was gathering her trousseau and acting like an adult. So she was allowed out.
She looked like a goddess. I say that too often – but she was flawless. I know now that she must have done it on purpose, but she was arrayed in linen and wool worth the value of my father's farm and the smithy, too. The smell of mint and jasmine came off her, as light as a feather on the air.
I caught all of this in the same glance that showed me Penelope at her heels and earned me a blow to my upper chest. Archi wasn't distracted by his sister – far from it. He bore down. His blows came thick and fast.
But he had not had Calchas. And he had never killed. Later, he became a great warrior, a name that was spoken throughout Hellas, but when I was seventeen, he was never my match.
So I took a few blows and then my right shot out, a stop-attack into his flurry, straight through his guard on to the point of his chin, and he staggered.
Briseis clapped mockingly. 'Oh, Archi, show me that again!' she called.
He held up a hand to me and I bowed. Then he picked up a pitcher of cold water, drank half and tossed the rest over his sister and all her finery.
She screamed and her right fist shot out, as fast as mine, and she clipped his head with her blow.
Yet, for all that, they loved each other, and suddenly they were laughing – he naked, and she with the purple dye leaking off a garment that had cost more than I imagined my father made in his best year. Now ruined.
How rich they were.
She stripped the two garments over her head – Ionians don't worry about the nudity of women the way westerners do – and took a simple linen shift from Penelope, who blushed when she took it off and gave it to her mistress and ran for something to wear herself.
No one in the garden was looking at me, so I drank in the beauty of Briseis's body – her high, pointed breasts and the lush growth of black hair between her legs. I tore my eyes away and glanced around – Hipponax was spluttering wine at his daughter's behaviour, and Archi was staring after Penelope with the same lust with which I was watching his sister.
And Euthalia was watching me, her face set in cool appraisal. I flinched and dropped my eyes. There were rumours in the slave quarters that Euthalia was anything but a loyal wife – and that Hipponax cared little. But no one had suggested that her games extended to slaves. I was old enough, however, to know what that cool appraisal meant in an older woman – Cook looked at me just the same way, whether she meant to slap my hand for stealing bread or to get me in her bed.
My theory is that women who have borne a child learn the same lesson men learn when they face the enemy on the battlefield, and that after that, they look at you with the same look. That's my theory.
Learn what, you ask?
I'm old, and my cup is empty. Don't read into that, honey – just pour some wine. Learn the lesson yourself.
Penelope came back, decently covered, and Briseis stayed, enjoying the trouble she had caused. 'When is Diomedes coming?' she asked for the fourth time. Their betrothal having been signed, they would shortly have a ceremony at her hearth and then a party. She was an old woman of fifteen and wanted to get on with life.
Hipponax made a face. 'Girl, we have enough on our plates without you going womb-mad to your betrothal party!'
Euthalia slapped her husband lightly. 'We have a small problem, Briseis,' she said. 'Artaphernes has chosen to honour us with a visit. In fact, he has summoned many of the leaders of Ionia – great men, and famous names – to meet here in our city and have a synod.'
She didn't mention that Diomedes' father was a member of the other faction – the independence faction. And thus not a man to be delighted to find Artaphernes at his son's betrothal party. Only their mercantile links kept them friends. The betrothal had been planned since Briseis was born.
All this went by in the beat of a heart. Briseis shrugged. 'My betrothal is more important than the bickering of old men,' she said with a toss of her head.
Her mother shook her head. 'No, my dear. Your betrothal can happen whenever we ordain it. These men gather to prevent a war. You have no idea what war is, dear. None of you do.'
She seldom spoke seriously, but when she did, we listened. But inside, I thought, I have seen war.
'I am from Lesbos, and throughout my youth, the men of Mytilene made war on my city. Farms burned and women raped and families sold as slaves – good families. If Athens storms this city, Briseis, you will be sold in the market to a soldier. Do you understand?'
Briseis couldn't have been more shocked if her mother had hit her. 'Athens is a town of barbarians,' she spat. 'You and Pater both say so!'
'Barbarians with a fleet and an army,' Hipponax said. 'Listen, dear. Let us have the conference and then we'll have the party. You will only have to wait a month.'
Briseis flicked her eyes around the garden and she found me, and blushed. Then she sat in the chair that Dorcus, one of the house slaves, brought for her, and she leaned out over the table to take her father's wine cup, exposing her bare side and causing my whole body to twitch. All quite intentional.
'Very well, Pater,' she said calmly. This was so far from her parent's expected reaction that her father was literally open-mouthed with astonishment.
'The good of Ionia is more important than my wedding,' she said sweetly.
If we had been on a stage, the audience would have seen the furies gathering. Artaphernes came with a whole regiment of cavalry, Lydians and Persians in separate squadrons, the Lydians armed with lances and the Persians with bows and spears. In the agora, men complained that he had brought all the soldiers to overawe them, and the soldiers were arrogant, thrusting out their chests, pushing men and flirting with women in every square in the town.
I watched them curiously. They were very different from the hoplites of Boeotia. For one thing, they were the most aggressive woman-hunters I'd ever seen, especially the Persians, and if there was a boy-lover among them, I never met him. Second, they were lazy. Not at their soldier-work – when I visited their camps, I saw swordplay and archery of a high calibre. But if they were not drilling or shooting, they did nothing but swear, fight and fuck – sorry, dear.
In my day, in the west, we had no 'professional' soldiers, except the Spartan nobles, and even the Spartans occupied themselves with ceaseless athletics and hunting. I'd never seen full-time soldiers who sat in wine shops, drinking, spitting and grabbing girls.
They were tough. They were rich, too. The average Persian cavalryman had a groom for his horse and a slave for his kit. He had his own tent and perhaps another felt shelter for his slaves and his gear. Every one of them had bronze and silver cups, water pitchers, plates – I'd never seen a soldier with so much stuff.
And they had women in their camps. Some were wives and some were prostitutes, and many seemed to fall in some mysterious (only to me) gap between the two defined roles. They worked hard, too – harder than the men, washing, cooking, sewing and minding children.
A Persian cavalry regiment was like a travelling town where all the citizens were lords. I liked them quite a bit. They liked me, too. Most of them had never seen a western Greek. They were contemptuous of Ionians, as poor warriors, but they'd heard that we Boeotians were fighters, and I told my war stories to the four men I liked best – a pair of brothers and their two friends, all from the same small town near Persepolis. They were lords, or they called themselves noblemen, and you might well ask why they talked to Greek slaves.
I was in camp on an errand to Artaphernes, carrying a herald's staff for my master. Artaphernes had a tent in camp and a lavish establishment, and he was sometimes there and sometimes at our house, for reasons that were beyond me. When he was in camp, I was the herald, mostly because he liked me and I could get to him faster than other messengers.
I was picking up a little Persian – camp Persian, hardly what anyone speaks at court. But I was there every day or two, and the delivery of a message to a satrap of Persia is never a simple or quick task, especially if there is an answer. One time I remember cooling my heels all day only to discover that the satrap was already at our house.
At any rate, one day my four Persians were on duty outside the satrap's tent-palace, and after I showed them my staff, I entertained them by pretending it was a sword and doing my exercises, since I was missing lessons by running errands. And Darius – in those days, it seemed that all Persians were called Darius – called out and asked my name.
