Kat didn’t take Achilles’ arm on the return trip—he took hers, practically keeping her feet from touching the sand as he propelled her through the Greek camp and then across the stretch of beach and dunes that separated them from his Myrmidons. Even had she not needed all of her breath to stay upright, Kat wouldn’t have bar-raged him with the zillions of questions she had. In just a few minutes, Achilles had turned from a scarred, almost shy man to an imposing warrior king, and Kat needed a little time to process the change in him.
For the first time she began to wonder about this berserker rage that overtook him. Kat thought he was still himself. He wasn’t foaming at the mouth or violently out of control as he would be with what the historians called a berserker rage. She glanced sideways at his stony face. His entire body seemed to be alert. No damn way could anything or anyone sneak up on him. His sword was unsheathed and it glittered dangerously in the moonlight reflected off the sea. But Achilles’ sword wasn’t the most deadly thing about him. It was Achilles himself that was a weapon—and the scars on his body now truly made sense. He’d used himself as a tool—as a machine. A killing machine.
Finally they reached the Myrmidon camp and Achilles slowed, and then released her arm.
“Automedon!” he shouted. “To me!”
A short, muscular man whose leather chest plate had the image of a chariot carved into it ran up to Achilles.
“Agamemnon has deluded himself into believing he can command me. He may try to press the point. Double the watch.”
“Yes, my lord!” Automedon saluted and jogged off.
Achilles continued walking through his camp and with each step he took Kat could see the tension release from him. By the time they reached his tent, the stony look that had overtaken his face had relaxed and he had sheathed his sword.
“Are you still hungry?” he asked, speaking to her for the first time since they’d left Agamemnon’s tent.
"I am.”
“The dinner meal is served there.” Achilles pointed to a campfire situated between his tent and the rest of the camp. “Come, the food is simpler here than in Agamemnon’s tent, but much less bitter.”
They walked over to the campfire where delicious scents wafted from a huge iron caldron that was simmering over it. About a dozen men were seated on large rocks and driftwood that had been pulled in a circle around the fire. They were being served by a couple women who were pretty enough, but wearing plain linen robes. Jacky was, unfortunately, nowhere to be seen.
The men greeted Achilles familiarly, speaking to him with obvious respect, though there was no bowing or scraping. Immediately a woman handed him a bowl filled with aromatic stew and a hunk of fresh bread. Kat noticed she avoided looking directly at Achilles. He motioned to Kat, and the same woman hurriedly filled another bowl and brought it and bread to her. As her eyes met Kat’s there was an obvious shock of recognition. Almost imperceptibly she bowed her head and murmured, “Princess.”
Kat was eating the excellent fish stew and thinking that it would probably be best if she avoided the other women as much as possible for the short while she’d be here. It only made sense that many of the war prizes were Trojan and they would know her, or at the very least recognize her as their princess. Or, more accurately, recognize the young body she now temporarily inhabited as their princess.
“How goes it with Agamemnon?” an older warrior asked Achilles.
“He’s much the same—arrogant and rude and under the mistaken impression that he can rule me.”
“You set him aright, didn’t you my lord?”
Achilles’ lip twitched in what Kat was beginning to recognize as his version of a smile. “I did, which is why the guard will be doubled tonight, and every night hereafter.”
The men grunted wordless agreement.
“I have formally withdrawn from the battle against the Trojans.” Achilles dropped that bomb nonchalantly between bites of his stew. Kat watched the men’s faces carefully, and saw expressions that ranged from shock to disbelief and even to anger, though it was only the older warrior who spoke.
“For how long, my lord?”
Achilles shrugged. “Until I feel the need to fight for another man’s glory.”
“But, my lord, we have been fighting for the glory of Achilles,” blurted one of the younger men. “So that your name will be sung for centuries.”
Achilles nodded and looked from man to man. “And you have all fought bravely in this war for almost ten years because of a fate not of your own choosing. It may be time for each of us to reevaluate our fates.”
“Do you ask that we fight on without you, my lord?” the younger man said.
“I ask only that each of you follow his own conscience, as I will follow mine.”
No one spoke for several minutes, and then the old warrior yawned and stretched and said, “I believe these old bones deserve a rest from battle. I will stand down with Achilles.”
“And I,” said the younger man.
“I as well.”
"I.”
All of the Myrmidons present chimed in, siding with their leader. Kat studied Achilles as his men chose him over battle and glory. He stared sightlessly into his bowl of unfinished stew and made little response to any of them.
When he finally spoke again, it was to her and not to the men who had resumed their casual conversation around him.
“My tent is now your home. Anything Briseis left within is yours. If you lack anything, these women will bring you whatever you need.” Then he tossed his bowl down by the fire, grabbed a wineskin that lay nearby, and without another word strode off toward the shore.
Kat didn’t have a clue what she should do. The men ignored her. The women, who were sitting a little way off from the men, kept shooting her furtive, yet curious looks. The only thing she knew for certain was that Achilles had just annoyed the crap out of her. Hadn’t they been getting along okay? It had seemed like it. Then that business with Agamemnon had screwed up everything. With a sigh she got up and approached the woman who had given her the stew.
“Hi. Uh, I was wondering if you knew where my, um, servant, Melia, is,” Kat said.
“No, Princess. We have not seen your maidservant.” The woman fidgeted nervously. “How may I serve you? Are you well, Princess? You have not been harmed, have you?”
“No, I’m fine. Perfectly fine,” Kat assured her.
The woman stepped closer to Kat and whispered, “Princess, I am Aetnia, a kitchen maid from your father’s palace. I was captured with a group of servants who were buying fish outside the city more than two years ago. It will be difficult, but we can help you escape. Once you are within sight of the walls, Hector will surely come to rescue you.”
Kat blinked in surprise, taken aback by the earnestness of this woman who wanted to help her. “Oh, no, I don’t need anything else tonight,” she answered loudly enough for the men to hear. Then she lowered her voice and whispered, “Thank you, but I don’t want to escape. At least not right now.” Raising her voice again, she continued, “I think I’ll turn in. It’s been an exhausting day.” And she retreated quickly to Achilles’ empty tent.
Okay, it wasn’t exactly empty. It was just Achilles-less. The tent itself was filled with beautiful things. Kat gave a low, appreciative whistle. No way was the man who had collected all of these treasures a mindless killing machine bent only on war and destruction. The tent was huge, though not as large as Agamemnon’s. It was softly lit by scented oil lamps suspended from ceiling supports. Under her feet was a thick crimson carpet with birds and wild flowers woven throughout it. Hanging on the tent walls were tapestries of exquisite detail. Most of them showed sea scenes, though a few depicted a lovely temple-filled city on a hill that overlooked the sea. Except for his helmet, a few spears, and a golden shield that bore the figure of an eagle on it, there was no evidence that the tent belonged to a soldier at all. In the rear of the tent Kat could see a bed, thick with linens and canopied with gauzy curtains. She was studying it nervously and thinking that it might seem big at the moment—minus Achilles laying on it—but she was sure that with him present there was no way she could sleep all chastely without brushing against his skin and touching him and his battle-hardened muscles and…
Then she noticed the thick pallet of comforters and pillows that made an opulent nest situated way on the other side of the tent—literally as far away from the bed as was physically possible for it to be and still be inside the tent.