Page 57 of The Rose (The Godwicks 2)

Lia raised her face to the new soldier. He took off his helmet and stepped forward.

She met August’s gray eyes. She searched his face and saw August’s strong jaw, his nose, his olive skin—but his hair was short, a soldier’s haircut. In this world he was Achilles, not August, and though she knew him, he did not seem to know her.

Lia felt true fear.

“Achilles,” the general said. “Thought you’d like to meet one of the widows you made today. Briseis, meet Achilles, the man who killed your lord and husband.”

The five soldiers laughed. Achilles did not laugh. And when they saw he did not laugh, they stopped laughing.

“Your husband died honorably,” Achilles said. It was August’s voice, though with a new roughness to it.

“Are you sure it was my husband, then?” Lia, who had become Briseis, asked.

The five soldiers stared stupidly at her, not understanding the meaning of her question. But Achilles understood and, this time, he laughed.

She knew well of Achilles. They said he was the greatest warrior who ever lived. They said he was a favorite of the gods. They said he was immortal. They said he was merciless. They said he was loyal to no one but his own honor and his shield-bearer, Patroclus.

They said many things about the great Achilles.

They’d never said he was handsome.

Achilles looked at the general.

“She’s mine,” he said. Then, without another word, he grabbed her around the thighs and hoisted her over his shoulder. Lia went limp against his back, too terrified to scream or speak or fight. His steps were light and easy on the marble stairs leading down. Her weight on his shoulder didn’t slow him down one bit.

Achilles carried her for what felt like a mile before he put her on her feet by a stone hut at the edge of the city. He barked an order and an old woman in the worn wool garb of a laundress was brought forward.

“Sir?” the old woman asked.

“I want her washed and brought to my tent,” Achilles said.

“Yes, sir.”

Achilles walked off, and Lia faced the laundress.

The woman, though aged and stooped, was no fool. She tied a cord around Lia’s wrists and wound it around her waist and then around her ankles. Lia had to take short hobbling steps or she’d trip. With this humiliating mincing gait, she was escorted to a square wooden hut.

The woman opened a door with an iron latch and pushed Lia gently inside. She saw three women in the room, all busy at work—tending the fire in a large stone hearth or folding and rolling freshly washed and dried fabric. Words were quietly exchanged, instructions given and received.

The oldest woman, with white hair under a gray veil, came to Lia and looked her up and down. She was left standing, stupidly staring, while the trio untied the rope. Things happened so quickly after that, Lia had no chance to fight or run. She was led from the hut to a courtyard around the back, surrounded by high walls. The gray-haired washerwoman pushed her to stand in a sort of large wooden bucket or tub. Another woman pulled her bloodstained gown off her. Lia started to scream but the third woman immediately doused her with water, pouring it from a large clay pot over her head and shoulders. Before she could recover from the first dousing, she was doused a second time.

After, she was dried with a rough towel held in rough hands. A loose robe was thrown over Lia’s shoulders and she was taken back into the hut. The three women made her stand by the fire as they anointed her body with some sort of floral-scented oil, sparing no part of her. They were practiced in their work and it was done in seconds, it seemed. Then Lia’s wet hair was combed back, braided and laid over her right shoulder.

A gauzy linen dress, so sheer Lia could see her own nipples through the fabric, was pinned over her naked body—leaving her just as exposed as before. The three women looked her up and down and seemed to admire their quick handiwork. Lia wanted to vomit.

The eldest of the women tied Lia’s wrists together again, looped the rope around each ankle again to hobble her.

Another soldier waited for them outside the hut. Lia hadn’t seen him among the five soldiers who’d captured her. He looked to be in his late thirties, about ten years older than Achilles. He bowed his head to her when he approached. Bowed his head?

“You are Briseis?” His tone was respectful, measured.

“I am Queen Briseis, yes.”

His eyes gleamed as she claimed her title but he did not laugh at her, nor smile.

“I am Patroclus. I’ve come to escort you to the tent of Achilles. Are you ready?”

She took a step forward and nearly stumbled, forgetting she’d been hobbled with rope.

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