"What's your name?"
Briseis' eyes blinked open. A brilliant, blue sky studded with golden stars, too vibrant and perfect to be real, domed over her head. The stars swirled around, bumped, and blurred into each other. 

"I asked you what your name is?"
Her back was propped up by a mountain of feather cushions. They were so soft that she would have been happy to sink into them and never get up.
"Did you not hear me?" A man stood at the table across from her, holding a pitcher.  Briseis's parched throat ached. The sound of pouring water was an exquisite torment. "Or have you lost your voice?"
Briseis opened her mouth, but all that came out was a weak croak. The man...Achilles...her captor...stepped forward with a glass of water, one last act of mercy before he killed her. Even a condemned man gets his last meal. Achilles held the cup to Briseis's lips. The water might be poisoned, her means of execution, but she didn't care. If she didn't have anything to drink, she might crumble to dust and blow away. So she gulped down the whole cupful until she started to cough. "My name is Briseis," she managed to say once she caught her breath.
Achilles put the cup down on the nightstand. "So you've found your voice again?"
"My father is Prince Anchises of Troy." If Briseis was going to die, she should let the Greeks know who to return her body to since chivalry dictated that they allow her to have a proper burial. "King Priam is my uncle."
As if she hadn't said anything, Achilles went back to the table where he'd been standing. He unbuttoned his padded arming doublet and put it on the table where the rest of his armor was laid out. Blood rushed to Briseis's cheeks when he untucked his shirt from his braies and hose and pulled it over his head. How dare he undress in front of her as she were a servant. Maybe he didn't want to soil his clothes with the blood of a defenseless woman?

Achilles dipped a cloth into a basin of water on the washstand. "So what was a Trojan princess doing so far outside of the city walls?" He scrubbed his neck with a wet cloth.
Why is a Greek prince so far from Greece?
Briseis tried to sit up, but the effort made her dizzy. Would this be how she died?  Trapped like a mouse and too weak to sit up, let alone fight back. And there was no one to rescue her.
Where was Aeneas? Why didn't he come after her when they were separated?  "My brother, he'll come looking for me..." Aeneas left you behind. He abandoned you. "...and so will my cousin Hector."
Hector's name was enough to make any Trojan's heart swell with pride and make any Greek piss himself.
Achilles' expression was flint-like. "I don't know who your brother is, but I'm not frightened by Hector." A clean shirt had been neatly folded up on a chair by the washstand. He picked it up and pulled it on over his head.

"You should be."  When Aeneas and Hector found out what had happened to Briseis, they would make the Greeks, this Achilles especially, regret ever setting foot on Trojan shores. 
The mattress shifted under Achilles' weight as he sat down on the bed next to Briseis. He was close enough for Briseis to smell the soap he'd been washing with. His nearness made her blush, but at least he had a shirt on now.
Achilles unsheathed the dagger at his belt.
Is he going to kill me now? Briseis jerked away from him when he seized her by the rope that bound her wrists.
"Sit still, Trojan," Achilles said. He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look him in the eyes. Briseis blinked as if she were staring into a flame.
Up close, Achilles looked younger than Briseis had previously thought. Twenty at the very most. His face was as smooth and boyish as a statue of Apollo.
Achilles raised his dagger and cut the rope around Briseis' wrists. Briseis rubbed the raw welts left by the rope. How good it felt to have her hands free again.
"I thought you were going to kill me," she said.
The mattress shifted again as Achilles got up. "You'd be worth more as a ransom."
"A ransom?" Briseis stared up at the star-filled sky above her, painted on the underside of the bed canopy. She felt too foolish to look Achilles in the face.
           "You sound disappointed not to die." Achilles opened a chest and pulled out a brocade tunic. "But the day isn't over yet."
Is this his idea of jest?
A messenger appeared between the flaps of the tent. "Excuse me, my prince."
"Yes?" Achilles grumbled as he buttoned up his tunic.

"King Agamemnon, my lord..." the messenger's voice quavered. "... he wants to see you."
"Tell him I'll be there in a few minutes."
The messenger bowed to Achilles and departed.
Rummaging through the clothing chest, Achilles produced a small wooden casket. He opened the box and took out a jeweled pendant. "Put this on." He tossed the pendant to Briseis.
Emeralds and pearls formed the shape of a rampant centaur holding a bow and arrow, accompanied by two hounds. In any other situation, Briseis would have been glad to receive something so precious.

"What is it?" Briseis slid the silk cord over her head and down her neck. The pendant rested on her breastbone.
"The sigil of the royal house of Thessaly. It'll keep you safe while you're here."
Briseis' fingers caressed the pearls and emeralds. How would this keep her safe?
Achilles brought over a jug and refilled Briseis' cup. He left the jug on the nightstand. "Drink up, Trojan," he said before leaving the tent.
"Thank you." Briseis folded her arms. Unfortunately, getting captured was no excuse for bad manners.
Briseis poured and downed cupful after cupful of water until the pitcher was empty and her strength returned enough for her to be able to sit up.
Why had Achilles left her alone and unrestrained? Perhaps he'd assumed that Briseis was too weak and scared to attempt an escape? Maybe he was right? If Briseis tried to flee, it would be suicide. She wouldn't get far in her feeble state before they caught her. And if she were re-captured, Achilles certainly wouldn't be as merciful as he had been earlier.
So all Briseis could do was sit around and wait. Her eyes grew heavy and blurry and her chin drooped.
"My lady..."  Briseis' eyes flickered open at a gentle tap to her shoulder. A young knight stood over her. "...My lady." 
Briseis rubbed her eyes and sat upright again. "Ugh?"
"Give me your wrists please."
"Why?" Is he going to slit them and let me bleed to death?
The young knight gave her a reassuring smile. "I'm just going to put some salve on them."  He produced a small vial from a pouch at his belt and opened it. Its contents smelt of comfrey.
Briseis' wrists had raw, red welts from the ropes she'd been tied up with. She allowed the young knight to anoint her wounds with the comfrey-scented ointment.
"My name is Patroclus of Locris," he said.
Briseis rolled her eyes. "If I wanted your name, sir, I would've asked for it."
Patroclus applied more salve to Briseis' wrists. His eyes lowered to where the jeweled sigil pendant sat on her breast. Briseis pulled her hands away from him and clutched the pendant.
"Why are you staring at me?" she said. The jewel around her neck was just a splendid chain, marking her out as a prisoner to be gawked at. She ripped the pendant off her throat. "Stop staring at me!" The pendant flew across the tent.
Patroclus put a hand on Briseis' shoulder. "My Lady, please."
"Don't touch me!" Briseis pushed him away.
She threw her arms around her knees and wept. Her fear was replaced with shame. Hadn't she sworn just a few hours ago that the Greeks wouldn't see her cry?
Aeneas...Aeneas...where are you?
Her throat and chest tightened and forced her sobs to fight their way out.
"Don't be afraid." Patroclus put his arms around her. "No one's going to hurt you." He tried to put the pendant back around Briseis' neck.
Briseis pulled away from him again. "No... No..." She didn't want the pendant because it made her a prisoner. 
"Achilles has taken you under his protection. That means you're as safe as anyone in this camp."  Patroclus pointed to a badge on his chest, which had a similar design of a rampant centaur with a bow and hunting dogs to the one on Briseis' pendant: the sigil of the royal house of Thessaly.

He must be a liegeman of Achilles. Achilles' minion.
Briseis' throat and chest tightened. The noises that escaped made her sound like she was giving birth.
Patroclus took Briseis' hands in his. "Take a deep breath." His voice was like a soothing balm on a raw wound. "Breathe in...breathe out..." For some reason she couldn't put her finger on, Briseis followed his lead. "Well done, My Lady." He put the pendant back around her neck.
Patroclus looked to be in his early twenties. He had a thin, serious face with pleasant dark eyes.
"I'll send for some more water so you can wash up," Patroclus said. "And a change of clothes. You must be hungry?"
Briseis nodded. Who knows how many hours had passed since she last ate. Her stomach was as hollow as a drum.
"... and Achilles will want you to come dine with him."
There were many things Briseis would rather do instead of eating with Achilles: sew her mouth shut with a dull needle... drink sherbet made from urine instead of fruit juice... but she had little choice in the matter. And she was so hungry.
How can the spirit stay strong when the flesh is weak?
Patroclus made good on this promise to have water for washing and a change of clothes sent to Briseis. But, unfortunately, the only clothes he could find that would fit Briseis was a smock, borrowed from a camp follower, and one of Patroclus' own tunics, which on Briseis, fell down to the middle of her calves.

Briseis shrugged. Very well, these garments were good enough for a prisoner. She climbed off the bed and settled her feet on the ground. Below her feet was a rich carpet, as fine as anything found in the Trojan royal palace.
Achilles' lodgings resembled a lord's mansion rather than a soldier's tent. The walls were hung with expensive tapestries depicting hunting scenes. The large, four-poster bed, big enough for two people to sleep comfortably without ever coming in contact with each other, had hangings and coverlets of green velvet.

Briseis' uncle, King Priam himself, would hardly turn up his nose at such accommodations. But to Briseis, they were just a splendid prison. 
After making sure that no one was lurking outside the tent, Briseis stripped off her clothing and poured steaming water from the pitcher into the washbasin. Patroclus had sent a jar of olive oil and a vial of rosewater along with the hot water. Briseis rubbed the olive oil into her skin before scrubbing it off with a damp towel. Then, she dabbed the rosewater beneath her chin and in her armpits.  She would thank Patroclus for the rosewater later. If she was going to be a prisoner, she at least wouldn't have to smell like one.
Briseis undid her braid, which had become a mass of tangles. Then, she worked olive oil through her hair to make it more manageable. Once her hair was combed out, she twisted it into a simple plait. The tunic Patroclus had given her was a bit tight at the bust and snug around the hips, but it would have to do.
Clean and wearing fresh clothes, Briseis felt almost like herself again.

Patroclus returned not long after Briseis finished freshening up. Briseis had been laying on the bed, staring up at the painted night sky on the underside of the canopy and trying to make out the different constellations included in the design. Eventually, she'd spotted Andromeda, the maiden chained up as a sacrifice to a terrible beast.
Patroclus bowed to her. "How are you? he said.
"As well as I could be?" Briseis sat up and smoothed the skirt of her tunic.
"Achilles sent me to get you." Patroclus helped her off the bed. "He's dining with King Nestor and wants you to join him."
Briseis rolled her eyes. So he can show off his new prisoner? "I don't see why?"
"Because you're his guest."
"Guests usually can leave when they wish to." The pendant bumped against Briseis' breastbone as she moved.
King Nestor lodged a few paces from where Achilles' tent stood. Patroclus brought Briseis to a trestle table underneath a canopy that extended outwards from the entrance to the king's tent. The table was set for a party of five. A bench had been placed on each side, and a chair stood at each end.

A portly old man with thinning grey hair and a wispy white beard, presumably their host, King Nestor, rose from the head of the table and swept them a bow. He smiled at Briseis as if she were a favorite granddaughter.  "Hello, my dear," he said. "You are very welcome."
Nestor, King of Pylos, ruled over three generations of people.  He had been, in his prime, the comrade and companion of heroes such as Jason, Meleager, Atalanta, even the great Hercules himself.  It was difficult to reconcile the fierce warrior of legend with what stood in front of Briseis. With his twinkling brown eyes and round, red cheeks, like two apples, he couldn't have looked more harmless.
Briseis blinked, uncertain at first how to respond to this surprisingly warm greeting. Like the well-bred princess she was, she decided that a polite thank-you was the best option. "Thank you for having me, My Lord." 
Nestor gestured for her to take a seat. Briseis sat down on one of the benches. Across from her sat Patroclus.
"I've had the honor and the pleasure of being acquainted with your uncle." The chair at the head of the table creaked under Nestor's weight. "Priam is a good man and a good king. It's a shame I have to call him my enemy. When Priam was a youth, about the age our friend Patroclus is now, he led the Trojan forces to aid the Aeolians when they were besieged by the Centaurs. He fought alongside Theseus of Athens and I...."
"I'd advise restraint, My Lord," a fourth voice said. "You wouldn't want to bore the poor maid to death."
A stocky man of middle height approached the table.
"Ulysses, King of Ithaca," Patroclus whispered to Briseis.
Nestor clapped Ulysses on the back. "At my age, my good fox, I should think I've earned the right to ramble on," he said.
Ulysses had earned the moniker, The Fox of Ithaca because of his reputation for cunning and wit. The title suited him. With his shaggy, reddish-brown hair, sharp face, and pointy beard, a fox wouldn't be an inapt comparison.
Ulysses took a seat on the bench next to Briseis. A footman dressed in livery brought over two jugs: one with wine, the other with ale.
"Wine or ale, My Lady?" the footman asked.
Briseis looked to Patroclus. They drank wine in Troy, but she wasn't familiar with ale.
As if anticipating her question, Patroclus replied, "I recommend the wine. Ale is a bit of an acquired taste."
"Wine then."
The footman filled Briseis' cup with wine. She took a sip: it was a sweet red, different from the dry white drunk in Troy.
Nestor flagged down the footman, who filled his cup with ale. "How was the duel, Ulysses?" He said. "Menelaus came back in a huff, so I'd assumed that he lost, but I haven't heard any talk of peace negotiations."
Briseis took another sip of her wine. The duel hadn't solved anything. They were all as much at war as they had ever been.
"Menelaus won the duel." Ulysses put his cup of ale down on the table.  "But that coward, Paris, managed to slip away. The worst he got was a gash on his pretty face, from Menelaus' cuckold's horns. And the Trojans protected him and refused to give Helen back."
"And concede defeat, never," Briseis said in a low voice.
Paris had a point. Helen was now more a symbol than a woman. Giving her up would be an affront to Troy's honor.
Ulysses raised one of his bushy eyebrows. "Did you say something?"
"I've heard you spoken of as a wise and clever man, My Lord." Briseis lowered her eyes and affected an air of innocence and modesty. "If it were up to you to decide who gets to keep Helen, who would you say deserves her more: Paris or Menelaus?" 
Briseis expected Ulysses to tow the Greek line: Menelaus was Helen's rightful husband. Especially since Ulysses himself convinced Helen's other suitors to swear an oath that they would defend Menelaus' claim on her, the same vow that had brought them all here to Troy. Instead, Ulysses folded his arms and said, "They both deserve her equally since they're both foolish enough to pay such a high price for a whore with her ivory tits and dripping cunt." Briseis blushed. Nestor and Patroclus glanced at her, then shot dirty looks at Ulysses. "I apologize for my crude language. I'm not used to watching what I say around children, especially girl-children." 
You should watch what you say when speaking of a lady and queen and your kinswoman.
"You must get used to watching your language, if you're ever going to return to that wife and son of yours," Nestor said.
"My Penelope can out curse any man in this camp and our boy will just have to get used to it."
Briseis summoned the footman to refill her cup. The wine was making her bold. "You're not very charitable to your countrywoman, King Ulysses," she said.
"Country woman?" Ulysses scoffed. "Helen has forfeited the right to call herself a Greek or a Trojan. For every drop of blood in her bawdy veins, a Greek has died.  For every pound of her lascivious flesh, a Trojan was slain." 
Briseis sipped her wine. Oh, yes. Helen was the muse and rallying cry of every soldier fighting in this war, both Greek and Trojan. They all died with her name on her lips.
"Ulysses, I hope you left some ale for me."
Ulysses, Patroclus, and Nestor rose from the table as Achilles approached. Briseis followed their lead.
Achilles dipped a slight bow to Briseis. He eyed her with a mixture of annoyance and curiosity as if a wild animal had just barged in. "You look well," he said.
"Well enough for a Trojan." Briseis cocked an eyebrow at him. Good enough for a hostage.
That was all they saw her as. Behind Patroclus' politeness and Nestor's joviality, Briseis was just a way for Achilles to raid King Priam's treasure without lifting a finger. 
Achilles took the seat at the other end of the table from Nestor. The footman filled his cup with ale.
Nestor raised his cup in Briseis' direction. "Let's drink to the health of our fair guest."
Patroclus replied with, "Here, here."
"And to the gold her uncle will give to get her back." Ulysses winked and took a hearty sip of his ale.
Briseis smiled. At least Ulysses was being honest.
Achilles' lifted his cup and joined the toast. His expression was flinty and unreadable.
The footman brought over two dishes of chicken stew, which smelt irresistible, and several loaves of white bread.

Briseis' stomach grumbled and her mouth watered. One dish was placed in front of Nestor. The other, in front of Achilles. After they took as much as they wanted, Achilles sent his dish over to Patroclus and Nestor sent his dish to Ulysses.
Ulysses stopped the footman before he could put stewed chicken on Ulysses' plate. "Serve the girl first," he said. The footman obeyed him.
Briseis smiled and nodded in thanks. She dug into the stewed chicken with her spoon. Who knew how many hours had passed since she last ate and the stewed chicken was one of the best things she'd ever tasted.
"By all means, start without me, gentlemen."
A great bull of a man strode over to the table as if he had every right to be there. He put his hand on the back of Achilles' chair.
"Agamemnon, King of Mycenae," Patroclus whispered to Briseis.
Agamemnon, Helen's brother-in-law. The large, dark figure who'd shouted at the Trojans to return his brother's wayward wife.
Nestor rose and greeted Agamemnon with a bow. "My Lord Agamemnon," he said. "To what do we owe this honor?"
Agamemnon looked down at Achilles. Achilles growled, then got out of his chair, yielding the place of honor across from Nestor to Agamemnon. He moved his plate to the spot next to Patroclus.
Agamemnon helped himself to what was left of the wine and stewed chicken, and shot Achilles a triumphant smirk. Achilles stared daggers back at him.
Briseis mopped up the remaining gravy on her plate with a hunk of bread. All the pieces fell into place. Achilles had drawn his weapon on Agamemnon's men in defense of Briseis. When he left the tent earlier to answer a summons from Agamemnon, he must have received a reprimand from his commander. And now Agamemnon got his revenge by showing up, unexpectedly, for dinner, knowing that Achilles would have to yield precedence to him.
Agamemnon singled in on Briseis. "So this is what all that fuss was about earlier?" His green eyes took on a nasty gleam when they noticed the jeweled pendant around her neck. "I see that Prince Achilles has claimed you as his spoils of war."
"I don't know what you mean?" Briseis covered the pendant with his hand.
She did know what he meant. Greek soldiers often took captured Trojans as slaves. Achilles certainly wouldn't have given such a precious trinket to a slave.
Agamemnon laughed. "She doesn't know what I mean."
"Pray tell me, My Lord, what is so funny?" Achilles rose from his bench.
"So the great Achilles is flesh and blood like the rest of us. The same Achilles who objected to me taking that priest' daughter as my doxy when we sacked Apollo's monastery." 
Briseis covered her mouth to keep from gasping. All of Troy had been shocked and horrified when the Greeks attacked and pillaged a monastery not far outside of Troy's walls, killed the priests, and took the priestesses as slaves. Such impiety will undoubtedly bring the wrath of Apollo down on the Greeks.
Agamemnon clapped Achilles on the back. "But that's all in the past, my dear Pyrrha. Maybe you'll be so good as to let me have a taste of your doxy when you're done with her." He seemed to expect the other men to laugh at his joke, but Nestor, Ulysses, and Patroclus stayed silent.
Briseis looked down at her plate. Why is he calling Achilles Pyrrha?
Achilles reached for his sword. Patroclus shot him a stern look: don't. Then, with a snarl, Achilles let go of his weapon. He picked up Agamemnon's cup and threw it to the ground. Wine stained the dirt at the king's feet.
"One day," he said. "That'll be your blood on the ground." Achilles stormed off like a sulky child.
Nestor put a hand on Agamemnon's shoulder. "I'll show you out, My Lord." The two men left the table.
"Are you going to scold me too?" Achilles said. 
Ulysses grabbed the younger man's arm. "It isn't wise to anger Agamemnon like that."
"Let go of me." Achilles pulled his arm away. "Is it unwise to fight back when you're insulted?"
"It is when you pick a fight you can't win."
"You're a coward, Ulysses."
"Yes, and that's why I'm going to die an old man in my bed with a wife and son to mourn me." 
Briseis shook her head. These Greeks seemed to fight each other as much as they fought the Trojans. She touched Patroclus' hand. "Take me back, please," she said. Briseis wanted to go back to Troy but Achilles' tent would do well enough.