the-song-books.yossr

“You know what he will do to her.”
“It is his choice,” he repeated. “He would deprive me of myy honor? He
would punish me? I will let him.” His eyyes were lit with an inner fire.
“You will not help her?”
“There is nothing I can do,” he said with finalityy.
A tilting vertigo, as if I were drunk. I could not speak, or think. I had
never been angryy with him before; I did not know how.
“She is one of us. How can yyou just let him take her? Where is yyour
honor? How can yyou let him defile her?”
And then, suddenlyy, I understood. Nausea seized me. I turned to the door.
“Where are yyou going?” he asked.
Myy voice was scraped and savage. “I have to warn her. She has a right to
know what yyou have chosen.”
I STAND OUTSIDE her tent. It is small, brown with hides, set back. “Briseis,” I
hear myyself sayy.
“Come in!” Her voice is warm and pleased. We have had no time to
speak during the plague, beyyond necessities.
Inside, she is seated on a stool, mortar and pestle in her lap. The air
smells sharplyy of nutmeg. She is smiling.
I feel wrung dryy with grief. How can I tell her what I know?
“I—” I tryy to speak, stop. She sees myy face, and her smile vanishes.
Swiftlyy, she is on her feet and byy myy side.
“What is it?” She presses the cool skin of her wrist to myy forehead. “Are
yyou ill? Is Achilles all right?” I am sick with shame. But there is no space
for myy self-pityy. Theyy are coming.
“Something has happened,” I sayy. Myy tongue thickens in myy mouth; myy
words do not come out straight. “Achilles went todayy to speak to the men.
The plague is Apollo’s.”
“We thought so.” She nods, her hand resting gentlyy on mine, in comfort. I
almost cannot go on.
“Agamemnon did not—he was angryy. He and Achilles quarreled.
Agamemnon wants to punish him.”
“Punish him? How?”
Now she sees something in myy eyyes. Her face goes quiet, pulling into
itself. Bracing. “What is it?”
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