I could barely watch these girls as they stumbled into camp to be parceled off. I sent Achilles out to ask for them, to seek as many as he could, and the men teased him about his voraciousness, his endless priapism. “Didn’t even know you liked girls,” Diomedes joked.
Each new girl went first to Briseis, who would speak comfort to her in soft Anatolian. She would be allowed to bathe and be given new clothes, and then would join the others in the tent. We put up a new one, larger, to fit them all: eight, ten, eleven girls. Mostly it was Phoinix and I who spoke to them; Achilles stayed away. He knew that they had seen him killing their brothers and lovers and fathers. Some things could not be forgiven.
Slowly, they grew less frightened. They spun, and talked in their own language, sharing the words they picked up from us— helpful words, like cheese, or water, or wool. They were not as quick as Briseis was, but they patched together enough that they could speak to us.
It was Briseis’ idea for me to spend a few hours with them each day, teaching them. But the lessons were more difficult than I thought: the girls were wary, their eyes darting to each other; they were not sure what to make of my sudden appearance in their lives. It was Briseis again who eased their fears and let our lessons grow more elaborate, stepping in with a word of explanation or a clarifying gesture. Her Greek was quite good now, and more and more I simply deferred to her. She was a better teacher than I, and funnier too. Her mimes brought us all to laughter: a sleepy-eyed lizard, two dogs fighting. It was easy to stay with them long and late, until I heard the creaking of the chariot, and the distant banging of bronze, and returned to greet my Achilles.
It was easy, in those moments, to forget that the war had not yet really begun.
Chapter Twenty-Two
AS TRIUMPHANT AS THE RAIDS WERE, THEY WERE ONLY raids. The men who died were farmers, tradesmen, from the vast network of villages that supported the mighty city—not soldiers. In councils Agamemnon’s jaw grew increasingly tight, and the men were restive: where was the fight we were promised?
Close, Odysseus said. He pointed out the steady flood of refugees into Troy. The city must be near to bursting now. Hungry families would be spilling into the palace, makeshift tents would clog the city’s streets. It was only a matter of time, he told us.
As if conjured by his prophecy, a flag of parley flew above Troy’s walls the very next morning. The soldier on watch raced down the beach to tell Agamemnon: King Priam was willing to receive an embassy.
The camp was afire with the news. One way or another now, something would happen. They would return Helen, or we would get to fight for her properly, in the field.
The council of kings sent Menelaus and Odysseus, the obvious choices. The two men left at first light on their high-stepping horses, brushed to a shine and jingling with ornament. We watched them cross the grass of Troy’s wide plain, then vanish into the blur of the dark gray walls.
Achilles and I waited in our tents, wondering. Would they see Helen? Paris could hardly dare to keep her from her husband, and he could hardly dare to show her either. Menelaus had gone conspicuously unarmed; perhaps he did not trust himself.
“Do you know why she chose him?” Achilles asked me.
“Menelaus? No.” I remembered the king’s face in Tyndareus’ hall, glowing with health and good humor. He had been handsome, but not the handsomest man there. He had been powerful, but there were many men with more wealth and greater deeds to their name. “He brought a generous gift. And her sister was already married to his brother, maybe that was part of it.”
Achilles considered this, arm folded behind his head. “Do you think she went with Paris willingly?”
“I think if she did, she will not admit it to Menelaus.”
“Mmm.” He tapped a finger against his chest, thinking. “She must have been willing, though. Menelaus’ palace is like a fortress. If she had struggled or cried out, someone would have heard. She knew he must come after her, for his honor if nothing else. And that Agamemnon would seize this opportunity and invoke the oath.”
“I would not have known that.”
“You are not married to Menelaus.”
“So you think she did it on purpose? To cause the war?” This shocked me.
“Maybe. She used to be known as the most beautiful woman in our kingdoms. Now they say she’s the most beautiful woman in the world.” He put on his best singer’s falsetto. “A thousand ships have sailed for her.”
A thousand was the number Agamemnon’s bards had started using; one thousand, one hundred and eighty-six didn’t fit well in a line of verse.
“Maybe she really fell in love with Paris.”
“Maybe she was bored. After ten years shut up in Sparta, I’d want to leave too.”
“Maybe Aphrodite made her.”
“Maybe they’ll bring her back with them.”
We considered this.
“I think Agamemnon would attack anyway.”
“I think so too. They never even mention her anymore.”
“Except in speeches to the men.”
We were silent a moment.
“So which of the suitors would you have picked?”
I shoved him, and he laughed.
THEY RETURNED AT NIGHTFALL, alone. Odysseus reported to the council, while Menelaus sat silent. King Priam had welcomed them warmly, feasted them in his hall. Then he had stood before them, flanked by Paris and Hector, with his other forty-eight sons arrayed behind. “We know why you have come,” he said. “But the lady herself does not wish to return, and has put herself under our protection. I have never refused a woman’s defense, and I will not begin now.”
“Clever,” said Diomedes. “They have found a way around their guilt.”
Odysseus continued, “I told them that if they were so resolved, there was no more to say.”
Agamemnon rose, his voice ringing grandly. “Indeed there is not. We have tried diplomacy and been rebuffed. Our only honorable course is war. Tomorrow you go to win the glory you deserve, every last man of you.”
There was more, but I did not hear it. Every last man. Fear sluiced through me. How could I not have thought of this? Of course I would be expected to fight. We were at war now, and all had to serve. Especially the closest companion of Aristos Achaion.
That night I barely slept. The spears that leaned against the walls of our tent seemed impossibly tall, and my mind scrambled to remember a few lessons—how to heft them, how to duck. The Fates had said nothing about me—nothing about how long I would live. I woke Achilles, in panic.
“I will be there,” he promised me.
IN THE DARK just before dawn, Achilles helped me arm. Greaves, gauntlets, a leather cuirass and bronze breastplate over it. It all seemed more of a hindrance than protection, knocking against my chin when I walked, confining my arms, weighing me down. He assured me that I would get used to it. I did not believe him. Walking out of the tent into the morning’s sun I felt foolish, like someone trying on an older brother’s clothing. The Myrmidons were waiting, jostling each other with excitement. Together we began the long trip down the beach to the enormous, massing army. Already my breaths were shallow and swift.
We could hear the army before we saw it; boasting, clattering weapons, blowing horns. Then the beach unkinked and revealed a bristling sea of men laid out in neat squares. Each was marked with a pennant that declared its king. Only one square was empty still: a place of primacy, reserved for Achilles and his Myrmidons. We marched forward and arrayed ourselves, Achilles out in front, then a line of captains to either side of me. Behind us, rank upon gleaming rank of proud Phthians.