For the Most Beautiful (28 page)

I said nothing.

He sighed. ‘I thought so.'

We continued through the undergrowth in silence. The path was narrow, and the farmhands either side of me had to wade through knee-high ferns and brambles so our progress was slow. At last – it felt much longer than before – the trees began to thin and I caught sight of the stone walls of the sanctuary up ahead. I turned to the left on instinct, to make my way towards the small stone hut, but Lycaon shook his head. ‘We're going to the temple.'

I almost stopped in surprise, but the farmhands' heavy palms on my shoulders pushed me on. ‘Why? I'm not allowed to enter the temple until my sixteenth year.'

Lycaon nodded slowly. ‘You are not. But I'm afraid Eurycleia and I cannot risk you trying to escape again, Krisayis. You are too dear to your father – too dear to us to lose.' He turned to me, his expression unusually grave. ‘There is a war out there on the plain. Your father has already put his life in danger once to rescue you from the enemy. We cannot tempt the Fates again.'

I frowned at him. ‘But then why are you taking me to see the temple?'

He did not reply.

We had reached the edge of the precinct now, a high stone wall that ringed the sacred buildings, a smaller imitation of the great sanctuary in Troy.

Lycaon whistled to Dromas to lie down beneath a fig tree and told the farmhands to wait for him there. He nodded to the guard who stood at the gates to the precinct and pushed them open.

I was growing more and more confused, but I could not help also being a little curious. My father had always been adamant that no one but an initiate could enter the sacred precinct of the god. Why was Lycaon revoking this rule now, only a few days before I was to become a priestess?

Lycaon started to climb the steps to the temple, his wooden walking stick clattering against the stone.

‘What are we doing?'

Lycaon did not answer but halted at the top, a little breathless, waiting for me to catch up. Two slaves were standing in the shade of the portico beside the large bronze doors, which were wide open, letting in the heat of the summer morning.

I caught a glimpse of a large dark stone slab that towered up to the roof of the temple, polished and shining, with a face carved upon it – the holy image of Apulunas. I turned to Lycaon. ‘Why have you …?'

Lycaon placed his hands upon my shoulders, but it was a gentle gesture. ‘It pains me deeply to have to do this, Krisayis,' he said, his bushy eyebrows knitting together on his forehead. ‘But it is for your own safety. I hope you will understand that one day.'

‘Do – do what?' I asked, alarmed now. ‘Lycaon, what do you have to do?'

At that moment I heard the slaves step forward and felt their hands under my arms, digging into my ribs.

‘Wait – no!'

But they acted as if they could not hear me. In one swift movement they lifted me up and dragged me through the huge bronze doors of the temple.

‘Lycaon!' I called back in terror. ‘Lycaon, what are you doing?'

The slaves dropped me on the hard stone floor. I caught a glimpse of Lycaon's pained expression as they returned to his side, and a last flash of sunlight on bronze, before the doors swung shut with a shuddering crash and the heavy wooden bolt scraped across them, throwing me into darkness.

I was trapped.

Several days later I was making my way down to the sea with the peelings from King Agamemnon's midday meal. The plague had gone as swiftly as it had come, lifting its poisonous mantle from over the camp like a mist rising before dawn, and the army had left to fight upon the plain that morning. I had spent the last hours trying to shield my ears from the sounds of battle that floated towards us on the breeze, the faint clashing of metal upon metal and the cries of wounded men. The sun, Apulunas' chariot, was at the height of its journey across the sky, and its rays beat down hard upon my head. I tried to loosen my tunic at my throat, feeling the sweat trickle down my spine.

I dropped the peelings into the shallows and turned to walk back up the dunes towards the tent, trying to keep my mind away from the battle beyond the palisade and the sounds of the warriors dying beyond the gates, to stop the memories of Lyrnessus that kept flashing across my thoughts. Then another noise caught my attention – the sharp, clear clash of metal upon metal from the other end of the shore, echoing over the water. I glanced over, shielding my eyes against the glare of the sun.

Achilles was standing on the beach by the line of the breaking sea before his hut, encircled by at least forty men – and he was fighting as no mortal could ever fight. Sword glinting in the light and moving so fast it was a blur of sharp-edged bronze. Tunic swirling around him like a storm-cloud as he parried, thrust, lunged, dived, all the warriors attacking him at once.

I drew a breath sharply.

Had Agamemnon sent those soldiers to kill Achilles while the army went to war?

I wondered if I should run for help, if I would be in time before they killed him. I glanced back to the tent, to the guards who stood at either side of the entrance. They were watching me, spears planted in the sand behind them, eyes narrowed beneath their helmets.

I looked back at Achilles. Even in the midst of my fear, I could not help but marvel at him. It was as if he knew where the swords would go before the warriors themselves did, anticipating every movement, every thrust, so that he escaped the cutting blades again and again, diving and twisting, the sweat shining upon his skin. Two warriors advanced and he parried them swiftly, knocking their swords to the ground, then turned and blocked the attacks of three more men with his shield, varying power and deadliness, swift and strong when he needed to be.

A young warrior attacked, and within a moment Achilles had disarmed him and thrown him to the ground, his foot upon his neck. There was a moment as I watched, half terrified, half fascinated, waiting for the blow to fall, for the sword-blade to sever the young man's neck.

But it did not come. Achilles reached down, pulled the man up by his hand. And then the fighting started again.

I stared.

And then I realized.

These were not men sent by Agamemnon to kill Achilles. These were Achilles' own men. He was playing with them, practising, leading them in a dance, while the rest of the Greeks fought and died beyond the camp walls.

It was at that moment I knew that, without Achilles, the Greeks could never win the war.

‘Briseis!'

I looked over my shoulder. A solitary figure wrapped in a brown cloak was striding across the beach towards me. I raised my hand to shield my eyes as he approached, the smell of salt strong on the wind. ‘Patroclus!'

He quickened his stride. He looked tired, I thought.

‘Patroclus!' I said again, as he came nearer, and I held out my hand to him. ‘I am glad to see you.'

His face coloured as he took my hand in his, a brief gesture. ‘I am sorry I could not come before,' he said. ‘I— It was very—'

He stopped, his ears turning red.

He loosed my hand and I started to walk along the shore in the opposite direction, past King Agamemnon's tent, ignoring his confusion. ‘Tell me, how is Achilles?'

He lowered his voice as he moved to walk beside me. ‘Achilles is well. Angry with King Agamemnon, and frustrated not to be at war.' He gave a half-glance back over his shoulder. ‘He is taunting the king,' he said. ‘He wants Agamemnon to see that he wastes his strength here while out there our comrades die upon the plain.'

I nodded, glancing at the dust billowing over the camp palisade from the battle on the plain and the faint sounds of battle-cries and clashing weapons. ‘Has he spoken of me at all?'

Patroclus shrugged his shoulders. ‘Perhaps. But there are more important things to talk about than you, Briseis.'

‘What things?'

‘The war,' he said simply. ‘A war that King Agamemnon is losing, now that Achilles has left the fight. The Greeks have not been able to sack a single city since Pedasus.'

I frowned at him. ‘And you expect me to commiserate with you?'

He seemed to shake himself. ‘No. No, of course not. I'm sorry.'

We walked on in silence for a while.

‘Has King Agamemnon been treating you well?'

‘He leaves me to my own devices, for the most part. I see him only at the evening meal.'

‘What? He does not … You do not …'

‘Lie with him?' The corners of my mouth went up in a small smile. ‘No. I managed to persuade him otherwise.'

Patroclus accepted this in silence. ‘You know,' he said at last, ‘there has been a rumour that the king is planning to send an embassy to Achilles.'

I stopped and faced him. ‘An embassy? Why?'

Patroclus looked away quickly, as if he regretted what he had said. ‘It is probably nothing. But the rumour is that the king will try to persuade Achilles back to war, and that he will offer to return you to him as a bribe.'

‘I could be returned to Achilles? I could go back to him?'

‘I said it was only a rumour.'

I turned towards Agamemnon's tent, a little way down the shore now to the west. ‘And if Achilles took me and he went back to war …'

I stopped, thinking of Achilles surrounded by forty warriors, and the fear I had felt at the thought that he might be killed. ‘Would Achilles be safe? If he went back to fight?'

He raised his eyebrows at me.

‘I don't want anyone else to die because of me,' I said fiercely.

Patroclus let out a careless laugh. ‘Achilles is the Greeks' greatest warrior! You have seen him fight. It is his enemies who should tremble for their safety. And besides,' he smiled, ‘Achilles has his mother's protection. He cannot die.'

‘His mother's …'

Patroclus lengthened his stride. ‘Thetis. She took him to the Underworld when he was a child and dipped him in the life-giving waters of the River Styx. His body is immortal where it touched the water. Except, of course, for his heel.'

There was a moment as I took in what he had said. ‘His – his heel?' I repeated slowly. ‘You mean … when I touched his heel all those weeks ago and he flew into a rage … and you told me it was his only weakness …'

‘It's the only place Achilles can be killed.' He frowned at me. ‘But I thought you understood that?'

I felt a sudden rush of horror sweep through my body, like a storm wave on the open sea.

I had told the Trojan slave girl, Krisayis, only a few days ago.

And then, when she left, she had spoken of Achilles' ‘secret'. She had asked me to ensure that he was killed.

She knew.
She knew.

And she wanted Achilles dead.

‘No,' I said, stammering in my fear. My skin was suddenly cold, my palms clammy. ‘No, it can't be.' Then I rounded on Patroclus. ‘Why didn't you tell me? If I had only known …'

‘I thought you did.'

‘I did not,' I said, my voice rising in panic. ‘I did not.' I started pacing up and down before him.

Patroclus was staring at me in suspicion and surprise. ‘What—'

‘Patroclus,' I said, turning around, ‘if King Agamemnon does indeed send the embassy to persuade Achilles back to war, you must make sure that he refuses it.'

His eyebrows rose even higher. ‘Refuse? But I thought you wanted to return to Achilles.'

‘Achilles must be kept from the war.' I took a deep breath. ‘At any cost. Even if I do not see him again.'

Patroclus gave me a suspicious look. ‘Why?'

‘It does not matter why. But if you care about keeping him alive –'

‘More than my own life,' Patroclus said.

‘– then he must not go to war. Do you understand me?'