Ergo desidiam quicumque vocabat amorem, desinat - ingenii est esperientis amor.
Therefore whoever called love leisure, may he cease - love has an active nature.

"And so their lives become entangled..." the narrator chuckled wryly and her plump cheeks, nut brown and wrinkled,opened in an affectionate smile. "They were filled with notions then of grandeur- each of them, on their own path. Briseis in her temple, Achilles with his sword. Gather around friends, and stay awhile. Here how their lives first collided...
...On the beaches of Troy."

Achilles clenched his fist with an impatience that was famous. His Myrmidons, however, gave no such rise to their own unease. Every eye remained trained on the leader standing poised at the bow of the ship; every eye watched him, breathless, lest they miss his command. Buoyed by the soft breaking of the waves upon his ship, Achilles felt every shutter and creak of the masts as the vessel hovered in the water. Achilles was distracted. His thoughts traveled back to the day when Odysseus had made his eloquent plea for Achilles' sword in the upcoming battle with Troy.When Odysseus had made his pledge, Achilles had been riddled with unease regarding the voyage. "I am no lapdog to Agamemnon's greed," he had asserted coldly, but Odysseus had not stopped there. The man, lips oily with his unctuous words and eyes shining with the vision of conquest that only he could imagine, had plied his ears with a tale of glory. And, Apollo help him, he had listened. But it had been his mother that had convinced him. The woman who had brought him screaming and bucking into the world had helped seal his fate out of it by telling him of the legend he would become if he went. And, to a man to whom life was merely an engrossing game, the prospect of it ending there in battlewas no threat. Achilles had agreed, and he had boarded the ships intent on spoils Agamemnon and his trove of kings could not fathom—glory and legend. Now, as he waited, leather on his body made stiff by the salt air and brine, he felt the eyes of his Myrmidons and considered his position. Was he Agamemnon's pet, or was he his own master? The answer was on his lips as he turned, eyes glittering, to address the men that followed him so bravely.

The Trojan beach stood before him now, haughty and contemptuous. It waited in a challenge that he was ready to meet. Even as ants swarmed upon it, hasty and frantic with the preparations they knew they must assume in defense, the beach remained bleached and pristine. The glory of it—the unadulterated glory of the beach that beckoned to him so smugly—was too much to bear. Agamemnon, the man with the luscious whores and oiled coiffed hair, lagged far behind. Waiting for him would lose the afternoon and the element of surprise. "I find I want to eat supper tonight on the beaches of Troy," he commented aloud in mild tones as he appraised the shore. Eudorus, his henchman and friend, was the only man to move. The others merely waited, breathless with anticipation, for his decision.
Already, Hector's uneasy troops gathered on walls and paths to inspect the fleet of ships approaching, with the skewed nature of their armor showing the nature of their preparation. His breathing increased as he scanned the shoreline. Look at me, it seemed to smirk. You cannot take me without those behind you. How do you feel, great Achilles, to be suckling on the tit of Agamemnon still? Pretty babe, pretty child. You can do nothing without him. You wait for him still. Behind him, a single warrior shifted his weight, and the answering creak in the ship sounded like the clang of a blade newly unsheathed. Sounded out of his reverie, Achilles turned to answer to the men he led, and his armor glistened with cold blue readiness in the brightness of the day.

"The Trojan beach waits there, brothers," he asserted boldly, and his eyes were alive with the flush of lust. It was the hot lust of a fight. It was the lust for blood. He leaned forward, and his blonde hair shone in the sun. Gold beyond belief. Godlike. Arresting. His eyes shone with the hotness of victory as he stood there, sword hand played between restless fingers. "Will we take it? Come, brave Myrmidons, and answer. Will we take it?" Slowly, grins broke out on the faces of the men he addressed. Thick fingers, ringed and broad as sausages, moved to the hilt of their swords. Eyes shone in faces that were broad and fleshy; mouths tightened in determination through the thickness of their beards.
"So be it," breathed Achilles, and he leapt forth to spur on the rowers. The blueness of the Aegean lapped at their boat, heedless of the fury of his cry, and undisturbed by the blood that would soon christen it as crimson. On the land, the sentries had begun their frantic sounding of drums, solemn and uneasy, as a warning. Fisherman, in boats that were flimsy and buffeted by the power of the waves, were rocked toward shore as they frantically propelled themselves forth. Men scrambled to lace up armor and stand against the enemy. Through it all, Achilles sailed. The statue of the Sun God, great and golden, stared down upon him from the shore.

The cloud of incense clung to the curls of Briseis. Her new life had begun not too long ago, just after her conversation with Andromache, and she had taken the oath of the virgin to seal her fate. Around her, the walls gleamed with the gilded offerings to Troy's protector. Gold to match the shining quality of his chariot as the sun; sparkling diamonds and gems to match the brilliant glint to his eyes when they twinkled in the night sky. As a priestess to Apollo himself, she found herself with a depth of fulfillment that she had not cherished as a maiden of Troy. Amid the splendor of Apollo's temple, there was a ageless serenity that she had grown to cherish. Moving about as an acolyte of the priests, the very thickness of the walls hid the beat of her footsteps, and she could believe, here in the silence, that she was alone. It was surprising to her family that she found such comfort in the silence. But she did. Briseis found that she could be sedate here, among the walls of Apollo. She found that she could be more herself here than the life outside had ever required.
Around her, other priests, in robes of a submissive white, moved to make the prayers to the statue of the Sun God looming above her. She joined their mass as well, fumbling with her robes as she bent on her knees to offer supplication. Yearning eyes met the unseeing gaze of the great god to whom she had pledged her troth, and she sought for words to express her ardor. 'If you cannot find a mortal to satisfy you,' Andromache had once teased, 'you will turn to a god for consummation.' It was true. Briseis, who had been so disappointed in the coarseness of her mortal brethren, had finally found peace under the gaze of those without fault- the gods she had always treasured. Priam, the king of Troy, had expressed concern when she had spoke to him of her wish to be a priestess. But the idealism of the position satisfied her.
Here, she felt, she was finally complete.
Great and noble Apollo... She began her prayer, and she became engrossed in the silence.
Outside, the metronome of the drumbeats sounded the beginning of a battle she did not suspect.

The first man Achilles rent open with his sword was young and frightened. Pale curls, straw like in color and texture, stuck out from his helmet at awkward angles, clumsy and youthful juxtaposed to the heaviness of his armor. The placid color to his cheeks was docile and white, and his hair, formerly so blond and fine, was bleached strawberry by the rivulets of blood. Achilles had, when he placed foot on the shore, moved forward to slice off his head, and the gore dripped off the sword with an ease that was disturbing. But the image had already faded from the mind of the greatest warrior in Greece. Too many pictures of young boys skewered by his blades would haunt him if he allowed it, and he erased the portrait from his mind before it could bear him guilt. Slowly, with the tattooing of the Trojan drums in the background, he stepped up to meet the next challenger. Behind him, interrupting the lazy beat of the drums, he could hear the screams as the Myrmidons joined him on the land. But the drumbeats ran through it all, unending, as a background to the battle.
Beat. The sun shone on his sword, and his competitor was vanquished under its keen edge. He moved forward a step. Beat. Twirling to challenge the man behind him, he elicited frightened screams as blood, spraying in a crimson flood, gushed out from the edge of his sword. Beat. He leapt to bear down on a bigger man, with slower reflexes, as his weapon punctured the holes in the Trojan armor. The sword cut through his underarm, slicing arteries, and the man howled as his limb was severed. Beat. He moved forward a step, only to swerve and bring his sword, both hands grasping the blood-stained hilt, up to mar the face of the man before him. Bodies littered Achilles' path as he moved up the beach. Myrmidons fanned out behind him to complete the slaughter. Beat.

The fighting began, and she did not hear it. The thick walls of the temple kept them safe and protected. Even as the world went mad with bloodshed, their world was protected and safe. When the outside finally intruded on her solitude, she did not turn around from her prayers. The only thing she heard was a single opening of a door and the whistling of the wind as it was allowed in. There was something else there too- some faint and foreign, but she could not process the sound. Feeling only vague curiosity, she stood and turned. Her eyes were the first to meet the merciless gaze of Troy's butchers.
When the first of the men entered the temple, Briseis did not understand. She saw the menacing leers, and she did not understand. It was when she heard the enormity of the noise, filled with the heartbreaking tempo of the drumbeats and the soulless screams of those being murdered that she knew. The men being killed... She did not know them. She had not broken bread with their families or kissed the downy heads of their children. But she heard their pain, and tears began to leak down her cheeks in sorrow. Grime was showed by the blackness of the streaks her tears left, and she looked up at him with eyes that were crushed with pain.

Impassively, one of the heavier men stepped forward. He was broad and meaty, with armor that was bronzed and impenetrable. His bushy black beard covered his mouth, naming it a soulless black hole, and his muscled forearms tensed as he lifted his broadsword. Eyes that were hard and unsympathetic glistened in his face. The priest before him, feeble and stilled by fright, was cleaved into two by the width of the sword in moments, and Briseis was yanked from her reverie. She began to scream. The silence of the temple—the solitude of the temple that she had cherished, was rent by her shriek. Unable to move from the horror, she watched as others were killed. She watched as other Greeks came in from surrounding rooms with the fresh blood on their blades a testament to their massacre. She wept for the bodies that she knew remained lifeless, and she consigned her own without a thought. Instead of looking in his eyes as he did what she knew he would, she stared at his hands. They were ornate and filled with rings. A barbarian. In a final show of disdain, her spittle landed on his cheek. She knew she would meet her death for it, but she did not care. Of all to die this day, her death would mean the least. Through it all, the drumbeats sounded in sorrow.

Ajax, brave Ajax of the Greeks, thundered off of his ship to offer aid to Achilles. The arrows that the Trojans had been firing as a meek defense were taken out by the warrior dashing to eliminate the threat. Achilles and his Myrmidons were left to continue up the beach unfettered, where the temple of Apollo rested. As the king whose entourage goes on ahead to prepare his way, the golden warrior was not the first to breach the temple. But, as he paused on the steps, the Greeks lowered their weapons in appreciation of the solemnity of the moment. And, as he gazed about, Achilles truly noticed the brevity of what he had done. Bodies littered the shores. Carrion birds, ruthless and greedy, fixed black eyes on the corpses and swooped downwards to sup. But the Myrmidons stood as victors, and he was pleased. Languorously, with a grace that was sinister, the warrior turned to consider the immense statue of Apollo that he stood beside. Calmly, quietly, he lopped off the head of statue and gazed at the fallen god in pity.
"I will have my glory," he murmured in explanation, and his sword remained aloft. Stunned Greeks began to cry aloud in astonishment, but their voicessoon gave birth to approving cheers.

And when she was seized rather than killed, her answering cries of pain receded into the background. Still, where her ears could hear, greater cries of torment sounded, and the slaughter continued.

"Achilles!" they cried, and he uttered his directions to the backdrop of their adoration.
"Greeks have won this battle. Take the spoils you desire."
"Achilles!" continued the chant. "Achilles!"
Amid the gory expanse of death, the warrior began to smile.

To be continued…