Chapter Seven – Bread and Honey

Six days. Six long days, dragged out by the stifling heat, had I spent back in Troy. It felt like a lifetime. I was pining. Along with the city, pining in grief for their beloved prince, I longed for him.

I dared not even speak his name, but I didn't need to to feel his absence. The petty little arguments, the wicked smiles. Just when I thought I would scream from the silence after a fight he would interject a silly yet quick-witted comment. And when the sun fell, when the warmth of his body curved into my back, fitting together like pieces of a human jigsaw. Now I only had Patroclus' shell necklace and Theo to remind me of him.

Theodosius, son of Achilles, was the exact image of his father. The same shimmering hair framed his face, with the same cheeks and jaw. He had the same smile, filled with affection and yet still a hero's. The only difference was the eyes.

Theo was born with blue orbs, almost exactly the same shade and tone as Achilles'. We were warned that they might change, for babies often trick their parents that was, and they did. Over what seemed like the space of a blink, they changed from icy blue to a deep honey brown, much the same as mine.

I was partly glad of that now. If those eyes were there in front of me without actually being there, I fear it would have been even harder for me to hang on.

His eyes were closed, in the midst of sleep. His chest moved up and down rhythmically as he breathed in and out, in and out. I gripped the knife, cold and hard against my hand, and moved it towards Achilles' neck.

Push in, pull across.

I had thought about it long and hard as I lay awake, unable to sleep in the heat. Surely if I killed Greece's greatest warrior, they would be easy to defeat. That day's battle had shown they were weak without him. Surely if he were dead, Agamemnon would give up, go home, leave Troy in peace so as not to lose too many men.

Surely it could not be hard to just push the knife in and pull it across.

I wanted to kill Achilles, didn't I? He had slain Trojans, desecrated the temple of Apollo. He was nothing more than a murderer, a heartless beast.

And yet he had rescued me.

While other men would have watched and laughed and even joined in, he had come to save me. Shouldn't it be the other Greeks with the dagger to their throats? If they–

"Do it."

A voice broke into my thoughts. My inner debate had lost me time and the element of surprise, and now Achilles lay beneath me, his eyes open, almost glowing in the darkness. "Nothing is easier." He whispered.

I took a deep breath in, trying to steady my shaking hand. "Aren't you afraid?"

"Everyone dies. Today or fifty years from now, what does it matter?" the warrior replied, calm, no trace of fear at all in his voice. Then he lifted his arms and gripped mine, threatening, pulling me closer until I could feel his breath on my face.

"Do it."

It seemed strange and idiotic that I was the one more afraid, yet I was not the one being pinned down with a knife pressed against my throat. My hands were starting to sweat, loosening my grip on the weapon, however much I tried to restore my conviction.

"You'll kill more men if I don't kill you."

"Many," he breathed, his face expressionless but his sparkling eyes just daring me to go further, to push the knife in. I could certainly do it. I was the one in power. The one on top and the one holding the dagger.

But I had underestimated Greek's greatest warrior. My guard down, in a blink he flipped me over completely, so now his body pinned down mine. He rested his hand on my leg; my heart beat faster and faster and blood rushed to my cheeks and my pelvis. Unable to control it, my breath grew faster and more ragged.

Despite the knife, Achilles pushed his head down further so his soft, warm lips made contact with mine. His hand moved further up my leg, pushing my skirt up as it went.

The knife fell away.

That night he took me to the heights of ecstasy I'd never even imagined. It felt like I'd been sent to heaven and back, like I had a fire raging in every piece of my body. That night, it didn't matter that he was Greek and I was Trojan, or that he was a killer, and I merely a girl. All that mattered was that we were in the other's arms.

Almost twelve moons later, and here the result: drifting off to sleep in my arms. A picture of perfection; his cherry lips shaped into a pout and his hair shimmering in the sunlight.

This is why I will not regret: because without it, I would not have Theo.

Nine days in, Andromache somehow persuaded me to leave the palace for the first time in a week. She offered to keep watch over Theo if I walked down to the market to see if any bread could be found. Reluctant as I was, I wanted the princess to have the food; since Hector's death not a morsel had passed her lips, and now her bones stuck out awkwardly beneath her skin. Any interest in eating should have been taken as a good sign.

So I found a scarf and wrapped it round my head, partly for protection from the sun and partly to prevent recognition, and left the safety of the citadel. I didn't see anyone at all for almost half the journey; the heat that day was almost unbearable and most inhabitants were keeping cool inside. I couldn't help but think of Achilles and the others on the beach. If anything under cover was even hotter than outside, and often we would resort to just sitting in the sea, letting the water cool us down. Feeling the waves wash over while the sun drained the life from us…

I was jerked from my trancelike state in a second. To this day I'm not entirely sure what happened; I think I must have tripped on a stone or a rogue toy. As I fell, the stark branches of an overhead tree caught my scarf and pulled it clean from me, revealing my face and hair. I scrambled to my feet, rearranged the scarf and carried on towards the market, determined to return to the palace as soon as possible.

A giggle, behind me, a child's voice.

"Look, it's the Greek's whore."

"I'm surprised she's showing her face down here. Mother says she's been hiding in her room for a week." Another voice, this time slightly older sounding.

"Hiding with that bastard child of hers."

I paused. Wrapped the scarf tighter and hurried on.

The market was almost deserted; a combination of the burning sun and the fact that there was barely any food to sell had kept the people away. Making my way over to the nearest baker, I pulled out my purse. A boy stood behind the stall, but made no effort to sell to me. I coughed loudly to attract his attention, but still he did not come.

"Excuse me," I called, holding up a loaf, "how much is this?"

"I'm sorry, we're not selling today." The boy replied, shifting on his feet.

"Well, how can it be that you have your stall out in this sun of you're not selling?"

The boy looked both ways before leaning in and answering in a whisper. "My father told me not to sell to you. I'm sorry, but he said I mustn't."

I paused, turned, frowned, and began to walk back to the citadel.

When I returned to Troy I did not expect to be welcomed with open arms. But I did not expect to be refused food to eat, or giggled at in the street. It seemed unfair that I was the one who was the victim, stolen away by enemy soldiers, and yet now I was seen as the villain by young and old alike. I could have had no contact at all with any Greek while in that camp, and who was a Trojan to know? I could have–

But they did know.

I brought two things back from that place; one lay under my pillow, one on it: Patroclus' shell necklace, and Theo. My baby. Proof of my betrayal, as they saw it. Maybe it was. No guilt, no regret, but I had willingly given myself to a Greek and willingly kept his child.

If it weren't for Theo there would be no – or at least fewer – disapproving looks. If it weren't for him, I could still buy bread and walk the streets in peace. If it weren't for Theo…

As I walked through the door to the palace, my thoughts muddled by the heat, I decided what I had to do.

I started off slowly, but as I passed through doors and climbed staircases my pace quickened, so by the time I reached my room I was almost at a run. Andromache was sitting on the floor, cradling Theo and playing with Astyanax. Smiling quickly and bending down, I took my baby from her and rested him on my shoulder.

And I ran.

I ran down corridors and stairways, through arches and courtyards. My heart thudded wildly and Theo screamed on my shoulder, but I would not stop.

Underneath the Great Hall, by the kitchens, there was a laundry room, where all the sheets and blankets were kept when they weren't being used. When I was younger, I loved to hide in it and guess what was being cooked for the evenings. But that was not why I was going there now.

Flinging the door open, I ran to the furthest corner and lay Theo down on a thick blanket that had been placed on the floor. I picked up a piece of cloth, discarded on a shelf, covered his face…

And pushed down.

This way it'll go back to normal.

The baby started to wave his arms, one could hear muffled crying.

No more looks, no more laughs.

His legs thrashed wildly. One tear.

No more reminding me of him. No. More.

His skin had a slight tint of blue, and his arms and legs waved weaker. Wet, on my cheek.

Not long now.

"Briseis!"

Someone grabbed me from behind and pulled my arms away. Theo kicked the cloth off, coughing and screaming. Andromache scooped him up and whispered soothing words into his ear.

"What were you doing?" She somehow managed to shout without raising her voice. I, however, did no such thing.

"You don't know what it's like!" I screamed. "You don't know how it is for, every time someone looks at you, for them to look at you either with pity or as if you were nothing more than river scum. To feel as if you're completely trapped with nowhere to go!" The tears were coming freely now, and I had completely lost control of my speech. "To have borne a child by Achilles and to know. To know how you've betrayed your country, your people. You don't know how it feels!"

Andromache did not retort, but instead said, in a voice so broken and with eyes so wide one would say her husband had been slain all over again;

"Achilles?"

There was nothing with which to reply.