Chapter Three - Fire & Ice

I woke in a strange bed. It shouldn't have been strange; it was the same chamber I'd slept in before I became a part of Apollo's temple, but it didn't feel comfortable, or homely. As horrific as my first few days in the Greek camp were, I felt safe there, strange as it may seem. There, I knew Achilles would protect me. But here, back in Troy, everything was different. I had no husband, no brothers to defend me. Hector was dead and Paris too blinded by love to be of any real use.

And then there was Theo. We'd entered Troy in the dead of night and I hadn't encountered anyone since. Clearly I could no longer wear my virgin robes; the people of the city were weary and sick of battle, but they were not stupid. But I didn't know what they would assume – whether I'd been taken without consent or given myself just to stay safe. I didn't want the gossips thinking either of those, but I also knew that no one would accept or believe the truth, especially concerning the man it concerned.

The thing I hated myself most for was that I didn't regret a moment of it. I wouldn't take back one day or one night. Not even the very first ones, when I was treated as nothing more than a dog and a whore by everyone. No, I mustn't change the past. Everyone but Achilles.

I hid.

I heard the Greeks coming and I hid in a hole behind the statue where we sometimes kept spices. I don't know how long I was down there; I listened to the sounds of men's cries and screams for what seemed like days. Once I thought I heard Hector's voice, only for it to fade and die away. Then, when all had been quiet for a while, and my only company was the terrified thudding of my own heart, I was discovered.

The men who found me dragged me like a sack of wheat past the dead priests, down to the beach, where they were already setting up tents and meeting places. I tried to fight back, but they were much stronger than me. Even so, by the time we stopped moving, I was wet with perspiration, and my hair and robes were out of place and dishevelled.

They bound me and tied me to a pole inside a tent. This one was bigger than the others, and was already completely set up; they'd obviously started here first. I was still petrified, but by this point I had started to calm down a little. It is the will of the Gods, I told myself over and over again. Whatever happens is meant to be.

But then, as the men left, one of them said something that scared me out of my mind all over again.

"Achilles'll know what to do with her."

Achilles. It took me a moment or two to recognise the name, but as soon as I did, my limbs started to shake and my heart thudded faster. The greatest Greek warrior of all time, slayer of men, women and children alike. I'd led a sheltered life in Troy, but even I had heard the stories: how his mother was an immortal goddess and he could never be killed. How he was only a shell of a man, who knew nothing but war and rage. And now I was trapped in his tent. Only the Gods knew what he'd do to me.

The slats that fell from the threshold were pulled back and a man spoke.

"The men found her hiding in the temple. They thought she'd…" he paused, "amuse you."

The slats were closed again and someone walked down the beach, but I could still hear movement inside the tent, so without looking round I assumed it was Achilles, cleaning off after today's battle.

How long until he strikes? I found myself thinking. How long do I have left?

"What's your name?" a voice said. Terrified, I stayed resolutely silent, but found the courage to turn my head quickly. The man was looking down, not at me, but, even in this state, I was a little disappointed. I had expected an ethereal glow, or something amazing, but he just looked like any ordinary man.

When I'd turned back, he spoke again. "Did you not hear me?"

After a moment, taking a deep breath in, I gathered any scraps of bravery I had left, and replied.

"You killed Apollo's priests."

"I've killed men in five countries." The warrior said. "Never priests."

"Well, then your man did. The Sun God will have his vengeance."

"What's he waiting for?" Achilles asked, with more sarcasm in his voice than I thought appropriate when referring to a God, and this was probably the cause of my next outburst.

"The right time to strike." I spat, and turned my head to face him again. This time I looked properly, remembering every detail, so that if I ever did return to Troy, I could tell the tales of this legendary hero, the best killer Greece had ever seen.

He was a handsome man, admittedly, maybe even more so than Paris, who was famous for his charms, and he had golden hair that any girl would kill for. But other than that, he was just normal. Just a man.

"His priests are dead and his acolyte's a captive." Achilles continued. "I think your god is afraid of me."

"Afraid?" I retorted. "Apollo is master of the sun. He fears nothing."

He raised his voice. "Then where is he?"

I raised mine even more. "You're nothing but a killer! You wouldn't know anything about the Gods."

I didn't know where I'd drawn this new courage from, but I cursed it now, knowing that I might have just signed my death sentence by addressing him so rudely. But instead of a drawn sword or a fit of rage, I was met with a quiet reply.

"I know more about the Gods than your priests. I've seen them." Little did I know this was the beginning of a long debate between Achilles and me; I was, and still am, a firm believer in Mount Olympus. My lover, however, treated the subject with a scepticism that I found surprising, taking into account his mother and father.

"You're royalty, aren't you? Spent years talking down to men." he continued, almost laughing at me. He leant in and picked up a strand of my hair, smelt it. "You must be royalty." he concluded. After a pause, he tried again. "What's your name?"

I still did not answer, afraid that if I gave away my name I'd somehow be betraying my uncle and cousins back in Troy. But now Achilles crouched down, and started untying my bonds. "Even servants of Apollo have names."

I looked up, intending to think of a clever reply, but nothing came. I just stayed looking into his eyes, clear blue, like the sky on a sunny day. Those eyes, that seemed to be filled with fire and ice, made me feel like I could tell him anything and everything.

"Briseis."

"Are you afraid, Briseis?"

"Should I be?"

My companion stayed quiet, as if searching for a suitable answer, but the silence was not strained. It was perfect and pure, as if a thousand moments were passing at once. It was interrupted, however, by someone appearing at the door; I found out later that it was Achilles' second, Eudorus, but at that point he was just another Greek. I flinched.

"My lord," he said. "Agamemnon requests your presence. The kings are gathering to celebrate the victory." Achilles kept his eyes on me, but addressed the man behind him.

"You fought well today."

"My lord." Eudorus nodded gratefully and exited, leaving us on our own once again. I dared to restart the conversation, choosing a question I could have asked any Greek on this beach.

"What do you want here in Troy? You didn't come for the Spartan queen."

He answered evasively, as he did so often in the months that followed. "I want what all men want. I just want it more."

There was a pause before he spoke again, answering the question I had asked earlier. "You don't need to fear me, girl. You're the only Trojan who can say that." He rose to his feet, took one last look around, and left, his words still ringing in my eas.

You don't need to fear me, girl. But even so, I was as scared as ever. And now, the tears that had threatened to rise throughout the whole encounter finally engulfed me, running down my cheeks like fountains.

I couldn't bring myself to cry. No matter how hard I tried, no tears would come. Beside me, Andromache sat serenely, the flames of Hector's funeral pyre reflecting off her thin veil. Helen sat beyond her, baby Astyanax in her arms, a mirror image of me holding Theo.

They were already starting to gossip, I could tell. The older women, the children who weren't quite as interested in the prince's funeral games, were already speculating at what had happened. Who was the baby's father? How had I survived for a year with all those Greeks, each one starved of a woman's touch? And most importantly, at the death of my cousin, why wasn't I crying?