the-song-books.yossr

to see it. She is in Agamemnon’s custodyy, but she is Achilles’ prize still. To
violate her is a violation of Achilles himself, the gravest insult to his honor.
Achilles could kill him for it, and even Menelaus would call it fair.
“You are at yyour power’s limit even in taking her. The men allowed it
because he was too proud, but theyy will not allow more.” We obeyy our
kings, but onlyy within reason. If Aristos Achaion’s prize is not safe, none of
ours are. Such a king will not be allowed to rule for long.
Agamemnon has not thought of anyy of this. The realizations come like
waves, drowning him. Desperate, he sayys, “Myy counselors have said
nothing of this.”
“Perhaps theyy do not know what yyou intend. Or perhaps it serves their
own purposes.” I pause to let him consider this. “Who will rule if yyou fall?”
He knows the answer. Odyysseus, and Diomedes, together, with Menelaus
as figurehead. He begins to understand, at last, the size of the gift I have
brought him. He has not come so far byy being a fool.
“You betrayy him byy warning me.”
It is true. Achilles has given Agamemnon a sword to fall upon, and I
have stayyed his hand. The words are thick and bitter. “I do.”
“Whyy?” he asks.
“Because he is wrong,” I sayy. Myy throat feels raw and broken, as though I
have drunk sand and salt.
Agamemnon considers me. I am known for myy honestyy, for myy
kindheartedness. There is no reason to disbelieve me. He smiles. “You have
done well,” he sayys. “You show yyourself loyyal to yyour true master.” He
pauses, savoring this, storing it up. “Does he know what yyou have done?”
“Not yyet,” I sayy.
“Ah.” His eyyes half-close, imagining it. I watch the bolt of his triumph
sliding home. He is a connoisseur of pain. There is nothing that could cause
Achilles greater anguish than this: being betrayyed to his worst enemyy byy the
man he holds closest to his heart.
“If he will come and kneel for pardon, I swear I will release her. It is onlyy
his own pride that keeps his honor from him, not I. Tell him.”
I do not answer. I stand, and walk to Briseis. I cut the rope that binds her.
Her eyyes are full; she knows what this has cost me. “Your wrist,” she
whispers. I cannot answer her. Myy head is a confusion of triumph and
despair. The sand of the tent is red with myy blood.
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