…Phoibos Apollo
walked with storm in his heart from Olympos’ crest,
quiver and bow at his back, and the bundled arrows
clanged on the sky behind as he rocked in his anger,
descending like night itself.
Iliad, Homer, Book I
(Fitzgerald’s translation)
I stood for a long time on the shore. Tears dammed up in my eyes, but I refused to shed them, for they would not have eased me nor washed away the wrong I had done to Achilleus. And Patroklos. Without even knowing whether he truly cared for me or even desired me, I had tried to force him to betray his friend. I’d read far too much into one look. Most likely he was expressing care and sympathy, nothing more. Now I had robbed him of the one thing that gave his life meaning. I had wrecked a life-long friendship—a life-long love.
I must seek to mend it somehow, but could it be mended? Would Achilleus even suffer me to stay in his camp?
Slowly I walked back to our quarters. When I got there, the men were nowhere in sight. Helike and Diomede were in the large courtyard. They had collected all the bedding and rugs from the huts and were airing them in the sun, beating them with sticks to rid them of dust and fleas. Many rugs hung over the palisade, and there was yet a huge pile of bedding on the ground.
As I came up to them, Diomede looked at me in surprise. “Is anything wrong, Briseis?”
“Where are the men?” I asked through stiff lips.
“Achilleus returned early. There wasn’t a battle. He went to seek Patroklos. But we thought you were with Patroklos?”
I shook my head. “Patroklos doesn’t need my care anymore. Let me help you with this.”
Picking up a stick, I joined them at their chore, hoping for distraction. But their pleasant, inconsequential talk washed over me, and in my mind I could see Patroklos, his profile turned to me as he looked up at his friend. And Achilleus—I would never forget the look in his eyes. Though he’d tried to hide it, I knew I’d wounded him deeply.
Much later, the courtyard gate slammed open and Achilleus stood there. I froze, but he only walked into the hut without looking at us. Patroklos, his eyes downcast, followed slowly.
Diomede gave me a penetrating look. She must have guessed something had happened; yet she held her silence. Later, when we were almost finished, the gate opened a second time, and a messenger ran into the courtyard to pound on the door of the hut.
Achilleus opened it. “Antilochos!”
“You must come at once to the center of the camp,” the man said.
Achilleus, already reaching behind him for a cloak, said, “Why?”
I was close enough to hear Antilochos’ answer. “A priest of Apollo, from Chrysa, has come by ship to Agamemnon,” he said.
I edged closer. A ship? The ship with the painted sail I’d seen early that morning and forgotten until now? And Chrysa. Where had I heard that name before? Then I remembered: Chryseis, the girl taken on the raid of Thebe. She had said, My father is high priest in the temple of Apollo at Chrysa.
The memory of my prayer to Apollo raised hairs on the back of my neck.
“It seems Agamemnon has this priest’s daughter,” Antilochos continued. “And the old priest has come to ransom her back. He comes as a suppliant to the king’s knees. But Agamemnon has turned him down rudely.”
“A suppliant is sacred to the gods,” Achilleus said.
“Well, the king won’t listen to reason. All the chieftains are gathering to try to persuade him. You’d best come.”
Achilleus flung the blue mantle about him. “Patroklos?” he said over his shoulder. Both followed Antilochos out of the gate, leaving us staring after them.
“What do you suppose that was all about?” Diomede asked.
“I can guess,” I said, and told them of Chryseis and her certainty that her father would come to ransom her.
Diomede shrugged. “Well, it doesn’t seem as if he’ll succeed, does it? Poor girl. But I don’t see how that can affect us.”
Just after sundown I was on the shore and saw the priest’s ship return in the direction from which it had come. The painted sail hung limp in the windless twilight. The ship was too far away for me to tell who was on it, but the rowers pulled at the oars with slow, defeated movements, and I guessed that Agamemnon had not yielded, and the priest’s mission had failed.
Later, Achilleus and Patroklos returned, silent and dispirited. As we women prepared bread for supper, we were aware of the stillness in the men’s hut. There was no conversation, no laughter, no music from the lyre. The other women felt the mood of despondency without understanding it. Perhaps they thought the gloom had to do with the events in the center of the camp, but I knew better. I could hardly endure it.
When the darkness deepened, Diomede went into the men’s quarters to retrieve the empty breadbaskets and used cookware, and returned as the women prepared for bed. I sat on my bedding, alone and apart. I did not know how, nor if, things could be mended, but I had to try.
“You look tired, Briseis.” Diomede waited to extinguish the last lamp.
I shook my head, getting abruptly to my feet. There was only one thing to do. Before I lost courage, I opened the door to the men’s hut and walked in uninvited—something I’d never dared do before.
The room was dark save for the dim red glow of the dying fire and one lamp. Achilleus, sitting by the hearth, twisted in surprise to look at me over his shoulder. Patroklos was in his bed, deep in shadow. I crossed the room swiftly to kneel at Achilleus’s feet. “Before the gods, Achilleus, I come to you as a suppliant. Please hear what I have to say.” A suppliant is sacred to the gods. He had said so himself. I prayed he would not turn me away.
I lifted my hands, placed them on his knees. Touching his flesh I was suddenly inflamed with such longing I couldn’t speak. In that moment, I saw that all along I had deceived myself, fought against the truth. It wasn’t Patroklos I wanted. It had only ever been Achilleus. Oh, Aphrodite, I prayed, let it not be too late!
If he sensed my feelings, he gave no sign. He was silent, taut, motionless—waiting.
I found my voice. “I have come to ask you—” But these were not the right words. My throat was so dry I had to stop and swallow. “I’ve done you wrong, Achilleus. Punish me if you must, but I beg you, do not blame Patroklos.” I heard his sharp breath and ventured a look at his face, all shadows, a deep groove between his brows. “The fault is mine alone,” I said.
He looked over his shoulder toward the bed in the corner. I could only guess what Patroklos had told him. To his own cost, he would have tried to shield me from Achilleus’s anger.
“Achilleus, no matter what he told you, you must listen to me,” I said. “I only turned to Patroklos because I thought you were finished with me—that I was nothing to you. Please forgive him. He never betrayed you. And—” As I spoke, I understood the truth of this. “He never intended to.”
With a quick, agitated movement, Achilleus removed my hands from his knees and got up. I felt the loss of contact keenly as he paced away from the hearth, came back. He stood for a moment looking down at me, then resumed his seat. “How do I know you’re speaking the truth?”
“I swear it to you, Achilleus, by Zeus and all gods, may they strike me down if I lie.”
“Ah!” He sighed and some of the tension went out of his body. “I have no need to forgive Patroklos. I know he would never take what is mine. But you—” He broke off.
I hadn’t planned to say it, but I whispered, “Please forgive me, too.”
He stared hard at me. “Why did you do it?” When I hesitated, he reached down, grasped my arms and shook me slightly. “You’ve fought me at every turn. You rejected me when I would have cared for you. You’ve hated me from the start, haven’t you?” he demanded. “You swore to be truthful. Now tell me.”
“After the baby—” For a moment I could not go on. “I was not in my right mind. But now— I no longer hate you. I haven’t for a long time, despite—despite everything. Far from it.” As I heard myself speak this new truth, I realized I’d laid my naked heart before him. I had never felt more vulnerable. I stumbled on. “But I thought you hated me. And Patroklos became a friend to me—that is all. Because of him, I hoped I might have a future.”
His face showed nothing. Putting his hand under my chin, he brought my face into the light to study it. His thumb wiped a tear from my cheek that I hadn’t known was there. At last he said slowly, “You’ve borne a lot. Your husband, your brother. Then the baby.”
Now I couldn’t stop the flow of tears. But something shifted—the past, all of it, was gone, like ground crumbling away beneath my feet, and I was left clinging precariously to the moment.
“Perhaps I was too harsh,” Achilleus muttered. I caught my breath. But his tone was distant, expressing regret for something long past that could not be mended. And abruptly he was finished with the subject. He dropped his hand, turned away, and started to get up.
I couldn’t let him leave it like that. Stunned at my own boldness, I took both his hands in mine and brought them to my mouth. As I kissed them, my lips traveling over his knuckles and the ridges of bone under his hard spare flesh, my whole body burned for him. My tears ran down onto our interlaced fingers. Then I laid my forehead on our joined hands and wept.
He became utterly still. When I let go and lifted my head, he drew a deep breath. He looked down at me, his eyes in shadow. I waited without breathing as he turned away with a shaken sigh, got to his feet, and extinguished the lamp. I was vaguely aware of footsteps crossing the room, the door opening, closing, Patroklos leaving the hut. The darkness was absolute.
Achilleus reached down, pulled me up, and enfolded me in his arms.
My knees went weak. Desire flowed in my veins like wine.
Without speaking, he doffed his tunic, slipped my gown over my head, tossed it aside, and took me to his bed. For a long time, we lay close and still. I listened to his breathing, the beating of his heart. I sensed his hesitation, his reluctance to trust me completely. I drew him close and kissed him fiercely, nothing held back. His arms wrapped around me. He was breathing as if he had run a race. He pulled me even closer, his kisses deeper.
“Take me,” I whispered. As our bodies joined, my bones melted. My darkness filled with shooting stars.
Long after, as our breathing slowed, we lay entwined. Then he bent his head to kiss the side of my neck, a tender gesture that moved me as much as all our lovemaking.
I rested against him in a blissful languor. I sensed him drifting toward sleep. At last I slipped into a drowse. Some time later when I was more than half asleep, he stirred and slid his hand across my body, caressing me, pulling me close.
At that very moment everything inside me went dark and cold, extinguished by a malevolent shadow. Waves of ice skittered along my skin. A god had come down from the heavens and entered my mind, surrounded by blackest night.
A god with an aura of invisible flames. Apollo. He held a bow, with a quiver slung across his shoulder. He sank down on one knee, nocked an arrow, and let it fly. Shaft after shaft he shot. People were struck—men and women I saw every day in the camp. I heard their cries and saw them die. In a flash I knew: Apollo was bringing doom, and somehow this was connected with my prayer. I cried out, a silent scream. But the god was gone, leaving me frozen in dread.
I must have made some sound, for Achilleus roused. “What is it?” he asked sleepily.
“I—I had a terrible vision—I saw… I saw Apollo—coming in wrath—”
At the god’s name, he recoiled but said, “You were just dreaming. A nightmare.”
“He was angry! He was shooting arrows—killing men and women in the camp—he means you harm, perhaps because I prayed—” Then I could have bitten my tongue.
“You prayed what?” he asked.
“Nothing, it’s not important, but Apollo— It felt so real. I’m frightened!”
He said, “Forget it, Briseis, not all dreams portend something.” He pulled me close and took me in his arms. “Come, let me wipe it from your mind. Don’t spoil our love.”
I forced the vision out of my mind and accepted his comfort. I kissed his ear, whispering into it, “Love me again.”
