“For to me life is worth more than all the wealth
of that noble city Ilios in peace time…”
—Achilleus, Iliad, Homer, Book IX
(Rouse’s translation)
The day was endless, as if the sun was suspended at midheaven. Only through force of will could I perform the daily round of chores. When finally the shadows deepened and daylight faded, I heard sounds of men and horses and raced out of the courtyard, ahead of the others. At first I saw no sign of him. My legs started to give way, but Diomede grabbed my arm. “Look!” she cried, and I saw his chariot. He was in it, slumped, dirty, his left arm bloody—but living and breathing. My heart overflowed with relief. I forgave him everything just for coming back alive.
I ran forward as Automedon reined in the horses. I reached up to touch Achilleus’s arm. “You’re back! You’re safe!”
He lifted the helmet from his head. As he stepped down, Automedon said, “Shall I attend you tonight, my lord?”
I held my breath. Achilleus looked at me long and hard, and I held his gaze, pleading with him silently, telling him with my eyes that I would not revisit our quarrel. At last he gave a nod, letting me know that all was right again.
“No,” he said to Automedon, “Briseis will be with me.”
He leaned a heavy arm over my shoulders. “I’m very tired. Can you fix me a bath?”
I hurried to the women’s quarters. The women were already heating water. Diomede helped me carry the bronze basin into his hut, and we filled it. When the women left, he took off armor and tunic. I saw the gash on his arm. “You’re wounded!”
“It’s nothing. That man Memnon had the strength of a giant. Never have I fought for my life like that!” I saw bruises on his body as he lowered himself slowly, painfully, into the water. “I slew him, and his men have fled.”
I felt nothing but relief at this stranger’s death. “Oh, Achilleus, I’m so glad!” Now you can leave the war. But I did not say it.
For a time he was silent, eyes closed, leaning back against the rim of the bath. Then he lifted his head. “Before I could fight him, he killed Antilochos, my friend.”
I remembered a smiling young man who came often to visit. Diomede had told me that he was the one who had brought Achilleus the news of Patroklos’s death. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“Antilochos died defending his aged father Nestor.” A tear slipped down his cheek. “It should have been the other way around.”
I took his hand. “You would have done the same as Antilochos.”
“He was a dear friend, Briseis, and yet—” He broke off, and continued with sudden intensity. “The shadow of death hung over me today. Then it lifted, as if the gods took Antilochos instead of me. And though I grieve for him, I want to live. For my son. For you. For myself.” He looked at me and smiled. The warm wine of joy ran in my blood. “I went after Memnon to avenge Antilochos,” he continued, “and the closer I came to losing my life, the harder I fought. I stayed alive because my will to live was so strong. Maybe—” I held my breath, but he fell silent and stared unseeing at the rafters.
“What, Achilleus?” I whispered.
“It could be that I’m meant to live after all.”
My heart soared. Perhaps all my prayers, all the times I had begged him to fight for his life, all the dreams of home I had shared with him had not been in vain after all.
Oh, Aphrodite, I thought, I will offer you a hundred doves when I am able. I wanted him to say that he would stay out of battle, and that we would sail for home tomorrow, but I held my tongue. He must come to this decision on his own. And I had promised the gods to ask for nothing more than his life. I bent and kissed his brow in silence, lingering over the feel of his warm flesh against my lips. Then I wet a cloth and began to rub his back, his shoulders and arms, trying to soothe away his weariness and pain.
“Achilleus,” I said, “let me fetch dressings for your arm.”
He forced a laugh. “This is barely a scratch.” But he got out of the bath and let me bind it.
He was quiet and somber as we ate the evening meal. I knew he was thinking of his friend Antilochos. When we lay together in bed, he took me swiftly, almost roughly, as if to exult in being alive. But in the waning hours of the night he awoke and made love to me again, gently this time, every touch infinitely precious, his lips caressing, his hand curved around my cheek so tenderly that if I close my eyes, I can feel it still. As he lay drowsing at my side, I nestled close and whispered, “I love you,” marveling at those words bursting golden on my tongue like ripe grapes gathered at the harvest.
I had thought him asleep, but he answered, “And I you,” and tightened his arms.
The next day dawned so fair it seemed the whole world was washed clean. Leaving Achilleus asleep, I went down to the shore. Sea and sky blended in a glowing lavender mist. I lifted my arms to the sky and thanked the gods for the gift of life.
When I returned to our quarters to bring Achilleus the morning meal, he was up, stretching, smiling at me. I hoped that with the Ethiopians gone there would be no fighting today. But after he ate, he fetched his armor. My heart plunged. Seeing my face, he said, “Only one last time, Briseis. I must make sure of our victory yesterday.” He put down his corselet and took me in his arms. “Then I will have done the whole of my duty to the Achaeans.”
A wild thought came to me. Distract him somehow, then go into his store of herbs and fix him a draught to render him so sick and helpless he couldn’t fight. But I knew better. I could not betray his trust. And surely there was very little danger. He had removed the last great threat.
Silently I prayed to the gods for one day more.
As he armed, I helped him with his greaves and whispered the words that were my talisman. “Come home safely.” The men gathered as usual, Automedon waiting with the chariot. As Achilleus stepped up into it, some impulse made me run to him. My hands gripped the wooden railing. I smiled up at him. One of the horses sidestepped, whinnied.
“Go back, Briseis! You’ll get hurt.” But he bent to touch my cheek, and gave me his luminous smile, then put on his helmet. As I backed away, the horses leapt forward.
In the late afternoon, when we went to watch the men’s return, I recognized his horses from afar. I saw his chariot, Automedon at the reins.
But Achilleus’s side was empty.
Aphrodite, where is he?
Now the men were much closer. I could see them clearly in the swirling dust. A large group trailed on foot behind Automedon. Their shoulders slumped, they were carrying a litter.
I went icy cold. But surely it wasn’t my beloved. I rushed to meet the men, trying to get close enough to see who was on that litter, in what condition. They plodded on, a forest of moving men.
And then I saw. Achilleus, covered in a rough gray cloak, lay very still.
Oh, gods! My heart was smashed between rocks.
His bright hair was disordered, dusty, his eyes half-closed, rolled back, slits of white showing through the lashes. His mouth was open, caked with dirt, dried blood. Though I saw no other hurt, I knew he was gravely wounded.
Hurry! I tried to shout. Send for the physician! Get him to his hut. I can find the herbs, the potions. But I couldn’t make a sound. The men went on walking too slowly, their faces rigid, eyes staring straight ahead. I ran toward him. I wanted to wipe his mouth, brush the hair out of his face. I must touch him, hold him. I pushed forward. Rough hands thrust me out of the way.
“Let me go to him!” I cried. “I can heal him!”
They kept moving, and I was flung aside. I landed on my knees. A harsh, agonized voice said, “Can’t you see he’s dead!”
