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Thetis
You used to stand for hours watching the sea, but she never came.
Now she is here, and the long-sought words are bitter.
“My son, if you set sail for the wide land of Troy, you will never return.”
You are very young, and no sacrifice seems too great for the promise of undying glory. You were born for this war, as it was born for you. The apple was cast the night you were conceived.
But this is the only thing she has ever asked you for, so you bow your head, and board the swift ship to Skyros.
Deidamia
The fleet will sail without you. You burn all over with the shame of it, and Patroclus is not there to calm your fury.
They are all afraid of you, except her. She laughs and says you make a prettier girl than she does. It is that boldness that makes you want her.
It is she who first creeps into your bed, not you into hers. You show her that you are not at all like a girl.
When Odysseus comes, she clings to you, sobbing.
You leave behind the son in her womb whose face you will never see.
Iphigenia
That was the first time you would have killed Agamemnon for the sake of your honor. Not for the girl, but because he dangled you like bait to lure her there to Aulis.
Your rage at sixteen flamed as hot as it would at twenty-five, and you felt it intolerable that you should live if the man who shamed you lived also.
Troy would never have burned if she hadn’t stayed your hand.
She was beautiful, that grandchild of Tyndareus, but it was only when she turned from you and went consenting to her death that you finally desired her.
Briseis
Like everyone else, you notice Chryseis first, her fragile golden beauty drawing every predatory eye.
But Patroclus shakes his head and says “No. Her.”
You see the one he means.
“Why?”
“She didn’t weep”.
All around her, women are wailing and clutching at each other, but she stands alone, and her eyes are dry. Her body is straight as a spear shaft, and her face is like that of a carved ivory goddess, the expression terrible and remote. Even in slavery, she holds herself like a queen.
He looks at you and you nod. He knows your mind. “Yes, her.”
Penthesilea
In her you recognize one like yourself who has come seeking death.
Best of warriors, you know intimately the despair of one who must go on living for want of a worthy enemy.
You know she has come seeking you.
You want to ask her who it was, the beloved one she killed. You want to tell her about Patroclus. You want to hold her hands and weep with her.
But that is not what she wants.
So you give her the only thing you have left to give, and deliver the final thrust with the tenderness of a lover.