Well, apologies don't quite cut it, but they're all I have: I'm terribly sorry. As much as I love to write, work (as in paid jobs) really must take precedence and sometimes it becomes impossible to combine both things.

As ever, thank you all from my heart for your patience and for sticking with this story.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

I finished tying the bandage, helped my patient lay back on his pallet and pulled a thin blanket over him. He closed his swollen eyes, his chapped lips slightly parted in an interminable moan. I picked up the old bandage, stained with blood and pus, and dropped it in the big basket already overflowing with dirty dressings to be washed and reused. When I straightened my back to look around and see where else I might be useful, I felt suddenly so dizzy I staggered.

The physician, Machaon, looked up from the gaping, horrible looking gash he was sewing closed on another wounded man's belly. "Go outside and get some air", he ordered sharply. "I already have my hands full with the injured, the last thing I need are women fainting all over the place."

"I never fainted on you!", I protested, but he didn't bother to reply. So I stepped outside, secretly glad to take a break from that hellish place of blood and pain.

But I couldn't shake the stench of fever and rot that seemed to be ingrained in my very skin. And the screams of the wounded seeped through the thin walls of the makeshift hospital tent, ringing eerily in the open air outside.

Hardening my heart to the endless stream of limping, bleeding, groaning misery that kept coming from the battlefield was definitely proving to be much easier said than done. I made a beeline to the sea, hoping the salty air would cleanse my nostrils and the crashing of the waves would stifle the cries of pain. But before I could take three steps, a girl who had followed me out of the tent grabbed my arm.

"Do you hear that?", she asked, her eyes feverish with anticipation. I stared at her, surprised.

"Of course I do", I replied dryly. "That's all we've been hearing for quite a few days now, isn't it?"

She shook her head forcefully. "I don't mean the moaning and screaming. I mean the din over there." She gestured toward the place where the cape met the mainland, where Ajax's camp was.

I listened for a moment and indeed there was a whole other kind of shouting coming from that direction, along with loud bangs, crashes and explosions. I stared at the girl. She licked her lips nervously.

"The Trojans are on them. I mean, really on them. Right at the gates of this wall they've been rushing to build." She paused, pulling at a thread in her sleeve. "If they manage to storm in and overcome the Greeks, do you think they'll free us? Or will they just keep us as slaves anyway?"

I swallowed in a dry throat. "I don't know", I said. "But I suppose they'll free the captives… I mean, what's the point of the Trojans being regarded as allies by our peoples if they don't?"

She nodded. "My opinion exactly. But I do wonder about some of the captives, though. You know, the ones who bore children to the Greeks… and the ones who took on privileged positions as favourite concubines." She peered up at me. There was pure poison in her eyes and I felt a sudden surge of anger shooting up my guts. I clenched my fists, straining to answer with an even voice:

"Most of the captives who had children with their captors have actually been raped by them. It would be the most unthinkable injustice to hold them responsible for something in which they had no say whatsoever." I took a quick breath and went on, before she had a chance to say anything else: "That is equally true for most of the ones who became favourite concubines to their masters; again, the vast majority of them never had a choice anyway. The precious few who had the fortune or misfortune, depending on how you look at it, of landing in the same position as me – which is obviously what you were getting at…" I dug my nails deeper into my palms in an effort to keep my self-control. "Well, beside the fact that you could probably count us on the fingers of one hand, I guess we don't really care that much about being freed or not, because we already are where we want to be anyway."

I turned on my heel and strode off, not waiting for her reply. When I finally reached the waterline, I dropped on the wet sand and buried my head in my hands.

What I had told her wasn't true, of course. I did want to be free – a free woman at her man's side. At your side. That was all I had been thinking about, all that had kept me going through this nightmare your withdrawal from fighting had plunged your own countrymen in, and which I had been witnessing first hand.

Through the haze of caring for the wounded and preparing the bodies of the dead for burial, I had been focusing relentlessly on my wish to go back to you and hardly ever thought of anything else. In the back of my mind, I knew I was deliberately avoiding issues that were looking more and more like pitfalls as the number of dead and injured grew. But that girl's words had somehow shaken that sort of protective wall and left me struggling to deal with the turmoil in my mind.

She had a point, of course. The fate of the captives who might be considered as traitors would be anything but enviable. If ever I got back in Lyrnessian's hands, there was no doubt I'd be disgraced, at the very least, or even cast out or worse, if my former people realized how far I had gone in my involvement with you. But that was not what I was worried about, at least for the time being. I didn't really believe the Trojans would be able to storm the Achaean camp – you'd surely intervene before that happened. And if they did… well, I'd just flee to your ships and throw in my lot with you, come what may.

And that's what was rattling me: the realization that I would allow you anything, that I actually wanted to share your fate whatever that fate might be, that I wished for nothing else but being back with you – even if the price for that possibility was being paid in blood and death by dozens, if not hundreds, of men who had nothing to do with it.

At first, I had rejoiced almost savagely – there's really no other word for it – every time I saw that the army was marching without the Myrmidons. But for the past couple of days… I admit I couldn't help wondering. How could you still be holding on to your plan, or anger, or, as I hoped, determination to have me back, when even I was beginning to wish for someone to just stop that endless massacre? Yes, Agamemnon had crossed every acceptable line with you, and yes, your fellow kings had fallen way below what could be expected of them in that accursed council. Still… it was your countrymen dying! The very men for whom you had risked Agamemnon's wrath in the first place.

What kind of man were you? I had always been aware that there was a side to you that I didn't quite know, from which stemmed the violence and ruthlessness you showed in battle. But this went beyond – and below – the mere traits of a great warrior. This was not caring, a sort of cold-blooded indifference for your own that I had never imagined you capable of. It was callousness, pure and simple. And yet... yet I wanted to go back to you. Yet my love for you was unchanged, intact.

Which, of course, begged the question: what kind of woman was I? I admit I had always felt a measure of contempt for Helen, for allowing such a bloody, brutal war to be fought because of her – or at the very least, for not removing the excuse that her love affair with Paris provided. I was sure I was very different from her. But, looking at it objectively, I was behaving just like her. Part of me wanted the massacre to stop, the other part was shamefully glad that you hadn't given up on getting me back. There was probably very little I could do to change anything, but the fact was I hadn't even thought about trying.

I squeezed my head harder between my hands. Was there anything I could do? Anything at all?

Perhaps if I tried sending a message to you – I had no idea how I might accomplish that, but I'd figure something out – asking you to reconsider? If you heard it from me, seeing as I was the other most interested party in the success of your plan, maybe you'd be moved into compassion for your army comrades. Maybe. Or if I tried telling you about the horror I was confronted with daily in that hospital tent, it might get through to the Achilles who would methodically tour the Myrmidon camp checking in on the wounded and helping to treat them. Or maybe a combination of both – asking you to relent and explaining that was due to the unbearable toll your absence was causing. It was just possible that might have enough impact on you.

The question was, did I really want to do that? Did I want you to drop your bid to get me back? Was I willing to remain a slave to Agamemnon until Olympus knew when?

Would I be able to give up on you?

It was too much to ask. Besides, there was really no guarantee that you would be moved by a request from me to that purpose, not to mention the likelihood that you might not even believe the message was from me at all. Plus, there was the issue of how to send a message in the first place.

It was all preposterous, really. Of course you'd pay no heed whatsoever to such a message. I was sure Patroclus and Phoenix had already been trying everything they could think of to get you to change your mind, and experience showed that, in that sort of matters, you didn't listen any more to me than to them. This was nothing but me toying with impossible ideas, probably to try and make myself feel better. I shook my head, picked myself up from the sand and started dragging my feet back to the hospital tent.

As I stepped through the door, I colided headfirst with Antilochus, who was rushing out. I looked up at him, terrified:

"What are you doing here? Are you alright? Is your father…" I let my voice trail off. He shook his head.

"No, my father's fine and so am I. I just came to get Machaon. We need every able-bodied warrior in the trenches."

There was a pause. I peered inside the tent. Indeed, Machaon was barking orders to the women, his shield and spear already in hand. So even the physician was being called to battle. The wounded would be left to the care of the women slaves, who were obviously not half as knowledgeable as the son of Aesculapius.

Something crumbled inside of me. I was not Helen. I grabbed Antilochus' arm.

"I need to tell you something", I whispered urgently. "If you see Achilles, please tell him I'm alright. Agamemnon has been good to me. He's given me all sorts of gifts and he's promised me freedom when the war is over." I paused to gauge Antilochus' reaction. He was staring at me in shock. I pressed on, speaking very fast: "So please tell Achilles that there's no point in him putting his reputation at stake because of me anymore and that he should just think about striving for his glory again."

I choked. There was no way I could squeeze out another word. I turned and hurried into the depths of the tent, leaving Antilochus standing there, his jaw slack and his face chalk-white.

He would believe me, there was no question about it. During that first supper at Agamemnon's, he had seen the high king's advances on me and then he had left before Menelaus' intervention on my behalf, so he would probably already be convinced that the Mycenaean had taken me as his concubine. You, on the other hand, might be a little harder to persuade – not that Agamemnon would force himself on me, as you'd probably have assumed that from the start – but that I would be willingly responsive to him, regardless of the amount of gifts he might have piled at my feet. You knew me better than that. That's where I expected the alleged promise of freedom to work its poison: if I had come to question your integrity, it was possible to get you to question mine as well, and you knew how much it would mean to me to be a free woman again.

It would hurt you terribly, of course, but in a sense that was exactly what I was gambling on: you had told me yourself that when you were hurt, you responded with pride and aggression. If nothing else, you'd need to vent your wounded pride and your fury, and what better outlet than an enemy army advancing on your doorstep?

I could always explain everything to you later, I said to myself, patch everything up again. After all, you also had your own share of wrongs to fix with me.

Yes, I would explain it all to you. I would tell you how terrible it was to see the endless string of wounded, of dying, of dead. I could call both Menelaus and Agamemnon himself as my witnesses that the high king had never laid a hand on me, that I had never betrayed you, neither outwardly, nor in my heart.

I would explain that I had done it for you, to keep you from losing the noblest part of your soul in that murderous deadlock with Agamemnon. For myself, because I couldn't stand the idea of becoming the kind of self-centred, irresponsible woman I despised.

I would explain everything to you and you would believe me. You would even understand why I'd done it, when you'd calmed down enough to realize I had been right to do it. And then we'd be back together and everything would be alright.

Because Agamemnon wouldn't dare keep me against your will after you'd come to his rescue. Even if he was tempted to do so, the others would put so much pressure on him to restore you to all your former honours, that he'd have no other choice.

At least, so I desperately wanted to believe.