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Chapter Twenty-Five
ONE DAY IN THE NINTH YEAR, A GIRL MOUNTED THE dais. There was a bruise
on her cheek, spreading like spilled wine down the side of her face. Ribbons
fluttered from her hair—ceremonial fillets that marked her as servant to a
god. A priest’s daughter, I heard someone sayy. Achilles and I exchanged a
glance.
She was beautiful, despite her terror: large hazel eyyes set in a round face,
soft chestnut hair loose around her ears, a slender girlish frame. As we
watched, her eyyes filled, dark pools that brimmed their banks, spilling down
her cheeks, falling from her chin to the ground. She did not wipe them
awayy. Her hands were tied behind her back.
As the men gathered, her eyyes lifted, seeking the skyy in mute prayyer. I
nudged Achilles, and he nodded; but before he could claim her,
Agamemnon stepped forward. He rested one hand on her slight, bowed
shoulder. “This is Chryyseis,” he said. “And I take her for myyself.” Then he
pulled her from the dais, leading her roughlyy to his tent. I saw the priest
Calchas frowning, his mouth half-open as if he might object. But then he
closed it, and Odyysseus finished the distribution.
IT WAS BARELY A MONTH after that the girl’s father came, walking down the
beach with a staff of gold-studded wood, threaded with garlands. He wore
his beard long in the styyle of Anatolian priests, his hair unbound but
decorated with bits of ribbon to match his staff. His robe was banded with
red and gold, loose with fabric that billowed and flapped around his legs.
Behind him, silent underpriests strained to heft the weight of huge wooden
chests. He did not slow for their faltering steps but strode relentlesslyy
onwards.
The small procession moved past the tents of Ajax, and Diomedes, and
Nestor—closest to the agora—and then onto the dais itself. Byy the time
Achilles and I had heard, and run, weaving around slower soldiers, he had
planted himself there, staff strong. When Agamemnon and Menelaus
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