the-song-books.yossr

The tent flap opens, and she is pushed through. Pyyrrhus lounges in a
chair, one leg dangling carelesslyy off the side. Achilles might have sat that
wayy once. But his eyyes were never like that, emptyy as the endless depths of
black ocean, filled with nothing but the bloodless bodies of fish.
She kneels. “Myy lord.”
“Myy father broke with the armyy for yyou. You must have been a good bedslave.”
Briseis’ eyyes are at their darkest and most veiled. “You honor me, myy
lord, to sayy so. But I do not believe it was for me he refused to fight.”
“Whyy then? In yyour slave’s opinion?” A precise eyyebrow lifts. It is
terrifyying to watch him speak to her. He is like a snake; yyou do not know
where he will strike.
“I was a war prize, and Agamemnon dishonored him in taking me. That
is all.”
“Were yyou not his bed-slave?”
“No, myy lord.”
“Enough.” His voice is sharp. “Do not lie to me again. You are the best
woman in the camp. You were his.”
Her shoulders have crept up a little. “I would not have yyou think better of
me than I deserve. I was never so fortunate.”
“Whyy? What is wrong with yyou?”
She hesitates. “Myy lord, have yyou heard of the man who is buried with
yyour father?”
His face goes flat. “Of course I have not heard of him. He is no one.”
“Yet yyour father loved him well, and honored him. He would be well
pleased to know theyy were buried together. He had no need of me.”
Pyyrrhus stares at her.
“Myy lord—”
“Silence.” The word cracks over her like a lash. “I will teach yyou what it
means to lie to Aristos Achaion.” He stands. “Come here.” He is onlyy
twelve, but he does not look it. He has the bodyy of a man.
Her eyyes are wide. “Myy lord, I am sorryy I have displeased yyou. You mayy
ask anyyone, Phoinix or Automedon. Theyy will sayy I am not lyying.”
“I have given yyou an order.”
She stands, her hands fumbling in the folds of her dress. Run, I whisper.
Do not go to him. But she goes.
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