Fanfare
Disclaimer: See previous chapters; I don't like being redundant.
When Aeneas bids farewell to his tearful Princess Dido, and when the Trojans quit the great city of Carthage, there is little attention paid to their departure, and even less ceremony. There is no cause for great fanfare; Aeneas, who stills remains faceless amongst local mudslinging gossip circles, is no loved foreign personality. The people of Carthage are notoriously xenophobic – or, if you will, haughty towards foreigners. They are an empire that is on its rise, opposed to their view of Greece or Troy, which are on their falls. Besides, the Trojan party is such a motley crew of measly looking peasants, badly chiselled from a not-so-dextrous hand and malnourished, that they can command little to no respect.
Also, the lady Briseis does not leave with them.
Truly, fate has rendered itself into a scenario in which Briseis is the only relevant Trojan to the people of Carthage. She is like their newfound nymph, imported directly from the untouched and sacred vestal lands of Greece, a nymph who has bestown her favour upon them by lengthening her stay.
The few concerned with the Trojans gather at the outskirts of the city. The Trojans are armed with the charity of wagons and donkeys aplenty, all laced with fresh supplies for the holistic journey to a new land. While Dido wails, Briseis stares solemnly into the eyes of her cousin, Paris.
Her oath of silence since abandoned, her countrymen's strained good opinion of her has been thrown into greater disarray. Wilfully having pulled the silk over their own eyes, Briseis' act of defiance concerning all of their allegiance to their fallen land is a sharp shock – water in their faces – almost like stamping on their faith. They had not wished to reimagine her as the great Achilles' woman – the lover of their enemy's greatest warrior – and so they had taken her silence as a kind of regretful, shamed sacrifice to the scorned god Apollo. But with her silence so cheerfully abandoned, the oath discovered as nothing but a feminine whim, they whisper to another like a basket of snakes.
This all means nothing to Paris because he is brash, young, and unconcerned with the politik of his people – the same characteristics that led his country to its defeat. He takes her hand in his, like holding a jasmine flower in his palm and softly searching for the shoot of sugary water within, and implores her with those eyes of his, which are so renowned. He descends soft words upon her, tokens: "Don't make us leave you in this place, cousin."
Briseis holds herself differently, displays a new countenance, and her voice has a feminine lilt, softly seductive, that he does not recall from their days of childhood. Like a new person, she stands before him, and only her eyes betray the warmth she feels for him still, the love that springs from nostalgia. She tells him: "When I have found the contentment I dream of, I will send a messenger to you; wherever you are." Then, sympathetically, "You are not leaving me to my death, Paris."
To him, these words are not enough, but Helen, beautiful Helen, draws him away – for all of their benefits. It is the most kindly and sensitive action Briseis has seen the Greek beauty make in all their time together.
Andromache, stoic and with no improper pride, walks to Briseis with a glide that cannot be imitated. She kisses her on either cheek, slowly, and holds the younger woman in a one-armed embrace tightly. Aside from Paris, Briseis is the last link she has to her blissful history in Troy, and the memories flow like wine under Dionysus' blessing from the nooks and crannies of her mind. Many moments pass and they still embrace each other, until Briseis leans down to lay a chaste kiss upon the down forehead of her nephew, Astyanax, who grips the brown curls of her hair in a tiny fist. Nothing is said between these two women, until Andromache moves towards a wagon, saying only, "We will see each other again," and for once, it is Briseis who is left with a watertight throat and tears in her eyes.
There are other adieus as well, but they are unimportant. Flanked by perfunctory Carthaginians guards, Briseis watches the convey pack up into a tight and cohesive whole with Aeneas at the helm. She watches them with liquid dark orbs until their charcoal shadows are eclipsed by the sun. When she is old and looks back on her time, Briseis will probably say that this moment marks her ascension into adulthood. It is not her introduction into the sisterhood of Apollo, nor is it when her back first meets the furs upon Achilles' warm bed. She is finally completely and utterly alone, to be governed by her own decisions.
Or so she thinks.
Briseis is not interested in Carthaginian politics. Now that she has been left alone by her companions in this great and exotic place, the officials and heads of state have fewer qualms about coming to her and asking opinions from her of military strategy. They cling to the ideal of her as their figurehead, a patroness of luck all their own to be put upon a pedestal, as if she is the driftwood that would keep them afloat in a shipwreck. It is a routine that grows tiresome for Briseis very quickly, and she begins to wonder what she will do with herself now that she is alone once more.
Now this is when Briseis, as intelligent as she may be, will show her naivety – that kind of blissful ignorance that comes standard with youth. She believes that the people of Carthage will set her free like a benevolent keeper of doves, that they would gift her with great and lofty amounts of nourishment and supplies for her journey to wherever – after all, they will not defy the wishes of their patroness, would they? She begins to pour over the crude maps of the world, from Carthage to the Asia Minor, that she finds in the library. She is so absorbed by possibilities that she does not take notice of the shadows that darken the doorways near to her, nor does she hear the whispers exchanged between these shadows, muffled slightly by the weight of the drapery:
"She seeks to leave us. Look how she studies the maps. She prepares for a journey!"
"If she wills it, must we not let her go? Would that not reverse our favour in the eyes of the Fates?"
"Carthage is on the eve of its greatest conquest! The reason why we chose this time to strike involved our possession of the Lady of Luck – we cannot risk letting her go."
They send people to her rooms at spontaneous moments, hoping to catch her before she disappears from their grasp like the smoke that rises from their incense burners. They push past the curtains that cordon off the more private areas of her chambers, often catching her in the same position: she sits on her bed, long and slender legs crossed and the drapes of her dress spilling over them like water, eyes farther away than any citizen of Carthage has ever travelled before.
The female servants deign to ask Briseis her thoughts, their passions for gossip unbridled and never shameful: "My lady, what is it you think of?"
She murmurs back to them dreamily, her eyes unfocused and never settling on her addressor, "I think of my home: of the great walls, of my cousin, and of the beach. I think of eyes the colour of the blue in the sea and of hair made of sunlight."
They say very suggestively, "That's a very romantic prospect, my lady. Was this man your lover?"
There is silence for a few moments, until Briseis' eyes swing back into focus and settle upon her questioner, upon their eager eyes. Then she chastises them, some of her old playfulness emerging for a roundabout run: "Why do you ask me these things? Be gone; it's not proper to talk of such things."
But when the servants and well and gone, she lies back amid the sheets of her bed, one hand clasped tightly to her breastbone, and allows herself to again think of Achilles, and of his expression as he told her how she was his only peace. She imagines the glory of his funeral pyre, of his named carved all over Greece deeply within stone, and of his triumphant visage had he been able to see his renown, and two wet trails snake over the smoothly angled planes of her cheekbones.
She is in this exact position, the tears having only just begun to slide from her eyes, when the three chartered soldiers of Carthage sneak softly into her room. They approach her bed unnoticed, her eyelids smoothed over her eyes and censoring her sight, and she only screams when the three grab her limbs and pull her from the bed to stand on her feet. Briseis shudders, screaming, and throws herself backwards in an effort to escape them, but only thrusts herself into the hard muscle of another soldier. His arms lock around her at her waist, holding her own arms to her sides. She screams again, and they laugh.
"No need to worry, little lady, no harm will come to you." They leer at her, and she is sickened by their complete nonchalance at the whole spectacle.
"Why are you doing this…let me go – please!" She strains against the arms holding her, kicking her legs ineffectually. The soldier holding her from the back rubs his hand from her stomach to just under her breasts very suggestively, breathing hard in her ear. His breaths are raspy and hot, and she shudders again, reminded of her capture what seems like so long ago in the temple of Apollo. Though she cannot see her captor, she can feel his face turn into a nasty smirk.
Briseis is afraid; there is no person in this entire city that would dedicate themselves to saving her. Hector is dead, Paris and Andromache gone, and Achilles…probably watching her from the Elysian Fields in Hades. She wants to retch, but the soldier's grip on her belly is too tight to allow anything of the kind. His hands begin to travel even higher, and she screams again.
One of the other soldiers unsheathes his sword and pokes her captor's offending hand with it. "No touching! Did you wish for your execution?" The hand slips back down, and Briseis breathes slightly easier. Her eyes are wide, attempting to take in the entire situation, trying to understand.
With a harsh push from behind, the soldiers begin to walk Briseis out of her chambers, and she prays for some kind of favourable sign from the gods. As they enter the hallway awkwardly due to her haphazard struggles, she lays eyes upon various familiar servants and palace guards. But when she calls to them for aid, they all simply stare at her curiously, watching soldiers of their own army take her away. It is a harsh reality for her to face: the truth that she has absolutely no allies within five thousand paces of her. Fatigued, her struggles cease somewhat, and she makes eye contact with one of the soldiers. "Please…"she begs softly, "please tell me why you are doing this."
The soldier laughs, "No need for dramatics, my lady – we're following orders. The generals feared you wished to leave Carthage at the very moment that we needed your favour the most."
Down the stairs, she walks in an ungainly fashion, as the soldier still keeps his arms loosely about her waif-like body. Her eyes furrow. "What are you talking of?"
The soldier who seems to be in charge of this operation doesn't answer as he leads their small party to the bottom of the stairs, through a corridor, and to a double-doorway of heavy wood that Briseis has not seen before. He pushes the doors open with effort, the veins popping slightly in his forehead, and their group marches through. Briseis' breath catches in her throat and she staggers, overcome by the sight laid out before her eyes. The soldier turns back to her. "Why, we're going to war, and you will be our goddess of fortune. Carthage will conquer Mycenae, who you surely must despise for conquering your own homeland. You will be accompanying us, to ensure the gods favour."
As they lead her through the throng, Briseis' mind is no longer resting on the words of the soldier. She turns her head this way and that, utterly disbelieving of the entire situation. The room is filled with weaponry, wood, soldiers and thousands of banners and standards, all of them bearing the same image: the painted profile of her very own face, the symbol of fortune, and the name of Carthage emblazoned across it.
She allows herself, this time, to be sick.
He stands alone, and yet completely surrounded and crowded by his own memories, in the stone ruins that overlook the seas in Phtia. Wearing only his simple tunic of expensive blue thread and his sword held loosely by the circle of his fingers, Achilles calls to mind all the sessions of fighting he spent here with Patroclus; all the laughter and sweat and blood and taunts; all for nothing, all for death. He sneers at the ground though there is nobody around to see it, still angry, but the fury is a fury only for himself. He has lost everything.
Achilles is both thankful and hateful to be back in Phtia, where he claims lordship over the surrounding lands and people. It is a place controlled easily enough, and often remains untouched by change for years and years – how he prefers it. Athens and Sparta often sicken him, because peoples who spend their entire lives sitting and philosophizing about situations they could never grasp populate them. Achilles is not a stupid man by any regard – his mother saw well to his full education, fighting aside – but when he stated his opinions, he always was certain to be well-founded in them, so as to prevent any possible humiliation at another's hands. Greek kings and lords so loved to humiliate each other.
Travelling the sea with Odysseus and his crew, he healed quickly enough with the fresh salt sea and air to continually cleanse the wounds he'd endured at the hands of the Trojan prince. He savoured the pain they'd given them, scratched at the scabbing so as to ensure scarring, because Achilles always took a care to remember every wound he received and learned from it – making him further invincible. It was a circular process, and he loved it. Upon the sea, Odysseus encountered a convoy of Greek ships, also having left Troy only earlier, which had included the Myrmidons. Achilles had given thanks to Odysseus for his care and aid, promising to send gifts from Phtia in a tangible thanks, and had jumped from one ship to the other, finding himself again with his kinsmen. Thus reunited, they had returned to Phtia soon enough, meeting tearful crowds and fawning women. The pleasure Achilles took in having defied his mother's foresight was short-lived, and he refamiliarized himself with the monotony that came from the time at home, between wars.
And most of the time, he thought of the lover he had taken in Troy, the priestess who had so defied and surpassed him and his every assumption and expectation, the woman who turned the blood within him which pumped so steadily even in the most vicious battle to fire, the lover he had willed to make his woman until the end of his days. Achilles took little pleasure from the women he had encountered and lain with since that time, finding himself a changed man and despising himself for it.
He needed release.
It came.
"My lord?" Eudorus waits attentively in regular dress at the edge of the ruins, ever mindful of his lord's privacy. Of all the people in the land, Eudoras probably knows Achilles' habits and manners the best, after his own mother – but even Thetis would not recognize her own son, should she ever see him in battle.
Achilles does not turn, but he moves his head so as to give his attention. He asks softly, "What is it, Eudorus?"
Knowing well what Achilles thinks about the subject of other Greek lands begging for his assistance, he approaches the topic as subtly as possible. "My lord, an emissary from Mycenae came to your house this morning with heralds." Eudorus hopes without avail that his lord might catch his hint without dragging out the explanation, as he was so often inclined to do.
Chuckling lightly, as he is familiar with the diplomatic approach of his second, Achilles asks innocently, "Oh yes? And how is life in Peloponnesus?"
Gravely, "It is a summons for war, my lord." Eudorus' blue eyes flash at the word, betraying his own inward excitement at the possibility of another war. He, like Achilles, is a warrior, and lives to bring death to others. His lord, who has turned completely and begun to walk towards him, does not miss his emotion. Amusement is plain upon his face.
Stopping in front of his soldier, Achilles says, "Really? And tell me, Eudorus, why do you think I should care about the house and land of Clytemnestra and Aegisthus, who usurped the throne?" he looks past Eudorus out into the sea, a characteristically wistful expression adorning his face.
Unused to being consulted for such a large decision, Eudorus is not certain if Achilles is jesting or being completely serious. Often, he did both at the exact same time, which made for a rather unwieldy conversation. He begins tentatively. "Well, my lord, they are fairer rulers than Agamemnon himself."
Achilles scoffs lightly, powerful arms bronzed and crossed before him, "Not enough to risk my life and the lives of my men." His eyes remain on some far-off dawn.
The corner of Eudorus' mouth turns up, and his eyes flash again. He says, again in his distinctly polite tone, "The family of my wife lives in Mycenae, my lord."
This volley rests between the two of them for a few moments, until Achilles' eyes slide back to meet his second's. There is a playfulness there, and it suggests without shame that war really is only a game to the legendary warrior. "Really?" He cocks an eyebrow, and then smiles. He begins to walk briskly out of the ruins, and down the path to the nearest village, his soldier following. "Well then, Eudorus, the Myrmidons shall go to war for your wife's family, and them alone." He stops, and levels a mock-serious look at him. "That is, with your consent?"
Eudorus inclines his body slightly in a bow, accepting the acknowledgment Achilles was giving him. "Of course, my lord." They start walking again, quickly entering the extremities of the village and seeing the familiar faces of his men going about their home life.
Venturing for very few details, Achilles asks briskly, "And the enemy?"
Falling into his customary briefing role, Eudorus outlines the situation very simply. "Carthage, my lord. They claim to have an immortal goddess on their side; a goddess who controls fortune. They have not lost a battle since this woman came to them." His voice holds a treble of awe in it, for though he is a known vicious soldier, he also is a man very respectful of the power of the gods.
"A goddess of fortune?" Achilles laughs, and then looks around to meet the eyes of any of his men present. They all straighten, listening to whatever he has to say to them, somehow sensing that his anticipation probably signifies yet another impending war to be had. Achilles continues, "They'll need more than a woman to stay the Myrmidons." He roars to his soldiers, reminiscent of the time on the ship before touching the sands of Troy, "We are lions, men!"
There is a collective roar about the village, quickly picked up by any who had missed the call. Eudorus runs lightly down the path alone to the next village, his task to inform the soldiers to prepare for battle, as those present disappear into their homes, and Achilles jogs to his own grand home to make preparations for travel.