want to go on deck?”

“Oh, please!”

“Come with me.” With a great effort I got up. I took her arm, feeling her softness, her fragility. Half dragging her limp form, I managed to lead her to the ladder. The constant surging of the ship threw us off balance. Grasping a rung, I called up into the wind, “Patroklos!”

But Achilleus, on the gangway, called down, “What is it?”

“This girl needs air,” I shouted.

He swung himself down the ladder. Chryseis leaned on my shoulder, eyes closed. “You offered to let me travel on deck,” I said. “Will you take her instead?”

He looked thoughtfully at Chryseis’s fair, delicate face, slim neck, and shiny coil of dark brown hair. “She’s very lovely. What a good idea!” His lips were set in a firm line, but his eyes danced with merriment. “You come too. You look a bit pale.”

“I’ll stay here.” The words came out choked as I thought of the stricken queen. Achilleus’s eyes narrowed in a look I couldn’t interpret. He lifted the girl into his arms and transferred her onto his shoulder, his hand curving firmly about her thighs. As he sprang up the ladder, he seemed unable to contain himself. He gave a sudden, joyous laugh.

The sound of it outraged me, but I stumbled back to my place, thinking, Now maybe he’ll forget about me.

The ship lurched, throwing me back against the hull. The woman next to me was heaving, and I was sick again. It was like the torments the gods devise for wicked souls in Hades. Hours passed until at last, weak and limp, I lay curled up, my head buried in my arms, and slept.

I awoke to a jolt, a grating roar, the ship being run up on sand. There were thuds on either side of the hull as the ship was braced. Through the thwarts I saw a black sky, a half-moon, and the stars of deep night. The women groped to their feet.

I crawled to the queen, who lay motionless. Her eyes were closed. There was a mess of dried sickness under her face. I removed the soiled pillow and pulled up a fold of blanket to prop her head. I touched her cheek. Her flesh was cold. I clasped her hands. I couldn’t even feel if she was still alive. Then I heard her slow, shallow breaths. I can’t let her die alone, I thought.

A light shone on us. One of the men stood on the deck above holding a pine torch. He placed it in a bracket, illuminating the hold. “Come on!” he shouted. “Up the ladder, and don’t take all night about it!”

Several women looked at me questioningly. “I’ll stay with her,” I said. They made their way to the ladder. After they climbed out, a man came down the ladder with swift steps that rocked the ship. Without looking I knew who it was.

Achilleus knelt at the queen’s other side. In the guttering light of the torch, his face showed concern but no remorse. “Leave her alone,” I said. “If she wakes and sees you, it will only make her worse.”

Without replying, he leaned close to check her breathing and touched one of her hands. Then he glanced at me. “The other women are on the shore. Go with them.”

“But she’s dying!”

“I’ll have her taken to Machaon, the physician,” he said.

“Let me tend her,” I begged.

“No.” He seemed almost regretful. “You must go to the gathering. All the women must be seen by the king.” His face was grim, and I understood that, little as he liked it, he was under the compulsion of this overlord he despised. He looked down to where my hands were still linked with the queen’s. Unclasping them, he lifted her with surprising gentleness.

“Go!” He jerked his head at the ladder. “With the others. I’ll come after.”

Having no choice, I clawed up the ladder, aware of him behind me, climbing awkwardly with his burden. As I descended the plank onto the beach, Achilleus called for Patroklos and another man to help him lower the sick woman to the shore. Someone ran up with a litter. They laid her on it. As they vanished with her into the darkness, I knew I’d never see her again.

The ground rocked under my feet. I stood on a barren shore, the night wind whipping around me. Inland was a dark plain and long, low hills. It was a dismal place. In my damp gown I could not stop shaking. I walked toward the women, my legs so cold and rigid I could barely move. Chryseis materialized beside me. She seemed to have fully recovered from her ordeal. Her eyes were bright, her lips smiling. Someone had lent her a clean mantle, which I envied.

“I feel much better,” she informed me. “Achilleus was so kind! He let me wear his mantle. Is he not handsome?”

I made some wordless, half-choked demur.

“He tells me we will be taken to the center of the camp to see the king,” she continued. “And the spoils will be divided among the men.”

“Spoils? That means us, Chryseis.”

“Oh! But Father will ransom me soon.”

I pitied her. I wondered if she had any idea that before her rescue some rough marauder, perhaps Achilleus himself, would brutalize her. As we walked up the shore, I took her by the arm, wishing I could protect her but knowing I couldn’t even protect myself.

We joined a much larger group as the other ships unloaded their passengers, some from Lyrnessos and others from Thebe. As the Achaean guards herded us along the beach, I looked around for Nesaia, Pherusa, Maira, and others that I knew, but the crowd was too large, and I couldn’t find them in the darkness. My despair grew. The women shuffled along like shades. Nobody spoke. To our left lay countless ships, their prows resting on the sand. Up the beach were clusters of huts. Scores of Achaeans came out of them and followed us, many light-haired and tall. Our people were mostly darker and of smaller stature than these strangers. As we walked I heard rumors of the raid, leaping like sparks from speaker to listener.

“Achilleus is back! Look at all those women!” As if we were beasts, they did not trouble to lower their voices.

“The drawing of lots will take place right now—in the center of camp.”

“Agamemnon gets first choice—lucky man.”

We came to an open place where a bonfire burned, the spoils of Lyrnessos and Thebe heaped around. Our Achaean guards led us to stand in a semi-circle about the fire, arranging us in several ranks, the older women in the back, the younger, more attractive ones in the front, so that we could be clearly seen, I supposed. Chryseis and I were in the first row, near the fire. I was grateful for the warmth. The crowd swelled to a vast throng. Voices clamored around us.

“…quite a raid!”

“I didn’t think Achilleus would carry it off so quickly.”

“…brought in enough supplies to last a long time!”

“Agamemnon will be coming…”

“…the heralds went to wake him.”

“Where is Achilleus? He should be here, too.”

There was a loud clang as a herald struck his staff on a bronze caldron.

Someone said, “The king! He’s here!” A hush fell over the crowd. A voice shouted, “Make way!” As the king advanced through the cleared space, I stood on my toes to see.

A squat, broad man stepped into view. I’d expected a powerful presence, but only the gold circlet on his head and the scepter in his hand identified him as the High King. Rimmed in shaggy brown curls and a beard, his face was wide, bloated. His jowls sagged. Broken veins crossed his nose and cheeks. A dissipated face, a drunkard’s face. Under beetling brows, his small eyes glowed with a greedy light. My heart sank. Achilleus’s words echoed in my mind: Wait until you’ve seen him!

But he alone could save me from becoming the slave of Mynes’s killer.

There was a stir as Achilleus, with Patroklos a pace behind, made his way through the crowd. He’d washed, changed his tunic, and donned a short dark cloak, which was slung over one shoulder. His chest rose and fell rapidly. He must have run here after completing his errand. As he made his way to the king’s side, he passed quite close to Chryseis and me but did not glance our way.

“Greetings, King Agamemnon,” he said in a formal tone. “I bring you the spoils of the raid so that you may choose your share.”

“My thanks, Achilleus,” the king replied condescendingly. “You keep our men well-provisioned. You shall have second choice of all this treasure.”

“I am honored!” There was no mistaking the sarcasm in Achilleus’s voice.

The king approached. His rapacious eyes passed over the group, assessing the women, dismissing all but a select few in the front, coming to rest at last on Chryseis and me. I shot her a sidelong glance. Too late I realized what he was seeing. She looked fair and fresh, while I was cold, wet, dirty, my face scratched raw, my hair tangled, undone. My torn, bloodied gown hung loose, carrying the stench of vomit. Agamemnon’s lips curled with distaste. Under his gaze, I straightened and lifted my head.

His eyes went back to Chryseis, and he smiled with appreciation. “Aha!” he exclaimed. “Here’s one that doesn’t look like a wet rag. She’s beautiful!” She bridled a bit at his words, and misgiving flickered in her face. He extended his hand. “What is your name, my dear? Speak up! You are the chosen one of the king.”

I glanced at Achilleus. A savage light of triumph shone in his eyes. He’d gotten his way after all. Suddenly I knew why he’d laughed on the ship when I gave him Chryseis. He had foreseen this would happen.

A cheer arose from the crowd. I didn’t hear Chryseis’s reply as Agamemnon led her away. Achilleus stood before me, his eyes black in the darkness, sparking with orange lights from the fire. When he drew me forward by the wrist, I jerked back and stumbled in weakness and exhaustion. Derisive laughter erupted from the watching men. Achilleus caught me by the elbows in his firm grip and turned me to face his friend.

“Take her back to our camp, Patroklos,” he said. “Look after her for me.”