Warrior’s Prize

How the night passes!

Dawn is near: high stars have all gone down.

Two thirds of night are gone…

Iliad, Homer, Book X

(Fitzgerald’s translation)

The vast darkness of the Trojan plain lay ahead. When I was sure the guard could no longer see me, I sprinted like a pent-up beast set free. I wanted to get far away from the camp, to let the night wind cleanse the stench of it from my skin. But a sharp pain in my side stopped me. Weak from days in my prison, I bent over, hands on my knees, gasping for breath. When I could continue, I looked around to make sure I was alone. The camp, far behind me, was only a low, uneven line along the shore. The moon dipped toward the black expanse of the sea.

I started again on my journey. For the first time since I had left Achilleus’s hut, I breathed deeply with relief. But how empty a world it was, in which I would never see him again—the pain felt as raw as when I’d first learned he was gone.

Dwelling on it only brought sorrow. I forced myself to focus on the terrain ahead, where dark hills rose behind the high ground of Troy. Along the southern horizon loomed the mass of Mount Ida, on the other side of which lay my lost home. Clouds swept across the moon, plunging me into deeper darkness. The ground became damp and uneven. I sank ankle-deep in mire, mud squelching in my sandals, until I found firmer ground. The moon reappeared, its light shimmering on water. I had reached the Scamander, the stream that ribboned across the plain.

I found a wide, shallow rocky place to cross, and on the other side walked on hard-packed dirt marked with holes and slashed by ruts. I stopped. Chariot wheels, horses’ hooves, men’s feet had made these marks, imprinting the soil with a tale of battle. For a moment I couldn’t move or take my eyes from those moonlit scars in the ground. Had many died here by the river? A horrible vision formed in my mind: the riverbank in daylight, aswarm with hordes of men, in chariots and on foot, slashing and killing, and Achilleus in the lead, ruthless and filled with rage as he wielded his spear. I saw the waters of the river, blood red, choked with bodies, rising in an angry flood. Then the vision faded, leaving only the stillness of waning night. But its lingering horror chilled my bones.

It was a fancy, a trick of the mind. It could not be real. The night wind of this haunted place sent shivers through me. I tightened my shawl around me and walked on.

The sky had grown light behind the foothills. I came to a spring and stopped to rinse my muddy feet, wash my face, shake the ashes from my hair and bind it properly. When I started up again, I could discern the looming walls of stone, the square towers of a dark citadel.

I crept forward to stand beneath the forbidding walls. Troy, mightiest of cities, whose riches and arrogance were said to have so angered the gods that they had brought the Achaeans to these shores to besiege it. Awe-filled, I touched the huge stones of its walls, Cyclopean stones said to have been placed here by the gods many aeons ago. Tilting my head back, I looked up at the heights of a tower. Beneath it was a massive timber gate. Certain that a watch was kept there, I stood before it and called out loudly, “Let me in!”

Silence. Then a stir. A voice from above. “Who goes there?”

“I’ve fled from the enemy!” I shouted. “I bring you news.”

A much longer silence this time. I pictured a guard coming down a staircase in the dark. Then came a creaking noise. A crack of deeper blackness appeared, widening as the gate opened slightly. Something poked at me out of the darkness, something sharp and cold that pricked my collarbone. The point of a javelin. The man who held it was a shadow that seemed not to breathe. A second shadow appeared next to him, his breastplate catching a faint glint. Both men wore armor. Some kind of wordless signal passed between them. The javelin was withdrawn and a hand seized my arm, pulling me through the opening. I heard the gate shut with a thud. The darkness was complete.

“Please,” I said, “I need to see Prince Hektor.”

“Hektor?” One of them gave a snort. “Hektor doesn’t waste his time on spies.”

“Sir, I’m an escaped captive.” My voice shook. “I bring news of the enemy.”

“So you say,” grunted the man on my right. “But it looks like the Achaeans are using their whores as spies now. You’ll come with us to the barracks.”

A chill ran down my spine. As they pulled me forward, I reminded myself that at least I was safe from Menelaus and Agamemnon.

I felt them step upward, and my foot struck something hard—a stair. I thought we would climb to the top of the tower, but we only went up four or five steps, then followed a short passage, until we reached a door outlined in pale light. One of the guards flung it open, and I saw a street and houses, the sky lit with the first gray wash of dawn.

I glanced at the guards. One had a thick black beard, the other a pitted skin and a jaw covered with stubble. Both looked grim and weary. The one with the beard shouted to someone at the top of the tower. “Keep watch until we return!” He took my arm. “This way.” We went up a steep, narrow street crowded with houses. Children stared at us from doorways—thin, hollow-cheeked children in rags. Sometimes a woman’s face looked out, bleak and anxious. The smell of wood smoke blended with the stench of the refuse pit. Halfway up the street, a young woman ran out of a house and threw herself on her knees before my guards. She was big with child and clutched a babe of about a year.

“Please, good sirs!” She held up her free hand in supplication. “Let me come with you to the barracks for some barley meal.”

“You’ve had your rations for the day,” said the bearded guard. “What’s left is needed for the fighting men.”

“But my little one is ill with hunger!” Her eyes met mine as the guard shoved her aside.

“We can do nothing,” the bearded guard said. Then he relented. “More supplies will be coming in from Dardania in a few days.” As we moved on, my heart dropped in dismay. So this was Troy after nine years of warfare. It could not provide for its own.

We turned down an alley and came to a wide courtyard. Everywhere in the gray light I saw warriors milling about—the warriors of Troy, who so staunchly fought the Achaeans. I felt a surge of pride.

“Where shall we take her?” the bearded guard asked.

“I say we handle this ourselves,” the other said. “We’ll search her for weapons, then put her in the lock-up cells.”

I looked from one to the other in dismay, but they did not meet my eyes. My knees were shaking. “I’m no spy,” I said. “I have news for Hektor.” Several warriors nearby noticed us and approached. I hoped one of them might come to my aid, but their faces remained impassive. “My husband was the Prince of Lyrnessos,” I said loudly enough for the bystanders to hear. “Hektor knew him.”

The guards merely looked at me in stolid silence. Then the pockmarked one said, “Hold her.” He shoved me to his companion. “I’ll make sure she’s unarmed.”

The bearded man held my arms behind me so tightly that pain shot up to my shoulders. The other guard brought his hands slowly down my body. A grin twitched his lips. My skin went hot with shame. I lifted my head and looked away, as if I were made of stone and could not feel his touch.

The pockmarked man dropped his hands, still leering. “Shall we have some sport with her before we lock her up?”

A surge of fear went through me. I tried to pull away. The bearded guard tightened his hold. I looked appealingly at the men around us—and had another shock. Lewd, arrogant faces stared back. Someone I couldn’t see shouted, “Let’s take turns!” and the men pushed closer.

“Aye, take her up on the walls—let the Achaeans see,” another said, grabbing my arm. Big male bodies jostled me, breathing in my face.

“We have Helen, and now we have this one.”

There were shouts of laughter. “Seems they can’t keep their women!”

I felt sick with the same terror and helplessness I had known in Lyrnessos, surrounded by the enemy. Only this was worse, for here was betrayal where I had expected welcome. “Sirs,” I said in a voice that quavered, “I too am an enemy of the Achaeans.”

More jeers answered me. “One of their whores, you mean!”

I jerked hard against the bearded man’s grip, but only succeeded in colliding with the men closest to me. Someone grabbed me in a rough embrace. I couldn’t breathe. Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw a movement, someone pushing through the crowd. A man thrust himself into the circle with an explosive cry. “Leave her alone!” Faces swung around to look at the newcomer, but held fast and hemmed in as I was, I could not see him. “Free her!” he shouted, and the guard, surprised, dropped my arms. The nearest men reluctantly backed away.

He came to me and took my hands in his. “My lady! Briseis!” So startled I could not utter a sound, I found myself looking into a youthful, bearded face framed by curly black hair, with eyes as brown, as sweet, as warm as honey. I knew that face.

“Do you remember me?” he asked. “The slope of Mount Ida. You tended my wound.”

His name came to me. “Akamas!” I cried. My weakened fingers clung to his hands. The welcome in his face almost made me weep.

“Don’t mistreat this lady!” he told the guards. “I know her. She saved my life.” His eyes came back to me, and he smiled. The sky became golden as the sun rose. His smile washed over me with the same lambent light. “I owe you a great debt,” Akamas said. “I’m glad I found you.”

“I’m glad too,” I whispered.

The warriors backed away. But the guards stayed, flanking me with obvious mistrust.

Akamas ignored them. “How did you come here?” he asked me.

“I was captured that day in Lyrnessos,” I told him. “Last night I escaped.”

“That’s wonderful!” He was still holding my hands. “I’ll take you to my commander, Prince Aeneas.”

“No, you won’t,” the pockmarked guard said. “Your master may be Prince of Dardania, but here he’s just another fighting man.”

“Then let me take her to my home—in Dardania. We’ll be going back there in a day or two for supplies.” For a moment Akamas’s narrowed eyes challenged the two guards as if to remind them where their bread came from. Then he smiled at me. Dardania, I thought. The lushest valley nestled in the arms of Mount Ida, rich in clear springs and running rivers. Akamas’s smile promised me refuge there. With all my heart I wanted what he offered, but, when I thought of the rutted battlefield, the hungry children, the pregnant woman begging for food, I knew I had to complete my task.

“I must speak to Hektor, Akamas. I have information. Can you help me to see him?”

Akamas nodded. “Aye, I can, and—”

“Nay!” the guard interrupted. “She may be a spy or an assassin. Just because she’s a woman—” He seized my arm.

“By the gods!” Akamas cried. “Let her go!” He took my other arm protectively. But the guard yanked me away. “When Aeneas hears of this—” Akamas warned.

“What is this?” demanded a new voice, harsh with authority. We all turned. Akamas and the guard spoke as one.

“Prince Hektor!”

The sun behind him cast his long shadow over us, so that at first I was aware only of a looming darkness. But I remembered him from the day of his wedding to Andromache. He was tall and broad-shouldered, handsome in a stern, forbidding way. Straight black hair was pulled back from his forehead and hung to his shoulders. His deep-set black eyes glittered. His lips were thin and drawn, as if laughter were a stranger to them. I noted his strong, clean-shaven jaw. He held himself rigidly straight. Authority emanated from him, as visible as his shadow.

I made a deep obeisance, touching one knee to the ground. “My lord Prince, I beg you to hear what I have come to say.”

“Who are you?” Hektor asked me.

“Briseis, widow of Mynes,” I answered. His straight black brows were drawn together, his eyes hard. “You knew my husband—the prince of Lyrnessos. And I was at your wedding.”

“Hundreds were at my wedding. I do not know you.”

“I do,” Akamas insisted. “I met her in the hills the day the Achaeans raided Lyrnessos.”

Hektor frowned. “Thebe fell too, that day. My wife’s family—her father, her brothers, all were killed by a single hand!” His fists were clenched so tightly that a tremor ran through his arms. “Your husband,” he demanded suddenly, “did the same hand slay him?”

“Aye,” I whispered.

“Achilleus!” His eyes blazed. “I will have vengeance.”

“Sir,” I began, “that is what I have come to tell you, that he—”

He interrupted. “How came you here? I thought all the women of Lyrnessos were taken captive. And one so fair as you—”

“I was taken captive,” I said quickly, “but I escaped.”

“Ah!” He shot me a sharp look. “And who was your Achaean master?”

The question punched the breath from my lungs. I had not expected it so quickly. A lump rose in my throat. “A-Agamemnon,” I stammered.

“So,” he asked with obvious skepticism, “you’ve been with Agamemnon all this time? And only just escaped?”

My heart pounded so hard I was afraid those penetrating black eyes would notice the quiver of my gown. Akamas, a pace behind me, was listening intently. One of the guards’ sandals scraped the dirt. The silence stretched out until I knew I had to give Hektor the truth.

“Agamemnon took me—stole me,” I said. “Before that, I belonged to— someone else.”

Hektor’s hands grasped my shoulders. “Who?”

“Achilleus,” I whispered.

He dropped his hands and went still. When I looked up, his face was flushed. In his eyes were the banked fires of some deep emotion. “Achilleus’s prize!” His voice resonated with triumph. “Apollo is good to me. Akamas, you did well to keep these oafs from harming her.” I let out my breath in relief. Hektor would surely keep me safe.

Akamas took my arm again. “What are you going to do with her?”

“Leave her to me.” Hektor made an impatient gesture. “You’ll come with me,” he said, taking my other arm. He started to walk, pulling me along.

Akamas let go reluctantly. “Tell me when I may see her again.” Hektor shrugged and kept walking. Akamas, following, caught my hand. “We will meet again, Briseis—” But his steps faltered, and my hand slid from his grasp. He stood still, watching us go.

As I matched my steps to Hektor’s, I became aware that the prince was laughing softly, coldly, triumphantly.