“I’m sorry,” I said.
She did not answer. I watched the soft heaving of her back beneath the white gown. I took a step towards her, then stopped. I had thought to touch her, to smooth her hair in comfort. But it would not be comfort, from me. My hand fell back to my side.
We stood there like that for some time, the sound of our breaths filling the chamber. When she turned, her face was ruddy from crying.
“Achilles does not regard me.” Her voice trembled a little. “Even though I bear his child and am his wife. Do you—know why this is so?”
It was a child’s question, like why the rain falls or why the sea’s motion never ceases. I felt older than her, though I was not.
“I do not know,” I said softly.
Her face twisted. “That’s a lie. You’re the reason. You will sail with him, and I will be left here.”
I knew something of what it was to be alone. Of how another’s good fortune pricked like a goad. But there was nothing I could do.
“I should go,” I said, as gently as I could.
“No!” She moved quickly to block my way. Her words tumbled out. “You cannot. I will call the guards if you try. I will—I will say you attacked me.”
Sorrow for her dragged at me, bearing me down. Even if she called them, even if they believed her, they could not help her. I was the companion of Achilles and invulnerable.
My feelings must have shown on my face; she recoiled from me as if stung, and the heat sparked in her again.
“You were angry that he married me, that he lay with me. You were jealous. You should be.” Her chin lifted, as it used to. “It was not just once.”
It was twice. Achilles had told me. She thought that she had power to drive a wedge between us, but she had nothing.
“I’m sorry,” I said again. I had nothing better to say. He did not love her; he never would.
As if she heard my thought, her face crumpled. Her tears fell on the floor, turning the gray stone black, drop by drop.
“Let me get your father,” I said. “Or one of your women.”
She looked up at me. “Please—” she whispered. “Please do not leave.”
She was shivering, like something just born. Always before, her hurts had been small, and there had been someone to offer her comfort. Now there was only this room, the bare walls and single chair, the closet of her grief.
Almost unwillingly, I stepped towards her. She gave a small sigh, like a sleepy child, and drooped gratefully into the circle of my arms. Her tears bled through my tunic; I held the curves of her waist, felt the warm, soft skin of her arms. He had held her just like this, perhaps. But Achilles seemed a long way off; his brightness had no place in this dull, weary room. Her face, hot as if with fever, pressed against my chest. All I could see of her was the top of her head, the whorl and tangle of her shining dark hair, the pale scalp beneath.
After a time, her sobs subsided, and she drew me closer. I felt her hands stroking my back, the length of her body pressing to mine. At first I did not understand. Then I did.
“You do not want this,” I said. I made to step back, but she held me too tightly.
“I do.” Her eyes had an intensity to them that almost frightened me.
“Deidameia.” I tried to summon the voice I had used to make Peleus yield. “The guards are outside. You must not—”
But she was calm now, and sure. “They will not disturb us.”
I swallowed, my throat dry with panic. “Achilles will be looking for me.”
She smiled sadly. “He will not look here.” She took my hand. “Come,” she said. And drew me through her bedroom’s door.
Achilles had told me about their nights together when I asked. It had not been awkward for him to do so—nothing was forbidden between us. Her body, he said, was soft and small as a child’s. She had come to his cell at night with his mother and lain beside him on the bed. He had feared he would hurt her; it had been swift, and neither spoke. He floundered as he tried to describe the heavy, thick smell, the wetness between her legs. “Greasy,” he said, “like oil.” When I pressed him further, he shook his head. “I cannot remember, really. It was dark, and I could not see. I wanted it to be over.” He stroked my cheek. “I missed you.”
The door closed behind us, and we were alone in a modest room. The walls were hung with tapestries, and the floor was thick with sheepskin rugs. There was a bed, pushed against the window, to catch the hint of breeze.
She pulled her dress over her head, and dropped it on the floor.
“Do you think I am beautiful?” she asked me.
I was grateful for a simple answer. “Yes,” I said. Her body was small and delicately made, with just the barest rise of belly where the child grew. My eyes were drawn down to what I had never seen before, a small furred area, the dark hairs spreading lightly upwards. She saw me looking. Reaching for my hand she guided me to that place, which radiated heat like the embers of a fire.
The skin that slipped against my fingers was warm and delicate, so fragile I was almost afraid I would tear it with my touch. My other hand reached up to stroke her cheek, to trace the softness beneath her eyes. The look in them was terrible to see: there was no hope or pleasure, only determination.
Almost, I fled. But I could not bear to see her face broken open with more sorrow, more disappointment—another boy who could not give her what she wanted. So I allowed her hands, fumbling a little, to draw me to the bed, to guide me between her thighs, where tender skin parted, weeping slow warm drops. I felt resistance and would have drawn back, but she shook her head sharply. Her small face was tight with concentration, her jaw set as if against pain. It was a relief for us both when at last the skin eased, gave way. When I slipped into that sheathing warmth within her.
I will not say I was not aroused. A slow climbing tension moved through me. It was a strange, drowsy feeling, so different from my sharp, sure desires for Achilles. She seemed hurt by this, my heavy-lidded repose. More indifference. And so I let myself move, made sounds of pleasure, pressed my chest against hers as if in passion, flattening her soft, small breasts beneath me.
She was pleased then, suddenly fierce, pulling and pushing me harder and faster, her eyes lighting in triumph at the changes in my breath. And then, at the slow rising of tide inside me, her legs, light but firm, wrapped around my back, bucking me into her, drawing out the spasm of my pleasure.
Afterwards we lay breathless, side by side but not touching. Her face was shadowed and distant, her posture strangely stiff. My mind was still muddied from climax, but I reached to hold her. I could offer her this, at least.
But she drew away from me and stood, her eyes wary; the skin beneath them was dark as bruises. She turned to dress, and her round heart-shaped buttocks stared at me like a reproach. I did not understand what she had wanted; I only knew I had not given it. I stood and pulled on my tunic. I would have touched her, stroked her face, but her eyes warned me away, sharp and full. She held open the door. Hopelessly, I stepped over the threshold.
“Wait.” Her voice sounded raw. I turned. “Tell him good-bye,” she said. And then closed the door, dark and thick between us.
WHEN I FOUND ACHILLES again, I pressed myself to him in relief at the joy between us, at being released from her sadness and hurt.
Later, I almost convinced myself it had not happened, that it had been a vivid dream, drawn from his descriptions and too much imagination. But that is not the truth.
Chapter Fourteen