"You make it sound as if I have abandoned my honor," Achilles says, his voice tart as raw wine. "Is that what you spin? Are you Agamemnon's spider, catching flies with that tale?"

"Very poetic," Odysseus says. "But tomorrow will not be a bard's song. Tomorrow, the Trojans will break through the wall and burn the ships. Will you stand by and do nothing?"

"That depends on Agamemnon. If he makes right the wrong he has done me, I will chase the Trojans to Persia, if you like."

"Tell me," Odysseus asks, "why is Hector not dead?" He holds up a hand. "I do not seek an answer, I merely repeat what all the men wish to know. In the last ten years, you could have killed him a thousand times over. Yet you have not. It makes a man wonder."

His tone tells us that he does not wonder. That he knows of the prophecy. I am glad that there is only Ajax with him, who will not understand the exchange.

"You have eked out ten more years of life, and I am glad for you. But the rest of us-" His mouth twists. "The rest of us are forced to wait for your leisure. You are holding us here, Achilles. You were given a choice and you chose. You must live by it now."

We stare at him. But he is not finished yet.

"You have made a fair run of blocking fate's path. But you cannot do it forever. The gods will not let you." He pauses, to let us hear each word of what he says. "The thread will run smooth, whether you choose it or not. I tell you as a friend, it is better to seek it on your own terms, to make it go at your pace, than theirs."

"That is what I am doing."

"Very well," Odysseus says. "I have said what I came to say."

Achilles stands. "Then it is time for you to leave."

"Not yet." It is Phoinix. "I, too, have something I wish to say."

Slowly, caught between his pride and his respect for the old man, Achilles sits. Phoenix begins.

"When you were a boy, Achilles, your father gave you to me to raise. Your mother was long gone, and I was the only nurse you would have, cutting your meat and teaching you myself. Now you are a man, and still I strive to watch over you, to keep you safe, from spear, and sword, and folly."

My eyes lift to Achilles, and I see that he is tensed, wary. I understand what he fears-being played upon by the gentleness of this old man, being convinced by his words to give something up. Worse, a sudden doubt-that perhaps, if Phoinix agrees with these men, he is wrong.

The old man holds up a hand, as if to stop the spin of such thoughts. "Whatever you do, I will stand with you, as I always have. But before you decide your course, there is a story you should hear."

He does not give Achilles time to object. "In the days of your father's father, there was a young hero Meleager, whose town of Calydon was besieged by a fierce people called the Curetes."

I know this story, I think. I heard Peleus tell it, long ago, while Achilles grinned at me from the shadows. There was no blood on his hands then, and no death sentence on his head. Another life.

"In the beginning the Curetes were losing, worn down by Meleager's skill in war," Phoinix continues. "Then one day there was an insult, a slight to his honor by his own people, and Meleager refused to fight any further on his city's behalf. The people offered him gifts and apologies, but he would not hear them. He stormed off to his room to lie with his wife, Cleopatra, and be comforted."

When he speaks her name, Phoinix's eyes flicker to me.

"At last, when her city was falling and her friends dying, Cleopatra could bear it no longer. She went to beg her husband to fight again. He loved her above all things and so agreed, and won a mighty victory for his people. But though he had saved them, he came too late. Too many lives had been lost to his pride. And so they gave him no gratitude, no gifts. Only their hatred for not having spared them sooner."

In the silence, I can hear Phoinix's breaths, labored with the exertion of speaking so long. I do not dare to speak or move; I am afraid that someone will see the thought that is plain on my face. It was not honor that made Meleager fight, or his friends, or victory, or revenge, or even his own life. It was Cleopatra, on her knees before him, her face streaked with tears. Here is Phoinix's craft: Cleopatra, Patroclus. Her name built from the same pieces as mine, only reversed.

If Achilles noticed, he does not show it. His voice is gentle for the old man's sake, but still he refuses. Not until Agamemnon gives back the honor he has taken from me. Even in the darkness I can see that Odysseus is not surprised. I can almost hear his report to the others, his hands spread in regret: I tried. If Achilles had agreed, all to the good. If he did not, his refusal in the face of prizes and apologies would only seem like madness, like fury or unreasonable pride. They will hate him, just as they hated Meleager.

My chest tightens in panic, in a quick desire to kneel before him and beg. But I do not. For like Phoinix I am declared already, decided. I am no longer to guide the course, merely to be carried, into darkness and beyond, with only Achilles' hands at the helm.

Ajax does not have Odysseus' equanimity-he glares, his face carved with anger. It has cost him much to be here, to beg for his own demotion. With Achilles not fighting, he is Aristos Achaion.

When they are gone, I stand and give my arm to Phoinix. He is tired tonight, I can see, and his steps are slow. By the time I leave him-old bones sighing onto his pallet-and return to our tent, Achilles is already asleep.

I am disappointed. I had hoped, perhaps, for conversation, for two bodies in one bed, for reassurance that the Achilles I saw at dinner was not the only one. But I do not rouse him; I slip from the tent and leave him to dream.

I CROUCH IN LOOSE SAND, in the shadow of a small tent.

"Briseis?" I call softly.

There is a silence, then I hear: "Patroclus?"

"Yes."

She tugs up the side of the tent and pulls me quickly inside. Her face is pinched with fear. "It is too dangerous for you to be here. Agamemnon is in a rage. He will kill you." Her words are a rushing whisper.

"Because Achilles refused the embassy?" I whisper back.

She nods, and in a swift motion snuffs out the tent's small lamp. "Agamemnon comes often to look in on me. You are not safe here." In the darkness I cannot see the worry on her face, but her voice is filled with it. "You must go."

"I will be quick. I have to speak with you."

"Then we must hide you. He comes without warning."

"Where?" The tent is small, bare of everything but pallet, pillows and blankets, and a few clothes.

"The bed."

She piles cushions around me and heaps blankets. She lies down beside me, pulling the cover over us both. I am surrounded by her scent, familiar and warm. I press my mouth to her ear, speaking barely louder than a breath. "Odysseus says that tomorrow the Trojans will break the wall and storm the camp. We must find a place to hide you. Among the Myrmidons or in the forest."

I feel her cheek moving against mine as she shakes her head. "I cannot. That is the first place he will look. It will only make more trouble. I will be all right here."

"But what if they take the camp?"

"I will surrender to Aeneas, Hector's cousin, if I can. He is known to be a pious man, and his father lived as a shepherd for a time near my village. If I cannot, I will find Hector or any of the sons of Priam."

I am shaking my head. "It is too dangerous. You must not expose yourself."

"I do not think they will hurt me. I am one of them, after all."

I feel suddenly foolish. The Trojans are liberators to her, not invaders. "Of course," I say quickly. "You will be free, then. You will want to be with your-"

"Briseis!" The tent flap is drawn backwards, and Agamemnon stands in the doorway.

"Yes?" She sits up, careful to keep the blanket over me.

"Were you speaking?"

"Praying, my lord."

"Lying down?"

Through the thick weave of wool I can see the glow of torchlight. His voice is loud, as if he is standing beside us. I will myself not to move. She will be punished if I am caught here.

"It is how my mother taught me, my lord. Is it not right?"

"You should have been taught better by now. Did not the godling correct you?"

"No, my lord."

"I offered you back to him tonight, but he did not want you." I can hear the ugly twist in his words. "If he keeps saying no, perhaps I will claim you for myself."

My fists clench. But Briseis only says, "Yes, my lord."

I hear the fall of cloth, and the light disappears. I do not move, nor breathe until Briseis returns beneath the covers.

"You cannot stay here," I say.

"It is all right. He only threatens. He likes to see me afraid."

The matter-of-factness in her tone horrifies me. How can I leave her to this, the leering, and lonely tent, and bracelets thick as manacles? But if I stay, she is in greater danger.

"I must go," I say.

"Wait." She touches my arm. "The men-" She hesitates. "They are angry with Achilles. They blame him for their losses. Agamemnon sends his people among them to stir up talk. They have almost forgotten about the plague. The longer he does not fight, the more they will hate him." It is my worst fear, Phoinix's story come to life. "Will he not fight?"

"Not until Agamemnon apologizes."

She bites her lip. "The Trojans, too. There is no one that they fear more, or hate more. They will kill him if they can tomorrow, and all who are dear to him. You must be careful."

"He will protect me."

"I know he will," she says, "as long as he lives. But even Achilles may not be able to fight Hector and Sarpedon both." She hesitates again. "If the camp falls, I will claim you as my husband. It may help some. You must not speak of what you were to him, though. It will be a death sentence." Her hand has tightened on my arm. "Promise me."

"Briseis," I say, "if he is dead, I will not be far behind."

She presses my hand to her cheek. "Then promise me something else," she says. "Promise me that whatever happens, you will not leave Troy without me. I know that you cannot-" She breaks off. "I would rather live as your sister than remain here."

"That is nothing that you have to bind me to," I say. "I would not leave you, if you wished to come. It grieved me beyond measure to think of the war ending tomorrow, and never seeing you again."

The smile is thick in her throat. "I am glad." I do not say that I do not think I will ever leave Troy.

I draw her to me, fill my arms with her. She lays her head upon my chest. For a moment we do not think of Agamemnon and danger and dying Greeks. There is only her small hand on my stomach, and the softness of her cheek as I stroke it. It is strange how well she fits there. How easily I touch my lips to her hair, soft and smelling of lavender. She sighs a little, nestles closer. Almost, I can imagine that this is my life, held in the sweet circle of her arms. I would marry her, and we would have a child.

Perhaps if I had never known Achilles.

"I should go," I say.

She draws down the blanket, releasing me into the air. She cups my face in her hands. "Be careful tomorrow," she says. "Best of men. Best of the Myrmidons." She places her fingers to my lips, stopping my objection. "It is truth," she says. "Let it stand, for once." Then she leads me to the side of her tent, helps me slip beneath the canvas. The last thing I feel is her hand, squeezing mine in farewell.

THAT NIGHT I LIE IN BED beside Achilles. His face is innocent, sleep-smoothed and sweetly boyish. I love to see it. This is his truest self, earnest and guileless, full of mischief but without malice. He is lost in Agamemnon and Odysseus' wily double meanings, their lies and games of power. They have confounded him, tied him to a stake and baited him. I stroke the soft skin of his forehead. I would untie him if I could. If he would let me.

Chapter Twenty-Nine.

WE WAKE TO SHOUTS AND THUNDER, A STORM THAT has burst from the blue of the sky. There is no rain, only the gray air, crackling and dry, and jagged streaks that strike like the clap of giant hands. We hurry to the tent door to look out. Smoke, acrid and dark, is drifting up the beach towards us, carrying the smell of lightning-detonated earth. The attack has begun, and Zeus is keeping his bargain, punctuating the Trojans' advance with celestial encouragement. We feel a pounding, deep in the ground-a charge of chariots, perhaps, led by huge Sarpedon.

Achilles' hand grips mine, his face stilled. This is the first time in ten years that the Trojans have ever threatened the gate, have ever pushed so far across the plain. If they break through the wall, they will burn the ships-our only way of getting home, the only thing that makes us an army instead of refugees. This is the moment that Achilles and his mother have summoned: the Greeks, routed and desperate, without him. The sudden, incontrovertible proof of his worth. But when will it be enough? When will he intervene?

"Never," he says, when I ask him. "Never until Agamemnon begs my forgiveness or Hector himself walks into my camp and threatens what is dear to me. I have sworn I will not."

"What if Agamemnon is dead?"

"Bring me his body, and I will fight." His face is carved and unmovable, like the statue of a stern god.

"Do you not fear that the men will hate you?"

"They should hate Agamemnon. It is his pride that kills them."

And yours. But I know the look on his face, the dark recklessness of his eyes. He will not yield. He does not know how. I have lived eighteen years with him, and he has never backed down, never lost. What will happen if he is forced to? I am afraid for him, and for me, and for all of us.

We dress and eat, and Achilles speaks bravely of the future. He talks of tomorrow, when perhaps we will swim, or scramble up the bare trunks of sticky cypresses, or watch for the hatching of the sea-turtle eggs, even now incubating beneath the sun-warmed sand. But my mind keeps slipping from his words, dragged downwards by the seeping gray of the sky, by the sand chilled and pallid as a corpse, and the distant, dying shrieks of men whom I know. How many more by day's end?

I watch him staring over the ocean. It is unnaturally still, as if Thetis is holding her breath. His eyes are dark and dilated by the dim overcast of the morning. The flame of his hair licks against his forehead.

"Who is that?" he asks, suddenly. Down the beach, a distant figure is being carried on a stretcher to the white tent. Someone important; there is a crowd around him.

I seize on the excuse for motion, distraction. "I will go see."

Outside the remove of our camp, the sounds of battle grow louder: piercing screams of horses impaled on the stakes of the trench, the desperate shouts of the commanders, the clangor of metal on metal.

Podalerius shoulders past me into the white tent. The air is thick with the smell of herbs and blood, fear and sweat. Nestor looms up at me from my right, his hand clamping around my shoulder, chilling through my tunic. He screeches, "We are lost! The wall is breaking!"

Behind him Machaon lies panting on a pallet, his leg a spreading pool of blood from the ragged prick of an arrow. Podalerius is bent over him, already working.

Machaon sees me. "Patroclus," he says, gasping a little.

I go to him. "Will you be all right?"

"Cannot tell yet. I think-" He breaks off, his eyes squeezed shut.

"Do not talk to him," Podalerius says, sharply. His hands are covered in his brother's blood.

Nestor's voice rushes onward, listing woe after woe: the wall splintering, and the ships in danger, and so many wounded kings-Diomedes, Agamemnon, Odysseus, strewn about the camp like crumpled tunics.

Machaon's eyes open. "Can you not speak to Achilles?" he says, hoarsely. "Please. For all of us."