For the Most Beautiful (18 page)

‘You do not have to fight. No one forced you to come and destroy people who have done nothing to harm you.' I heard my own voice before I realized I had said it.

Achilles' head turned towards me, and the crease in his forehead deepened.

Patroclus began to eat his broth as loudly as he could, clattering his spoon against his bowl, clearly hoping to distract Achilles from me.

I took a deep breath. ‘You did not have to come,' I said coolly. ‘You could have chosen otherwise. Your regret means nothing to the men whose lives you have taken.'

I expected another outburst of rage, as when I had bathed him and touched his heel that first day in his hut. But Achilles did not look angry. If anything, his dark eyes showed nothing but interest. He turned on his stool to face me. ‘Is that what you think, Briseis of Lyrnessus?'

‘Yes,' I said stiffly. ‘It is.'

I could see Patroclus out of the corner of my eye. He was staring at us both with the attitude of one watching a lion and a mouse caught in a cage, half fascinated, half appalled.

Achilles was considering me, like a farmer weighing up the price of wheat. ‘I would not blame you if you do not believe me,' he said, ‘but I, too, think that we make our own choices.' He looked up at the ceiling of the hut. ‘I believe there is no such thing as Fate, only the choice for greatness. I, like you, was forced into war by the dictates of my king and the will of the gods. But, since I am here, I intend to make the best of the lot the gods have given me.'

I stared at him, fingers still clutching the handles of the clay pot. His words sent a shiver down my spine. They were so like the ones that Mynes had spoken on our wedding night. ‘You wish to achieve greatness?' I could not keep the contempt from my voice. ‘And what is that?'

He smiled at me. ‘I believe there is greatness in two things: the deeds of war, and love.'

I let out a laugh that had no humour in it. ‘Love? And what do
you
know of that?'

There was a long silence. I stared into Achilles' eyes, determined not to hide my hatred and scorn.

He opened his mouth to speak.

Then Patroclus let his spoon fall to his bowl with a clatter, and Achilles turned to him.

‘My apologies,' Patroclus said, his face flushed. ‘I – I think I shall—'

He did not finish the sentence. Scraping his stool against the dried rushes on the floor, he picked up his bowl and strode from the hut, letting the door close behind him and leaving me alone with Achilles.

Achilles' mouth was set in a grim line, his dark eyes unreadable.

‘Here,' I said, and thrust the clay pot with the broth on to the table. ‘Eat, if you can bear it. If you are not too consumed with your guilt.'

Then I followed Patroclus from the hut, away from Achilles' silence and on to the shore of the Trojan sea.

Think!
I paced furiously up and down King Agamemnon's tent. The king and his war council had moved to Odysseus' hut to celebrate with some of his finest Ithacan wine, and I had been left alone, the torches in the brackets flickering as the day turned towards darkness.
Think what this means!

Perhaps Odysseus had been bluffing about the prophecy. But, if so, then he was a skilled actor – and the other warriors had agreed with him, had remembered the prophecy from when they landed in Troy.

And who was this god of theirs? Everyone knew that the gods on Ida loved Troy above all other cities, that the gods blessed us alone with prophecies of the future. How could the Greeks claim to have gods of their own – gods who, according to Odysseus, not only spoke with their priests but promised victory to Troy's enemies?

I rubbed my aching temples in frustration. None of it made any sense.

I longed to speak to Cassandra, or – I closed my eyes in pain as I thought it – Troilus. He would have known what to do, I was sure. But then I shook myself. This was no time for weakness. The last thing Troilus would have wanted was for me to cripple myself with confusion and guilt. No: I had to
do
something.

But what?

I looked around the chamber, as if I might find the answer there. The clay tablets lay on the circular table where the warriors had left them. I eased my way towards them and scanned the surface. Lines and flourishes criss-crossed the tablets, pressed in with a stylus while the clay was still soft, strange symbols I could not understand, for I had never been taught to read more than the most elementary words. I gave an impatient sigh of frustration, then strode over to the chamber's entrance and past the guards, telling them I had been sent for by the king. I went out on to the shore.

It was a relief to be in the open air again. Grey clouds were caught along the line of the horizon under the darkening sky, and a slight wind whipped at the waves of the wine-dark sea, turning them white as they curled to crash on to the beach. I was about to walk along the bay, keeping the high walls of the city in view to the east, when a strain of sweet music reached my ears on the breeze. It seemed to be coming from one of the other tents, towards the line of the breaking sea, a series of wooden poles and one larger in the centre, over which a linen sail had been thrown, a flap cut roughly for a door. A moment later I saw the symbol embroidered across it, a rock and a goat, the sign of Ithaca, and realized it belonged to Odysseus. I stood still where I was.

I could not go closer. It would be a foolish thing to do, a reckless thing. If the king found me, alone, outside, listening to his private conversations … But the memory of the strange lines and symbols on the tablets came back to me.
If I do not listen, I shall not discover anything. And what if they are discussing the fate of Troy?

Gathering my courage, I walked over towards the sounds and flickering lights, keeping my tread as soft as I could against the sand. I could hear a voice now, a sweet, low voice with a lilting Trojan accent, singing to the strumming of the lyre. That voice alone, after so many days in the camp, was music enough to my ears. I edged closer to hear the words of the song.

‘Hecuba, mother of princes, once a beauty beyond compare,

Now sits on her regal throne, and is sobered by barren care.

Andromache, daughter of Thebe and by Cestrina given life,

Is hopelessly plain to look at, though betrothed as Hector's wife;

Cassandra, pale-skinned nymph with flame-red hair and deep blue eyes,

Is slim and blithe and bonny, though we hear she is most unwise;

But loveliest of all is Krisayis, Krisayis of the golden hair
,

Whose glance is like the sun's, and of all she is far the most fair.

‘Hesione, Queen of Lyrnessus, is a full-bodied beauty, 'tis true
,

Whose husband is Ardys of Thebe, and whose love she did win through and through;

Briseis, wife of her love-child, and a daughter of Pedasus past
,

Is faithful and loving and pretty, and blessed with a husband at last;

Laodice, mother of three sons and Pedasus' queen and king
,

Seems more of a man than a woman, a quite indefensible thing.

But boldest of all is Helen, the woman who now sits in Troy
,

Whose cunning escaped her from Sparta, and whose daring will see her destroyed.'

The sound of men laughing, slapping their thighs in merriment and shouting lewd comments across the small space to much jeering and whistling, could be heard clearly through the thin fabric; then wooden stools were scraping against the rough rushes on the sand and goblets clattered on to tables. The men were leaving.

Heart leaping, terrified of being seen, I moved swiftly to one side and pressed myself into a narrow opening made between the linen on one side and a hut of driftwood on the other. My hair had just whipped out of sight when the first man left. I could hear the swish of the flap as it was drawn aside, then the tramping of feet and more drunken laughter as the king and his lords departed.

I let out my breath slowly. I had not been seen. But I had also not overheard anything worthwhile, and now I was facing the very real danger that King Agamemnon would return to his tent and find out where I had gone.

I peered around, checking if all the lords had left. I could see the clear-cut outline of the singer left alone inside, his silhouette outlined against the linen, illuminated by the flickering light of the oil-lamps. He was moving around inside as he gathered up his pear-shaped lute and stool.

Quietly, very quietly, I took a step forwards out of my hiding place, hoping against hope that he would not hear me.

‘Who's there?'

I stopped in my tracks.

‘Who's there?' the singer asked again, not unkindly, his voice as clear and sweet as it had been when he sang, his Trojan accent soft on my ears.

‘I – I'm no one,' I said quickly, to the shadow, keeping my voice low. ‘Just a captive from Troy.'

‘Ah,' he said, and I saw his outline nod against the linen. ‘I come from Troy too, you know, or thereabouts – a small village on the slopes of Mount Ida. I would not expect you to know it.'

I looked up in surprise. ‘A captive?'

The silhouette shook its head, and from the sound of his voice when he spoke he was smiling. ‘No, a travelling bard. I journey between the different cities of the Troad, sometimes further, singing my songs for whoever will pay me to play for them.' He sighed, and his voice became grave. ‘Though, of course, that has changed, with the war.'

I was shocked. ‘You play even for the Greeks?'

‘Even for the Greeks. They are men too, you know. They have need of song to lighten their cares, and I – I have need of silver to pay my keep.'

I pondered this. ‘Those – those women you were singing of,' I asked, ‘do you know them?'

The silhouette of the bard shook its head again. ‘I do not know them,' he said, ‘but I heard enough tales of the women of Troy around the royal palace. Why do you ask?'

‘I – I am a friend of one,' I invented quickly.

‘I see.'

There was a long pause.

‘You tell stories of love and war, do you not?' I asked. ‘Do you know anything of them?'

The bard shrugged. ‘Of war, much. Of love …'

I waited for him to continue, but he said nothing.

‘If one of the figures in your poems …' I was not entirely sure what I was saying, except that I was desperate to talk to someone, and the lack of Troilus' and Cassandra's counsel felt like an ache in my belly. ‘Imagine one of the figures in your poems knew something. Imagine they were the only one who knew that their city might fall. What would you do? As the poet, I mean – even if it did not make any sense? Would you have them give up, or fight back?'

The bard was silent for so long that I began to regret what I had said. Had he understood what I had meant? Would someone who accepted silver from the Greeks take pay for more than songs? Or – my stomach turned over as I thought it – was Odysseus still there, perhaps? Had
he
heard what I had said? Then—

‘I would have them fight,' the bard said, in a very low voice, so low that I had to inch closer to his shadow to hear him.

I swallowed. ‘Even if they were only a slave? Lower than a slave, perhaps?'

‘Even then. The most powerless slave is as powerful as a king – more so, perhaps – if they can understand what it is they truly most desire, and fight for it.'

I frowned. ‘This is not about desire. It is about saving people's lives, and …'

‘And?'

‘And – and knowing that the gods would not willingly destroy a city they loved above all others.'

The silhouette of the bard nodded. ‘This character you imagine – if they did what you said, and fought for what they knew was right, they would indeed be worthy of song.'

I found myself smiling. ‘And what of the women you sang of to the Greeks?'

‘I repeat only what I think others may take pleasure in listening to,' the bard said, in a serious voice. ‘I do not always say what I believe. And I should be a fool if I thought beauty were simply to be seen with the eyes.' He paused. ‘You should remember,' he added, with a laugh, ‘that I am a poet, after all.'

I laughed, too, my heart a little lighter.

‘I am afraid I must leave,' he said.

‘Yes,' I said, ‘yes, of course.' There had been something strangely comforting about his words, like the smile of a kind friend in the midst of all the doubt and fear of the last few days. But then I saw his silhouette move, not away from me towards the tent's entrance, as I had expected, but towards me. I watched in surprise as he stepped closer. Then he held his palm against the linen, the dark outline of his hand as clear as if he were standing right beside me – which, of course, he was.

I held up my hand, too, not knowing what he meant by it or why I did it. But I pressed my hand against his palm all the same and was surprised to feel the warmth and solidity of his touch through the linen. We stood there for a few long moments, two Trojans in a hostile Greek camp, hands pressed against each other, offering some comfort that seemed beyond words.

Then his hand dropped, and the moment was broken.

I gathered up my rough-spun tunic and turned to leave.

‘Goodbye, Krisayis,' he said.

I dreamt that night of Achilles.

In my dream, I lay with him. I knew, in the deepest, most secret parts of my flesh, what it felt like to be kept awake by the unstoppable desire of a demigod. His skin was dappled with white moonlight as we rose and fell together again and again, tangled and hot, mingling lust and sweat.