Si mihi pauca queri de te dominoque viroque fas est, de domino pauca viroque querar.
If it is lawful of me to complain in a few words of you, master and beloved, of master and beloved I will complain of in a few words.
The sun settled into the barren coastline, determined to get its rest, and the day ended on a shore that was forever dirtied by the blood that had been spilled. Reluctant scouts from each side forged near the bodies, stealthily skittering along the water as they searched the corpses for identification that would mark them as beloved fathers, brothers and sons. The wail of the seabirds flapping overhead punctuated the dreamy silence, though occasionally, a more pungent scream shattered the numbness as a body was matched and mourning was uttered aloud. And, carried by the listless, sympathetic breeze, ash was scattered from the roaring funeral pyres already begun behind Troy's imposing walls. Chalky, sooty, endless, it was a fluttering, despondent rain that would not cease. Soldiers from Greece, newly embarked upon land, cried out at feeling it coat the hair and skin. But it was to be their penance. And, as the Trojans crooned in mourning for their dead, it would appear that the stealthy Greeks had gotten the easier end of the bargain.
The invaders, too, searched for bodies in vain, but the breadth of them had been arriving in boats amidst the inferno and had escaped unharmed. Achilles' foolhardiness thus proved to bolster the Grecian spirit—as he walked the encampments that dusk, the boisterous cries of encouragement seemed to overshadow the occasional shrieks of sorrow. Ale loosened tongues, and hundreds knelt at his feet to touch to hem of his robes or feel the breadth of his muscle and determine that he was, indeed, real. The battle had made Achilles more than man. The battle had turned him into a god to even those that knew him well, and he had become legendary among strangers and friends alike. Only his Myrmidons, standing apart this nighttime in brusque solitude, viewed him with an unchanged heart. They knew his failures and his faults. They followed him anyway. To them, Achilles was great because he was a mortal. To them, his mortality was merely a symbol of ultimate defiance, and they clung to the memory of his humanity. He was easier to worship when there was a chance he would fall.
Nighttime came on reluctant wings to cover them all and give them sojourn to nurse their wounds. The darkness covered the rusty tinge to the beach, where blood had stained the white sand the coral color of the shells, and the darkness hid the Greeks from view. To many Trojans, as they clutched food and family alike inside their homes behind the wall, it seemed as though the enemy did not exist, and they were able to forget, for a short time, the sorrow of the carnage. The blackness of the carrion birds hunting for supper among the shorn bones of the dead were forgotten as the darkness of night erased them from sight. Only one Trojan bore the fight still in her living memory. Only one Trojan could not use intimacy or distraction to burn them from her mind.
She was still among them. And, inside, she had not stopped screaming.
The burly hands of her captors clutched her still. One, broad and demanding, held her by the back of her neck, allowing her umber curls to flow over and through his fingers. He was coarse and crude in his movements; with thick, clumsy fingers, he bruised her tender skin with the eagerness of his movements. His one hand was pressed to her throat, like so, and the other was attached to her solemn shoulder, milky and transparent with fright underneath her torn robes. Her other master claimed her by her legs, and his smaller hands moved up and down her calves, rather like an animal unable to stand still in fright. As she was carried through the camp, her robe slid upwards, casting her bare skin into light. The flickering firelight named them bronze, and the leer on the faces of her jailors named them beautiful. She hid behind closed lids and retreated in prayer. Gracious and strong Apollo…
"'Oy, friends, who said you could have the best of the spoils? I think she'd look right good in my tent, she would." One called out, though the smoldering coals of his fire were not bright enough to show his identity. Raucous laughter punctuated the dignity of the coming nightfall after his bold statement, and Briseis' eyelids trembled. …I pray to you now for courage… she continued in vain, and her head was bowed in supplication. Her ears, though, remained open. She heard the calls of the rest.
"Can we have a go a' her, Thygaras?" another called to her head captor, and she shivered in response to the menace in his hopeful words. …Give me the heart to withstand this trial…
"Come, men, share with us poor lonely soldiers," a single speaker had stepped forward, and he performed a jaunty bow in their direction. "The night is young, and we know how to share." A particularly loathsome specimen had stood up as well to nod at his proposal. Black hair sprouted from every orifice, but especially his chin and ears, where it curled in a loathsome, infested undergrowth in snarls and whorls. His eyes were dark and wicked. He stood apart from the others, but his leering mouth opened wider in a grin, showing the gaps where his teeth should have been. In his hands, he held a single piece of fruit, and his dull knife was cutting scraps from it as he spoke. Juice stained his mouth, beard and fingers, coating the rank smell of the rotting food still clinging to his body. When Briseis cautiously opened wary eyes, she saw him send her a wink. Disgust patterned on her china features, she pointedly turned away from his uncouth proposal. Give me the dignity to withstand this as a lady should, dear master. Do not let these boars see my tears.
Briseis closed her eyes and prayed for mercy. She was not unprepared to fight the bastards off that would seek to fondle her, but she was afraid of what she could not control… There were too many of them to keep back. Though she might die clawing her way to freedom, they would hold her fast and besmirch her corpse after life had taken her. She trembled not against the danger, therefore. She trembled against the helplessness of it and the knowledge that the danger was a sure fate and that no measure of rebellion could save her. The anger at it made her shake. Black eyes, rebellious and simmering, stirred beneath ivory lashes, and she quivered with fury.
She would fight anyway. Just as her slender fingers had curled together in her palm, forming a fist inside her bonds, she heard the gruff voice of her captor address the milling masses.
"Nay, men," the one called Thygaras finally sounded out regretfully as he adjusted his position on her for a better grip. He seemed to foresee the disappointment his announcement would cause, for his tone was laden with apology. "This one 'ere has a purpose. Eudorus said t'was for Achilles himself—as a bit of a battle prize, if'n you know what I mean. None can touch her." Achilles. Meant for Achilles. The silence following the statement was sullen and agitated as the men reluctantly dispersed. But, Briseis was not similarly quieted. Briseis could not thank Apollo just yet for saving her virginity. She was to worry of the threat of Achilles now. Bitterly, she stopped her prayers to the god that refused to answer them. The nighttime swooped in, cold and vengeful, and she trembled in her aloneness. The answering spark of terror, furious and relentless, continued in her mind endlessly. When her journey was halted, she saw a tent opening in the corner of her vision, large and sprawling in decadence.
As her journey ended in the lair of Achilles, her worn defenses broke down entirely. Chained to a post in the middle of the chamber, her tears came fast and silently, like the gushing flood that destroys without warning. The silence was too much. Chafing at bonds that rubbed her wrists raw and shiny, she was unable to even gain the slight privilege of wiping away her tears. They dripped down her face, hot and face, as a final sign of the indignity she suffered here. As the solitude consumed her, her tears were the only noise. As they sounded out, both vulnerable and plaintive, she was naught more than a child there, begging for a mother that would not come.
Achilles walked his way through the Greek camp, filled with so much opulence and decadent noise this eve. Mourning for the dead was done furtively, as though ashamed; the vast majority of the invaders caroused now around crackling flames, with gaudy whores firmly upon laps (or under them) and ale trickling down chins in their haste to gulp it down. He wore his armor still, despite its stickiness with blood, and his shoulders were uncovered in the warm Mediterranean night. Whenever his brisk stride stilled enough to beget attention, he received prompt salutes and cries of fealty, so he lingered nowhere long enough to receive notice. He sought not for praise this night. He sought for a measure of peace. In the blackness of the night, his eyes were less arresting and his hair less ornate. In the blackness he sought, he was not recognizable as the god they had named him. It was as he wished.
He still remembered the soulless gaze of the dead as they stared up at him in a final plea. He was responsible for the men he had killed. He was responsible for the men he had led to death. With brutal fury, his cold gaze slid to the man who had caused this war and obtained his services. Resplendent in furred robes, his buildings were haphazard but ornate, and the billowing silk of his tent rippled in the breeze. Agamemnon. I kill for glory, Achilles murmured to himself, and at that moment, his eyes cut more effectively in his hatred than his blade could in battle. But that is better than killing for greed.
"My lord?" the cautious question was asked at his elbow, and the warrior turned from his distant inspection. Yet, so engrossed was he, it was a long moment before he could recognize that it was his faithful Eudorus waiting for an answer. In fact, it was long ago that Eudorus had approached to beget his attention, and Achilles failed to notice his presence until now. Deeply chastened, the man ran fingers through his golden locks and made a sound, deep in his throat, of apology.
"Eudorus," his friendly voice was laden with regret. "Forgive me, good friend. My mind was elsewhere."
The smaller man acknowledged this, before respectfully bowing and again seizing Achilles' roving attention.
"If you will forgive my saying so… You seem in need of distraction. The men found something in the temple that they thought would be pleasing. Come. Come and I will show you."
Achilles hesitated still. He longed not for jolly company this evening, and he was sure Eudorus had proposed some lark for amusement. But the man grasping his elbow was softly insistent, and he inclined his head in eventual acknowledgement.
"As you wish, my friend. Lead the way into temptation."
He was briefly startled when his own tent, newly erected and standing, was the destination his comrade had urged. But before his blue eyes could rise upwards in question, his tent flap was pulled open for his entrance. Faintly puzzled, he ducked his head and went inside.