The plague spread fast, but gossip spread faster.
By the end of the day following that catastrophic dinner party, Achilles' quarrel with Agamemnon was the talk of the entire Greek army.
Bow-legged Thersites, a well-known rabble-rouser among the common soldiers, harangued anyone who would listen. So one afternoon, when Briseis accompanied Patroclus to the hospital to try out his latest cure, a potion made from herbs soaked in vinegar, Thersites limped over to a group of men-at-arms gathered outside.

"The boy, Achilles had the guts to speak the truth," he said. "We're all suffering because Agamemnon thinks with his cock and not his brain."
Patroclus sighed. He put a hand on Briseis' shoulder. "Pay no attention," he said.
"...Apollo sent that little Trojan maid Achilles keeps with him an omen, and it still hasn't gotten through Agamemnon's fat head...." Hearing herself mentioned, Briseis couldn't help but stop to listen. Thersites pointed in her direction. "...look at the girl. As fair and virtuous as I am, ugly and wicked. How could she not speak for the gods?"
Briseis blew a kiss to Thersites, who then blushed like a young swain. Thanks to gossip-mongers like him, her fame as a prophetess had spread throughout the camp.
It, of course, started with Achilles' Myrmidons. Even if Achilles hadn't started the rumor or even actively encouraged it, he at least did nothing to quell it.
Patroclus rolled his eyes. "Stop flirting," he said. He held the door to the hospital open for Briseis.
When they entered the hospital, Briseis was cheered by the men. They hailed her as "Apollo's Demoiselle," "Darling of Venus," and "Little Queen." Briseis greeted them by waving and blowing kisses.
"What did I say about flirting?" Patroclus cocked an eyebrow.
"What?" Briseis replied. "Can't a queen show appreciation for her loyal subjects?"
Why shouldn't she enjoy being the sweetheart of the troops? This was the first time in her life she'd ever been important.
Briseis and Patroclus stepped aside so two men carrying a stretcher could pass.
"Clear a bed for King Ulysses," one of the men shouted to an orderly.
The hospital didn't have enough beds for all its patients, and the aristocratic officers had precedence over the common soldiers. So, when a person of higher rank came in, someone of lower status had to be moved to a makeshift cot on the floor.
Ulysses lay on the stretcher, shivering and drenched in sweat. "No," he said. "I'm no more deserving of a bed than any other man."
Briseis tried to place a cold compress on Ulysses' forehead. He turned away from her.
"Don't get too close. You'll catch it."
Briseis held Ulysses down by his shoulder. "Lay still," she said. "And don't worry. I'm a woman and that means I'm safe."
One of the plague's biggest mysteries was why only a handful of women had come down with it, and all of them managed to recover. Patroclus theorized that this came down to the humoral differences between men and women. The naturally cold and wet female constitution balanced out the excess of hot and dry humors caused by the plague.
Laughing, Briseis had argued that maybe fewer women succumb to the plague because they put more effort into keeping clean and sweet-smelling.
Briseis placed the cold compress on Ulysses' forehead. Ulysses cracked a smile. "If the gods have a soft spot for anyone," he said. "It's you, my girl."
Briseis kissed his cheek. Maybe he was right?
Patroclus fed Ulysses a spoonful of his herb-infused vinegar concoction. Ulysses gagged and coughed. "What the devil was that? A demon's piss?"
"Medicine," Patroclus replied. His face was flushed with indignation.
"Medicine, demon piss. It's all the same thing."
Briseis held a cup of water to Ulysses' lips. "This should help it go down," she said.
They did their best to bring down Ulysses' fever by giving him water and cold compresses. Finally, Ulysses drifted off into a sleepy delirium, where he only had the strength to groan and call out for Penelope and Telemachus.
"Penelope, my duck," he moaned.
Briseis squeezed his hand. It was best to keep him calm by playing along. "I'm here, my love." She tried to disguise her voice by lowering it a couple octaves.
"Telemachus... Telemachus, get back here, boy."
Patroclus blinked at Briseis. She responded with a nod.
"You'll have to catch me first, father," Patroclus said in his best imitation of a little boy.
They could only pray and hope the fever would run its course before reaching the final, deadly symptoms.

Briseis felt wholly exhausted when she returned from the hospital. However, there was a delicious breeze that evening, and it would be pleasant to sit under the tent's awning and rest until Achilles and Patroclus arrived for supper. Eventually, she regained enough energy to work on a shirt she was making for Achilles and lazily crooned an old ballad her nurse, Safie, had taught her.

"Red grows the rose,

White grows the anemone

A single drop of blood flows

White grows the anemone

From this drop, an anemone grows

My love has gone from me.

Red grows the rose

White grows the anemone."

Sewing and singing kept her mind and hands occupied. She would run wild if it weren't for how tired she was.
Hecamede ran screaming out of Nestor's tent. Briseis put down her sewing. Mother Venus, what was the matter?
"My Lord," Hecamede cried. "My Lord."
Achilles and Patroclus, walking toward Achilles' tent, stopped Hecamede.
"What's wrong, My Lady." Achilles put a hand on Hecamede's shoulder.
Hecamede sobbed. "My Lord Nestor... he's...."
Patroclus took the woman's hand. "Is it?"
She nodded yes.
Briseis grabbed at her skirt. Nestor too?
Achilles almost tackled the nearest servant and ordered him to get a stretcher and a cart for King Nestor and bring him to the hospital as quickly as possible or else he'll be flogged within an inch of his life.
"What is all this commotion about?" Agamemnon appeared at the entrance of his tent like an irascible Jove, about to hurl one of his thunderbolts.
But Achilles and Patroclus were too preoccupied with helping the servant carry Nestor out on a stretcher to answer Agamemnon's question.
Agamemnon's face went pale and grave. "Send for my physician," he said to Cressida, who'd followed after him. "Have him treat King Nestor."
How unlike him to be so unselfish. Briseis put a hand on her hip. But then again, it was in Agamemnon's best interest for Nestor to recover. He had great esteem and affection for Nestor, and more importantly, he relied on the old man's advice.
Cressida bowed, then ran off to do Agamemnon's bidding.
Briseis joined Achilles and Patroclus, who were carrying Nestor to a mule cart that would take him the half-mile to the plague hospital. "Is there anything I can do?" she said. She'd been standing around for too long.
"Look after Hecamede," Patroclus said. He and Achilles struggled to lift Nestor's not inconsiderable bulk into the cart.
Hecamede was still sobbing like Niobe after Apollo and Diana struck down all of her six sons and six daughters. The poor thing. What would happen to her if Nestor were to die? She would probably be tossed to another master, who might not treat her as well as Nestor had.
No words could comfort Hecamede, so Briseis simply offered her a shoulder to cry on.
A crowd had gathered outside Agamemnon's tent, drawn there by all the racket and ruckus. They watched the cart carrying Nestor away as if they saw a beloved patriarch on his deathbed.
"Send back the Trojan whore," they shouted at Agamemnon, and "The bitch isn't even that comely."
Briseis looked down at her feet. Good thing Cressida wasn't there to hear all of that.
Agamemnon turned to go back into his tent. "I sent my physician to take care of the king of Pylos," he said. "What more do you want from me?"
"Return Cressida!" was the general reply.
Rubbing his temples, Agamemnon disappeared behind the tent flaps.

To Briseis' surprise, Cressida invited her to, of all things, bake barley cakes after supper.
"The bread ovens are still hot at this hour?" Briseis said when she and Cressida entered the bakehouse. A small fire crackled inside one of the beehive-shaped earthenware ovens.

Cressida fetched a wooden bowl off a shelf and a bag of barley from the cupboard. "I asked the baker to light one of them for us before he left," she said.

As the fire faded to embers, they prepared the dough for the cakes. Briseis mixed the barley flour, water, olive oil, and honey with her hands. "I guess these barley cakes are of paramount importance," she said. "Or else they could have waited until tomorrow."
The late hour and confidential nature of their baking could only mean that it was a pretense for something else. Perhaps a secret or a plot?
"You know how Agamemnon is." Cressida kneaded the dough inside a wooden trough and divided it into little balls. Her arms and dress were covered in flour. "He always gets what he wants, damn the consequences."
How tempting it was to put in some foxglove so that Agamemnon would vomit and have incontinent bowels. Or, at the very least, spit in the dough.
Cressida gave an exhausted yawn. "My arms are killing me. Do you mind taking over."
"No, not at all." Briseis wiped her hands on her apron and resumed the kneading.
When she must have assumed Briseis wasn't looking, Cressida pulled a small vial from the bodice of her dress. She popped the cork and put several drops of something brown and viscous in the dough mixture.
"What's that?" Briseis said.
Cressida gave her a wicked smile. "It's tears-of-the-poppy," she said. "I snatched this when I was at the hospital."
Briseis also smiled. So she wasn't the only one who'd had the idea to spike Agamemnon's food? Agamemnon would undoubtedly have a good night's sleep after having a few of these cakes.
They marked the dozen or so for Agamemnon with crosses to differentiate them.
When there was little left of the fire in the oven but ashes and cinders, Briseis raked out the still faintly glowing coals. Cressida put the cakes inside the now cleared range using a long wooden paddle.
"I'm running away tonight," she said. The cakes slid off the paddle and onto the hot bricks.
Briseis pulled up a chair and sat down. "Now it all makes sense," she said. But, of course, she wouldn't just drug Agamemnon as a prank. "Don't worry, I'll be as silent as the grave." No one wanted to see the arrogant, selfish king humiliated more than she did.
Cressida took Briseis' hand and kissed it. "You're a good friend."
Briseis lowered her head. After how nasty she'd been at first, she owed this to Cressida.
"Go to bed," Cressida said. It was now quite late, and Briseis had difficulty keeping her eyes open and her head from drooping. "I'll take the cakes out of the oven when they're done. Later, I'll let you know how Agamemnon liked them."

"Hagne, shhh..." Briseis tried to soothe the bleating lamb by stroking her fleece. Poor Hagne must have been startled by a menacing shadow or one of those sudden bumps in the night which often frightened children and animals.
Briseis rolled over, but Hagne continued bleating and nuzzled Briseis' shoulder.
"Alright, alright." Briseis yawned. Her eyes blinked open.
A tall, delicate-looking boy, wearing the knee-length tunic, tight leggings, and felt cap of an Anatolian herdsman, stood by the bed.

"I came to see you before I left," the "boy" said in a decidedly girlish voice.
Briseis rubbed her eyes. "Cressida?"
"Agamemnon quite liked the barley cakes." Cressida's wide, shining eyes resembled a cat's. "He ate half a dozen. The rest I saved for the guard dogs." She patted the small bag hanging from her belt.
"And what's in there?" Cressida had a canvas sack slung over her shoulder.
"Agamemnon's donation to the Temple of Apollo, an atonement for his sins." Cressida was radiant with the mischievous glee of a child stealing tarts while the cook's back was turned.
Briseis gasped. "You didn't?" So, she'd not only drugged Agamemnon but robbed him as well. Where was the somber, pious prude Briseis had first met?
Cressida nodded and laughed like a madwoman.
"You have the guard dogs taken care of...." Briseis climbed down from the mattress and knelt on the floor. Achilles kept a small chest full of gold underneath the bed. "...Allow me to take care of the ferryman and the tollkeeper."
The quickest way to Troy was to follow the River Scamander and travel by ferry. But, unfortunately, Cressida would have to pay double to engage the ferryman's services at this hour. And Uncle Priam had raised the toll fee at the Scaean Gate, the main entrance to the city by the river.
"This should be enough to satisfy them both." Briseis rose to her feet and handed Cressida a small purse filled with money.
Cressida embraced Briseis. "You and Achilles are the only ones who've shown me kindness this entire time," she said. "Everyone else hates me because they blame me for the plague."
"None of this was your fault," Briseis said. She squeezed Cressida's hand and refused to let her scapegoat herself.
"It wasn't, but they still blame and hate me anyway."
Briseis fetched her shoes, which she had left by the entrance to the tent.
Cressida furrowed her brow. "Are you going somewhere?"
"I'll walk with you to the edge of the camp." Hadn't Briseis sworn to watch this drama until the very end?
"That'll only draw more attention to us."
Briseis simply laughed and put on her shoes. All of the Greeks were fast asleep. Agamemnon was in a drugged stupor and probably wouldn't even notice if Neptune himself split the camp in two with an earthquake. They were perfectly safe.
"Very well." Cressida reached into her bag and pulled out three of the tears of the poppy-laced barley cakes. "Take these with you, for the guard dogs."

Diana had blessed them with a full moon to light their way. Her benevolent gaze followed Briseis as she left the tent without a lamp, as Cressida had instructed. Instead of a lamp, she carried a chamber pot.
"If someone asks me what I'm doing out," Briseis said. "I'll tell them I have to empty it." The chamber pot held the barley cakes Cressida gave her wrapped in a napkin.
"Are you sure Patroclus won't mind me borrowing this?" Cressida wore a hooded grey cloak that Patroclus left behind several weeks ago.
"He hasn't asked for it back after all this time, hasn't he?"
The cloak was a secondary disguise for Cressida, who could always pretend to be Patroclus if they were stopped. Patroclus accompanying her while she goes to empty a chamber pot shouldn't look too suspicious.
Hopefully, Briseis could convince Patroclus to vouch for her later.
Beyond the pomegranate orchard was a stream that fed into the river Scamander. If Cressida followed that stream, she would find a station where she could get a ferry to take her downriver to Troy. But first, they had to make it through the camp, preferably without being noticed.
Briseis held her breath and her pulse raced. The quickest way through the camp to the orchard passed by Agamemnon's tent. Like their master, Agamemnon's mastiffs, the guard dogs Cressida spoke of, were out cold. They lay in front of the tent like three hunks of marble.

She and Cressida should be able to get past the dogs without waking them up.
Briseis took one step and then another, and...her foot landed on some floor rushes with a faint crunch. One of the mastiffs lifted its head and growled. Its growling woke the other two.
Reaching into the chamber pot, Briseis grabbed one of the barley cakes. She threw it to the dogs and ran. Cressida, a much faster runner, grabbed Briseis' arm and pulled her along. Briseis did her best to keep pace with Cressida and didn't look back.
With the mastiffs distracted by the barley cakes, they should have enough time to outrun them.
Briseis and Cressida were finally free to catch their breath once they'd made it as far as the pomegranate orchard and left the snarling, drooling monsters behind. The blossom-laden trees stood in rigid columns: Cressida's straightforward path to freedom.
Cressida leaned against one of the pomegranate trees and removed her shoe to shake some pebbles. "I guess this is where we say goodbye," she said.
Tears damped Briseis' cheeks as she threw her arms around Cressida and held her close. They'd gotten off on the wrong foot. What a shame that now they were becoming friends, they would never see each other again.
Briseis brushed that thought aside. It would be selfish to wish for Cressida to stay, especially after all they'd risked so she could leave.
"I better be going," Cressida said. She hugged Briseis before breaking away. "I'll pray everyday that Apollo will bless you." She ran through the rows of trees toward the horizon, where the faintest hint of daybreak was visible.
Briseis didn't have the time to wallow in her emotions. Instead, she had to return to her bed before anyone noticed she'd left it. But, she did have time to gather a bouquet of pomegranate blossoms as a remembrance.

Their perfume was absolutely delicious. Pomegranates had always been one of Briseis' favorite foods. It seemed forever until the autumn when they were ripe for picking and eating.
The camp was dead quiet. If Briseis moved swiftly, she would get back to Achilles' tent without any misadventures. Briseis held her breath and had one of her barley cakes in readiness when she passed again by Agamemnon's dozing mastiffs. She took particular care not to step on any floor rushes.
One of those damned beasts must have recognized Briseis' scent because it reared its ugly head and barked at her, waking one of its fellows. The third, presumably the one who'd gotten the barley cake Briseis threw earlier, remained asleep.
Briseis held a finger to her lips. The first mastiff barked and lunged at her, so she tried to distract it with a barley cake. The second mastiff chased after it. Ripping into Briseis' skirts with its teeth, the first mastiff kept her from getting away. Briseis tried to get it to let go by dangling another barley cake.
This was her last one, so it better work.
But, the first mastiff wasn't interested in the treat. Instead, it continued to tug on Briseis' skirts so violently that she tumbled to the ground. The chamber pot fell out of her arms, and a large chunk tore from her skirt. Then, the mastiff latched onto her leg and gnawed at it like a juicy bone. Briseis had to bite her lip to keep from screaming.
Any potential rescuer might ask too many questions about what she'd been doing.
Making a futile last attempt to free herself, Briseis threw the final barley cake. Go fetch, you ugly beast. The mastiff released Briseis' leg from its jaw and went after it.
Briseis rolled up her trouser leg to see what damage had been done. The fabric was in shreds, and the flesh on the back of her calf was as red and bloody as raw meat. Walking, or instead hobbling, back to Achilles' tent agonized her. She would move with a limp for at least the next few days, which could very well give her away.
To Briseis' surprise, Achilles was in his tent. He knelt in prayer before a carved ivory diptych of Mars and Bellona when she walked in. His eyes singled in on her injured leg when he rose to greet her.

"What happened?" He said.
She lowered her eyes. Achilles would think she was a reckless fool.
"Never mind...just...let me look at it."
Briseis placed the chipped chamber pot, with the bouquet of pomegranate blossoms, on the nightstand and climbed into bed. The downy pillows and mattress received her aching, exhausted body in its soft embrace. Achilles brought over a towel and basin of water and cleaned the wounds on her leg. It stung, but not enough to shake her out of her stupor.
"You'll have some nasty scars when this heals," Achilles said. "But carry them with pride. Scars are the mark of a warrior."
How often had Briseis seen soldiers show off their scars and heard them brag about the valorous feats they did to earn them? At least once a day.
Briseis gave a feeble little laugh. "I'm like Hercules. I went up against Cerberus and survived."
Achilles said nothing as he rubbed salve on her injured leg and bandaged the cuts with linen strips.
"You're not going to question me about what I've been up to?" Briseis said.
Achilles raised an eyebrow. "Why? Have you been out cuckolding me?"
"No. Of course not."
He laughed. "Then it doesn't matter."
"And why doesn't it matter?" Even if he didn't really care where she'd been, politeness or nosiness would oblige him to ask.
"If you share a secret, then it's no longer yours." Achilles carried away his towel, basin, salve, and unused bandages. "It becomes public property. If you tell me, I'll try to keep it but somehow it'll get out."
Briseis plucked a pomegranate blossom from her bouquet on the nightstand and twirled it between two of her fingers. Achilles had a point. The best way to protect herself was to keep quiet, even with people she trusted.
Once his hands were free, Achilles pulled a clean smock from a chest at the foot of the bed and gave it to Briseis.
"You might want to change your clothes," he said.
Briseis blushed. Achilles gallantly turned around and went to stoke a brazier that had a kettle hanging over it. She closed the bed curtains, and an unsettling warmth pooled in the pit of her stomach.
When she closed her eyes and pulled the torn dress over her head, it was his deliciously rough hands she pictured running up her waist to her breasts and teasing her hardened nipples. Then, they stroked and caressed her between the thighs as her ripped trousers slid down her legs.
She was dying to explore the piercing heat in her belly, but the man who'd aroused it was only a few paces away. Would he be disgusted by her lewdness, or would he offer to satisfy these desires?
Outside the bed curtains, a kettle whistled.
"Are you decent?" Achilles said.
Briseis threw on the fresh smock. "Yes." She parted the curtains, and he offered her a steaming cup of tisane. "Thank you." She took a sip and forced herself to swallow. It tasted like wood pulp.
"It's willow bark and camomile," Achilles said. "It should help with the pain and prevent a fever."
Briseis rubbed her injured leg with her free hand while finishing the tisane. She'd almost forgotten that she was in pain with her mind on other things. Still, the discomfort had faded from a sharp throbbing to a dull ache.
A sympathetic bleating came from underneath the bed, where Hagne must have been hiding. Achilles picked up the lamb and put her next to Briseis. "Now you can start counting sheep." He closed the bed curtains. "Goodnight, Trojan."
Hagne curled up at Briseis' side. Briseis closed her eyes and stroked the soft fleece on the lamb's back. "One sheep..." she said.

The servants who brought in Briseis' breakfast and a pitcher of clean water for washing woke her in the morning. Briseis rubbed her eyes, sat up against the pillows, and ensured the bedclothes still covered her bandaged leg.
She usually tried to be awake when servants came in the morning so she could greet them with polite small talk.
"Good morning," she said. "What news?"
The first servant placed Briseis' breakfast tray on a table, which carried a bowl of porridge and dried fruit, a cup of small ale, and meat pasty from last night's dinner, on a table. "Lady Cressida disappeared last night," he said.
Briseis did her best to appear surprised.
"She drugged and robbed Agamemnon as if he were a drunken sea captain in a brothel," said the second servant, who put the pitcher of water on the washstand.
Briseis gasped. "Agamemnon must be quite cross," she said. If only she could have been there to see Agamemnon wake up from his stupor to find his precious Cressida and his even more precious gold missing. The look on his face would have been priceless.
"Like a lion with a thorn in its paw, My Lady," said the second servant.
The first servant noticed the chamber pot full of pomegranate blossoms on the nightstand and raised an eyebrow. "Madame," he said. "Might I put these in something more appropriate?"
"You may," Briseis replied. It was odd to have flowers in a chamber pot, wasn't it?
A delicate glass urn was produced from the cupboard and filled from the water pitcher. The first servant removed the pomegranate blossoms and put the chamber pot back on the floor by the bed where it belonged. "It's chipped," he said, referring to the piece missing from the chamber pot's rim.
"Did My Lord bring you these?" The second servant placed the glass urn in the center of the table and arranged the pomegranate blossoms inside it.
"Yes," Briseis replied. Flowers were a standard gift for a young man to bring to his sweetheart. "The only thing I could find to put them in was that chamber pot." She giggled. "But I tripped over a shoe and dropped it." Sometimes, an obvious choice for a lie is the most effective.
The servants left, and Briseis ate her breakfast and then dressed. She put on a pair of hose, high boots, and a long dress and tried to hide her limp as she went about her day.

The scandal of Cressida's escape was overshadowed by a miracle that occurred during the night. No new plague cases had been admitted to the hospital. Those already there were all recovering. Nestor and Ulysses felt strong enough to sit in their beds when Briseis visited them.
"Are you hurt, child?" Nestor asked.
Briseis blushed. He'd noticed her limp. "I tripped over a shoe in the dark last night," she said, staying with the story she'd told the servants earlier. "It left a terrible bruise on my leg."
"Then you should have stayed home and rested instead of hiking all the way out here."
Ulysses, who lay in the bed across from Nestor, laughed. "Don't cluck over the poor thing like a mother hen. There's nothing better for a bum leg than to stretch it out a bit."
Briseis sat down on Nestor's bed and rubbed her calf. Ulysses was right. Her injured leg did feel a little less stiff after taking a walk.
Achilles and Patroclus also paid a visit to the hospital. Knowing that there could be no better medicine for Nestor and Ulysses than a juicy piece of gossip, Patroclus told them about the tempest occurring in Agamemnon's household.
"Cressida ran off in the night," he said. "Agamemnon says that she bewitched him and his dogs into a deep sleep by feeding them enchanted barley cakes...."
Briseis folded her hands in her lap. How like a man to cry "witch" when outsmarted by a woman.
"...But it wasn't magic. They found a vial of tears-of-the-poppy among Cressida's things."
Nestor and Ulysses listened enraptured as Patroclus described how the baker had been whipped until he admitted that Cressida asked him the night before to keep the bread ovens lit and how Agamemnon's men had searched the area around his tent and found flower petals, a chip of broken crockery, and a scrap of torn fabric.
Achilles gazed in Briseis' direction. She lowered her eyes away from him. "Cressida must have had an accomplice," he said.
Briseis rose and fetched glasses of water for the two convalescents. Being occupied would keep her from giving herself away. Achilles had put the pieces together, Briseis limping back last night with an injured leg, a torn dress, and a chipped chamber pot, and suspected she'd been involved in Cressida's schemes. He was now giving her a warning.

Patroclus walked with Briseis back to Achilles' tent. He insisted that she hold onto his arm like a cripple.
"Be careful shoes aren't laying around where people can trip over them," Patroclus said. The sharpness in his tone suggested that, like Achilles, he sensed something was afoot, but he couldn't quite grasp what.
Briseis didn't blame him for being irritable. Not being able to bear people knowing something they didn't was a trait they had in common.
Hagne's frightened bleating greeted them when they reached the tent. Briseis and Patroclus looked at each other. Someone was inside.
Men dressed in Mycenaean livery had ransacked the place. The chest containing Briseis' things was open, and its contents were thrown haphazardly on the ground. Poor little Hagne hid under the bed.
"What's the meaning of this?" Patroclus said, but the men ignored him. Instead, they continued rummaging through Briseis' smocks and dresses until they found what they were looking for, the ragged and bloody clothes she wore the night before.
One of the men produced a scrap of fabric. "Recognize this, Princess?" he said. It was green homespun and a perfect match for Briseis' torn dress.
The other man grabbed Briseis by her wrists. She struggled against him, squirming like a mouse caught between the paws of a cat.
"Unhand me," she said. "My Lord Achilles will hear about this."
The first man grabbed Briseis' chin. "Achilles can't help you now." The spiky fibers of a rope dug into wrists.
For the second time in her life, Briseis was being roughed and restrained by Mycenaean brutes. Her heart pounded hard enough to shatter her ribs.
"Where are you taking her?" Patroclus demanded of the two men as they dragged Briseis away.
Briseis stomped on one of the Mycenaeans' feet. He backhanded her across the cheek. "We're taking this Trojan witch into custody," he said.
"Under whose orders?"
Briseis scoffed. Wasn't it obvious?
"The orders of King Agamemnon."
As the two Mycenaeans escorted her out of the tent, Briseis looked back at Patroclus. If he were Achilles, he would have drawn his sword to defend her. But, instead, he stood there, wide-eyed and confused, wondering what in Jove's name was going on.
A crowd gathered to watch as Briseis was led through the camp toward whatever punishment awaited her. She did her best to stand straight and dignified. Agamemnon meant to humiliate her, and she wouldn't give him the pleasure of having a sobbing and cowering victim.
But a single rebellious tear escaped her eye. If Agamemnon was willing to slit the throat of his own beloved daughter and burn her body on a sacrificial pyre, what would he do to a girl he hated? A girl who'd defied and made a fool of him.
No mercy had been given to Iphigenia, so Briseis expected none for herself.
To her relief, the crowd appeared to be on her side. "She's just a child," they shouted. "What crime could she have committed?" and "Lord Achilles won't stand for this."
Briseis smiled. She was their sweetheart who'd nursed their brows and held their hands when they were ill. The holy maid who'd spoken truth to power. They would riot if Agamemnon tried to hurt her.
Agamemnon stood in the center of the camp outside the meeting tent as solemn and self-important as a priest conducting a sacrifice. The two knaves he'd sent to arrest Briseis threw her at his feet, gravel scraping her elbows and knees.
"Look upon this fair maid," Agamemnon said to those assembled around him. "Any of you would be proud to have one such as her for a daughter. But, what a shame that such a tender blossom has already been corrupted by the blight of evil."
Briseis dusted off her skirts and stood to face her accuser. Only a guilty person would grovel at his feet.
Agamemnon grabbed Briseis' shoulders. Her chest tightened, and her mouth went dry. "Indeed, innocence is villainy's craftiest disguise," Agamemnon said. Briseis could feel his breath on her neck. "This girl has conspired with her fellow witch, Cressida, to bring ruin upon us. She is the reason you've all lost friends and comrades. I caught her out at night, practicing her Trojan sorcery and spreading a miasma throughout the camp, myself."
Briseis shook her head. The audacity of this man. Blaming her for what was a punishment for his arrogance and greed. "I was praying to Apollo for a way of lifting the pestilence," she said.
"And Apollo told you to help Cressida run away?"
"But wasn't I right?" Briseis turned to the crowd. "Didn't the plague end after Cressida left?"
Some of the men murmured their agreement while others nodded in accord.
Agamemnon pointed an accusatory finger at Briseis. "This insolent wench dares to claim she speaks for the gods and plays the prophetess as a cover for her witchcraft."
"You're braying...." Bow-legged Thersites hobbled forward. "...because a little girl made an ass of you."
Briseis couldn't help but laugh, earning a slap across the face from Agamemnon. She put a hand on her throbbing cheek. The crowd gasped. It was shameful that a princess, even a Trojan one, should be struck like an insolent servant girl.
"I can still say that Agamemnon has treated me better than his own daughter." Briseis gave the crowd a defiant smirk.
Agamemnon noticed her limping and gave the injured leg a hard kick. Pain shattering her entire body, she lost her balance and crumpled to the ground.
"Take this witch away." Agamemnon gestured to his two guards. They grabbed Briseis by her arms and pulled her back onto her feet. Her legs buckled. The agony was too great for her to be able to stand up.
One of the guards yanked Briseis' arm. "Come along," he said.
"I can't," Briseis replied. Each step was like treading on nails. Finally, the guard picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. "Put me down!" She pounded her fists on his back.
Through her tears, the jeering crowd was an indistinct blur. They protested the outrage being committed, but no hero emerged to rescue her. Not Achilles wielding a sword in her defense or even Patroclus pleading with Agamemnon to see reason.
"What will you do to her?" the crowd demanded.
Others cried, "Have mercy, o king!"
"Tomorrow at dawn, she'll be put to the swimming test," Agamemnon said. "That should prove whether or not she is as innocent as you all think."
Briseis was speechless. If she drowned, she had the dubious honor of dying an innocent, but if she stayed afloat? Then, she survived the ducking stool only to be burned at the stake.
The fates would toss a coin to see if her death came by fire or water.
Agamemnon leaned in close to Briseis, still draped over the guard's shoulder. "I told you I'd have you ducked," he whispered.
The guard carried Briseis away before she could spit in Agamemnon's face, which was the least he deserved.
"Agamemnon of Mycenae..." Briseis said. Burning at the stake was preferable to letting the whoremonger have the final word. The guard carrying her stopped in his tracks, and the crowd fell silent, awaiting the spectacle of a condemned witch uttering her last curse. Agamemnon still wore a smug grin, but Briseis fancied that his face had gone pale. "...get ducked yourself."
Thersites hobbled alongside Briseis as the guard hauled her off. "Diana bless the Little Queen," he said.
Briseis smiled and nodded. Diana, the protectress of innocent young maidens like herself and the granter of swift, merciful deaths. The goddess who would avenge her.