Chapter Six – Gods and Kings
The great Odysseus had log been known for his crafty ways and wily mind, and now he would save the Greeks.
There was, Agamemnon proclaimed, to be a horse. A great horse that could hold inside it tens of soldiers. We would take Troy while she slept, while the heads of her sons and daughters were fuzzy with drink.
And we would destroy her.
I had long looked up to Odysseus and admired his mind, but surely, I thought then, surely trickery is not the way to do things. Surely a war should be fought fairly, strength versus strength, skill versus skill. The best nation wins. When I questioned the king of Ithaca, he just replied, "We have been here, on these shores, for twelve long moons. If Troy has not fallen by now, she will never fall by force."
By day I helped with the building, and by night -
By night I dreamt of Briseis.
I had spent the day in the scorching heat with the Myrmidons, on a cliff overlooking the battlefield. Despite the satisfaction of knowing Agamemnon could not fight a good battle without me, I couldn't help but to grit my teeth and curse whenever he made a huge tactical error, which happened more than a few times.
The battle ended, the Greeks sorely defeated, and the day faded away into a cool, airy night.
Briseis always called I the night I rescued her.
I was eating when I heard shouts from further down the camp. They sounded mostly like shouts of laughter and celebration, but I could truly see no cause to celebrate.
The first thing I saw was a small fire, its tongues of light probing into the darkness. Then, as I got closer, a white robe, being flung around a circle. A woman inside the robe, obviously weak but still fighting. I assumed that she was another captive; I never thought it was her because I never thought Agamemnon would let her go. He knew I'd get her back easily, though that did have some sort of twisted logic to it. Maybe the leader of the Achaeans assumed if I had my captive back, the Myrmidons would fight for him. But walking down the beach and watching her it never once crossed my mind.
As soon as I recognised her, I ran.
I hadn't noticed the beautiful waved hair, or the sparkle in her eyes. When I did, I was filled with the same feeling I'd had the day before: that I'd go to any lengths to protect her.
As I sprinted towards the fire, someone shouted, "Achilles!"; my instinct flooded in; I had one cause, and that was to rescue this strange, rude, wonderful girl. A brand to the neck and a soft hit later, she was in my arms, her eyes closed but her heart thudding wildly.
By the time we reached my tent she had regained some form of consciousness and pushed me away as I placed her down. Her eyes, like sweet, dark honey, locked on mine as I sat.
"Are you hurt?"
She didn't reply, just watched my hands as I wrung out a cloth to clean her.
"I watched you fight them." I persevered. "You have courage."
"To fight back when people attack me? A dog has that kind of courage." she spat.
Undeterred by her response, I leaned in to try and wipe the blood and dirt from her face, but she pushed me away. My second attempt, a little harder. After I lost patience and threw the cloth at he instead, she just threw it back, her spirit returned.
I dropped the cloth in the bowl of water by my side.
"Eat." I said, offering her a platter of fruit and nuts. She declined the offer, but instead decided to pursue a conversation.
"I've known men like you my whole life."
"No, you haven't."
"You think you're so different from a thousand others? Soldiers understand nothing but war. Peace confuses them." The little Trojan priestess lifted her head, as if it contained all the knowledge in the world.
I took a bit from the pomegranate I held in my hand, and said, more as a remark than as a question, "And you hate these soldiers."
"I pity them." She corrected me.
"Trojan soldiers died trying to protect you. I think they deserve more than your pity."
Briseis once again changed the course of the conversation.
"Why did you choose this life?"
"What life?"
"To be a great warrior." She replied, raising her chin.
I waited a moment before answering, admiring the sharp but somehow smooth contours of her face. "I chose nothing. I was born, and this is what I am." I said. "And you, why did you choose to love a god? I think you'll find the romance–" there was a pause while I turned the words over in my mouth. "–one sided."
The response was swift. "Do you enjoy provoking me?"
My first instinct was to say 'no', but that would have been a lie. The truth was that I did enjoy it. I loved to see the sparkle on her face when she thought of the perfect response; I felt chills up my spine when our eyes locked together, even just for a moment.
I could not answer, either affirmative or negative, so instead I pursued yet another train of thought.
"You've dedicated your life to the Gods. Zeus, god of thunder. Athena, goddess of wisdom. You serve them."
"Yes, of course."
"And Ares, god of war, who blankets his bed with the skin of men he's killed?" I continued, challenging her to reply.
Her voice lowered, the uncertainty creeping through. "All the Gods are to be feared and respected."
There was a strained silence that stretched too long. I eat, Briseis did not move. Her eyes glinted in the candlelight and searched my face.
"I'll tell you a secret, something they don't teach you in your temple." I leant in, looking at nothing but those eyes. "The Gods envy us. They envy us because we're mortal. Because every moment might be out last. Everything's more beautiful because we're doomed." Briseis looked down; I carried on. "You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again."
"I thought you were a dumb brute." The little Trojan priestess leant forward to pick up a pomegranate from the platter that lay between us. She took a bite."I could have forgiven a dumb brute."
Forgiven for what, I never knew for sure.
Glaucus, father of Bellepheron, was a Corinthian king. The story goes that he fed his horses on human flesh to make them grow strong; to guarantee wins at the games.
Glaucus angered Aphrodite, goddess of love. So the night before he was due to ride his horses that the funeral games of King Pelias, the immortal fed his horses not on meat, but magical water and sacred herbs. The sun rose and the race began. But Glaucus' horses, wild on the herbs, ran faster and more erratically than ever before; the king of Corinth could not control them. He held on tight, clinging for dear life, but soon he fell. The horses smelled the blood and ripped him apart.
The Greek horse, our horse, was beginning to take shape. One could see legs, a back, a spectre of a head. I had to be gigantic; big enough to hold a score of soldiers inside.
Like Glaucus, we were building a horse to be filled with human flesh. And I fear the end may be just as bloody.