Sweat poured over head and shoulders, and the blood
still ran from his cruel wound…
Iliad, Homer, Book XI,
Rouse’s translation
The war grew suddenly more intense. Skirmishes became real battles. Whenever Achilleus’s men returned from the fray, carrying litters with their wounded comrades, he would come to the hut to shed his armor and fetch supplies and then rush out to tend them, taking Diomede and one or two other women to help. I was never pressed into service.
One morning I was down at the shore scouring pots and thus wasn’t there when Achilleus came to the women’s quarters to give his orders. The men had already left for battle by the time I returned. When I reached our courtyard, the first person I saw was Aglaia. She was sitting on the ground near Helike, who was engaged in some task, but Aglaia’s hands lay idle in her lap. “Where have you been?” she demanded, ignoring the load of pots I had brought back. “Who do you think you are, wandering around the camp like royalty? There’s work to be done!”
Once, I’d wanted to earn her good will. I no longer cared. I said, “Just tell me what you want me to do.”
“Here, you work with Helike. It’s time I took a rest.” She thrust a bundle of linens into my hands and stalked out of the courtyard.
Helike was sitting on the ground, busy tearing linens into strips and rolling them for bandages. “Aglaia’s useless!” she said. “Will you help me in her place?”
“Of course.” I sat down beside her.
She turned her attention once more to the rolls of linen. “We must have lots of these. For the men who come back wounded.” As my hands worked mechanically, Helike said, “It’s important to roll them just right. Achilleus gets in such a rage if one of his men is wounded, and if anything is not done perfectly—” She paused. “He used to make me help tend the wounded.” I glanced up at her heavy-browed face. “I tried to help, but I hated it,” she continued. “All that blood, and Achilleus shouting at us. Sometimes he strikes us if we don’t do something just right.” She started on a new roll of cloth. “Once, when Automedon was wounded, I had to help. When I came too near with a pot of very hot water, Achilleus shouted and frightened me, and I splattered some on Automedon’s leg.” Her voice shook. “Achilleus struck me hard. Now he won’t let me near anyone who’s wounded.”
“And the others?” I asked. “Aglaia? Kallianassa? Do they help?”
She gave a wry smile. “Aglaia’s hopeless. And Kallianassa’s scared of blood, or at least pretends to be. The others do it when they have no choice.”
Many days later, I was sitting at the loom in the women’s quarters when I heard the pounding of hooves, the jangle of harnesses, the rumble of wheels driven over hard-packed dirt, the shouts that heralded the men’s return from battle. There was a note of panic. Something had happened. Heart pounding, I sprang to my feet. The main door of the men’s hut was flung open with a hard thud.
With an urgency I’d never heard from him, Achilleus’s voice called out: “Diomede! Iphis! Come at once!”
Diomede opened our door. “Oh, gods, it’s Patroklos!” she said.
I stood rooted as she and Iphis ran to obey the summons. I noticed he had not called Helike, Aglaia or Kallianassa. As Helike had said, he clearly considered them useless in an emergency. And he had not called me.
I remembered how Patroklos had saved me when I would have wasted away from the loss of my baby. Without giving myself time to think, I followed the others into the men’s hut.
Inside, I nearly collided with Iphis and Diomede, who stood on the threshold. Automedon and two other men carried a burden on a litter. Two more men followed. Achilleus, his back to me, was directing the men to set the litter down by Patroklos’s bed. Patroklos lay on it, a bloody cloth wrapped around his shoulder and upper arm and pressed under the edge of his corselet. Blood soaked through the cloth and pooled on the litter. His face was ashen, his eyes closed. I stopped breathing. He’s dead, I thought. Then, as the men moved him onto his bed, I saw the faintest rise and fall of his chest.
After that I couldn’t see him any more as the men crowded around the bed, all talking in frightened tones.
Achilleus shoved them aside. “Back off! Give him breathing room. You two, take this out of here!” He kicked the litter across the room. Two men took it hastily out of the hut. Two others remained, looking helpless. “What do you want us to do?” one asked.
“Get out!” Achilleus said. “I don’t need you! I’ll tend him with the help of Automedon and the women.” They left. “Automedon, build up the fire,” he added.
Automedon went to the hearth and soon had a small fire going. Then he muttered, “Need more wood,” and ran outside.
Iphis and Diomede stood motionless until Achilleus turned on them. “Diomede! Bring water!” She hastened across the room to fetch a pot. “Iphis!” he barked. “The linen strips!”
Instead of going to get them, she turned away. Achilleus hadn’t seen—had no attention to spare her. “The bandages are in the chest, Iphis,” I told her.
Shooting a fearful look at him, she whispered, “He frightens me! I don’t want to be in here if Patroklos—if he—” She didn’t finish the sentence, but gripped my arm. “Please—help him in my place! He won’t even notice.” Before I could stop her, she ducked through the door to the women’s quarters and closed it behind her. Astonished, I stared after her.
“Where’s Automedon?” Achilleus shouted.
“He went out to get more firewood,” Diomede said.
“Zeus the Thunderer! I need him here! Fetch him!”
Diomede went out, leaving me alone with the men. Without hesitating I went toward Patroklos’s bed.
Achilleus was lifting Patroklos with one arm, attempting to undo the fastenings of the corselet with his free hand. He was fumbling, encumbered, his eyes full of rage at his helplessness. Then he saw me. “Get out,” he said. But the words had no force.
“Let me help.” I took a step closer and, when he did not stop me, I loosened the corselet, lifted it off. At once blood came pulsing out. I gasped. It was a huge deep gash. The bleeding must be stopped—if it wasn’t already too late. I remembered my mother, learned in healing, telling me to look for the source of the bleeding and stop it there.
Achilleus stared at the wound, his face gray. I saw him drowning in fear and pain, paralyzed by his vision of loss. His hands were frozen—motionless, but there wasn’t time for this. Quickly I probed the wound to where the blood was gushing out and pressed with great force. Then I drew Achilleus’s hand to the wound. “Press here.”
He came alive at once, his fingers pushing into the bloody flesh. He knew well what to do. He looked up at me, his eyes clear. “I have it. Now find Diomede. I need certain things. She’ll tell you what.”
Diomede came back in, followed by Automedon, who put more wood on the fire and went to Achilleus’s side. I crossed the room to where Diomede was pouring water into a caldron over the fire. She looked shaken. “It’s never been Patroklos before,” she whispered. “I’ve never seen so much blood. I’m afraid— Fetch the linen. And his jars of herbs. Quickly!”
I went to do her bidding. When I returned to the bed, Achilleus, one hand still pressed against the wound, was cleaning away the caked blood and dirt from the edges of the gash while Diomede held the basin. Her hands shook and the water sloshed. Her face was the color of chalk.
“Hold that still.” Achilleus, in command again, cast a glance at her. “Zeus!” he swore. “Zeus deliver me from a bunch of helpless women! Automedon, take the bowl. Diomede, begone! I’ll not have you swooning in here. Briseis, set the bandages where I can reach them.”
And just like that he accepted my help.
As he worked, I looked at Patroklos’s face. His eyes were open now, bright with pain. He breathed with difficulty. His mouth was slightly agape, revealing the shiny inner side of his lower lip, where gritty pieces of dirt had caught. When Achilleus finished cleaning the wound, I took a damp cloth and wiped the grit away, murmuring something soothing, as I might have done with a child. I looked up and found Achilleus watching me, his mouth set in a bleak line that had the odd effect of making him look young and vulnerable. “Hand me the linen,” he said. “Hold the sides of the wound together while I wrap it.”
As I laid my hands on the wounded man, life and purpose flowed through them.
I stayed with the men until late that night. Achilleus even allowed me to sup there. There was a truce between us. Later Patroklos revived a little. He took some meat and wine, and color returned to his face. After the meal, Automedon left, and Patroklos lay propped up with pillows, Achilleus sitting by his side. I worked in the corner preparing various ointments and possets according to Achilleus’s directions.
“It was quite a battle, eh?” Achilleus said, pouring his friend some wine. He was evidently making an effort to speak cheerfully, but there was a tremor in his voice, desperation and fear lurking just beneath. “When that tall warrior slashed you, I thought you were done for, and I couldn’t get to you!” He paused, his face pale and strained. “I was waylaid by those two Trojans who always fight together—they cut me off from you—and you fell and disappeared.”
From across the room I heard Patroklos’s labored breathing. He answered almost inaudibly, “Others came to my rescue—Odysseus…Meriones, I think. The one who speared me barely got away…”
“I—I thought you were dead.” For a moment Achilleus seemed unable to continue. He lifted the cup to Patroklos’s lips. “Oh, my friend!” For a long time neither man spoke. Then Achilleus resumed, “I saw him clearly—I remember his armor. By Zeus, I’ll look for him and I’ll kill him the next time we fight!”
Patroklos said something I didn’t catch. Achilleus leaned forward. “What?”
“This war,” Patroklos muttered, “so senseless—why are we fighting? You don’t like Agamemnon or—” His voice trailed off.
Achilleus looked away wearily and made no answer. After a moment, with forced heartiness, he began to speak of the battle they had just fought, recreating a world they shared, a world no woman could enter: a narrow world of combat on the plain, under the scorching sun—a world of comradeship and cruelty, of ground lost and gained. Listening, I could smell the sweat and dust and blood. I could hear the whinnies, the hoof beats and chariot wheels, the fierce cries, the clashing weapons, the screams of men as they died. I shivered, remembering Lyrnessos. If the gods granted me twenty life spans, I would never understand war or men.
Patroklos listened, his head sunk into the pillow, his eyes half closed. Achilleus talked until the lamps burned low. It was as if he feared to let the battle go or the day finish because Patroklos might slip away too. At last he sat silent, his arm around his friend, his face spent and defenseless. He stood up slowly, eased the pillows from under Patroklos, who appeared to be asleep, and placed a cover over him, tucking in the edges. Then he came across the room to where I crouched, cleaning the pots and vessels I had used. He watched me for a moment, his sudden nearness flustering my senses. Under his gaze I tried to hide the tremor of my hands.
“Are you finished?” he asked.
“Aye.” I got to my feet, holding my breath, hoping for some word of thanks, some acknowledgment that I had helped him save Patroklos’s life.
None came. He only said, brusquely, “Go to bed.”
Nothing has changed, I thought.
As I started to turn away, he grasped my arm. “Tomorrow I go to battle—I have no choice. You stay with him. See to his needs. Change the dressings. Make sure he eats and rests.” He looked toward the sleeping Patroklos. “I charge you with his care, Briseis.” His hand fell away. His eyes burned into mine. “See that he gets well!” There was not a trace of softness in his voice. It was an order.
He had laid a heavy onus on me, and there would be no reward for success, only punishment for failure. I was, after all, just a slave.
But it didn’t matter, because now I had a reason to live.
