His eyes were closed, but he was not sleeping. “I have a child,” he answered.
It shocked me anew each time I remembered it. His child with Deidameia. A boy, Thetis had told him, called Neoptolemus. New War. Nicknamed Pyrrhus, for his fiery red hair. It disturbed me to think of him—a piece of Achilles wandering through the world. “Does he look like you?” I had asked Achilles once. Achilles had shrugged. “I didn’t ask.”
“Do you wish you could see him?”
Achilles shook his head. “It is best that my mother raise him. He will be better with her.”
I did not agree, but this was not the time to say so. I waited a moment, for him to ask me if I wished to have a child. But he did not, and his breathing grew more even. He always fell asleep before I did.
“Achilles?”
“Mmm?”
“Do you like Briseis?”
He frowned, his eyes still closed. “Like her?”
“Enjoy her,” I said. “You know.”
His eyes opened, more alert than I had expected. “What does this have to do with children?”
“Nothing.” But I was obviously lying.
“Does she wish to have a child?”
“Maybe,” I said.
“With me?” he said.
“No,” I said.
“That is good,” he said, eyelids drooping once more. Moments passed, and I was sure he was asleep. But then he said, “With you. She wants to have a child with you.”
My silence was his answer. He sat up, the blanket falling from his chest. “Is she pregnant?” he asked.
There was a tautness to his voice I had not heard before.
“No,” I said.
His eyes dug into mine, sifting them for answers.
“Do you want to?” he asked. I saw the struggle on his face. Jealousy was strange to him, a foreign thing. He was hurt, but did not know how to speak of it. I felt cruel, suddenly, for bringing it up.
“No,” I said. “I don’t think so. No.”
“If you wanted it, it would be all right.” Each word was carefully placed; he was trying to be fair.
I thought of the dark-haired child again. I thought of Achilles.
“It is all right now,” I said.
The relief on his face filled me with sweetness.
THINGS WERE STRANGE for some time after that. Briseis would have avoided me, but I called on her as I used to, and we went for our walks as we always had. We talked of camp gossip and medicine. She did not mention wives, and I was careful not to mention children. I still saw the softness in her eyes when she looked at me. I did my best to return it as I could.
Chapter Twenty-Five
ONE DAY IN THE NINTH YEAR, A GIRL MOUNTED THE dais. There was a bruise on her cheek, spreading like spilled wine down the side of her face. Ribbons fluttered from her hair—ceremonial fillets that marked her as servant to a god. A priest’s daughter, I heard someone say. Achilles and I exchanged a glance.
She was beautiful, despite her terror: large hazel eyes set in a round face, soft chestnut hair loose around her ears, a slender girlish frame. As we watched, her eyes filled, dark pools that brimmed their banks, spilling down her cheeks, falling from her chin to the ground. She did not wipe them away. Her hands were tied behind her back.
As the men gathered, her eyes lifted, seeking the sky in mute prayer. I nudged Achilles, and he nodded; but before he could claim her, Agamemnon stepped forward. He rested one hand on her slight, bowed shoulder. “This is Chryseis,” he said. “And I take her for myself.” Then he pulled her from the dais, leading her roughly to his tent. I saw the priest Calchas frowning, his mouth half-open as if he might object. But then he closed it, and Odysseus finished the distribution.
IT WAS BARELY A MONTH after that the girl’s father came, walking down the beach with a staff of gold-studded wood, threaded with garlands. He wore his beard long in the style of Anatolian priests, his hair unbound but decorated with bits of ribbon to match his staff. His robe was banded with red and gold, loose with fabric that billowed and flapped around his legs. Behind him, silent underpriests strained to heft the weight of huge wooden chests. He did not slow for their faltering steps but strode relentlessly onwards.
The small procession moved past the tents of Ajax, and Diomedes, and Nestor—closest to the agora—and then onto the dais itself. By the time Achilles and I had heard, and run, weaving around slower soldiers, he had planted himself there, staff strong. When Agamemnon and Menelaus mounted the dais to approach him, he did not acknowledge them, only stood there proud before his treasure and the heaving chests of his underlings. Agamemnon glowered at the presumption, but held his tongue.
Finally, when enough soldiers had gathered, drawn from every corner by breathless rumor, he turned to survey them all, his eyes moving across the crowd, taking in kings and common. Landing, at last, on the twin sons of Atreus who stood before him.
He spoke in a voice resonant and grave, made for leading prayers. He gave his name, Chryses, and identified himself, staff raised, as a high priest of Apollo. Then he pointed to the chests, open now to show gold and gems and bronze catching the sun.
“None of this tells us why you have come, Priest Chryses.” Menelaus’ voice was even, but with an edge of impatience. Trojans did not climb the dais of the Greek kings and make speeches.
“I have come to ransom my daughter, Chryseis,” he said. “Taken unlawfully by the Greek army from our temple. A slight girl, and young, with fillets in her hair.”
The Greeks muttered. Suppliants seeking ransom knelt and begged, they did not speak like kings giving sentence in court. Yet he was a high priest, not used to bending to anyone but his god, and allowances could be made. The gold he offered was generous, twice what the girl was worth, and a priest’s favor was never something to scorn. That word, unlawful, had been sharp as a drawn sword, but we could not say that he was wrong to use it. Even Diomedes and Odysseus were nodding, and Menelaus drew a breath as if to speak.
But Agamemnon stepped forward, broad as a bear, his neck muscles twisting in anger.
“Is this how a man begs? You are lucky I do not kill you where you stand. I am this army’s commander,” he spat. “And you have no leave to speak before my men. Here is your answer: no. There will be no ransom. She is my prize, and I will not give her up now or ever. Not for this trash, or any other you can bring.” His fingers clenched, only inches from the priest’s throat. “You will depart now, and let me not ever catch you in my camps again, priest, or even your garlands will not save you.”
Chryses’ jaw was clamped down on itself, though whether from fear or biting back a reply we could not tell. His eyes burned with bitterness. Sharply, without a word, he turned and stepped from the dais and strode back up the beach. Behind him trailed his underpriests with their clinking boxes of treasure.
Even after Agamemnon left and the men had exploded into gossip around me, I watched the shamed priest’s distant, retreating figure. Those at the end of the beach said that he was crying out and shaking his staff at the sky.
That night, slipping among us like a snake, quick and silent and flickering, the plague began.
WHEN WE WOKE the next morning, we saw the mules drooping against their fences, breaths shallow and bubbling with yellow mucus, eyes rolling. Then by midday it was the dogs—whining and snapping at the air, tongues foaming a red-tinged scum. By the late afternoon, every one of these beasts was dead, or dying, shuddering on the ground in pools of bloody vomit.