Conversations with Achilles

By Bill Hand and Historium Press

Achilles - warrior, hero, son of a demi-god sea nymph whose presence, oracles claim, is the only thing that will deliver Troy into the hands of the Achaians.

And what does he do when he's dead?

Why, he tells the tale of his life to any shades who will gather to listen.

Conversations with Achilles follows the G

• Language: English
• Publisher: Historium Press
• Release date: Nov 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781962465168

Book preview

First Set:

Briseis

One:

Chriseis, Chrises, Crisis

I hate to sound bitter, but Agamemnon is an ass.

And, fellow citizens of the Underworld, I don’t just say that because I’m dead. I’ll tell him to his face, if I can ever find where they’ve stuck him. You know I will. I did it before, back in the days when our souls were still dressed in skin and muscles were draped over our bones. Back when we looked on the sun — and felt it, hot on our faces; where in the happy arrogance of youth we believed that war was a glorious thing and Helen’s beauty was actually worth slaughtering whole cities and dying by the thousands for...

Ask Homer. He’ll tell you. Lives down that way, in some little hut by the Styx, where he’s always fishing for bones and writing… writing… writing.

Better yet, hear it from me, Achilles. I wouldn’t lie. I’m no heel!

I’d suspected Agy’s assdom before, way back when he agreed to sacrifice his own daughter, Iphigenia, in exchange for some wind to get to Troy. He’d proclaimed himself a better hunter than Artemis and that goddess, so goddess-like, reacted by holding up the sea winds and stranding us until the king agreed to slit his eldest’s honeyed throat.

But nothing made me so sure of the vacancy in Our Great King’s head as the incident with that Chrysian girl.

Our Trojan siege had reached its tenth dreary year. The kings and princes of our Achaian army kept their men going (and eating) only by loading up their ships in shifts and sailing off to nearby islands and shores to raid. We took turns, so that there was always at least two-thirds of the army on the Trojan shores. The raiders would return with fat cows and sheep, gold and blankets, anything they could carry… including women and children who could be ransomed, sold, or kept as concubines and slaves.

After one such raid to the island of Chryse, Agamemnon’s Argive boys presented him with Chriseis. She was a babe, a Classical Beauty, a vision in the night. Soft and supple, glad to be carried from her crusty old father’s house, she had an arrogance that told you she’d allow herself to be a plaything for nothing lower than a king. But for Agy, she was a Babe-not-to-be. He should have realized that when her father — a priest of Apollo for crying out loud — wandered into camp to ransom her. The old man’s name was Chrises, and he carried a staff. I could see right away that it wasn’t just for leaning on: plated in gold, it was, entwined with the Immortal Songster’s sacred laurel wreaths. Great! A priest! my friend Patroclus whispered when we saw him approach, What has our king brought down on us now?

The old man seemed humble enough — when your armament is a pretty stick and everyone else has swords, humility is an easy thing — and he offered a price for his daughter. A fair price, anyone would say so. Plenty of gold. Some nice, fat sheep. Even a free pass for a visit to the Delphi Oracle, no bribing of priests required. But Agamemnon wouldn’t have it. Go away, old man, he laughed. I love that girl.

I smelled trouble. Sidling up to the king, I whispered, You’re a married man! Remember? Clytemnestra? Tall? Beautiful? Jealous as a Gorgon?

He nodded as if he agreed with me but told the priest, I love her more than Clytemnestra.

She’s all I have, the old man protested.

Not any more, you old coot, came Agy’s sage reply. She’ll sit at my loom and sleep in my bed.

Some folks just beg the gods to hurt them, you know? I slapped my head and noticed that even Agy’s best friend Odysseus was rolling his eyes. As for Chrises, his face was passive; the sea-foam brows that capped his eyes as still as a Mediterranean calm. But the tendons in his wrists began to twitch. Look, he pressed. You’re a good man. I want to see you succeed. Sack Troy — turn it into yesterday’s garbage. I’ll pray for your success and get Apollo to set you up some nice homeward winds. All I want is my daughter back.

If there was one thing Agamemnon couldn’t stand, it was someone arguing after he’d said a thing was so. If it wasn’t for Agy’s devoutly religious respect for that staff, Chrises’ head would have been shipped back to Chryse on a platter. The king looked as cool as ice when he spoke, but his voice boiled like water: Your daughter will die an old woman in my house. If you want to die an old man in yours, then go. If I see you again, that staff won’t protect you. Do you understand?

He understood. With a polite bow he backed his way to the shore where his little boat awaited. There, he turned and, not glancing our way again, sailed off.

Agy’s brother Menelaus slapped him on the shoulder and laughed. Well, that was easy enough! I looked at the faces of the men around. Some were laughing, a few just looked relieved. One wizened fellow, my good friend and seer Calchas o’ Thestor, caught my eye. His face had turned pasty as a late-spring snow.

A week didn’t pass before men started dying. The camp filled with groaning soldiers, lying in their huts or crawling about on all fours, coughing their guts up into the sand, watering their offerings with diarrhea. Their eyes were sallow, squished into sockets that puffed out, all pink, around them like a woman’s lips sucking an olive. You couldn’t walk through camp without stepping into a pile of one man’s lungs, or another’s dinner once or twice removed.

You boys who haven’t fought — you think every warrior who goes down did so in a noble battle, but it isn’t so. Diaphanous, my good Myrmidon: you can tell them. You were one of the first to go... the second day of the plague, as I recall. You were so hot you burned my skin as I held you in my arms. You were saturated in sweat. You kept blinking and opening and closing your mouth until you looked and felt — and I mean no insult — like a big fish. In your delirium you moaned about that neat little woman you’d caught in our Theban sacking venture. Remember her? Raven-haired and wild-eyed, you had to chain her delicate ankle to the tent post just to keep her from running home. You’d croon about how beautiful she was and jab us with your elbows and hitch up your loins and stride into the tent while we laughed and cheered, and then we’d hear that awful clunk! or the crack of a jar against your skull and out you’d stagger, holding onto your head, spinning around like Dionysus at a party, and she’d appear at the door, cussing you out in her crazy tongue... Well, anyway, more soldiers die by stuff running out of their bowels than by swords being run through them. It is sickness that a soldier fears most: fevers and the runs from filth, food or the gods.

So here we were, up against that fiercest foe, a pestilential decalogue of days. We walked around with rags tied over our noses, just to cut back on the stink. And I had a feeling, just gnawing away, that this was not your run-of-the-camp plague. It had started too suddenly: only Achaians were dropping. The slaves, the bondsmen, and the female spoils of war were as healthy as spring. I kept remembering Chrises in the stern of his boat, so self-possessed, clutching his staff, watching his men pulling at the sails. Had Apollo tipped his arrows with plague and let them loose on the camp?

If I could get someone to verify my suspicions, I’d have grounds to tell Agamemnon to send Chriseis back to her dad. And if the war council backed me up, I could maybe get through that stubborn fog in his petulant head and he’d actually do it. Then this whole plague would clear up and we could get back to the business of sacking Troy. I want you to know this thought was mine. Ask Homer, and he’ll claim that old goddess fishwife, Hera, whispered it into my ear, but that’s Homer for you. He never did believe any man could have an original thought but him. I sent Chiron, my centaur-mentor, out to gather the council and, as I waited, I stoked up our fire with faggots and logs until it blazed like a furnace. Then I turned and walked into my hut, to my own little Theban, Briseis, to tell her of my brilliant plan to save the Achaian camp and corner Agy all in the same game.

What an idiot I was. How proud! How convinced of my own superiority over fully-mortal men, even kings. I forgot that, like any cornered thing, they’ll lunge and tear the unwary’s heart out with their hands.

Ah, Briseis! How I loved you, how I would have cut off my right arm just to please you! Though you were a slave, I made you my bride!

She sat on my cot, in a simple dress dyed an azure that matched her otherwise matchless eyes. Her hair flowed to the mid-point of her back in a golden tangle of saucy ringlets and her face was chiseled finer by the gods than any statue Pygmalion could have carved and adored. Aphrodite, our lewd goddess of love, must have choked with envy when she looked upon her. Why, Helen herself was a beggar beside my Briseis! In the day I dreamt of her, and every thrust of my sword, every toss of my spear, was in her honor. At the council fires my mind’s eye saw her dancing, lissome, in the flames. I worshipped the suppleness of her waist, the roundness of her breasts. In the evening I loved to watch her undress; holding her in bed was existence with the gods... for her, more than for me, I suppose, since I am a son of the gods.

Well, a son of one god. Of the daughter of one god, a sea nymph, but that’s more pedigree than most men can boast. It’s certainly more than Agamemnon can say, despite his charismatic tongue, and I doubt if Chriseis was nearly so fond of him and his endless boasting as Briseis was of my frank but charming claims...

Say, did I just see a fish over there? No. No, I suppose not. Who has ever seen a fish in the Styx? Homer snags their nasty little skeletons once in a while.

What happens when a fish dies, anyway? Each of us was ferried across the Acheron to get here to Tartarus, realm of the dead. But what about the fish? Does someone cart their dearly-departed souls over Hades to get to the Styx? It is a big place, Hades, a long way to be carried, and that would explain why their water-sucking little souls never seem to survive the trip...

Briseis sat on a stool, paring vegetables in her delicate hands. Her head was at that slight, angular tilt I so loved: the one where the curls over her right temple rested against her high and noble cheek, while a lone lock dangled tauntingly over her face, daring me to kiss the brow beneath. She accepted that kiss with a smile, and when I touched her lips with mine she started to talk, which really messed things up. I mean, have you ever tried to kiss a woman, and suddenly she begins to talk? I knew a man with a gap-toothed bride named Lettermanica — she was lovely, really, except for that space, as wide as a door, between her front upper teeth. I swear he tried to kiss her once, just when she started to talk, and their mouths got so tangled that they became one, joined at the teeth, for a week.

Well, as I started to kiss Briseis, she started to talk, and it made our lips flutter against each other, like butterflies dancing. I loved it when it went that way. She said, You’ve called a council of war? Isn’t that Agamemnon’s job?

It’s any general’s job, if he sees a need, I said. Odysseus does it just to practice his speeches.

Will there be another fight?

Will there be another fight? Will the swallows return to Capistrano?

We’re going to talk about the pestilence, I replied.

It’s from Apollo, came her curt reply.

It always astounded me when she did that. Greek men never have had a lot of faith in women, you know. It’s in our blood. That’s why we claim the first woman, Pandora, was given as an evil trick from Daddy Zeus. It’s why we bottle them up in separate rooms, even for dinner… why half our poets and philosophers whine about what a curse they are. I’ve known men who believed that if you drilled a hole in a woman’s head sawdust would sprinkle out. Our culture hate women? Sure, we do. Why do you think a quarter of the populace is gay? We should just go ahead and make our third maxim official:

Know Thyself.

Nothing In Excess.

Can’t Live With ‘Em, Can’t Live Without ‘Em.

Of course, this attitude is nonsense. I know that now: there’s no one more crafty than a Grecian woman scorned. They call Odysseus the greatest deceiver and grudge-bearer of all time, but he can’t hold a candle to Medea. And look at Atalanta, a fighter who mopped up the cobblestones with my father in a wrestling match!

Face it: women are as good as any of you boys. Being raised with women I always knew that, but I was so ingrained to the culture that I was still briefly amazed whenever one said something insightful or smart. With Briseis, I pretty much spent my life being briefly amazed.

It’s from Apollo, she repeated.

I gaped and gasped, How did you know?

I watched that priest-guy.

Chrises?

Yeah. Him. Did you see how he climbed into that boat? The way he turned his back on you, and just sat there, stiff as a post? He really had vengeance on his mind.

You knew he was a priest?

I saw the staff.

You knew it was a priest’s staff? I asked, befuddled.

You think we had no priests in Thebes, no gods? she laughed, soft and trilling, like a nightingale. It made my toes curl when she did that. She leaned against me and added, If you want to end the pestilence, you’ll have to appease Apollo.

Appease Apollo? Try saying that three times. How are you so sure?

I hear his silver arrows in the night, she replied mysteriously. Besides, who else but Achaians are dying?

Well, I already knew all that, I said.

I’m sure you did, she smiled.

We’re meeting to decide how to pacify to him.

Send Chriseis back.

I knew that, too.

Of course. She twisted her finger around in my hair and began to kiss my chest.

But... uh... we have to have to convince... Agamemnon to give her up...

Then go have your meeting. She was kissing my neck now, and the door of my hut seemed very far away. Her teeth found my earlobe and she began to nibble.

I... they’ll be here any minute, I stammered.

"They won’t be here that soon." she led me to the bed.

Yes they will. I sent Chiron to get them.

I sent my nurse to slow him down.

Her lips touched my nose, then sealed over my mouth, and her dress fell free.

Let us take a moment, brethren of the shades, to honor Zeus for his evil trick.

Two:

Council of the Fire

By the time I heard the rattling greaves of approaching men I was dressed and waiting by the door, polishing my silver-hilted sword with a length of cloth. Briseis, at her stool, hummed her pretty songs and plied her loom.

You know? Songs are something we don’t have enough of down here. Sure, there’s music. But it’s all percussion! Drums and bells that clank more than they ring. Everything is martial, which is fine if one is going to war, but who in Hades is at war? It isn’t like you can kill dead people. But, father Hades is fond of the stuff, so if you don’t like clank-clunk-clank and rat-a-tat-tat you’re stuck, that’s all. About the only thing left to do is sit around, reliving your life to anyone you bump into. You tell them, they tell you, and then you try to figure out if anyone goofed and told the truth. Commoners and simpletons are the worst : they always retell the same, tired story until you’re ready to scream. There are wrinkly little tanners who can never forget the blemished cow they tanned for some yokel official, and bakers who repeat the same recipe a million times. Down that way lives Venereus — you know him, the pimply kid without eyebrows who pines all the time about his languorous days in Aphrodite’s temple. He sings the praises — to percussion, of course — of his favorite priestess, whose name, I think, was Herpedes.

So I was polishing my sword, and Briseis was humming her little song, and I heard the clanking of greaves and the coarse laughter of someone telling a dirty joke to Calchus o’ Thestor, our long-suffering seer. I kissed Briseis, who smiled, then I stepped outside. The night sky was full of dazzling stars. No less dazzling was their reflection on the ground: campfires of a hundred-thousand men, dotting the beach and the hills about like a mirror of the heavens. I listened to the crash of the waves, the lap-lap-lap of the water licking the prows of our sleek black ships. I turned toward them and made out the endless ribbon of gray foam that lined Poseidon’s surf, a tireless ghost that roved the border between the blackness of land and the blankness of the sea. Aphrodite first rose out of that stuff, they say, naked as the day she was born — no doubt because it was the day she was born — and I pictured her, attended by her nymphs, with foam and starfish shining in her hair.

The smell of rotting corpses and the groans of dying men jarred me from my dreams: my Myrmidons, my comrades! Had they fought all these years only to die ingloriously of disease? Chiron, the wise old centaur who’d been my tutor since I was three, had re-stoked the fire into an inferno that lit my little corner of the night. As I watched him move gracefully about on his hoofed feet, I noted a large flask swollen with wine and buried to its neck in the cool, wet sand. Some cups were stacked neatly by. If it was strong enough stuff, the evening might not go so hard as I had feared. I salute you, Chiron! I laughed.

Odysseus appeared first, salty and smiling, although he glanced about as if he expected trouble at any time. Achilles! he cried, and we thumped each other’s backs. Calchus o’ Thestor came next, looking ill and rolling his huge, owlish eyes. I seized his hand and led him some distance from Odysseus. We sat together, crossing our legs, as my good friend Patroclus joined us — accompanied as usual by one of his hairy dogs. They’re big enough to have you for dinner, bone and marrow, but the only danger anyone ever faced with those mutts was drowning in drool. Good old Patroclus! Chief of my Myrmidons! His sword and his arm were as one on the field, and his nature was gentle, loyal and fair. He was ambitious — for me, not himself — as giving a man as you could meet, and innocent too.

The others arrived in short order: Nestor, old and gray, his pupils sugared with that glassy cloud which slowly steals old men’s eyes until their only vision comes from within. But he was a warrior yet, sinewy with muscles of iron. Only a fool would think him easy prey on the field of war. Archilochos was there, thirsty and bold; Diomedes, that megalomaniac who soon would claim to battle gods; and Ajax, my cousin, strong as a horse, though lacking its brains.

As these and others gathered, I motioned to Chiron and whispered, Where’s Agamemnon?

Over there, the centaur whispered back, nodding toward the dark. Mind: he suspects you are against him.

So he hides? Calchus asked, amazed.

Chiron snorted. So he wishes to observe those who come: who is friend and who is foe.

He’d have no foes if he weren’t so stubborn about that girl, I muttered. If he’d sent Chriseis back with her father, this pestilence wouldn’t have come.

Calchus nodded. You’re right. But how will we convince him?

Careless accusation and haste will make the council turn against you, Chiron warned.

Accusation and haste? Me? Where’d he get that notion? I frowned. Then what do we do? If he doesn’t give her up, King Priam can sit back and laugh while we waste in our beds, then loot us once we die.

Chiron resorted to his lecturer’s voice. Don’t lose your head. Use it."

I never lose my head, I snapped. He rolled his eyes.

Why not call for a diviner? Patroclus asked, giving Calchus a thump.

Yes! the sage agreed. I’ll respond. He’ll do as I say. Agamemnon trusts me.

Oh, sure, Chiron coughed. You’re the one who told him to sacrifice his daughter Iphigenia to get some wind.

He did it, didn’t he? Calchus pointed out, hurt.

Only because the soldiers heard your proclamation, Chiron replied, "and he knew that, if he didn’t, they’d sacrifice him."

And the wind came, didn’t it? Calchus pressed in his wheezing voice.

I could sacrifice a bowl full of beans to my stomach and get plenty of wind, Chiron muttered. And when I got home, there’d be no vengeful wife to deal with. Ah, yes! We’d all wondered what Clytemnestra would have to say about that event, if Agy ever got back to Mycenae. She’d been helpless in Aulis, that fateful day, in the middle of an armed camp; but in his own castle a man is helpless, when his wife is the foe.

While we talked, the others indulged in conversations about home — wondering how things were, if things were. Ours was not the only body of pillagers in the world, after all. Agamemnon stepped out of the darkness, a wolf’s cloak about his shoulders, and everyone fell silent. Beside him stood Menelaus, his brother-king from Sparta, for whose wife we’d fought these ten tedious years. Chiron hurried to Agamemnon with a cup and filled it, then began to fill the rest. The king drank deeply, and as our cups were filled, he watched our faces and nodded. His eyes were merry, the nod of his chin jovial, his lips upturned — a perfect mask. When the last cup was full, his was empty; it was filled again. We all took a draught and Calchus led us in a song to break the ice. Then all eyes fell on me. I stood, glanced toward the hut and wondered if Briseis was listening.

My lord the king. A classic opening, I thought: respectful, non-threatening, an admission he was over me in status if not skill. I chewed on my next sentence, thought it tasted fine, and spit it out. What glorious warriors are we all! We’ve courage, skill, and hearts as bold as the wildest bear! But does it do us any good? When we go home, what will our families see? Victors laden with the spoils of war? Or losers, carrying the bones of the dead on their shields? Against men we’re invincible, I added quickly as Ajax grumbled in disgust. For who can outreach Odysseus’s mighty bow? Whose spear is greater than one thrown from Archilochos’s unerring hand? King Priam trembles when we come; Prince Hector’s knees give out at the thought of facing Agamemnon’s crashing chariot and slashing sword! I looked around and Chiron gave me a thumbs-up. I circled the fire as I spoke, wanting all to see the passion in my eyes.

But what of that? Apollo Silverbow is mightier than any man, and he has taken up the Trojan cause! I’ve seen his arrows flying in the night, each with deadly pestilence upon its tip…

You’ve seen them! Nestor mocked.

Indeed I have, I claimed — is my mother not an immortal? I’ve listened to the rumble of Apollo’s voice, and watched the waves break at his feet as he stands out on the bar and strings his bow. I’ve seen his shafts sink into the bellies of our men and watched them writhe in pain until their very bowels pour out upon the ground! I shouted the last word, and daresay I caused some loosening in some bowels myself.

What glorious balderdash! Trojans trembling at their walls? Come on! We hadn’t found a way to scale that sucker yet. Arrows in the night? I could no more spot Silverbow’s missiles than I could see the back of my ears. But it isn’t truth that matters with men: it’s style. And mine was on a par with anything Agy could have said that night. Phoebus Apollo is angry. But why? Do we err in prayer and sacrifice? I asked, turning suddenly to Agamemnon with a humble and innocent air. Are the sheep and goats we offer blemished? I can think of nothing else. I let my shoulders slump and sighed. Perhaps he’s told someone through a dream. Have we a diviner or a priest? Let one be found!

I sat down, placing myself well away from Calchus. In the ensuing silence, Chiron refilled my cup. Every eye pasted itself to Agamemnon, whose warning glare turned every eye away. I glanced at Calchus who twitched a little but remained so silent that it hurt. Was he chickening out? Chiron quietly stepped behind him. The seer uttered a little Oof! and awkwardly arose, no doubt with the imprint of a hoof upon his rear.

Drawing his tunic up tight, working its hem into a worried knot about his fingers, he blinked owlishly at those around. Uhh… he began.

Have you something to say? Odysseus asked impatiently.

He will speak, Agamemnon solemnly intoned. We all know that Calchus o’ Thestor has Apollo’s ear. He would never tell us anything that wasn’t from the gods.

Poor Agy. He’d said that as a threat, but with his words he’d simply sunk himself deeper in my trap.

Calchus made a curious, whining sound to clear his throat and looked my way. Prince Achilles, honored of Zeus, I’ll tell you why Apollo slays us in his wrath. But swear first, you’ll defend me with your lips and sword. What a wimp! His voice was trembling, his teeth were chattering. What I say shall not set well with a certain lord and king… and a king’s wrath is not a desirable thing.

Inwardly, I groaned. I swear by Apollo, said I, to whom you pray. Speak his truth, Calchus o’ Thestor. No one shall lay hands on you, whomever you name, even if it’s Agamemnon, who claims to be first and best of all.

Agamemnon growled and rose an inch, and good Calchus lost his bladder on the spot. I feared he’d turn and run away, but to his credit he stood his ground while urine pooled about his feet. Apollo is angry for the sake of the priest, he squeaked.

Chrises? Leucos asked.

Calchus nodded. Agamemnon did not accept his ransom. Now Shootafar will slay us all unless we amend what has been done.

How? a voice demanded

Chriseis must be returned, unharmed, and with her a sacrifice of bulls and sheep to end our guilt.

Where did that sacrifice part come from? It was a nice touch. Maybe Apollo had spoken to this misfit after all.

He looked around, blinking vaguely, not quite facing the king, but casting a long and pleading glance at me. He believed himself a dead man: you could see it in his face. He was already composing his speech for mercy to Hades, imagining himself squinting under the weight of those coins on his eyes. With a moan he sat — gingerly, for as you’ll recall, his tunic was wet.

Homer swears that Agamemnon sprang to his feet then as though he’d been sitting on a bee, in majesty quite awful to behold. Not true. He just sat there in silence. Not the kind you have in a shrine when you’re waiting for the priest to turn some lamb into Gyros for the Gods, but the stillness preceding a storm. Everyone glanced furtively at him and you could nearly see the steam slipping out from around his eyes. He gave a shake of his head, like a dog that is wet, and the carefully-curled hair of his beard sprung out, framing his face like a lion’s mane. He rose at last, clenching his cup until I thought it would burst in his huge fist. Poor man! He could bellow and rage, but to what effect? He’d already promised Calchus. He must obey.

He hurled the cup into the fire, half-full, and the wine spat and frothed and was swallowed up among the burning logs and embers. In three easy strides he reached the quaking Calchus and squashed a finger against my conspirator’s nose. "You augur of disaster! You prophet of doom! You…! You… fish-mongering toad who croaks your wicked oracles in the heat of the day!"

He spun on the rest of the assembly, the twist of his lips and the pout in his voice showing something less than an arraignment of majesty! So-o-o! he spat, drawling out the vowel, and tramping around the fire. "It’s all my fault, this sickness in the camp! I dared to take Chriseis as my rightful possession in war! Her father has whined, and Shootafar owes the old gizzard some kind of favor for sweeping the snakes from his temple, I suppose, and now he’ll slay our men unless she’s returned! Is that it? he added, tossing a glance Calchus’s way. Apollo said all that, did he?"

Calchus’s head bobbed up and down, and Agy turned to level a glare at me. He wasn’t fooled — not one bit. The gravel in his voice intensified; I couldn’t tell if he was begging, accusing, explaining, or what. I refused that ransom, he spat, "because I love her. Do you understand that? Yes, I have Clytemnestra at home. But Chriseis is just as beautiful, just as sweet, just as smart… I love her more."

He spun away and found himself facing my hut. The cloth that served as a door rippled, and from the corner of my eye I caught the movement of Briseis slipping away. Did Agy see her, too? The curve of her body, the line of her impossibly beautiful throat? No, she’d moved too quick for that. Still, when the king turned back I realized that the trapped dog he’d been was gone: in its place a crafty leopard prowled. I knew instinctively that I was on the defensive now and had no idea how that had come about. As quick as he glanced at me, he turned away, addressing once again the council of the fire.

Apollo has spoken, and he is against us. So what? We have his father, Zeus, on our side. Still: for the good of the camp, I will send Chriseis back. I shall put her in a boat, at first light. I’ll send sheep, and cattle, so the old goat can cook them for his god. But for my troubles I deserve something back.

Something back? That got my attention.

"She is my prize of war. Shall your king have nothing while the lowest cook in camp sleeps in heaps of booty?"

The men began to look around.

You must prepare a prize for me to take her place, Agamemnon purred. Certainly you won’t begrudge me that.

I waited for someone, anyone to speak up: I didn’t expect much from most; these were warriors, not thinkers, after all. And few of them wanted to gamble earning Agy’s wrath. Still, you’d think Odysseus would have come to my defense. But he didn’t. He just sat there, looking almost serene. Calchus was out of the game for the night, whatever his thoughts may have been, and while Ajax looked as though he