For the Most Beautiful (23 page)

‘You cannot,' I whispered.

‘But if I could … I would die to prove to you how much – how much I wish I had not—'

I felt like a spirit, drained by grief. His face was inches away from mine, his breath warm upon my face. Tears swam in my eyes.

‘What I do, I have always done for greatness,' he said in a low voice. ‘But perhaps there is another way.'

His hands slid from my shoulders to my waist.

As if I were in a dream, as if I were surrendering to some more-than-human force, I moved slowly towards him, all sounds silenced except the pulse of my blood in my ears. I felt the heat of him, his strong arms as they encircled me and pulled me closer. His hand was cupping the back of my head with easy strength, his lips were brushing mine, just as they had in my dream, my tears mingling upon our mouths, and then I was kissing him, insistently, desperately – because, despite everything, he was all I had left in the world. Because nothing else made sense, except the closeness of his body against mine, the warmth of his arms around me, and that we were together.

Because he was both my downfall and my destiny.

That night, I lay with Achilles.

Night is falling in heaven. The storm is over, and now the heroines, queens and nymphs who make up the stars are taking up their positions, shining out in the dusk with a soft glow, like fireflies dotted over the clouds. The slopes of Mount Ida are quiet, and on the Trojan shore the only light is from the dying embers of the fires in the Greek camp and the torches of the watchmen.

All is peaceful.

Then a shout echoes across the clouds. ‘Apollo! Hey, Apollo! Apparently there's a girl over here whose father thinks she's a perfect candidate to be your priestess.'

Hermes is doubled over, laughing, pointing through the gap in the clouds.

Apollo groans and tries to ignore him. He turns back to polishing his long silver bow, assiduously disregarding all Hermes' attempts to attract his attention.

The gods are lounging around Mount Ida – or some of them are, anyway. Ares, after all, is in the Trojan council drawing up the plan for the city's defences, and Aphrodite is busy keeping Paris and Helen entertained in their bedroom in Troy. The rest of the usual cast is here, though. Zeus and Hera are sitting side by side on their thrones, calm and serene, enjoying an evening drink. Apollo and his twin sister Artemis are off to the side, cleaning their bows and arrows with scrubby little bits of moonlit cloud. Athena is tending her pet owl with sips of nectar. And Hermes is perched on a tuft of cloud next to the gap that opens on to the Trojan plain, looking down and shaking with laughter.

Zeus turns to Hera.

‘It's funny, isn't it,' he says in a conversational tone, ‘how determined mortals are to believe that knowledge of the gods comes in a snap of the fingers? Why on earth do they think we give them such a long life, if it only took five seconds to work it all out?'

‘Surely you would know,' she says shrewdly, ‘since you made them so.'

Zeus looks stumped, and turns back to the gap in the clouds, in a magisterial, all-seeing way, to cover the awkward moment.

‘She's very pretty, Apollo,' continues Hermes, wiping his eyes and still chuckling. ‘Might be worth taking a look, even if you're not interested in the prayer.'

Athena's lip curls.

Apollo cannot pretend he hasn't been listening, as Hermes' voice is loud enough to carry all the way to the island of Lesbos if he wants it to. He looks up.

‘Knew that'd get your attention.' Hermes chuckles. ‘She's just your type too. Golden hair, good figure, great legs. Come over and see for yourself.'

At last, Apollo lays down the bow and gets to his feet, then walks over to the gap in the clouds and peers through. Among the tents and huts of the Greek camp, several hundred paces from the shore where the ships are drawn up, stand two small figures, outlined in the deepening shadows of night. One is an old man with a long grey beard and the white robes and headband of a priest. His hands are raised in the gesture of prayer, and he seems to be standing by an altar that is sending smoke up to heaven – his offering to the gods. The other is a beautiful young girl with curling golden hair that sends the light of the stars glinting back to Mount Ida, bronzed skin, and subtly suggestive curves beneath her tunic.

Apollo takes a good look. ‘Who's the old man?' he asks, after a while. ‘Not her husband?'

‘Heavens, no,' says Hermes, leaning on a nearby cloud, glad – as always – to have got some attention and caused mischief into the bargain. ‘Her father, I think, judging from what he's saying. I've been listening for a while – it's rather amusing, actually.'

‘What's he asking for?' Apollo asks, still looking at the girl.

‘To get her freed from the Greek camp. Apparently she's a Trojan, got captured or something. The old man,' he gestures down to the beach, where a leather pouch that must once have been full of gold coins is hanging limply by the old man's side, ‘tried to ransom her from Agamemnon. Didn't work, though. Agamemnon took the gold off his hands, then refused to give the girl back.' Hermes rubs his chin gleefully and chuckles. ‘Bet the old man didn't expect that. That girl must be pretty good in bed for Agamemnon to want to keep her.'

Apollo raises his eyebrows.

‘Anyway,' Hermes continues, ‘her father's determined to get her home to Larisa, so she can be initiated as your priestess. And that's what he's sacrificing to you for.'

Artemis walks over and interrupts them, peering down through the gap in the clouds. ‘Isn't he a priest? The one who always makes those terribly long prayers?'

‘You're right – he is,' says Apollo, in mild surprise. ‘But he never mentioned he had a beautiful daughter.'

Hermes guffaws. ‘Of course he didn't. He knew you'd be after her, like a hunting dog after a hare. But I guess,' he says, grinning, ‘now he's in trouble he thinks it's worth the risk.'

Apollo frowns and doesn't say anything.

‘So what's he asking for?' wonders Artemis, who has picked up her quiver again and is testing the sharpness of an arrow on the palm of her white hand.

‘A plague on the Greeks for double-crossing him,' says Hermes, sitting back and twiddling his thumbs, his face plastered with a wide grin.

Apollo looks at him, eyebrows raised.

‘Oh, you know – the usual display.' Hermes waves an indifferent hand. ‘Disease. Death. Corpses piled up in heaps. He thinks that if the Greeks are punished with the plague, he'll make them realize that Agamemnon shouldn't have taken the ransom and kept his daughter, and they'll let her go free.'

‘Sounds fair enough,' says Apollo, shrugging his shoulders.

Hermes grins.

Even Apollo permits himself a little smile.

‘One thing, though,' says Hermes, glancing at Hera and Athena, who are both sitting bolt upright, and have clearly been listening to every word they've said. ‘Just make sure you watch out for the dream team.' He jerks his head in the direction of the two goddesses. ‘They won't take kindly to you sending a plague on their favourites. They're bound to interfere somehow. So watch your back, all right?'

Apollo doesn't reply. His eyes are still fixed on the golden-haired girl.

Hera and Athena are tensed, like hounds about to be set to the chase.

Then—

‘Looks like we've got ourselves a job,' Apollo says finally, raising himself to stand, grasping his long silver bow and fitting an arrow to the string.

Hermes claps delightedly.

Zeus sits back and folds his hands to watch.

Hera and Athena narrow their eyes.

Artemis stands up, dips the tip of her arrow into a bowl filled with poison that has just materialized at her feet and pushes the razor-sharp arrowhead into the notch of her bow. They stand side by side at the edge of the gap in the clouds, brother and sister, and both aim their pointed arrows towards the Greek camp.

‘So, brother,' Artemis asks, pulling the bowstring back to her ear, ‘who first?'

I opened my eyes. I was lying in Achilles' arms in his bed, the woollen covers tangled around our legs and a ray of early-morning sunlight falling across his chest. Patroclus' pallet was empty – he must have risen already. We were alone.

A wave of confused feelings broke over me as the memory of what we had done rushed back. Our passionate, frenzied love-making, the touch of a god on my skin. The look in Patroclus' eyes as he had told me about Pedasus. My despair; Deiope's familiar wrinkled face; the prophecy; the pain in Achilles' eyes; the relief I had felt as I fell into his arms.

I did not know what to think any more.

Was this always the way in a war?

‘Briseis?'

Achilles was awake, his eyes half open.

I looked at him, my voice catching in my throat. ‘Yes?'

In one swift movement he rolled over, took me into his arms and bent to kiss me, pressing down upon me. My back arched as he pulled me towards him, and I felt my spine tingle with new depths of desire, my body responding instinctively as my thoughts battled to make sense of what was happening.

‘Last night,' he said, as we broke apart at last, ‘last night was—'

The door to the hut banged open.

‘My lord—'

Patroclus had burst into the hut, his face shining with sweat. He stopped short when he saw us together. Then his cheeks coloured scarlet. ‘Oh.'