There is a silence, a dangerous one. I keep waiting for him to turn on me. To scream, or strike out. And he does turn, to face me, at last.

"Her safety for my honor. Are you happy with your trade?"

"There is no honor in betraying your friends."

"It is strange," he says, "that you would speak against betrayal."

There is more pain in those words, almost, than I can bear. I force myself to think of Briseis. "It was the only way."

"You chose her," he says. "Over me."

"Over your pride." The word I use is hubris. Our word for arrogance that scrapes the stars, for violence and towering rage as ugly as the gods.

His fists tighten. Now, perhaps, the attack will come.

"My life is my reputation," he says. His breath sounds ragged. "It is all I have. I will not live much longer. Memory is all I can hope for." He swallows, thickly. "You know this. And would you let Agamemnon destroy it? Would you help him take it from me?"

"I would not," I say. "But I would have the memory be worthy of the man. I would have you be yourself, not some tyrant remembered for his cruelty. There are other ways to make Agamemnon pay. We will do it. I will help you, I swear. But not like this. No fame is worth what you did today."

He turns away again and is silent. I stare at his unspeaking back. I memorize each fold in his tunic, each bit of drying salt and sand stuck to his skin.

When he speaks at last, his voice is weary, and defeated. He doesn't know how to be angry with me, either. We are like damp wood that won't light.

"It is done then? She is safe? She must be. You would not have come back, otherwise."

"Yes. She is safe."

A tired breath. "You are a better man than I."

The beginning of hope. We have given each other wounds, but they are not mortal. Briseis will not be harmed and Achilles will remember himself and my wrist will heal. There will be a moment after this, and another after that.

"No," I say. I stand and walk to him. I put my hand to the warmth of his skin. "It is not true. You left yourself today. And now you are returned."

His shoulders rise and fall on a long breath. "Do not say that," he says, "until you have heard the rest of what I have done."

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

THERE ARE THREE SMALL STONES ON THE RUGS OF OUR tent, kicked in by our feet or crept in on their own. I pick them up. They are something to hold on to.

His weariness has faded as he speaks. " . . . I will fight for him no longer. At every turn he seeks to rob me of my rightful glory. To cast me into shadow and doubt. He cannot bear another man to be honored over him. But he will learn. I will show him the worth of his army without Aristos Achaion."

I do not speak. I can see the temper rising in him. It is like watching a storm come, when there is no shelter.

"The Greeks will fall without me to defend them. He will be forced to beg, or die."

I remember how he looked when he went to see his mother. Wild, fevered, hard as granite. I imagine him kneeling before her, weeping with rage, beating his fists on the jagged sea rocks. They have insulted him, he says to her. They have dishonored him. They have ruined his immortal reputation.

She listens, her fingers pulling absently on her long white throat, supple as a seal, and begins to nod. She has an idea, a god's idea, full of vengeance and wrath. She tells him, and his weeping stops.

"He will do it?" Achilles asks, in wonder. He means Zeus, king of the gods, whose head is wreathed in clouds, whose hands can hold the thunderbolt itself.

"He will do it," Thetis says. "He is in my debt."

Zeus, the great balancer, will let go his scales. He will make the Greeks lose and lose and lose, until they are crushed against the sea, anchors and ropes tangling their feet, masts and prows splintering on their backs. And then they will see who they must beg for.

Thetis leans forward and kisses her son, a bright starfish of red, high on his cheek. Then she turns and is gone, slipped into the water like a stone, sinking to the bottom.

I let the pebbles tumble to the ground from my fingers, where they lie, haphazard or purposeful, an augury or an accident. If Chiron were here, he could read them, tell us our fortunes. But he is not here.

"What if he will not beg?" I ask.

"Then he will die. They will all die. I will not fight until he does." His chin juts, bracing for reproach.

I am worn out. My arm hurts where I cut it, and my skin feels coated with unwholesome sweat. I do not answer.

"Did you hear what I said?"

"I heard," I say. "Greeks will die."

Chiron had said once that nations were the most foolish of mortal inventions. "No man is worth more than another, wherever he is from."

"But what if he is your friend?" Achilles had asked him, feet kicked up on the wall of the rose-quartz cave. "Or your brother? Should you treat him the same as a stranger?"

"You ask a question that philosophers argue over," Chiron had said. "He is worth more to you, perhaps. But the stranger is someone else's friend and brother. So which life is more important?"

We had been silent. We were fourteen, and these things were too hard for us. Now that we are twenty-seven, they still feel too hard.

He is half of my soul, as the poets say. He will be dead soon, and his honor is all that will remain. It is his child, his dearest self. Should I reproach him for it? I have saved Briseis. I cannot save them all.

I know, now, how I would answer Chiron. I would say: there is no answer. Whichever you choose, you are wrong.

LATER THAT EVENING I go back to Agamemnon's camp. As I walk, I feel the eyes on me, curious and pitying. They look behind me, to see if Achilles is following. He is not.

When I told him where I was going, it seemed to cast him back into the shadows. "Tell her I am sorry," he said, his eyes down. I did not answer. Is he sorry because he has a better vengeance now? One that will strike down not just Agamemnon, but his whole ungrateful army? I do not let myself dwell on this thought. He is sorry. It is enough.

"Come in," she says, her voice strange. She is wearing a gold-threaded dress and a necklace of lapis lazuli. On her wrists are bracelets of engraved silver. She clinks when she stands, as though she's wearing armor.

She's embarrassed, I can see that. But we do not have time to speak, because Agamemnon himself is bulging through the narrow slit behind me.

"Do you see how well I keep her?" he says. "The whole camp will see in what esteem I hold Achilles. He only has to apologize, and I will heap the honors on him that he deserves. Truly it is unfortunate that one so young has so much pride."

The smug look on his face makes me angry. But what did I expect? I have done this. Her safety for his honor. "This is a credit to you, mighty king," I say.

"Tell Achilles," Agamemnon continues. "Tell him how well I treat her. You may come any time you like, to see her." He offers an unpleasant smile, then stands, watching us. He has no intention of leaving.

I turn to Briseis. I have learned a few pieces of her language, and I use them now.

"You are all right truly?"

"I am," she replies, in the sharp singsong of Anatolian. "How long will it be?"

"I don't know," I say. And I don't. How much heat does it take for iron to grow soft enough to bend? I lean forward and gently kiss her cheek. "I will be back again soon," I say in Greek.

She nods.

Agamemnon eyes me as I leave. I hear him say, "What did he say to you?"

I hear her answer, "He admired my dress."

THE NEXT MORNING, all the other kings march off with their armies to fight the Trojans; the army of Phthia does not follow. Achilles and I linger long over breakfast. Why should we not? There is nothing else for us to do. We may swim, if we like, or play at draughts or spend all day racing. We have not been at such utter leisure since Pelion.

Yet it does not feel like leisure. It feels like a held breath, like an eagle poised before the dive. My shoulders hunch, and I cannot stop myself from looking down the empty beach. We are waiting to see what the gods will do.

We do not have to wait long.

Chapter Twenty-Eight.

THAT NIGHT, PHOINIX COMES LIMPING UP THE SHORE with news of a duel. As the armies rallied in the morning, Paris had strutted along the Trojan line, golden armor flashing. He offered a challenge: single combat, winner takes Helen. The Greeks bellowed their approval. Which of them did not want to leave that day? To wager Helen on a single fight and settle it once and for all? And Paris looked an easy target, shining and slight, slim-hipped as an unwed girl. But it was Menelaus, Phoinix said, who came forward, roaring acceptance at the chance to regain his honor and his beautiful wife in one.

The duel begins with spears and moves quickly to swords. Paris is swifter than Menelaus had anticipated, no fighter but fast on his feet. At last the Trojan prince missteps, and Menelaus seizes him by his long horsehair crest and drags him down to the earth. Paris' feet kick helplessly, his fingers scrabble at the choking chin-strap. Then, suddenly, the helmet comes free in Menelaus' hand and Paris is gone. Where the Trojan prince sprawled there is only dusty ground. The armies squint and whisper: Where is he? Menelaus squints with them, and so does not see the arrow, loosed from a ibex-horn bow along the Trojan line, flying towards him. It punches through his leather armor and buries itself in his stomach.

Blood pours down his legs and puddles at his feet. It is mostly a surface wound, but the Greeks do not know that yet. They scream and rush the Trojan ranks, enraged at the betrayal. A bloody melee begins.

"But what happened to Paris?" I ask.

Phoinix shakes his head. "I do not know."

THE TWO SIDES FOUGHT on through the afternoon until another trumpet blew. It was Hector, offering a second truce, a second duel to make right the dishonor of Paris' disappearance and the shooting of the arrow. He presented himself in his brother's place, to any man who dared answer. Menelaus, Phoinix says, would have stepped forward again, but Agamemnon prevented him. He did not want to see his brother die against the strongest of the Trojans.

The Greeks drew lots for who would fight with Hector. I imagine their tension, the silence before the helmet is shaken and the lot jumps out. Odysseus bends to the dusty earth to retrieve it. Ajax. There is collective relief: he is the only man who has a chance against the Trojan prince. The only man, that is, who fights today.

So Ajax and Hector fight, heaving stones at each other, and spears that shatter shields, until night falls and the heralds call an end. It is strangely civilized: the two armies part in peace, Hector and Ajax shaking hands as equals. The soldiers whisper-it would not have ended so if Achilles were here.

Discharged of his news, Phoinix gets wearily to his feet and limps on the arm of Automedon back to his tent. Achilles turns to me. He is breathing quickly, the tips of his ears pinking with excitement. He seizes my hand and crows to me of the day's events, of how his name was on everyone's lips, of the power of his absence, big as a Cyclops, walking heavily amongst the soldiers. The excitement of the day has flared through him, like flame in dry grass. For the first time, he dreams of killing: the stroke of glory, his inevitable spear through Hector's heart. My skin prickles to hear him say so.

"Do you see?" he says. "It is the beginning!"

I cannot escape the feeling that, below the surface, something is breaking.

THERE IS A TRUMPET the next morning at dawn. We rise, and climb the hill to see an army of horsemen riding for Troy from the East. Their horses are large and move with unnatural speed, drawing light-wheeled chariots behind them. At their head sits a huge man, larger even than Ajax. He wears his black hair long, like the Spartans do, oiled and swinging down his back. He carries a standard in the shape of a horse's head.

Phoinix has joined us. "The Lycians," he says. They are Anatolians, long allies of Troy. It has been a source of much wonder that they have not yet come to join the war. But now, as if summoned by Zeus himself, they are here.

"Who is that?" Achilles points to the giant, their leader.

"Sarpedon. A son of Zeus." The sun gleams off the man's shoulders, sweat-slick from the ride; his skin is dark gold.

The gates open, and the Trojans pour out to meet their allies. Hector and Sarpedon clasp hands, then lead their troops into the field. The Lycian weapons are strange: saw-toothed javelins and things that look like giant fishhooks, for ripping into flesh. All that day we hear their battle cries and the pounding hooves of their cavalry. There is a steady stream of Greek wounded into Machaon's tent.

Phoinix goes to the evening's council, the only member of our camp not in disgrace. When he returns, he looks sharply at Achilles. "Idomeneus is wounded, and the Lycians broke the left flank. Sarpedon and Hector will crush us between them."

Achilles does not notice Phoinix's disapproval. He turns to me in triumph. "Do you hear that?"

"I hear it," I say.

A day passes, and another. Rumors come thick as biting flies: tales of the Trojan army driving forward, unstoppable and bold in Achilles' absence. Of frantic councils, where our kings argue over desperate strategy: night raids, spies, ambushes. And then more, Hector ablaze in battle, burning through Greeks like a brush fire, and every day more dead than the day before. Finally: panicked runners, bringing news of retreats and wounds among the kings.

Achilles fingers this gossip, turning it this way and that. "It will not be long now," he says.

The funeral pyres burn through the night, their greasy smoke smeared across the moon. I try not to think how every one is a man I know. Knew.

ACHILLES IS PLAYING the lyre when they arrive. There are three of them-Phoinix first, and behind him Odysseus and Ajax.

I am sitting beside Achilles as they come; farther off is Automedon, carving the meat for supper. Achilles' head is lifted as he sings, his voice clear and sweet. I straighten, and my hand leaves his foot where it has been resting.

The trio approach us and stand on the other side of the fire, waiting for Achilles to finish. He puts down his lyre and rises.

"Welcome. You will stay for dinner, I hope?" He clasps their hands warmly, smiling through their stiffness.

I know why they have come. "I must see to the meal," I mumble. I feel Odysseus' eyes on my back as I go.

The strips of lamb drip and sear on the brazier's grill. Through the haze of smoke I watch them, seated around the fire as if they are friends. I cannot hear their words, but Achilles is smiling still, pushing past their grimness, pretending he does not see it. Then he calls for me, and I cannot stall any longer. Dutifully I bring the platters and take my seat beside him.

He is making desultory conversation of battles and helmets. While he talks he serves the meal, a fussing host who gives seconds to everyone and thirds to Ajax. They eat and let him talk. When they are finished, they wipe their mouths and put aside their plates. Everyone seems to know it is time. It is Odysseus, of course, who begins.

He talks first of things, casual words that he drops into our laps, one at a time. A list really. Twelve swift horses, and seven bronze tripods, and seven pretty girls, ten bars of gold, twenty cauldrons, and more-bowls, and goblets, and armor, and at last, the final gem held before us: Briseis' return. He smiles and spreads his hands with a guileless shrug I recognize from Scyros, from Aulis, and now from Troy.

Then a second list, almost as long as the first: the endless names of Greek dead. Achilles' jaw grows hard as Odysseus draws forth tablet after tablet, crammed to the margin with marks. Ajax looks down at his hands, scabbed from the splintering of shields and spears.

Then Odysseus tells us news that we do not know yet, that the Trojans are less than a thousand paces from our wall, encamped on newly won plain we could not take back before dusk. Would we like proof? We can probably see their watch-fires from the hill just beyond our camp. They will attack at dawn.

There is silence, a long moment of it, before Achilles speaks. "No," he says, shoving back treasure and guilt. His honor is not such a trifle that it can be returned in a night embassy, in a handful huddled around a campfire. It was taken before the entire host, witnessed by every last man.

The king of Ithaca pokes the fire that sits between them.

"She has not been harmed, you know. Briseis. God knows where Agamemnon found the restraint, but she is well kept and whole. She, and your honor, wait only for you to reclaim them."