CHAPTER TEN

O muse, help me now tell how great Achilles swore dark vengeance for the slaying of Patroklos. Upon Achilles's return to the ranks of the Greeks, Agamemnon and the kings and princes of Greece rejoiced, and gave thanks to the same gods they had earliar so vehemently condemned.

But Achilles was without his armour. Prince Hector had wrenched it from the body of Patroklos and claimed it as his due spoils of battle. It was Thetis, Achilles's mother, who intervened. She came to her son with gifts of solace, offered by the gods: the instruments of rightful revenge.

Briseis watched him from a distance as he put on his helmet and drew his sword. When he turned to look at her, she looked away and prayed to Apollo to protect the one she loves but give her childhood friend Hector a swift death. Apollo heard her prayer and granted half of it but the other half was already history.

'If I do not return,' began Achilles as he approached Briseis. 'I have ordered the men to set you free and take you to Troy.'

'You are going to kill Hector,' breathed Briseis in response as she bowed her head. Achilles placed his hand on her shoulder and told her it was the only way Patroklos would be avenged.

'Then may the gods be with you,' she whispered with her head still bowed. Achilles rose it by his finger on her chin and kissed her on the lips. Then he turned and left to his chariot. She watched him ride away into the distance.

Meanwhile, Hector was preparing himself for battle in his chambers.

'Hector?' asked Andromache confusingly. She was holding the baby son of Hector in her arms. 'Why are you not at the temple with Priam?'

'Father will be safe with Aeneas,' explained Hector. 'Besides, I have responsibilities here.'

'Achilles. He will be looking for you on the battle field!'

Hector turned to face his wife and held her in his arms.

'You know what I must do,' he told her as he caressed her hair and he kissed the forehead of his son.

That same night, Achilles returned from battle with his sword wet with blood and his helmet covered in sweat. The other Greeks praised him, for he had killed the prince of Troy, Hector.

Briseis watched him eat and drink with the other men around the campfire. She looked at the city of Troy in the distance. How they must be devastated at their loss.

Inside the hut, she wept and wept for Hector and the people of Troy. They were doomed people when Helen ran away with Paris. One woman's beauty could cause such a war. A war which caused the death of her husband and her father at the hand of the mighty warrior Achilles.

But yet she loved him and this confused her. How could she love the man who killed her family? This proves anything is possible, she thought to herself as she wept.

'Why do you cry, Briseis?' asked Achilles when he entered the hut and heard her crying. Briseis did not answer for she knew she couldn't.

'Why are you so worried?' asked Briseis in response. 'After all, I am just a 'slave' according to you, mighty 'hero'.'

'Nay,' disagreed Achilles as he took off his chestplate. 'The time of heroes is dead, Briseis. We men are the monsters now.'

Briseis buried her head in her lap while Achilles changed out of his armour.

'Would you set me free?' her gentle voice asked when Achilles sat on his bed.

'Where would you go?' he asked. 'Lyrnessus is captured and only slaves are trapped there.'

'I will work among them for I am a slave, am I not?'

'You are not meant for that sort of work.'

'Then what am I meant for? Your bed? Sometimes it feels like that, maybe I am right.'

Achilles didn't reply and Briseis watched the men rejoice outside the hut. When he walked over to her and took her away from the entrance, she obeyed like a pet with her head bowed. Outside, the Greeks and Briseis sat and ate and talked. Even though she wished not to be there, Briseis knew not to embarrass Achilles.

His revenge complete, Achilles was free to mourn his fallen friend, and lay his ashes in an urn of gold, meant for two. He instructed that if he were to fall in battle his ashes were to be buried in the same urn.

On that same day, the Trojans mourned the loss of their fallen champion. For three days, the hills and plains of Troy echoed with the soft sounds of sorrow in place of battle's thunder.

Isn't it odd how men celebrate death by keeping the peace and live life to wage war?