For the Most Beautiful (29 page)

Patroclus stared at me for a few long moments. ‘Why are you so eager to save Achilles, after all that he has done?' he said at last. ‘Why not let him die, if you are so certain he will be killed, when he destroyed the people of Pedasus,
your
people?'

‘Have you ever been in love, Patroclus?'

His eyes dropped to the ground, swiftly, so I could not catch their expression. ‘Yes,' he said, his voice even.

‘Then you know that if you lost the one you loved – if you saw them killed before your eyes – then there is nothing,
nothing
, you would not do to prevent it happening again.'

Patroclus stayed still for a long time. Then he gave an almost imperceptible nod. ‘Yes,' he said, turning to walk on. ‘Yes, I know that.'

‘Do you think this wreath goes with my hair?' Apollo asks Hermes, ruffling his perfect golden locks into a rakish quiff.

Reluctantly Hermes takes his eyes off Aphrodite as she bends over to pick up a stray ivory hairpin and glances at Apollo. ‘Wouldn't make much difference if it did,' Hermes says, taking a big bite from a bunch of golden ambrosia and crunching it. ‘You've got Aphrodite looking after you. I'll tell you one thing: no one will notice your hair when she's done with you.'

Aphrodite leans over Apollo, and her scent – something like all the flowers in the world distilled into a single perfume – wafts over him.

‘Stay still,' she says, tapping his hand away from his hair as she rearranges the wreath of laurel leaves on his head. A couple of cupids flutter around her, carrying armfuls of olive-oil jugs, bottles of scented perfume and hairpins. As she stands back to check her handiwork they give an admiring sigh.

Hermes cocks his head to look at Apollo. ‘I have to say,' he says, through a mouthful of ambrosia, ‘I'm surprised how encouraging Hera was. She normally disapproves of our little adventures. Well,' he smirks, ‘the ones she hears about, anyway. But she seemed quite pleased about you and what's-her-name.'

Apollo tries to nod but can't, as Aphrodite has his head in a firm grip. ‘I know,' he says. ‘I was, too. But perhaps she's come around to me at last.' He grins. ‘Maybe she was impressed by the plague. It was quite spectacular, even if it did take down some of her beloved Greeks.'

At this precise moment, Athena wanders on to the cloud, her pet owl perched on her shoulder. She stiffens like a statue when she sees Aphrodite – she still has not forgiven her for winning Paris' contest – but when she spots Apollo sitting on a billow of cloud, having his hair arranged by Aphrodite, she relaxes into an easy smile.

‘What are you doing?' she asks, in a teasing voice.

‘Nothing,' Apollo says nonchalantly, trying unsuccessfully to keep his eyes from Aphrodite's voluptuous bosom as she leans over his shoulder to position a lock of hair. ‘Can't a god get dressed in peace?'

Athena opens her mouth to say something, but Hermes interrupts. ‘Oh, leave him alone, Athena,' he says, taking another loud bite. ‘Just because you don't wear make-up doesn't mean the rest of us can't indulge in a bit of a beauty routine once in a while.'

Athena gives him a smile that is sweeter than ambrosia. ‘I wasn't going to say he shouldn't,' she says. ‘In fact, Apollo, you're looking rather dashing. That wreath suits you. It goes with your hair.' She pauses as the two gods exchange surprised looks. ‘So what's going on, then?' she asks, walking around Aphrodite, eyeing her perfume-filled bottles and ivory combs. ‘Why are you two up here canoodling with Aphrodite and her flying midgets?'

‘No reason,' Apollo says. ‘Just wanted a—'

‘Apollo's set his sights on someone,' Hermes interrupts, in a loud stage-whisper, winking at him.

‘What, again?' Athena asks, with an unusually indulgent smile. Hermes hushes her, and she lowers her voice. ‘Who is it this time?'

Hermes glances around him, as if checking for eavesdroppers. ‘Another Trojan,' he says.

‘Another?' she asks, as if she does not already know. ‘What is it with these Trojan women? If they're all so beautiful, why did Paris go all the way to Greece to get Helen?'

‘Good point,' says Hermes.

At this moment, Aphrodite claps her hands. ‘Done!' she says, stepping back to eye the results. The cupids applaud.

‘Hermes – Athena – what do you think?' Apollo asks, with self-satisfaction
,
toying with his laurel wreath and gazing down into the ocean to check his reflection.

Athena smiles and nods in approval.

Hermes claps him on the shoulder. For a moment, the three gods gaze down at a small temple far, far below, set on the water's edge to the south of Troy.

‘You're the most attractive god on Olympus,' Hermes says, grinning. ‘Trust me, brother. Nothing will go wrong this time.'

I spent the next few hours pacing up and down the temple in a barely concealed rage. I could not believe what Lycaon had done. How could he be such a fool? How
could
he have locked me up when I was the only one who knew how to win the war? And how
could
my father have sent me here, of all places? Did they want Troy to fall?

I would
make
Lycaon let me go. When he found out what I knew, he surely would not keep me here.

I refused to sleep in case Lycaon or the slaves came in. From time to time, baskets of food and watered-down wine were pushed in through a hatch in the west wall, but as soon as I ran to the hatch to demand to talk to Lycaon, whoever had brought them was gone.

For the rest, I was alone.

After what felt like several days spent shouting, pacing, cursing and pounding on the bronze doors with my fists, I had to give up. My bones were aching with tiredness, and my knuckles were bruised. A few torches had been lit in the brackets on the columns that supported the roof when I had first been shut in there. They were guttering now, at the very end of their use, and I lay down in the flickering pool of light beneath one, curled up on the cold stone floor, trying to rub some warmth into my fingers.

When I awoke, I had no idea what time it was. The heavy bronze doors did not let in any light, so I could not tell the time of day, and there were no windows. Someone must have come in while I was sleeping, because a large basket filled with food had been placed right beside me, and the guttering torches had been replaced with fresh ones. I leapt to my feet, then winced at the pain in my back and neck, stiff from sleeping on the hard stone, and ran to the doors. I pounded upon them. The worked bronze reverberated with a dull, ringing sound.

Still no reply.

I turned away in frustration, muttering under my breath a curse to the gods that I should have slept when Lycaon came, and started back towards the basket of food.

Then I stopped absolutely still. The light of the torches spread through the temple with a faint yellow-orange glow. But where it had used to reflect the dark glint of polished stone, there was nothing.

The statue of Apulunas had gone.

Two days later Patroclus returned as the stars were beginning to scatter the sky with silver dust. He found me at the back of the tent, folding the woollen blankets and linen for storing in the drying racks behind the kitchen where the heat of the fire could keep them warm and dry away from the sea-wind.

‘Briseis. Talthybius said I might find you here.'

Patroclus was standing by the tied-back curtain that served as the entrance to the drying cupboard. His brown cloak was around his shoulders, and his arms were crossed over his chest, his face pale.

I set down the linen that I was holding and moved closer to him, frowning. ‘Are you all right?'

He nodded tightly. ‘There is much I have to talk to you about.'

I followed him out of the tent and towards the sea, as we had done before. It was a cool evening, and the breeze brushed the skin of my bare arms as we walked. The waves were curling on to the shore one after another, and clouds were blotting out the light of the stars in patches across the sky, the full moon shining out, like the open eye of the gods, watching us. It was almost peaceful, with the sea rolling towards us wave after wave, and the cool, calm air of night settling upon us was tinged with salt.

Patroclus waited until we had walked a good hundred paces before he spoke. ‘King Agamemnon sent the embassy,' he said.

I stared at him. ‘And?'

He picked up a stone and threw it at the tumbling surface of the sea. ‘Achilles refused him.'

I let out a breath of relief.

‘He refused,' I said, closing my eyes. ‘He is safe. He trusted me more than I would have thought.'

Patroclus stopped to send another stone skittering over the surface of the sea. ‘Oh, of course he does.' His voice was ironic, bitter.

I turned to look at him. He was wearing an ugly expression on his face, his mouth twisted with pain, his usually kind eyes narrowed. ‘What – what do you mean?' I faltered.

He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Of course you would not understand,' he said. ‘You, with your beauty, whom every man you ever wanted has desired, and even the ones you did not.' He picked up another stone and hurled it out to sea. ‘I suppose
you
cannot imagine how it feels to watch the one you love spurn you. How it feels to see the desire on their face, which should be for you, given to someone else.'