“I will meet him face to face, even if his hands
are like fire and his spirit like flashing steel!”
—Hektor, Iliad, Homer, Book XX
(Rouse’s translation)
In silence Hektor led me out of the barracks courtyard, uphill along a wide street paved with flagstones. At the top of the slope, the street leveled off and widened into a broad avenue that ran along one wing of an immense, sprawling palace. This wing was a series of connected dwellings. Here must be where the sons and daughters of King Priam lived. Hektor opened a gate leading into a large courtyard with trees and cisterns and led me to the door of his dwelling. We entered a hall where an old serving woman stood over the hearth, poking the fire and stirring a pot. She straightened to stare at us. I blinked in the dimness as Hektor shed his cloak and flung it over a chair.
“Fetch Andromache,” he ordered the serving woman.
As she scurried from the room, Hektor turned to look at me. “So you were Achilleus’s woman,” he said softly, “or one of them. From what I hear, none but the loveliest will do for him.” He had taken hold of my wrists and seemed unaware that he was squeezing them, unaware that he was holding me at all. He turned me toward the daylight that poured in from the opening above the hearth and subjected me to a piercing, impersonal scrutiny. I had the odd sense that had Achilleus’s most prized gold libation cup fallen into his hands, he would have studied it in just the same manner. It was not I, but his enemy, that fascinated Hektor.
“And yet he gave you up,” he mused. “Surely not without a fight? And why? Tell me everything!”
Discomfited, I scarcely knew how to begin. I must let him know at once that Achilleus was gone. But before I could speak, a young woman emerged from an inner chamber carrying a baby. She paused on the threshold. It took me a moment to recognize Andromache. She had changed since her wedding. Her face was still lovely and grave, but the wide dark eyes were set in hollows, filled with sadness. Hektor dropped my hands and turned to her, his tension gone, his manner gentle.
“My love, this woman has escaped the Achaean camp,” he told her. “She was the war prize of Achilleus.”
I expected the name to bring shock and revulsion to Andromache’s face. Instead, she gave Hektor an indignant look. “Then she came at great peril. No doubt she’s tired and hungry, yet you keep her standing while you question her!” Hektor looked at me, startled, as if Andromache had caused him to see me for the first time. “Here, hold Astyanax.” She handed him the baby and turned to me. “Come! I shall make up for his rudeness.” She smiled. Taking my hand she led me to a chair by the fire. Her small hand was thin-boned and so cold that I clasped it firmly. Over my shoulder, I glanced at Hektor. To my surprise, the stern warrior had taken his chastisement with no more than a rueful grin. He seemed a different man in his wife’s presence.
“Chloe, is that wine warm yet?” The serving woman was fussing over the fire. Andromache stirred the pot, while Hektor sat holding the baby. I noticed, in the soft blend of firelight and early daylight, how haggard the prince looked, as if the past night had not eased his weariness. There were lines under his eyes, and the skin over his high, proud cheekbones was stretched taut. But a tender smile touched his lips and lingered in his eyes as he watched Andromache. She, without looking at him, returned the smile like a caress. Theirs was no stormy love but a rare and quiet refuge. A pain struck me, making my eyes sting. Inexplicably I felt that, by stepping into that radiant circle I had brought a turmoil that would tear it apart. The feeling was so strong that I wanted to flee, though I knew I could not.
Andromache brought me a cup, and Hektor turned to me. “My wife is right to chide me,” he said. “I have neglected my duties as a host. Drink and be refreshed.”
I sipped, letting the warmth of the wine disperse my dark thoughts.
“Have some bread.” Andromache offered me the basket.
The baby’s nurse came in, took him from Hektor, and set him on a blanket by the hearth. He sat up, fluffy black hair standing on end, bright black eyes fixed on me. Then he showed two teeth in a sudden smile. The nurse handed him a piece of bread, which he shoved into his mouth, sucking it, shredding it, gurgling with delight. I reached a finger toward him and smiled as his tiny hand closed around it. Yet at the touch of his warm flesh, a darkness fell within me. Oh, little one! I thought. What will happen to you? I had no idea where the thought came from. I glanced up quickly to make sure Hektor and Andromache had seen nothing in my face. But they were looking at each other. Presently, the nurse came forward to take the baby into the inner room. The serving woman, too, departed and Hektor turned to face me. Andromache pulled her chair close, slipped her hand into his fingers, and regarded me with an anxious smile.
“My husband hasn’t told me your name,” she said.
“Briseis,” I responded. “From Lyrnessos. I attended your wedding in Thebe. I have never forgotten that day.”
Her smile faded, and she turned to Hektor, who frowned at me as his hand tightened around hers. Too late, I recalled how painful the thought of Thebe must be.
“Tell us,” Hektor said, “what news you bring.”
I began in a breathless hurry, anxious to wipe the stricken look from Andromache’s face. “A plague struck the Achaean camp,” I said, “and hundreds died. Then Agamemnon and Achilleus quarreled. And Achilleus has withdrawn and gone. So the Achaean forces are greatly depleted and disheartened. If you smite them now—”
“Wait!” Hektor’s eyes narrowed. “You go too fast. What of this quarrel? Start at the beginning.”
I told him of Chryseis and the refused ransom, the plague, and what little I knew of the terrible assembly. I spoke haltingly, omitting only what had happened between Achilleus and me. Still, as Hektor listened, I had the uncomfortable sense that he was reading far more from me than what I was telling him in words. He looked at me piercingly, mistrustfully. “And how did you manage to escape your captors?” he demanded. So I told him of my flight from Agamemnon, then Menelaus, and the ruse by which I had left the camp. When I finished he was silent. He got up and stood with his back to me, staring into the hearth.
“Is Achilleus immortal, as I’ve heard tell?” he asked suddenly without turning.
“What?” I said, surprised.
“There’s a story going around, because the men have never seen him wounded. They say that when he was an infant his mother dipped him into the River Styx to make him invulnerable. They say he can’t be wounded except in one heel, where his mother held him. Is this true?”
A memory came to me: Achilleus in Lyrnessos, the lines of my nails on his cheek, the bright droplets of blood against his skin. “No. He is no more invulnerable than you or I,” I said, more harshly than I intended.
“Indeed.” I was afraid Hektor would pursue the subject, but he said, “Tell me what you know of Agamemnon. What sort of king is he, what sort of war leader?”
“A weak and vacillating one, I think, sir. Menelaus, his brother, seems to have little confidence in him.”
Hektor paced the room. “Alienating his greatest chieftain is hardly the move of a wise king.” He came to my chair, rested his hand on the back of it. “I thank you, Briseis! You have brought me the best of news.” But still he searched my face suspiciously, his scrutiny so intense it frightened me. At last, he dropped his hand and turned away. As if thinking aloud, he said, “I wonder what Achilleus will do now.”
“Do?” Astonishment brought me to the edge of my seat. Evidently he hadn’t caught the import of the most momentous piece of news I’d brought. “Why, I told you, sir. He’s gone. He sailed for home.”
Hektor stood transfixed, looking at me, a glitter in his eyes. His eyebrows came down, compressing his brow, and he was once again the stern, aloof commander he had been at the barracks. Andromache opened her lips to speak but closed them again when Hektor shot a glance at her. “How did you learn this, Briseis, if, as you say, you were locked up?” His voice was so quiet and cold it raised the hairs on the back of my neck.
“They told me so, Agamemnon and Menelaus both,” I said.
“And you’re sure of it.”
“Aye. Or else I would never—” I stopped, biting my lip.
Hektor nodded bleakly. “Or else you would never have come here,” he finished for me. “So now we know.” Under his frown, his black eyes had not a spark of light. “You want me to kill Agamemnon and avenge the wrong he did to Achilleus.”
“Nay!” I protested.
Hektor waited. One side of his mouth curved upward in a bitter sickle of a smile, and his eyes demanded a fuller truth.
I drew a deep breath. “If I’d remained with Achilleus, I would have accepted my lot. Is that a crime? But he abandoned me to Agamemnon, a drunken, bloodthirsty madman who tried to kill me. Can you hold it against me that I fled? Aye, I want Agamemnon dead! But only because he’s the leader of the Achaeans, the cause of all our troubles. I want this war to end.” I sank back, breathless from my vehemence.
Hektor stood still, his eyes cold as polished stones. He looked at Andromache, and some message passed between them. Then he sat down opposite me, pulling his chair closer. His smile was twisted. “With Achilleus gone, you will pledge your loyalty to Troy, is that right?”
“With all my heart.” Yet my stomach knotted. He was hiding something.
“Then swear it to me!” The smile was gone, the voice like a lash.
My throat was dry. “Aye, I swear by the gods.”
“Good!” He leaned back in his chair, the corners of his lips lifting slightly. “Andromache, refill our guest’s goblet, if you please. And I could use a cup myself.” As she bustled about, filling goblets with the still-warm brew from the hearth, Hektor got up suddenly to join her. Taking his cup, he leaned his head close to hers and whispered something. He went on at some length. Andromache looked unhappy but finally nodded. Carrying the cups between them, they returned to their chairs. My skin prickled. Hektor held up his glass with a slight smile before lifting it to his lips. What did he want from me? Something was concealed in that smile, which did not banish the coldness in his eyes.
After we all had a sip of wine, Andromache asked abruptly, “What was life like in Achilleus’s camp?” I must have looked startled, for she amended, “I mean, were there many captives? How did you live? Was your lot a hard one?” These should have been natural questions from one woman to another, but her voice sounded forced.
Puzzled, I said, “No harder than the lot of most women. Many shared the work. Achilleus was fair to his captives, and—” I fell silent, thinking of all I had lost.
Hektor frowned. As if reading my thoughts, he asked, “Did he favor you?”
“I thought so. Right after I was taken captive, Patroklos said—” But it was too painful to remember the wedding once promised me in Phthia, and I couldn’t go on. My head sank lower.
Abruptly Hektor’s prying changed direction. “Ah! Who is this Patroklos?”
Why does he want to know this? “Achilleus’s friend, his foster brother. His second in command,” I answered unwillingly.
“I’ve seen Achilleus often in battle,” Hektor said, “in his war chariot with his magnificent horses. The other man in the chariot, the one who held the reins—that would have been Patroklos?”
“Aye,” I answered nervously. I had more information about the Achaeans: the number of troops, the layout of the camp, Agamemnon’s foolish plan to test the men. But Hektor had not even asked me.
“I saw Patroklos fall into danger once,” Hektor said. “In fact he was wounded. Achilleus fought with no regard for his own life to save his friend. This Patroklos is dear to him?”
Why is he probing? “Dearer than his own life,” I admitted, then wished I hadn’t spoken.
An odd light shone in his eyes. “And you, Briseis? Were you equally dear to him?”
I lowered my eyes and shook my head. “I thought—maybe—but in the end I was just his prize, his meed of honor. When Agamemnon stole me, his pride was hurt. Nothing more.”
“I wonder. If that were all, I don’t think he would have—” Hektor bit off what he had been about to say and changed it to, “I don’t think he would have taken such a drastic step.” He got to his feet. “So it would appear that Achilleus is ruled by his heart. He can be goaded into rashness by a threat to someone dear to him.”
I looked up, astonished, afraid. “What does this matter to you?”
With a burst of anger he said, “Remember, whatever happens, you have sworn your loyalty to Troy.”
Andromache made a choked sound and half-rose. Hektor frowned at her. I gripped my chair, angry that he had manipulated me into speaking of Achilleus. I had been truthful, while he was withholding something. I was about to speak when Andromache burst forth suddenly, “Must you go through with this, my husband?”
I stared. Go through with what?
Hektor rose and touched her cheek with gentle fingers. “You know I must. But all will be well. Trust in the gods, my dear.”
At that moment a woman’s voice called from the courtyard. Andromache started. “It’s your sister, Kassandra.”
Hektor shrugged. “She’s come to advise me, no doubt. Though my mind is made up. Go and make her welcome,” he said, “and tell her—“ His keen glance conveyed the rest of the message as clearly to me as to Andromache. Tell her not to mention what we are concealing from Briseis.
As she went out, Hektor came and looked down at me. “I’m sorry, Briseis, but this is war. There are some hard decisions to be made.” Then he turned to spread his hands over the warmth of the fire. His shoulders slumped wearily, and I detected a slight tremor in his fingers. My anger faded as pity took its place. The war leader of Troy stood before me, suddenly only a tired, burdened man whose hands were cold.
A moment later the door went dark. A figure materialized there and stood suspended in stillness—a tall girl in a black robe. She resembled Hektor and was strikingly beautiful. Straight black hair cascaded down her back. Followed by Andromache, she entered and looked at me with dark eyes even more piercing than Hektor’s. Then she turned to her brother. Her movements were tense and vehement.
“I heard about your unexpected guest,” she said. When she spoke I realized that she was very young—no more than seventeen.
“News travels swiftly,” he muttered.
“Andromache told me what you intend to do.”
An uneasy look passed between husband and wife. “And you’ve come to try to dissuade me,” Hektor said.
“No. I know there’s no stopping you or turning you from your course. But sometimes I can see the future, and—”
“You expect me to believe that your ravings are true prophecy?” Hektor interrupted.
Kassandra lifted her chin. “It is a gift from Apollo.”
“Well then, speak if you must. What is it you see for me?”
“You will prevail, up to a point.” The girl’s eyes had become glazed like a blind person’s. Her inner sight seemed to leap across forbidden barriers and unimagined distances. Hektor and Andromache were listening, half unwilling yet frozen in stillness. “I see you standing in triumph on the battlefield,” she said without joy—without hope. She lowered her face and twisted the richly embroidered sleeves of her gown. “I see you wearing the armor of Achilleus.”
She’s raving, I thought. She hasn’t heard that Achilleus has left. Yet the blood left my heart. Hektor’s voice, fierce, exultant, filled the room. “So Apollo will grant me victory!”
“But wait!” Kassandra said. “I see a shadow falling over you—before the Skaian Gate—Ayeee!” Her voice rose to a wail. She shut her eyes and pressed her hands to her temples. Cold ripples ran on my skin. She’s seen his death, I thought. At last she straightened and stood still, her face wiped clean of all expression.
Andromache gave a stifled cry. Hektor closed his fists. “You’re full of evil tidings! I will not listen.”
But Kassandra went on, as if she could not help herself. “You will have your day of glory,” she said in a muffled tone. “And you’ll be remembered in the songs of men.”
“Well,” Hektor said lightly. “I can ask for no more.”
Andromache stood rigid, her face pale. “Kassandra, I wish you wouldn’t speak of these things,” she whispered. “We cannot know—it is not given to us to know the future.”
“I do know it.” Kassandra’s voice was sorrowful. “Only people choose not to believe me.” She turned to go. Then her eyes fell on me. “And what of your luckless pawn?” she asked Hektor. “Will you keep her—or send her back?”
Pawn? I reared up in my chair. Send me back? His words of apology suddenly took on an ominous meaning.
“Hush, Kassandra!” Hektor said fiercely.
“It makes no difference.” Her eyes lingered on me for a moment. Then she turned slowly and went out.
Stunned, I got to my feet. Andromache cast a look at me, a look of pain, I thought, but at some sound from the baby, she went into the inner room, as if glad of the excuse to leave.
I faced Hektor. “You can’t send me back! They’d kill me.”
“Would they? I’m not so sure.”
“You don’t understand!” I cried. “Agamemnon almost killed me in a fit of madness. Menelaus is sane and sober, and he plans to sacrifice me to Athena to give the troops hope again.”
Hektor looked at me sharply. “How do you know that?”
“When he hid me from Agamemnon, he said he wanted me for some purpose of his own—he mentioned an offering. Then I overheard him talking to his brother, proposing a sacrifice to Athena.”
Hektor gave a sudden hearty laugh. “So you concluded you were to be the goddess’s victim. Oh no, I don’t think so! It was not Athena he intended to give you to.” Abruptly he sobered. “Have no fear, we will not send you back. The offering—the lure—must stay in Troy.”
“What do you mean?”
He looked at me intently. “You are very lovely, Briseis. And all his actions prove he is not indifferent to you. Surely he wants you back.” My heart gave a violent lurch. Hektor was not speaking of Menelaus—or even Agamemnon. “When he knows I have you, Achilleus will meet me face to face. And I will kill him.”
The words went through me like a knife. “You can’t,” I whispered. “He’s gone!”
Hektor shook his head. “So you were led to believe. Or else you lied.” He gave a chilly smile. “But we watch their camp from our battlements. We observe them daily. And this much we know: his ships have not sailed.”
