The Greek camp was enclosed by a series of shallow ditches. Someone had the idea to fill those ditches with blackthorn clippings as a means of keeping intruders out. Over the years, the blackthorn clippings had grown into a hedge as tall as a man. In addition, shoulder-high thistles had sprouted along the barrier, weaving themselves among the blackthorn branches, as a further deterrent.
At this time of year, both the blackthorns and thistles were in bloom. They made a deceptively pretty wall for Briseis' prison.

Briseis spent most of her time in Achilles' tent. She was only allowed to go out if there was someone to guard her, to ensure that she didn't escape. Achilles dined most evenings at either the tent of Nestor or the tent of Ulysses. When he did, Patroclus escorted Briseis to join them.
These dinners were pleasant enough. Nestor and Ulysses were both excellent hosts, and the food was both delicious and plentiful. The Greeks were hardly starving. They requisitioned the crops and livestock from all the farms and fields they didn't destroy, and the best always ended up on the tables of the Greek kings.
Nestor could ramble on, as old men tend to do. Still, Briseis enjoyed his stories about people, places, and events she'd only heard about: sailing on the Argo with Jason, hunting the Caledonian Boar with Meleager and Atalanta, and fighting the centaurs with Theseus and Hercules. These tales always met with eye-rolls, groans, and snide comments from the other men, to whom they were less new and exciting.
Frequently, Nestor interrupted himself with questions for Briseis about herself and her interests.
"Do you play any instruments?" he said.
"I play the harp," Briseis replied. "But I never had the patience to practice enough to be really good at it."
Nestor smiled. "I'm sure you play beautifully, my dear. I'd love to hear you sometime."
"But I don't have a harp." Briseis shrugged.
The next day, a servant dressed in Nestor's livery brought Briseis a harp, a package of sheet music, and a note which read "practice makes perfect."

When the table was cleared for the banquet course of sweets and cheeses, Ulysses would bring out a board and counters to play draughts. The point of the game was to move your pieces across the board. You won by capturing as many of your opponent's pieces as possible. Ulysses took advantage of Briseis' inexperience with the game to beat her time and time again.

"You're cheating!" Briseis said. She pouted because Ulysses had taken yet another of her pieces.
Ulysses laughed. "Because you're making it too easy for me." He bit into a slice of gingerbread.

During the games of draughts, Ulysses distracted her with talk of his wife, Penelope, the standard by which he measured the rest of womankind and found it wanting.
"Every day, I thank Juno that I married a woman with a good head on her shoulders," he would say. "I tell you, girl, men of sense want a wife they can trust and depend on. Not some pretty flibbertigibbet." By pretty flibbertigibbet, he meant Helen.
He showed Briseis a miniature portrait of Penelope one evening. Penelope wore the crown and ermine-trimmed robes of a queen and had a definite resemblance to her cousin, Helen. A similar oval face, broad forehead, long nose, hooded eyes, and rosebud mouth. But whereas Helen was a blonde, the tresses that fell down Penelope's back were dark.
Penelope was lovely, as all Spartan princesses were. Sparta wasn't known as "the land of beautiful women" for nothing. Though, her wit and cleverness were more noteworthy. The painter had managed to capture something of this. Penelope's lips curled into a slight smirk, and one eyebrow was higher than the other as if she couldn't believe whatever ridiculous thing she was hearing.
The stories Helen had told Briseis about her childhood painted Penelope as a whip-smart and high-spirited girl who was always the ringleader in whatever mischief they got up to yet managed never to get punished for it. So, if their reputations were to be believed, Ulysses and Penelope would be well-matched. Who else should a fox marry but a vixen?
"I was in Sparta for Helen's betrothal games," Ulysses told Briseis one evening as they perused his collection of books. "I never flattered myself that I had any chance with her. Menelaus was the better athlete, more handsome, and his brother, Agamemnon, is as rich as Pluto himself. And besides, Penelope was the one I fell for." He pulled several books from the shelves, volumes of poetry and romances that would interest a young girl like Briseis.
Briseis accepted the books. "Thank you," she said. She read more for pleasure than for study, and she would have chosen these over the more ponderous texts.
With their embossed leather covers and beautifully illuminated vellum pages, each book was worth a small fortune in itself. How many great lords' libraries had been plundered for Ulysses to have such an impressive collection?

When Briseis grew bored with her books and her harp, Patroclus sometimes brought her to watch him exercise Achilles' horses. Briseis wasn't particularly interested in watching horses walk, trot, canter, and gallop around a paddock, but she enjoyed being out in the sunshine and fresh air.
"Well done, Mouchet." Patroclus untied the rope he'd been using to lead a muscular dappled, grey Percheron stallion around the paddock. He patted the horse's flank. Mouchet nuzzled the pouch at Patroclus' belt, where Patroclus had stashed an apple. "Alright, you old beggar. You want a treat?"

Mouchet snorted and stomped his hoof in the dirt as Patroclus reached into his pouch for the apple. Patroclus turned to Briseis, who was sitting in the shade of an oak. "My Lady," he said. "Would you like to give Mouchet an apple?"
"No, thank you," Briseis replied. When it came to horses, she had a healthy degree of cautiousness. She had little desire to get up close to a large, powerful, and skittish animal that could trample her at any moment.
As Mouchet chomped on his treat, Patroclus stroked the horse's muzzle and whispered to him in the same soothing voice he'd used on Briseis when they met, mainly so the horse wouldn't eat his hand along with the apple. Patroclus seemed to have a calming effect on both skittish equines and captive girls.
While Nestor and Ulysses would give you their whole life story with little to no prompting on your part, Patroclus mostly kept to himself. As a result, all that Briseis was able to learn about him came from Ulysses and Nestor.
"His father is the Count of Locris," Nestor had said one evening at dinner. "A vassal of Achilles' father, King Peleus of Thessaly. He and Achilles have been inseparable since boyhood when he served as a page at the Thessalonian court."
Ulysses took a sip of his ale. "Patroclus is a good man. Just don't ever play dice with him."
A messenger approached Patroclus at the edge of the paddock. "My Lord," he said. "Prince Achilles is looking for you."
"Tell him I'll be right there," Patroclus replied. He handed Mouchet over to a groom.
Briseis had overheard some of the knights and men-at-arms about the camp refer to Patroclus as "Achilles' shadow." Wherever Achilles went, Patroclus wasn't far behind. Though Briseis saw a good deal of Patroclus, she saw precious little of his liege-lord.
They lived in the same tent but the only times Briseis had to deal with Achilles were when they dined together and then, he could only bring himself to give her the barest minimum of civility. He'd bow his head to her and say, "Trojan," then take his seat and chat with Patroclus, Nestor, and Ulysses about strategy, logistics, and petty grievances which bored Briseis out of her mind.
Achilles only ever returned to his lodgings to put on or remove his armor, wash up, and change his clothes. He always did this, separated from where Briseis was by one of the canvas curtains which divided up the different parts of his pavilion. If she tried hard enough, it was easy to forget he was there.
Every night, Briseis fell asleep alone in his great four-poster bed, confused as to why Achilles never seemed to rest. Surely, even gods needed sleep.
"Achilles is always the first man in the camp out of bed in the morning," Patroclus offered as an explanation when Briseis asked one afternoon as he exercised the horses. "And the last one in bed at night."
Briseis splashed at her reflection in the water trough. "If he isn't in his tent, then where does he go?"
Patroclus shrugged.
If Patroclus, Achilles' own shadow, didn't know where he went, then it truly was a mystery.
Sometimes late at night, when Briseis drifted between sleep and wakefulness, she felt the weight and warmth of another body in the bed. At first, she brushed it off as a drowsy delusion. But after several nights, her curiosity and certainty that someone lay beside her overcame her doubts.

She took the oil lamp from the bedside table and lit it. The light shone on the white skin and red-gold hair of a boy. He lay sprawled across the bed like a child, exhausted after a tantrum. Achilles.
Briseis wanted to rouse him and demand that he leave but this was his tent. He had more right to sleep here than she did. So, all Briseis could do was blow out the oil lamp and go back to sleep.
A few hours later, when the pals morning light creeped in through the tent's cracks and allowed her to see without the lamp, Briseis woke again. The glowing, golden apparition in the bed next to her, had vanished.

Briseis couldn't sleep. Being cooped up inside the tent all day had made her more restless than usual. At least most days, Patroclus would take her to watch him exercise the horses or bring Ulysses over so they could play draughts, but everyone seemed to have forgotten her today. Something to do with a skirmish at some nearby village. Briseis tossed and turned for what seemed like a lifetime before she gave up trying to sleep, lit the oil lamp on the bedside table, and opened one of the books she'd borrowed from Ulysses.

Ulysses' most recent recommendation was The Romance of Cupid and Psyche, which he said was a favorite of his wife, Penelope. The story told of a maiden whose beauty attracted Venus' ire and jealousy and how Venus' son fell in love with her and whisked her away to his luxurious palace to keep her safe from his mother. Briseis was at chapter three of the book (the part where Psyche starts to suspect her lover's true identity) when her restlessness got the better of her.
The silvery light from the full moon entered the tent through its cracks. It beckoned for Briseis to come and frolic and howl at the moon like a wolf pup. The entire camp was asleep. Briseis could step out of the tent for a quick stroll without getting caught. She wouldn't be causing any trouble, just stretching her legs for a little while. By the time anyone would be awake, she'd be back in her bed as if she'd never left.
Briseis threw on her veil and snuck out of the tent.
The night was clear and mild. So brightly shone the moon and stars that Briseis could see her way without a candle or lamp. Briseis said a silent prayer of thanks to Diana, the goddess of the moon, for putting her glory on full display.
All was quiet and still. Only the soft whistling of the wind and faint snoring coming from nearby tents could be heard. Briseis took small, catlike steps, afraid that her footfall might give her away. She looked up at the moon and put a finger to her lips, imploring Diana to keep her secret.
Clouds drifted in front of the moon like veils covering a woman's face.
"What are you doing there?" Briseis turned around. Achilles stood behind her, beautiful and terrible in the flickering light of an oil lamp. She fled from him as a doe-fawn would from a mountain lion. "Wait, stop!"
Her only thought was to get away from him. He must think she was trying to escape and would certainly kill her if he caught her. So she ran, ran as fast as her legs to carry her. But Achilles rivaled the god, Mercury, in his speed. His hand touched her fluttering smock, then her hair, falling loose from her braid.
The sleeves of Briseis smock caught on the branches of a blackthorn bush. The fabric ripped when she tried to pull herself free.
Achilles reached to pull her away. "Briseis," he called after her.
The thorns were like hundreds of insects gnawing and burrowing into her flesh. But the pain wasn't worse than the prospect of Achilles catching her. So Briseis kept trying to fight her way through the blackthorn bushes.
If she were in a myth, this would be the part where a benevolent god would take pity on her, perhaps change her into a plant or animal, like how Daphne transformed into a laurel tree to escape Apollo's advances. But her limbs and hair didn't become the branches and boughs of a blackthorn bush. Instead, they stayed the same as they'd always been.
Achilles cut a path to her with his dagger. The thorns cut and dug deeper into Briseis' clothes and flesh. She whimpered. Warm tears rolled down her cheeks.
"Stay still," Achilles said. "You'll only get yourself more stuck." He cut the branches that were caught on her smock and in her hair.
Briseis blinked at him. Achilles grabbed her by the waist and yanked her free. Her veil caught on a particularly nasty thorn and ripped in half as he pulled her out of the blackthorn bush.
The night had grown chilly. Briseis' skin, underneath her shredded smock, prickled into goose pimples. Achilles took off his cape and put it around her shoulders. The wool fabric made her cuts and scrapes feel raw and itchy, but she appreciated its warmth.

"We have a saying in Thessaly," Achilles said. "If given a choice between minding a herd of cattle and looking after one girl, choose the herd of cattle."
Briseis pulled the cloak tighter to her body. "You brought this on yourself." In her defense, he didn't have to capture her in the first place.
"Did you say something?" Achilles' voice had a gravelly sound to it which he must have intended to be intimidating.
"Just bring me back to the tent."
Briseis' smock was in rags, only staying together by sheer will alone. What cloth was left was speckled with blood and tiny pieces of blackthorn.

"You should take that off," Achilles said when they were back inside the tent.
Briseis glared at him. She climbed onto the soft, warm mattress and pulled the smock off over her head. This was humiliating. She'd never had to take off her clothes in front of a man before. Luckily, she still had on her trousers and the fitted bodice that supported her breasts. The trousers had tears in them but could easily be repaired.

Achilles put more fuel in one of the braziers. He brought over a water ewer and a washbasin.
"What were you doing outside the tent?" Achilles said. He dipped a cloth into the basin. "You know you're not supposed to go anywhere unguarded."
Briseis leaned back against the pillows. "I couldn't sleep, and I thought a walk would help. You know I've been stuck in this tent all day because no one was around to guard me." This wouldn't have happened if they didn't treat her like a child. A child who couldn't be trusted to go about on her own.
"Patroclus and Ulysses have more important things to do than play nursemaid."
Achilles sat down on the bed and moved in close to Briseis. He grabbed one of her arms to clean the cuts on it. His hands were large, rough, and warm. Briseis became flushed. Her heart went wild, and her throat tightened. Why is this happening to me?
"No! No!" She pushed him away.
Achilles leaned in again. "Stay still, and let me clean your wounds."
"Stop! Don't touch me!"
Fed up, Achilles threw the cloth back into the washbasin. He put both the ewer and the basin next to Briseis. "Fine. Do it yourself then."
Briseis cradled the wash basin in her lap. She then rolled up her trousers. Like her arms, her legs were covered in tiny cuts and scrapes. She dabbed her raw, red wounds until the water in the wash basin was tinted pink.
"You should also use some of this." Achilles gave her a jar of the same salve that Patroclus had used to treat the rope burns on Briseis' wrists. Briseis opened the pot and put a dollop of the balm on her middle two fingers.
After taking care of the easier-to-reach spots on her arms and legs, Briseis tried to rub salve on her back. But the still sore wounds on her sleeves and shoulders made getting this far back tricky and uncomfortable.
Achilles grabbed Briseis' shoulder. "Do you need help?" he said.
"I can manage." Briseis winced when she made another pitiful attempt to reach the small of her back.
"No, you can't."
Achilles took the jar from her. He reached underneath her bodice to rub salve on the spots Briseis wasn't able to get. Briseis flushed, and her heart pounded. It's happening again. Why won't it stop? 
She slapped Achilles' face. "What was that for?" Achilles said.
"I told you not to touch me."
Achilles grabbed her wrists. "Was that the best you got?"
Briseis' breathing became labored. Was he going to kill her this time? As she struggled against him, he wrestled her onto the bed. The wash basin flipped over and sent water flying across the room. Her head hit the pillows, and his hands ran up her legs. His chapped lips brushed against her own.
Whenever Briseis pictured her first kiss, it was never like this. She always imagined it would be with a gallant young knight in the palace gardens or with a handsome prince at their betrothal ceremony. Never after being pinned down on the bed of her captor.
Briseis slapped Achilles again. "Don't ever do that again!"
"I'm sorry." Achilles got up from the bed. "I don't know what came over me."
"Please...just... just get out."
She didn't care about his excuses and apologies. She just wanted him out of her sight.