"Servitio," dixi, "nominis addis onus."
"Slavery," I said, "you add the burden of a name."
One wizened hand folded in her lap, and she when she looked upwards to meet your gaze, her eyes were saddened and dreamy with lost memories. "Achilles would not love Briseis because of her amazing beauty, so widely heralded by the denizens of Troy that would have claimed her hand," the woman continued, and she spoke with an a knowing air. "Achilles would love Briseis because she knew how to love, and to fear; she knew how to rise in anger and to fall in panic. Achilles would love Briseis because she knew how to live. And as he saw her there, so lovely and so apart, he felt the first stirring of his ardor."
When Achilles first stepped into the tent, absently drawing the silk wrappings around his thumb as he tied it shut again against the side, he didn't glimpse her immediately. The revelry of the men, boisterous and enthusiastic, played at the edge of his mind. Brisk, back and forth in impatience, Eudorus' agitated footsteps caught at his attention as the smaller man, long ago bereft of his bloodied armor, had bustled away from the enclosure. The squawking of the graceless gulls, swooping overhead as they returned to nests, clashed with the moaning of the rutting men as they laid claim to the whore of their choice. All together, his mind was congested, and he shook it so that he might perceive some clarity. Turning, his gaze fell upon her.
His mind emptied. The sounds of the camp, always so loud and distracting, fell into nothingness. The gulls became indistinguishable specks, forgotten and unimportant against the startled nature of his mind. Eudorus, with his long jowls and worried eyes, was forgotten. The men and their crudeness were erased. In fact, as he slowly drew one hand backwards to run it through his ocher hair in dazed surrender, he thought of nothing but her and her beauty. And, out of all the conflicting noises in camp, he noticed only one now, emphatic and domineering as it consumed the breadth of his attention. The beating of his heart. Once slow and leisurely, it had always failed to speed even in the hotness of battle, where his life was on the line next to the swinging of his opponent's blade. He had nothing to risk in battle. His life was unimportant without anybody to give it that fear of loss, and as such, he had never feared a fatal blow. Slowly, made wondering by the surprise of the movement, his hand went to his heart, and he dropped to his knees. He did not know her, but he could feel her. The personality of the woman filled the room, more overwhelming than he, more awesome and powerful than he. It was in a split moment, unintelligible and sudden, that he sensed he could lose to her. And that feeling of vulnerability caused him to break down so swiftly to a position of supplication.
You intrigue me.
Her back was to him, and he could not see her face. But he was mesmerized by the hypnosis of her profile, and he committed it to memory. Her hair was willful and stubborn. He could see by the ruby, caustic ring to her wrists that she would have subdued it, were she able, but that the bonds had kept her from keeping the rebellious mass in hand. Thus, it spread out now, loud and crackling with static, over her slim shoulders and torn robe. Despite the thickness of the mane, it looked soft. The color itself was soft, as the night sky appears soft, as a cloud appears gentle between two exploring fingers. The russet shade was neither black nor brown, but a darkened mixture. Gold was threaded through the amount, much as golden thread is embroidered through a tapestry, and he was quieted by the majesty of such a combination. Her skin was a pale olive from her time in the temple, and it was much quieted next to his overwhelmingly bronze skin. Though it carried the golden patina of one from a sunny land, she had been quieted by her time as a priestess, and her skin bore the remains of such a sojourn. As he watched her there, he saw her blink. The transparent skin of her eyelids intrigued him, with the flickering colors shone in the rapid beating of her lids, and he watched in fascination as the quivering of her eyelashes, so inky and powerful, trembled against her cheek with the delicacy of a landing butterfly. She was made up of many contradictions. Ravished slave girl, sensual with her ropes of sienna curls, and timid virgin, clothed in the gown of a priestess. Both a contemptuous woman and a frightened child as he watched her, he was amazed by the nuances of her person and the many facets to her form.
But her eyes stunned him most. From his vantage point, he could watch her without her being able to turn and confront him. He thus saw the changes in mood for this vixen displayed in those orbs of clarity; he saw the original outrage, and he saw her fingers flex in rage. He saw the way her eyes had lit up with fury, snarling, biting and animalistic, and he saw the way she would have killed him, were she able. But he also saw the transformation in her feelings as no enemy was forthcoming for her to unleash her fury upon. He witnessed, with a pang of sorrow, the way panic engulfed her orbs as she tried valiantly to turn and face him, but was unable, and thus had to fight an opponent she could not see and evaluate for danger. And lastly, he saw as she surrendered to fear there, roped against her wooden pole. He noticed bitterly that she shrank against it, cold and alone, as her defiance finally vanished.
You intrigue me. I do not know why.
When he moved forward, she slammed upright against the pole, and her eyes blackened with a mixture keenly felt fright and anger. Her pupils expanded and became enormous. Carefully, he stepped forward to kneel beside her. Her chest heaved as she attempted to move away, but with one hand, he was able to still her. A knife appeared in his fist, sharp and glinting. Her bonds were severed with only a few cuts, and he released her to her freedom there. Neither moved in the initial moments, and he remained beside her. Every gentle utterance of breath that landed on her cheek reddened it and caused it to warm with color. Sensing that this girl, with the frightened nerve of the cornered beast, would attack if pressured, he dropped to his heels and waited.
"What is your name?" he finally broke the silence, desiring to have an appellation with which to define her. The question was nothing more than a breath as he exhaled there, knowing that anything more than a whisper would upset the fragile truce.
She turned cold eyes on him, insolent and filled with rebuke. Innately despising how ill at ease he felt, he drew in a deep breath to forestall his annoyed retort and calmed himself, soothing the flustered response he had to her silent rebellion. Squatting there beside her, he slowly wove the ropes from her stilled wrists, since she seemed reluctant to move, freeing her from her bonds. Still, though, the woman did not stir. The luminous quality to her eyes, arresting and alert, made him feel uncertain. They were luminous there, like a light was luminous. They seemed to hold a special quality, and he moved closer, studying their depths.
"Even priestesses must have names," he asserted then, prying closer beneath her armor. She cast a cold gaze in his direction, and he resisted the urge to touch her, caress her, smooth those wayward curls and cup her molded cheeks, if only to soothe the pain in her eyes. It was burning still. He could see it. There was hatred there, slowly simmering, and there was sadness and a weight of betrayal. Achilles, as he watched her, longed to subdue her and to conquer this maiden of the raven tresses. He felt, suddenly, that it would be a difficult battle to win.
His blue eyes deepened in promise.
You intrigue me. I do not know why. Rest assured, my beauty, I will find out.
"You're safer in this tent than out there," he attempted to soothe her, and he was gratified that she did not shrug away his next attempt at comfort. He saw an answering flash of comprehension in her eyes, the way her gaze flickered up to his in fear, and he knew she understood. But the silence dragged on between them both, unconquerable, despite her seeming acceptance of the truth of his statement. Just as he was about to stand and go, she broke it with a venomous statement, meant to sting and wound.
"You killed Apollo's priests," she challenged, and he heard the panic in her voice. Slowly, he turned around, and he met her gaze with a sincerity she did not expect.
"I have killed many men. Never a priest."
"Then your men did." A moment of silence, then, with triumph in her tone, "The Sun God will have his vengeance." She spat it out as a rebuke and a warning in one, and the hopefulness in her eyes proved that she wished him to nod his acceptance, that she might cling to his eventual immortal punishment as fact. She watched him, stunned, as he merely stood to undress. His bronze grieves were slipped off with ease, and he raised his ocher arms upwards in a show of leisure.
"What," his voice was impatient as he turned to look at her, but his eyes were not unkind, "is he waiting for?"
Her words came out in a flurry.
"The right time to strike!"
"His priests are dead and his acolyte is a captive. I think your god is afraid of me."
"Apollo is afraid of nothing." Her defiant laughter followed the statement, but Achilles ignored it. His eyes remained on hers, pulsing with life, as he let his armor fall the floor. It fell with a clatter, creating an enormity of noise, but neither of them moved from their tense positions. He was still as he encountered her attack; she was poised to defend against his answering onslaught. Moving would be a sign of weakness. And so, they remained suspended for battle.
But when Achilles next spoke, it was without anger. Rather, tiredness and gentleness filtered through his tone, and he had adopted the voice of the instructor for her benefit.
"Then where is he? Tell me, my beauty, why he does not avenge you and strike me down?"
Her silence was a sign of her initial defeat. But the smoldering edge to her eyes was a foreshadowing of her future fights. She would not let this lie. As Achilles bent down to wash, he held her gaze still, but his voice was insistent.
"Tell me," he urged again, and a hint of a plea entered his tone. "Tell me your name."
"Briseis."
As the blood sluiced from his skin, he paid the crimson rivulets little attention. Knowing that he was bathing the stigma of the sin that she held against him from his skin, he cleaned himself vigorously though, as a sign of appeasement and truce.
"Are you afraid, Briseis?" he asked then, and his voice was low and rough. The silken quality to his blue eyes rippled, changing to something more dangerous, and he waited for his response. It was silly, he knew, that his heart pounded against his chest so.
Her eyes met his with an answering show of boldness, and her voice was as slow and sweet as his had been before.
"You tell me," she answered softly, "if I should be."
It was a single moment they shared. To the disinterested passing of time, it mattered for naught. The oceans did not cease in their rough and careless course, and the sky did not dim with portenous pretensions because, at that moment, Briseis showed her vulnerability to her captor. But, he held her gaze. He treasured her blink, and felt it as though it had been his own against his cheek. It was merely a moment. But, as his eyes softened with real interest and her own relaxed in acceptance of his gaze, it was also a beginning.
He admired her. He admired her courage, as she defended her beliefs as the wolves pranced around her, growling for meat; he admired that her eyes did not falter as he continually urged her gaze to meet his, and that she spoke so honestly in response to his statements. He admired her innate grace, and the way she moved so beautifully even now, as her clothes her rags and her face cut and bruised; he admired that she was able to live here, in a place that would have stifled his independence, and that she was able to keep her dignity even as he toyed with her emotions.
He admired her. And to men like Achilles, admiration was the beginning of love.
Eudorus stepped back inside, and his scratchy, apologetic voice requested Achilles' presence at Agamemnon's side. The warrior stretched and sent her a long, studious glance. For the first time, she was unable to read his look.
"You don't need to fear me," he spoke carefully, quietly, as Eudorus lingered outside for his master's entrance. And the girl with the uncombed hair and torn robes watched him. She watched the majesty to his arms as he turned to leave; she watched the strength in his body and the lethal grace in his form.
She already knew it.
In a tent down the beach, Agamemnon accepted the gifts of his denizens, the gilded kings who now supped at his feet with such ease. But in the tent Achilles had just vacated, his henchmen swarmed in as invaders. Briseis looked up to scream, but the gag was in her mouth before she could move. Nay, she did not need to fear Achilles. She needed to fear every other fleabitten Spartan in this camp.
"You must be quite the talented whore," a guard hissed down at her as a grin danced on his lips and he pulled her to his feet. "Not only did Achilles evidently enjoy you," he breathed in her perfumed scent with relish as he rebound her wrists, "but Agamemnon requests your presence. Pretty slave. If you survive the night, pay me a visit." Agamemnon? Fear began to turn her stomach again. Achilles' name was uttered aloud helplessly as she turned, screamingout ofinstinct alone.
"Achilles," she whispered brokenly when there was no answer. "Achilles."
She turned a helpless gaze on the tent billowing around them, and she saw that there was no escape. Slowly, she exhaled, and her face stilled in the quiet of the moment. And, whenhe saw the deadly commitment in her cold look, it was their first clue to the lioness they had caged in the fawn's guise. She struggled and lashed out with her feet; he ducked and slapped her on the face, as one might repell a cur or dog. She was not his equal. She did not fight him as such. Growling, she bent and swerved to use her bond wrists to strangle him. He dodged her and clouted her again, and another stepped up behind her to ensnare her wrists.
She could smell the rankness of their breath in the close confines of the room, and they could hear the rapid fluttering of her own as she panted, captured at last.
Emptiness surrounded the tent where Achilles would return. Answering grimaces made up the eyes of the men she encountered as she stumbled out, surrounded by the battalions of Agamemnon's chosen, but she could recieve no assistence.
The feud between Achilles and Agamemnon deepened.
Another move was made on the chessboard of the gods, and the Trojan war pivoted on chance.