HELEN: The Wine Dark Sea

"Believe whatever you wish, it won't change the truth. A wise woman would seek the best future she could possibly create. If you treat Achilles well, he may take you home as his preferred concubine. You'd be far happier than if he called you a slave had made you wash his laundry."

Too sad to care what became of her, Briseis looked down at her dusty sandals. She knew every fold in the tent, but wouldn't risk asking to go outside. Ajax might respect Achilles, but that didn't mean the camp wasn't full of men who'd expect him to generously share his prize of war until dawn.

"I hate you all," she murmured, her expression fierce.

"You'll grow to love us in time, everyone does," Patroclus predicted with a ready grin and left her to mull over what he considered to be excellent advice.

* * *

When Achilles returned, he took Briseis by the hand and lifted her to her feet. "Come look at the sea with me," he invited. When she proved to be unsteady on her feet, he slid his arm around her waist to guide her. He walked her through the camp to the shore. At his urging, she removed her sandals, and waded with him into the cool Aegean Sea. They stopped when it lapped at her knees.

He stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist and hugged her. "The whole world lays beyond us. There's more than you can dream or imagine. We're on a mission of the gods, and you can share in our glory."

His voice was soft, but she wasn't fooled by the tenderness of his touch. He'd already taken everything she held dear, and if all he craved was the husk of a woman she'd become, then she would be his.

* * *

Agamemnon also took a female prize of war, Chryseis, a priestess of Apollo. She was a beauty with peach-toned skin, sparkling dark eyes, and hair as black as ebony. She refused to look at him or answer when he spoke to her. He had meant to be kind, but her indifference drove him past reason, and he raped her, repeatedly. She did not cry, moan, or beg him to stop, and disgusted he could not reach her, he picked up his sword and went to kill more Trojans with a particularly spiteful glee.

* * *

Sick with outrage and worry, Chryseis' father Chryses, a priest of Apollo, dared to venture into Agamemnon's vast seaside camp and beg for his daughter's return. He was ushered into Agamemnon's grand pavilion, but not allowed to see her, but the priest persevered. He was a tall man with long gray hair and a curly beard.

"You've come to pillage our land," Chryses began, leaning against his tall oak staff. "I will ease your task by paying a generous ransom for my daughter. She is a priestess of Apollo and was dragged from his temple. As a priestess, she should be respected as you would revere Apollo himself, and I beg for her honorable return."

Agamemnon took a deep drink of wine from his kantharos, but rudely did not offer Chryses any refreshment. "Chryseis is mine now rather than Apollo's maid, and I'll never set her free. Go home, old man, and forget you ever had a daughter."

Chryses tilted his head as he studied the Mycenaean king. "You're a brutal man, but I had hoped you'd possess some modicum of wisdom. I warn you each day Chryseis remains with you, Apollo's fury will burn brighter."

Unimpressed by his threat, Agamemnon turned his back on him. "Get out of my sight, old man, or I'll send you to Hades Halls with the sharp edge of my sword." Chryses's knees buckled at the thundered threat, but clinging to his staff, he left so silently Agamemnon had to glance over his shoulder to be certain he had gone. The high king laughed and his entourage joined in.

* * *

Chryses went to the seashore and with a heavy heart, raised his hands high and prayed for Apollo's intervention. "Chryseis has served you well, my lord. How much must I sacrifice to gain her freedom? Shoot your silver bow and punish these irreverent Greeks for this shameful blasphemy with your most dreadful plague." Tears rolled down his wrinkled cheeks. "Give me some sign that you hear my plea," he begged.

Apollo heard his faithful priest clearly. He had taken the Trojan's side in the war and had no affection for the Greeks. He swooped from Mt. Olympus like a shooting star and appeared in a blazing light. With a warm breath, whispered, "Trust me now, Chryses, and I will make everything right."

The god was gone in as blinding a flash as he'd arrived, only briefly blessing the nodding dolphins offshore with his presence. Chryses fell to his knees and praised him, and cried in his eagerness to see his daughter returned to the sacred temple site. Apollo rose to a thousand feet, drew his gleaming bow and shot glowing arrows downward from the ever-abundant supply of arrows in his golden quiver.

* * *

The following morning, twenty of Agamemnon's army could not rise from the ground where they'd slept. They burned with fevers and seizures shook them, countless other men stumbled and vomited, and before noon, hoards of them were dead. Some men lingered, coughing up blood and cursing their plight in hoarse rasps, but they were gone before dusk. Warriors lit funeral pyres to burn their bodies and the word plague was on every man's lips. Black smoke billowed over the Greek camp like A Titan's evil blanket.

During the night, a dozen more men began to choke and gag. Blood ran from their nostrils, fevers scorched their skin, and chills made their bones ache. They died struggling for breath, and their companions were so badly frightened, Agamemnon had to order men to add the bodies of the newly fallen to the still flaming pyres. Those chosen for the grisly task hurried about it and then ran into the sea to scrub away the foul stench of death.

All up and down the shore Greek warriors began to fall. Some were covered in huge weeping blisters, others vomited blood, and the deadly disease kept spreading while the symptoms became increasingly painful and bizarre. Men no longer lowered their voices to call the illness by its rightful name, and when Agamemnon's men were struck down more often than others, the troops began to blame him.

Unafraid to make the accusation out loud, Achilles gathered the Greek leaders and led them into Agamemnon's pavilion. The high king was seated on his camp throne, chewing a pork rib with obvious relish. Disgusted, Achilles drew himself up to his full height and spoke clearly, "The priestess you've taken for a mistress must be returned to Apollo, for surely his anger is causing this wretched plague. Send her away before we are all dead. Do it now."

Agamemnon met Achilles hostile gaze, and his expression contorted with a fierce fury. He glared at them all but found no sign of sympathy in any face. Squaring his shoulders, he shouted at Achilles, "If I must send her away, then you owe me another woman. Send Briseis to my tent, and Chryseis will be set free."

Infuriated by that insulting demand, Achilles reached for his sword, but the goddess Athena rushed to his side. She grabbed his long hair with a firm yank to stay his hand. Invisible to the others, she spoke convincingly, "You know who I am. Strike him now only with words, and a better chance for revenge will soon come. I promise, my dear Achilles."

No one moved while the goddess spoke, as though time had ceased to exist, and Achilles recognized the glory of the goddess and the wisdom of her words. He dropped his hand and everyone came back to life. "We have lost too many good men to this dreadful plague, and Apollo must be appeased to end it. I'll send Briseis to you only if nothing else will prompt you to do what's right, but first you must set Chryseis free. It will not be one without the other, but you've insulted my honor, Agamemnon, and I'll no longer follow you. You'll have to fight without me and my unmatched Myrmidon warriors. Believe me, you'll soon regret this day."

Before Agamemnon could respond, Achilles strode off toward his own camp, far from the deathly smell of the funeral pyres. Patroclus ran to catch up with him. "What are you going to tell her?" he asked.

Achilles responded with a filthy oath. "You expect me to give Briseis an excuse?"