Disclaimer: Troy and the Iliad do not belong to me.
A/N: Thank you, everyone, for your very kind reviews! I'm going to keep writing this as long as the inspiration lasts (hopefully long enough to finish it!). Tell me, O Muse, of Achilles and Odysseus! Hehe.
The Fox and the Lion
II: A Cup of Wine
"I thought you were a dumb brute."
She was not the first to think so, but when the words fell from her lips they gained in weight and importance as if Zeus himself had sanctioned them. No man who insulted Achilles had ever lived long, yet before this small attack he steeled himself as before a line of advancing spears.
"I could have forgiven a dumb brute…"
Achilles rose and strode to the entrance, brushing aside the hangings slightly to look out into the night. Briseis was quiet. He allowed her privacy to wash the blood and filth from her skin, if not her memory. She had cause to be angry. Achilles understood rage – he was only too familiar with it. It had been both friend and enemy to him all the years of his life.
The night air was mild, but fraught with breezes. He could barely see the ocean waves, dark under the starlight. No doubt Odysseus had returned to his tent. He kept no captives, Odysseus; all his plunder consisted of armor, swords, spears, knives, and the occasional trinket. Achilles had never bothered to wonder about this before—he, for one, amused himself with captive women as he saw fit. Now, listening to the nearly inaudible sounds of Briseis behind him, it dawned on him that he, too, had lost interest in other women, and turned down the ones offered him. He was shrewd enough to understand why, and wondered what Odysseus would say if he knew.
Achilles had met Penelope, Odysseus' wife, only once, but that occasion was enough to give him a rare taste of envy. The memory always created a ball of confusion and discomfort in his gut. He prodded it carefully, wary of this internal enemy. It was one of the many he carried, secret and painful, as if to make up for his lack of physical wounds.
It had been several years ago, on a visit to Ithaca. Odysseus was the best of hosts, careful always of his honor. He held a banquet for his guest in the great hall of his home. A long table stretched the length of the room, warmly lit by torches and sweetened by the smell of incense. Odysseus sat at the head, with Achilles upon his right and Penelope on his left. They feasted on every kind of meat and wine, fruit and fish and sweet delicacies, accompanied by music and talk. Most of the conversation was roughly and manly, dwelling on recent battles and hunts, fine weapons, and irreverent politics. Achilles remembered it well, and his own words too clearly.
"A man's blood is no different than a pig's," he had said, his tongued loosened by heady wine, "And the former is easier to kill!" There was laughter at this, most of it as drunken as he. Odysseus wore his half-smile and the sparkle in his eyes was as malicious at it was amused.
"And what of woman?" he asked sardonically, "Is her blood the same as a wild pig's? Could you spill it as easily, brave Achilles?"
Achilles leaned closer to his friend, speaking in a stage whisper. "I have a special spear for women. But they only bleed once!"
The company laughed again, all save Odysseus, whom Achilles had never seen laugh aloud—only smile, with that strange, mocking twist of his lip. As he laughed, Achilles' eye had fallen on Penelope, seated in demure silence beyond her husband, and his mirth had shuddered and died.
Penelope had been a princess of Sparta, and the heritage revealed itself in her bearing. She was not tall, but she gave an impression of strength and competence. Her hair was black and curly, her face lightly freckled, her eyes a bright blue. She had white, agile hands and small shoulders. Her gaze was steady without being challenging. Achilles was not a man to pay attention other men's wives, and he had not noticed her before. Now, faced with her calm eyes, his boastful words suddenly felt hollow and childish.
Feeling his gaze, she smiled gracefully. "Would you care for more wine?" She filled his cup without waiting for an answer, and he took it without thanks.
The moment passed and the feast continued, but the exultation had left his heart. He brooded over his wine, listening to other men's jokes and tales as the night whiled away. No weapon had ever touched Achilles, and he did not recognize the sting of a wound dealt from such an unlikely quarter. He knew only that his mood had turned black. He felt slighted, but had no one to blame. He thought of Penelope's eyes.
The celebration wound down to its end, and the feasters began to depart. Achilles ignored the farewells, the blessings, the offers to show him to his room. Lost in dark meanderings of temper, he did not come to himself until only Odysseus remained at the table. The light was low and his spirits lower. He did not want to talk.
"What ails you, friend?" Odysseus asked, "Too much wine?"
The cup was still in Achilles' hand, empty save for the dregs. Red stained the table and his fingers. With a convulsion of disgust, he hurled the vessel to the floor. Realizing what he had done, he turned to his host, but the look in Odysseus' eyes stayed the apology that would never have come, anyway.
"Too much wine," Achilles muttered, "How long have I been drinking the dregs?"
"Since my wife filled your cup."
"I never thanked her."
"She did not expect you to." Odysseus rubbed the back of his neck, stretching as if to relieve the tension of the night. He fiddled idly with his knife, watching the torchlight glint upon its edge. "I am a lucky man," he said contemplatively, "I am king over a good people. I have a good woman. Agamemnon presses me, but not so much that I cannot deal with him. I am neither too young nor too old. My teeth are healthy."
Achilles shot a glance at him before expelling a soft, self-deprecating laugh. He drew his hands over his face, brushing away tangled strands of golden hair. "I wish I had your humor," he said, voice muffled behind his fingers.
"Now that you cannot win from me in single combat…!"
"I do not aim to," Achilles said, turning suddenly, almost violently to look his companion in the eye, "Not from you, old friend. Nothing will ever make me fight you. Your life, your home, your wine, your women, your people—they are safe from me. However the alliances of the Achaeans may change in the future, remember this: I will never be your enemy."
"Then I can sleep easy tonight!" Odysseus joked, "As will you, if we ever manage to leave this table…"
Achilles had not slept easily that night. He had lain awake, thinking of vows of friendship, and wine, and Penelope. Now, on the eastern shores of the Aegean, before the walls of Troy, the memory returned to him, summoned by a priestess of Apollo.
He let the door hanging fall and turned back to the woman. Briseis had cleaned the blood and dirt from her face. He could not tell if she had eaten; he hoped so. She sat in the corner, watching him with her huge, liquid eyes. Briseis looked nothing like Penelope; her soft skin and child-like beauty gave an impression of innocence far removed from the Spartan princess' mature beauty. But their eyes shared the same calm confidence, an aura of wisdom unsullied by fear. It was this, Achilles thought, that kept him from touching Briseis. He had no compunctions about taking women against their will (usually they did not remain unwilling for long), but he suspected no one could take anything from Briseis that she did not give voluntarily. And he was enamored of her, of that deceptive softness, of a power so different from his and yet no less potent.
He had never approached Penelope, never, in fact, spoken to her again. But he could not forget the feeling her eyes had instilled in him—the feeling that not everything could be won by the sword, not everything could be conquered with force. For all his prowess, he had been a drunken lout, put to shame by her dignity. The men he had killed, the weapons he owned, could not make him her equal. He remembered this, certain that some day he would need it. The day had come—here was Briseis, and he wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything. And all his accomplishments were useless. Boasts and wine and weapons were useless. He would have to find something within him better than that. He, Achilles, would have to use his mind—and his heart.
He wondered if the gods were watching after all, and playing tricks on him.
"You do not need to fear me," he said to Briseis, knowing that she did not. "I am not your enemy." With that, he doused the light, stripped, and fell into his bed. He lay awake, listening to the stillness, trying to discern within it the sound of his fate.
A/N:…And we all know what happens next! Hot sex! In the dark! With knives! Woot! … But not in this story, sorry. Let's leave that to the imagination, or read one of the many schmaltzy Achilles-Briseis romance fics on this site. I will update again as soon as possible. Thank you all for reading!