Thanks to everyone who read, favorited and is following this story.
The First Blue –Thank you for your review. Your comments on my grammar meant quite a lot to me, because I'm not an English native speaker. So… yeah, that felt really great. Hope you keep enjoying the story.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Greek camp seemed to stretch forever in either direction: rows upon rows of ships pulled to dry land to prevent them from rotting in the water, followed by rows upon rows of wooden huts with thatched roofs. It was as big as a city, encompassing the whole length of the cape that marked the western limit of the bay of Troy, and the rows of ships and huts formed streets, just like in a city, except that these were straighter and connected to one another at almost perfect right angles. More than a camp, it was a city – a city of warriors. Troy was visible at the distance, its high walls now fading in the twilight.
The Achaean kings and nobles had gathered in the space reserved for that purpose at the exact centre of the camp. There was a slope at the back that allowed the common soldiers to watch the proceedings.
I was at the bottom of the slope with the other captives. We'd been grouped by gender and social status, and now we were waiting to be chosen by one or the other of the foreign kings.
I felt every muscle in my body shaking in fear, tears burning the back of my eyes. But I refused to let it show. My head was held resolutely high, my eyes remained furiously dry. I would not give our conquerors the pleasure of seeing me reduced to a trembling, sobbing wreck. At least for as long as I could avoid it.
A man, who in the meantime I identified as King Agamemnon of Mycenae, had finished a speech and was now taking his pick from the spoils. While he spoke, I realised that although there were tribal dialects like the one you had used when addressing your men, the Achaeans had a common language that was also spoken in Lesbos and that my mother had tried to teach me when I was a child. It had been years since I last spoke it, but I could still make out enough words to get the gist of what was being said.
After taking a good look at the huge piles of gold, silver and bronze looted from the cities during your 'foraging expedition', Agamemnon made a beeline to the place where the youngest and prettiest women had been assembled and started asking who each of the captives was and where she came from. He asked about a couple of sweet looking and tearful young girls, then his eyes rested on me.
Up to then, Agamemnon's questions had been answered by the head scribe, who seemed to be checking an inventory. But this time it was you who answered from the place where you were sitting:
"That's the daughter of Briseus, widow to Mynes of Lyrnessus." Your voice was clipped and you stressed the word 'widow'. Everybody looked in your direction, including me.
You reminded me of a wild stallion about to trample whoever might try to put reins on him. You were tense, muscles rippling beneath the skin, rage in your eyes. It didn't take a genius to understand what you were thinking: you were the one who had fought and toiled and put your life on the line, but another was reaping the fruits. Back in Lyrnessus, you had mentioned reporting back to your allies and you didn't seem to mind doing it. But the concept of 'allies' rests on a foundation of implicit equality and what was happening here was anything but a sharing among equals. It was a king exerting privileged rights above everybody else and you, for one, obviously didn't agree with it.
Apparently, you thought that having conquered in the name of Agamemnon and having demanded a pledge of fidelity to him and not to yourself should be more than enough to satisfy the Mycenaean king's lust for power. The tribute he would undoubtedly collect from the conquered cities should meet whatever needs of wealth he might have. The direct product of the fighting should not also be object of a lion's share for Mycenae. Or, at least, that was clearly your view on the matter.
Anyway, at the word 'widow' Agamemnon seemed to lose interest in me and went on to check the other women. When he finished choosing, the group of captive females wasn't quite so large as in the beginning, and the piles of precious objects weren't quite so tall anymore.
The Mycenaean said a few more words and handed the speaker's staff to a man he announced as 'wise Nestor of Pylos'. Despite his obvious old age, Nestor was rather robust and moved with an unexpected ease. He had a nice smile and kind looking eyes. I thought to myself that, under the circumstances, being chosen for his household might well be the best possible hope for me or any of my fellow captives. He didn't seem like a man who would mistreat his servants – or rape his women.
He received the staff from Agamemnon and started a seemingly endless speech. He talked and talked and talked – about the glorious battles and conquests of old, the strong, brave and perfect heroes of his youth, the indescribable beauty of the women they'd brought back from their wars. Apparently, these days there wasn't anyone or anything that could even remotely compare with the magnificence that walked the earth back then.
I soon let my thoughts drift from Nestor's stories. For all the anguish I was feeling, the old man's calm, monotonous voice had a lulling effect on me and I guess I would have dozed off if I wasn't standing. Many of the Achaen warrior kings were nodding off shamelessly. I looked at you again. You didn't seem tense anymore, but neither were you stifling yawns. You were actually listening to Nestor, with a somewhat amused but affectionate smile on your lips. I wondered how the sharing would now proceed: would it go on by order of age? If it were so, you, as the youngest of the kings, would be the last in line. In spite of my hatred for you – which had been only a little mollified by what you'd done for my mother – even I had to admit that would be unbelievably unfair.
Suddenly, the words 'the son of Peleus' brought my attention back to Nestor's speech.
"The son of Peleus has yet again attained kleos. His valour is almost worthy of that of the glorious great men of old. Also, yet again he has brought us riches and the supplies we need to stay strong on our quest for honour. Bronze for our weapons, a sea of livestock for work and food, women to grace our tents and weave good, warm clothes for the winter. Now, kleos, glory in battle, is something heroes gain for themselves, not something other men can give them. However, it's only right that we should honour our heroes. Beside the glory he's earned for himself, I believe the son of Peleus also deserves to be awarded geras, a prize of honour, by the people."
Talkative or not, Nestor had just proven he was a wise man indeed. There were nods of approval from almost all the assembled kings. And then the din started: the men on the slope were also expressing their approval by beating their spears against their shields and issuing a sort of guttural roar. It was a long drawn out boom that reverberated all through the assembly, making the very ground vibrate.
It was scary, in more ways than one. I had lived in a royal court long enough to become instantly alert. That sort of support from the army for one specific leader was certain not to sit well with the other chieftains.
Sure enough, the mood had shifted: not a few of the kings were fidgeting uncomfortably in their seats and a good deal of them was slipping unconsciously closer to Agamemnon, while some others moved infinitesimally in your direction. The shrewdest pair of eyes I had ever seen or would ever see, belonging to a short, red-haired man, were darting back and forth between you and the Mycenaean king.
As for Agamemnon, he looked like a man who had just bitten into a particularly foul-tasting rotten fish. Again, it took no genius to figure out what was going through his mind: how far did your sway over the army go? Would you be able to take control of it and get it to turn on him? Use it to challenge his command and maybe even his throne?
But you were a warrior, not a politician. You viewed things, not in terms of power struggles, but in terms of honour and justly deserved rewards. While you were rising to take the staff Nestor was handing you, another old man, who was sitting next to you, whispered something urgently in your ear and you nodded distractedly.
You smiled openly at the men applauding from the slope, then turned to your fellow kings and began your speech with a simple and all-encompassing "thank you, my friends". You then proceeded to show your appreciation for Nestor's "precious wisdom and experience", and to express gratitude to Agamemnon, "the best of the Achaeans", for having provided your generation with an opportunity to prove themselves in a worthy cause. It was a polite statement, which you clearly found sufficient to establish your continued loyalty to the high king, but which was evidently nowhere near satisfactory in Agamemnon's eyes.
You, however, seemed oblivious to the Mycenaean's suspiciously narrowed lids and wary expression, and went on to praise your own men's courage and determination, mentioning each of your five captains by name. I was twistedly thinking that that self-assuredness of yours would still be the end of you, when you turned in the direction of the captives.
"As for the geras the long-haired Achaeans have awarded me, I would wish to have the daughter of Briseus as my prize of honour."
Every last thought fled my mind like a stricken flock of panicked sparrows before the shadow of a hawk. You? I was to be given to you?
A whole new volcano of unimaginable hatred erupted in my chest. So that's what your supposed kindness to my mother was really about: you were now coming to cash in the favour. And if I tried to refuse to pay in the currency you demanded, you'd just take what you wanted from me anyway.
A Myrmidon materialized in front of me and someone gave me a gentle shove: "Go on, girl." I followed your ever stern-looking soldier in a haze of unreality, as if in a dream. Or rather a nightmare.
After a few shaky steps, my knees buckled beneath me and I started throwing up on the ground, a river of tears streaming down my face. So much for not giving my enemies the pleasure of seeing me become a trembling, sobbing wreck!
When the dry-heaving subsided, I looked up to see you watching me with the blank, inscrutable face of a cruel, distant deity.