For the Most Beautiful (16 page)

I knelt on the damp, rush-covered floor of the hut. The scent of flowers drifted from the surface of the hot water of the bath and stung my nostrils. A raw clay jug of olive oil stood balanced on the packed earth. A slave appeared at the door and held it open. ‘The bath you ordered, my lord,' he said, to a figure standing just outside, bowing deeply. ‘And the girl as you requested.'

A shape moved across the frame of the doorway, and Achilles stepped into the darkness of the hut. His tall, lean figure was outlined with bright white light as he stood ringed by the sun. Then he closed the door, drew the bar across the bolts, and it was dark again, except for the dim light of the oil-lamps and their reflection on the water in the bath, and the thin slivers of sunlight between the stakes that made up the walls.

I turned my back to him, brushing my dark hair from my face and pretending to test the water with my fingertips. It was hot, hot enough to bathe, and there were white rose petals floating on the surface.
Roses
, I thought.
I scattered roses on the water for him.

Achilles was moving around the hut, but still I did not turn. I was being disrespectful, but I did not care. After a few moments I heard a slight noise behind me, the sound of wine being poured into a goblet. Then I heard him walk towards me, and felt him crouch at my side. ‘What's your name, girl?' he asked, taking a mouthful of wine.

I did not say anything.

He swallowed some more wine. ‘I said, what's your name?' he repeated.

Still, I did not reply. I began to fold one of the white linen towels.

A hand gripped my chin with extraordinary strength and wrenched my face around, making me cry out with pain.

‘You have a voice, then,' he said. He let go and stood up. He began to untie his breastplate, loosening the leather straps. When he next spoke it was with a quiet threat. ‘I will not ask again.'

At last I spoke. ‘Briseis,' I said, my voice breaking. ‘Princess Briseis of Lyrnessus.' In my head I added,
And the wife of Mynes, Prince of the Lyrnessans, the man you killed with a sword through his heart.

He looked at me. ‘Briseis,' he mused. ‘That's an old name. It means “the girl who wins”, does it not?' He smiled. ‘Appropriate for the slave of the best of the Greeks and a demigod.' He sauntered towards me, and bent over to tip my chin up to his face. His eyes glittered. ‘My beautiful prize.'

My cheeks were burning as I looked into the shining black eyes, so close that I could see the pale lashes one by one. I could feel my colour rising and my stomach churning with bile.
What god put me here?
I thought.
What bitter god sent me as a slave to the man I watched kill my husband?

I tried to pull my chin away. I could not bear his touch and the memory of what those hands had done.

He laughed and let me go, tossing me back with such strength and ease that I fell to the ground, my hair tossed beneath me and the robe slipping off my shoulders. Without thinking what I was doing, without even deciding to do it, I scrambled to my feet and slapped him, hard, across the face before he had taken his next breath. My palm and fingers stung with the contact, but I did not care. I drew my hand back to slap him again, anger burning in me so strongly that I felt as if I were going to be sick.

He did not laugh this time. Instead he caught me by the wrists, chafing the cuts around them so that I winced and tears started to my eyes. His fingers were pressing into my skin so hard that I thought the bones would break, and I sensed a terrible rage blazing from him, palpable as heat. His whole body was tensed, like that of a lion crouched for the kill.

Then, abruptly, he let me go.

There was a long silence. I stood still, paralysed by the raw power that seemed to emanate from every fibre of his body. My wrists were throbbing. A few soldiers passed the hut and I heard snatched words of their muted conversation. The fire in the hearth sputtered, sending acrid smoke through the hut and spiralling up through the hole in the rush roof.

At last Achilles spoke. ‘Girl who wins,' he said. ‘There is not a single man in this camp who would have dared to strike me as you did.' He surveyed me with a strange look in his eyes. ‘Who would have thought it?' he said, almost to himself. ‘A slave girl, a match for Achilles.'

I stood in the Greek camp, exhausted, my dust-covered face streaked with the tracks of tears. The Greek who had taken me on his horse had left me on the shore of the Trojan bay in the midst of the camp of the enemy.

A short, filthy-smelling red-haired man had bound my hands and feet and pushed me into line with a group of smut-smeared girls in rags, despite my struggles and my attempts to bite and kick at every inch of him I could reach. I gazed up and down the long line, strung along the beach, and guessed at once, with a shiver of horror, why I had been brought there. The Greeks had taken all the women they could find from the surrounding countryside for their brute pleasure; I had heard it happened when men were so far from their homes. Then I thought back to Troilus and had to bite my lip to stop myself crying out in pain as I remembered him fighting in the woods, one prince against four Greeks. But it could not be – he could not be—

I heard voices and looked up. I could see a couple of Greek lords at the other end of the line, in simple beaten-bronze breastplates and greaves, nothing like the decorated cuirasses of the Trojans. Only one wore jewels, and he seemed to be their leader: a fat man, his tunic stretching around a large paunch, his eyes small and cross in his flaccid face.

I watched with growing dread as he walked down the line, panting with effort, occasionally turning up the chin of one of the girls with the end of his sceptre, stopping to squeeze her breasts and buttocks, then laugh with his men. But none of the girls seemed to be what he was looking for.

‘Hah!'

The king was standing a few paces in front of me, his piggy eyes peering out of his fleshy face. He turned to raise his eyebrows to his men, and my cheeks flushed as their stares rested on me.

‘Now, who is
this
pretty piece?'

One of the Greek ambassadors ran up to his side. ‘We do not know her name, King Agamemnon,' he said, bowing deeply. ‘She was found by the men you sent to scout the forest to the south of Troy, along with one of the Trojan princes.'

‘What have you done to him?' I demanded. ‘What have you done to Troilus?'

The ambassador did not reply, and the king merely bent down to take a closer look at me. His breath smelt rancid and he was missing several teeth.

Despite my efforts not to appear afraid, I felt myself flinch.

‘Don't be shy, girl,' the king said thickly, placing one pudgy finger under my chin and lifting my face.

I tried to struggle as he turned my profile from side to side, sniffing my hair, like a boar grubbing for roots, but the ambassador darted forwards and forced my head up. I felt his fingers digging painfully into my collarbones. ‘They always said old King Priam had a hoard of precious jewels in his coffers up in Troy,' he announced, to the crowds of nobles and soldiers around him, ‘but they never told me he had such a jewel as this.'

They laughed, and King Agamemnon gestured to one of his slaves, who ran to unfasten the ropes around my wrists and ankles. The king took my hand, raised it to his lips and kissed it, his fat lips pressing horribly against my skin. ‘You are welcome to the Greek camp, slave,' he said.

‘Out!
Get out!
'

I fled from the hut. A slim, brown-haired young Greek with a delicate chin was just outside the door and I ran into him, blindly, my eyes filled with tears.

He stared at me in surprise. ‘What – who are you?'

I shook my head and tried to push past him, but he caught my arm. ‘What happened?'

I struggled to free myself.

He pulled me with him and strode away from the hut down the shore towards the sea, still holding my arm, leading me around the sides of huts, shacks and tents, past soldiers sharpening swords and binding together bronze-tipped arrows, and slaves carrying clay jars full of water, until we were almost at the shore and the sea-wind made my eyes sting. Then he turned to me. ‘What happened?' he said again, his voice urgent, his pale forehead creased with worry.

I looked up at him through my tears. ‘Why should I tell you? I don't even know who you are.'

His expression softened. ‘You are Achilles' slave girl? The one he took from Lyrnessus?'

I nodded, and a tear spilt down my cheek.

‘I am Patroclus,' he said. ‘Patroclus of Thessaly. I am Achilles' …' he hesitated ‘… companion. You can tell me what you have done to anger him. I wish you no harm.'

There was a long silence. ‘I am no slave,' I said at last, my voice very low. ‘My name is Princess Briseis, daughter of King Bias of Pedasus. And I did nothing to anger Achilles,' my voice broke, ‘except bathe him, as I was ordered.'

Patroclus frowned. ‘You must have done something.'

‘I did not!' I protested angrily, my face growing hot. ‘I bathed him and rubbed his skin with oil from the shoulders to the feet as my mother taught m—'

‘You touched his feet?'

‘Of course I touched his feet. Why should I not?'

He turned away so that I could not see his face. ‘Tell me what happened.'

I considered, frowning as I tried to remember. ‘I anointed his legs and his ankles with oil, and then – and then I touched his heel. He flew into a rage and threw me from the hut.' Tears were stinging my eyes again. ‘I did nothing,' I said again.

Patroclus paused, his gaze distant over the sea. ‘You – you would be best advised not to touch his heel again,' he said at last.

I raised my eyebrows in disbelief, my vision still blurred with tears. ‘I slapped him across the face, and he said nothing – and now you tell me I cannot touch his feet?'

Patroclus nodded, his back still to me.

‘Why?'

‘I cannot tell you.'

‘Is it some custom of the Greeks?'

‘No.'

‘Then why will you not tell me?'

He turned back to face me and a shadow crossed his face. ‘I cannot. Let us leave it at that.' Then he said, under his breath, ‘No man, especially Achilles, will admit his only weakness.'

I opened my mouth to speak, but he cut across me. ‘You slapped Achilles' face,' he said, clearly trying to change the topic. His expression grew thoughtful. ‘I must say, I am surprised you are still alive.'

I shrugged my shoulders. ‘It seems I have a talent for staying alive.' My voice turned slightly bitter. ‘Or perhaps it is a curse.'

He gazed at me for a moment. ‘I do not know what you mean by that,' he said. ‘But if you wish to live to see the dawn tomorrow, Briseis, I have some advice for you.'

‘What is that?'

He took my hand, and I looked up into his face, startled at the gesture.

‘Do not do the same tonight.'

I pulled my hand from his grasp. ‘And what is that supposed to mean?'

He blushed again. ‘Well – you know—'

‘No,' I said, drawing myself up in height. ‘I do not.'

His cheeks and ears were a brilliant red now. ‘You must know why Achilles chose you as his prize?'

‘He needed a woman to serve him, as all Greeks seem unable to perform their work for themselves.' Patroclus regarded me in silence. ‘I know what you are thinking,' I said, slightly impatient. ‘But it cannot be true. Not even
he
would dare to bed a princess of royal blood. It is against the laws of the gods and the customs of men.'

Gently, ever so gently, he took my hands again, his eyes filled with concern. And this time I did not pull away. ‘Do you not understand?' he asked softly. ‘Do you not know, Briseis?'

‘Know what?'

Patroclus sighed. ‘That is exactly why he wants you,' he said. ‘He wants you in his bed because you are beautiful, but most of all because you are a princess. You are to him what all men want: that which they cannot have.' He took a deep breath. ‘That is the only reason why you are still alive, Briseis.'

The silence stretched. ‘Do not say such things, Patroclus. Do not say them,' I said, wrenching my hands from his and backing away several steps up the beach.