Page 74 of The Song of Achilles

Achilles shook his head. “It is best that my mother raise him. He will be better with her.”

I did not agree, but this was not the time to say so. I waited a moment, for him to ask me if I wished to have a child. But he did not, and his breathing grew more even. He always fell asleep before I did.

“Achilles?”

“Mmm?”

“Do you like Briseis?”

He frowned, his eyes still closed. “Like her?”

“Enjoy her,” I said. “You know.”

His eyes opened, more alert than I had expected. “What does this have to do with children?”

“Nothing.” But I was obviously lying.

“Does she wish to have a child?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“With me?” he said.

“No,” I said.

“That is good,” he said, eyelids drooping once more. Moments passed, and I was sure he was asleep. But then he said, “With you. She wants to have a child with you.”

My silence was his answer. He sat up, the blanket falling from his chest. “Is she pregnant?” he asked.

There was a tautness to his voice I had not heard before.

“No,” I said.

His eyes dug into mine, sifting them for answers.

“Do you want to?” he asked. I saw the struggle on his face. Jealousy was strange to him, a foreign thing. He was hurt, but did not know how to speak of it. I felt cruel, suddenly, for bringing it up.

“No,” I said. “I don’t think so. No.”

“If you wanted it, it would be all right.” Each word was carefully placed; he was trying to be fair.

I thought of the dark-haired child again. I thought of Achilles.

“It is all right now,” I said.

The relief on his face filled me with sweetness.

T HINGS WERE STRANGE for some time after that. Briseis would have avoided me, but I called on her as I used to, and we went for our walks as we always had. We talked of camp gossip and medicine. She did not mention wives, and I was careful not to mention children. I still saw the softness in her eyes when she looked at me. I did my best to return it as I could.

Chapter Twenty-Five

O NE DAY IN THE NINTH YEAR, A GIRL MOUNTED THE dais. There was a bruise on her cheek, spreading like spilled wine down the side of her face. Ribbons fluttered from her hair—ceremonial fillets that marked her as servant to a god. A priest’s daughter, I heard someone say. Achilles and I exchanged a glance.

She was beautiful, despite her terror: large hazel eyes set in a round face, soft chestnut hair loose around her ears, a slender girlish frame. As we watched, her eyes filled, dark pools that brimmed their banks, spilling down her cheeks, falling from her chin to the ground. She did not wipe them away. Her hands were tied behind her back.

As the men gathered, her eyes lifted, seeking the sky in mute prayer. I nudged Achilles, and he nodded; but before he could claim her, Agamemnon stepped forward. He rested one hand on her slight, bowed shoulder. “This is Chryseis,” he said. “And I take her for myself.” Then he pulled her from the dais, leading her roughly to his tent. I saw the priest Calchas frowning, his mouth half-open as if he might object. But then he closed it, and Odysseus finished the distribution.

I T WAS BARELY A MONTH after that the girl’s father came, walking down the beach with a staff of gold-studded wood, threaded with garlands. He wore his beard long in the style of Anatolian priests, his hair unbound but decorated with bits of ribbon to match his staff. His robe was banded with red and gold, loose with fabric that billowed and flapped around his legs. Behind him, silent underpriests strained to heft the weight of huge wooden chests. He did not slow for their faltering steps but strode relentlessly onwards.