Episode 6:
Centering Achilles,
Warrior Prince of Phthia
“No man touches her!”
“Not even the Atreides would dare,”
Podarces assures me,
as he aims a glare
at Thersites,
with his thrusting hips
in crude mime,
winking,
and muttering,
“Not after last time.”
Once,
I pledged myself to Deidamia,
my first tutor in love,
who waits for me,
along with our son
on an isle in the sea,
knowing Fate's decree
that I'll never again see
either one.
Once,
ill-fated Iphigenia,
was led to believe
my heart was hers to receive,
then led to slaughter
to appease the goddess
with the sacrifice
of Agamemnon's daughter.
Once,
Briseïs,
the prize who resisted,
the woman who insisted
on being something more
than just a trophy of war,
than a stand-in for a wife
became the last stand-in standing:
the one who remains in my life.
Once this one,
once that one,
but always, always, always,
there was Patroclus.
And more than once,
often, often, often,
Patroclus had urged me
to take Briseïs as my wife,
as he would take Iphis,
and we four would be happy
together
after the war,
back when he could
almost, almost, almost,
convince me
that life was possible after the war.
But now?
I wish I still had your counsel, Patroclus.
About Briseïs.
About Iphis.
What lives would you wish them?
Iphis cared for you,
and still does,
and always will,
I made sure of that.
Briseïs cares for you also,
and would be here
if I would let her come,
if I would let her provide
the comfort I can’t accept.
For how could I be here for you,
dear Patroclus,
if Briseïs were here for me?
“No man touches her,”
I repeat,
and remain,
rooted in place,
plucking the lyre,
fingers sore to the bones,
straining my ears for the voice of a ghost
in the fading tones.
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