CHAPTER TWO

A long line of pyres had been built and was ready to burn. Mynes' was at the centre, on a slightly higher ground than the rest. The Myrmidons, with their bronze armours now clean and shining in the morning sun, were standing at attention. You stood in your war chariot, straight backed and looking solemn.

I should be standing before Mynes' pyre, mourning him as his widow, but I had decided to stay next to my mother in front of my brothers' pyres. I positioned myself so that I would have my back to the enemy soldiers to whom we owed our misery and that seemingly endless line of dead bodies. Above all, I didn't want to see you. My hatred had crystallized around you and it was deep and raging.

With my back turned and my attention focused on my still non-speaking mother, I didn't notice you climbing down from your chariot and walking up to me. I started when I heard a voice speaking Cretan right by my side:

"You're the king's widow, aren't you? I am going to light his pyre. I assume you want to be present for the rite?"

I swear to mighty Olympus that there was a glint of irony in your eyes, as if you were seeing right through my feelings, or lack thereof, concerning my husband. Hatred took over me to the point that I forgot to be afraid.

"You killed him. What do you care if his widow is paying him homage or not?"

You became instantly serious. "It's precisely because I was there that I know he died a hero and deserved my respect. I should think he would also deserve the respect of his people and his kin."

There was really no arguing that and I found myself following you dutifully to Mynes' pyre. You took a goblet of wine, made a ritual libation to the gods, then picked up a torch and lit the bottom of the tall pile of wood. Once the fire caught, you stepped back, called out "Your men will follow you in the afterlife", and dropped your arm in an abrupt signal. All the other pyres were then lit, more or less simultaneously, and the Myrmidons saluted.

It was a rather impressive homage to our fallen warriors, one I had never expected. I was just as surprised when I suddenly noticed that Mynes' body still had his armour on. The armour of the defeated were legitimate spoils of war for the winners, so by right it should have been taken off his corpse and now belong to you. I couldn't help myself:

"Why didn't you take his armour?"

You looked down at me. "Like I said, he earned my respect. He deserves to be sent off as a warrior, not deprived of his armour and weapons." Then you focused back on the pyre, your expression solemn and distant.

I stood next to you, watching my husband's body burn. The whole thing seemed eerily unreal. Your presence bothered me. Your attitude towards Mynes made me feel uncomfortable. I felt criticized, as if I wasn't regretting my husband's passing the way I should. Again, I lost control of my tongue:

"Of course I regret him. Of course I wish he was still alive, I wish our city was still whole, I wish my brothers hadn't perished, I wish we were all still free. Of course I am aching. I am aching too much for too many reasons to be able to mourn any one thing or any one person more than the rest." I paused, furious at myself. What the hell had possessed me to make me feel the need to justify my actions before an enemy? I added, lacing my voice with as much venom as I possibly could: "I wish it was you burning in there. You and your men, burning in all those pyres."

You held my angry gaze for a moment, then nodded curtly: "I believe that. But don't worry: I too lost men yesterday and I never know which will be the day when my body will lay among the dead, but I do know that day will come eventually. However, if your people had won yesterday's battle, I doubt our bodies would be burning in pyres now. You'd probably just leave us all to the dogs."

We fell silent again, contemplating the flames, both angry and tense. After a while, you said in a tone heavy with sarcasm:

"I wasn't judging you, you know. I was merely assuming that if you had loved your husband, his loss would stand out above any other losses you may have suffered."

I bit my lips to avoid spilling another unbidden torrent of angry words. But the temptation to reply proved too strong. I tried to emulate your sarcastic tone:

"Ah, so you're an expert in conjugal feelings, are you?"

"Are you trying to find out whether I'm married?"

My jaw dropped. I looked up, indignantly blurting out that you couldn't be serious. You weren't. The pleased-with-yourself smirk on your lips showed quite clearly that you were making fun of me. I clenched my fists.

"Now there's a nice display of respect for my fallen heroic husband!", I hissed savagely.

I had the pleasure to watch the smirk disappear to be slowly replaced by an unexpected guilty look. Without another word, you picked up the goblet of wine and started to sprinkle the fire. The wood crackled, the flames rose higher. We both went back to watching in silence.

I wanted to pray, but I didn't know who to or what for. Hades would have the souls of the fallen. Perhaps their bravery had earned them the right to be sent to the Elysian Fields. I honestly wished them that, but that would be decided based on their actions in battle, not on any prayers I might say now.

For the living… I should pray for the living. But to whom? Which deity cares for slaves? Because that's what we would surely become from now on. And then what would happen to us? Would we be sold into foreign lands? Made to work on the fields? The women raped and discarded, turned into toys for soldiers? How about the children and the old? What use could their new masters have for them? Would they end up killed to save valuable resources? And the men in fighting age, the warriors who had been taken alive? What would be done to them? Would they be sacrificed in the pyres of your own dead? Would they be killed? Maimed, to make sure they'd never pose a threat to the Achaen army again? Put to work in mines or the galleys? Theirs would certainly be the worst fate of all.

All things considered, maybe it had been for the best that none of my brothers had survived.

Yes, I should be praying with all my heart for the living, but I knew of no god I could pray to. There was no god of slaves. So I just stared at Mynes' burning pyre, feeling my very life turn to cinders right along with the body of the man I had failed to love.

A scream about five pyres down woke me up from my reverie. Before I had even had time to turn my head in the direction of the commotion, you were already darting past and racing straight toward the flames. Your lieutenant, the same one who had supervised the distribution of bread and water to the captives the previous night, was running right behind you.

I stood frozen, looking on in utter powerlessness. There was a strange black knot of terror forming in my chest, but my brain refused to make sense of it.

You withdrew, pulling a woman from the raging fire. You unceremoniously tore a cloak from the shoulders of a middle-aged man standing nearby and started to beat the flames off the woman's clothes. Your lieutenant used his own cloak to help you.

The black knot of terror was growing steadily, choking me, filling my chest to the point where there was no longer room for air.

Five pyres down. To my left, which is to say to Mynes' right. A place of honour. Fit for Mynes' brothers-in-law. The fifth pyre. My younger brother's. Where my mother had been standing. She was the woman who had walked into the burning pyre of her dead son and who now had her clothes on fire.

I started running and screaming, tears pouring from my eyes. Your lieutenant's arms closed around me, holding me back.

"It's alright, she's alright, Achilles has got her."

I shook my head at him, hating you as only someone who has lost everything can hate:

"Achilles killed her. He killed us all."