She nodded, cleared her throat softly as she often did before a story. “Her name is Andromache, and she is the only daughter of King Eetion of Cilicia. Hector is said to love her above all things.
“He first saw her when he came to her father’s kingdom for tribute. She welcomed him, and entertained him at the feast that evening. At the night’s end, Hector asked her father for her hand.”
“She must have been very beautiful.”
“People say she is fair, but not the fairest girl Hector might have found. She is known for a sweet temper and gentle spirit. The country people love her because she often brings them food and clothes. She was pregnant, but I have not heard what became of the child.”
“Where is Cilicia?” I asked.
“It is to the south, along the coast, not far from here by horse.”
“Near Lesbos,” Achilles said. Briseis nodded.
Later, when all the rest had gone, he said, “We raided Cilicia. Did you know?”
“No.”
He nodded. “I remember that man, Eetion. He had eight sons. They tried to hold us off.”
I could tell by the quietness of his voice.
“You killed them.” An entire family, slaughtered.
He caught the look on my face though I tried to hide it. But he did not lie to me, ever.
“Yes.”
I knew he killed men every day; he came home wet with their blood, stains he scrubbed from his skin before dinner. But there were moments, like now, when that knowledge overwhelmed me. When I would think of all the tears that he had made fall, in all the years that had passed. And now Andromache, too, and Hector grieved because of him. He seemed to sit across the world from me then, though he was so close I could feel the warmth rising from his skin. His hands were in his lap, spear-callused but beautiful still. No hands had ever been so gentle, or so deadly.
Overhead, the stars were veiled. I could feel the air’s heaviness. There would be a storm tonight. The rain would be soaking, filling up the earth till she burst her seams. It would gush down from the mountaintops, gathering strength to sweep away what stood in its path: animals and houses and men.
He is such a flood, I thought.
His voice broke the silence of my thoughts. “I left one son alive,” he said. “The eighth son. So that their line would not die.”
Strange that such a small kindness felt like grace. And yet, what other warrior would have done as much? Killing a whole family was something to boast of, a glorious deed that proved you powerful enough to wipe a name from the earth. This surviving son would have children; he would give them his family’s name and tell their story. They would be preserved, in memory if not in life.
“I am glad,” I said, my heart full.
The logs in the fire grew white with ash. “It is strange,” he said. “I have always said that Hector’s done nothing to offend me. But he cannot say the same, now.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
YEARS PASSED AND A SOLDIER, ONE OF AJAX’S, BEGAN TO complain about the war’s length. At first he was ignored; the man was hideously ugly and known to be a scoundrel. But he grew eloquent. Four years, he said, and nothing to show for it. Where is the treasure? Where is the woman? When will we leave? Ajax clouted him on the head, but the man would not be silenced. See how they treat us?
Slowly, his discontent spread from one camp to the next. It had been a bad season, particularly wet, and miserable for fighting. Injuries abounded, rashes and mud-turned ankles and infections. The biting flies had settled so thickly over parts of the camp they looked like clouds of smoke.
Sullen and scratching, men began to loiter around the agora. At first they did nothing but collect in small groups, whispering. Then the soldier who had begun it joined them, and their voices grew louder.
Four years!
How do we know she’s even in there? Has anyone seen her?
Troy will never submit to us.
We should all just stop fighting.
When Agamemnon heard, he ordered them whipped. The next day there were twice as many; not a few were Mycenaeans.
Agamemnon sent an armed force to disperse them. The men slunk off, then returned when the force was gone. In answer, Agamemnon ordered a phalanx to guard the agora all day. But this was frustrating duty—in full sun, where the flies were most numerous. By the end of the day, the phalanx was ragged from desertion and the number of mutineers had swollen.
Agamemnon used spies to report on those who complained; these men were then seized and whipped. The next morning, several hundred men refused to fight. Some gave illness as an excuse, some gave no excuse at all. Word spread, and more men took suddenly ill. They threw their swords and shields onto the dais in a heap and blocked the agora. When Agamemnon tried to force his way through, they folded their arms and would not budge.
Denied in his own agora, Agamemnon grew red in the face, then redder. His fingers went white on the scepter he held, stout wood banded with iron. When the man in front of him spat at his feet, Agamemnon lifted the scepter and brought it down sharply on his head. We all heard the crack of breaking bone. The man dropped.
I do not think Agamemnon meant to hit him so hard. He seemed frozen, staring at the body at his feet, unable to move. Another man knelt to roll the body over; half the skull was caved in from the force of the blow. The news hissed through the men with a sound like a fire lighting. Many drew their knives. I heard Achilles murmur something; then he was gone from my side.
Agamemnon’s face was filled with the growing realization of his mistake. He had recklessly left his loyal guards behind. He was surrounded now; help could not reach him even if it wanted to. I held my breath, sure I was about to see him die.
“Men of Greece!”
Startled faces turned to the shout. Achilles stood atop a pile of shields on the dais. He looked every inch the champion, beautiful and strong, his face serious.
“You are angry,” he said.
This caught their attention. They were angry. It was unusual for a general to admit that his troops might feel such a thing.
“Speak your grievance,” he said.
“We want to leave!” The voice came from the back of the crowd. “The war is hopeless!”
“The general lied to us!”
A surging murmur of agreement.
“It has been four years!” This last was the angriest of all. I could not blame them. For me these four years had been an abundance, time that had been wrested from the hands of miserly fates. But for them it was a life stolen: from children and wives, from family and home.
“It is your right to question such things,” Achilles said. “You feel misled; you were promised victory.”
“Yes!”
I caught a glimpse of Agamemnon’s face, curdled with anger. But he was stuck in the crowd, unable to free himself or speak without causing a scene.
“Tell me,” Achilles said. “Do you think Aristos Achaion fights in hopeless wars?”
The men did not answer.
“Well?”
“No,” someone said.
Achilles nodded, gravely. “No. I do not, and I will swear so on any oath. I am here because I believe that we will win. I am staying until the end.”
“That is fine for you.” A different voice. “But what of those who wish to go?”
Agamemnon opened his mouth to answer. I could imagine what he might have said. No one leaves! Deserters will be executed! But he was lucky that Achilles was swifter.
“You’re welcome to leave whenever you like.”
“We are?” The voice was dubious.
“Of course.” He paused, and offered his most guileless, friendly smile. “But I get your share of the treasure when we take Troy.”
I felt the tension in the air ease, heard a few huffs of appreciative laughter. The prince Achilles spoke of treasure to be won, and where there was greed there was hope.