Warrior Rising
CHAPTER SEVEN

"Sweet Jesus on a cracker, will you look at that,” Jacky whispered to Kat.
They stood on the edge of an enormous trench, dug between the grassy plain that sloped down from the plateau on which Troy had been built, and a wide, white sand beach kissed by a turquoise sea so clear and blue it almost hurt Kat’s eyes. But it wasn’t the bizarre trench or the beauty of the sea that had made Jacky whisper and stare. To their left, as far as they could see, the beach was crowded with brightly colored tents and men. Just offshore the sweetly rounded harbor was filled with ancient wooden ships.
“This way, Princess,” Odysseus said, breaking the spell the sight had cast.
Blinking, Kat looked up at him. They had fallen behind the warriors, who had turned to the right and followed the shoreline after they had climbed down and then out of the trench.
“Achilles and his Myrmidons do not camp with the rest of us,” Odysseus said, with a rueful twitch of his lips.
“Even before Agamemnon took Briseis?” Kat asked.
Odysseus nodded. “Even before.” He motioned for the two women to walk with him. “The dislike Achilles and King Agamemnon feel for one another is common knowledge. Though it is only recently that the dislike has turned to outright hatred.”
“It doesn’t sound smart to hate your king outright,” Jacky said.
Odysseus glanced with mild surprise at Jacky before answering her, and Kat breathed a silent sigh of relief. Maybe their oracle-and-her-weird-highborn-servant masquerade would actually work.
“Achilles is Greece’s greatest warrior. Perhaps the question should be why a king would alienate himself from his champion.”
Kat laughed sarcastically. “How about because of arrogance, vanity and lust? Aren’t kings prone to those things?” She was silently singing a rousing chorus of “God Bless America” when she thought about current American politics and the song skidded to a metaphoric halt.
Odysseus’s gaze was shrewd. “And yet they say your father has none of those characteristics. Instead it is rumored that he is wise and honorable and much beloved by his people.”
“He’s not the only king I know,” Kat said quickly, hoping that she wasn’t putting her foot directly in her flapping mouth, and wishing desperately college hadn’t been so many years ago and that she’d actually paid attention during world lit class.
“They say you were to be betrothed to the son of the King of Sardis,” Odysseus said.
Holy shit! She was almost engaged? And to a king, no less. Huh. Kat swallowed hard. Venus should have given them a damn briefing. “Uh, I’d really rather not talk about, you know, my life before.”
Odysseus bowed his head in silent acknowledgement of what Kat guessed must be her ruined life.
“So, what kind of a girl was Briseis?” Kat asked, neatly changing the subject.
Odysseus’s brows went up at the question. “She was a war prize—beautiful and compliant.”
Jacky snorted, which made the famous hero smile.
“How did she get along with Achilles?” Kat asked.
Odysseus’s tone turned enigmatic. “As all women get along with him.” He hesitated and added, “Achilles is a great warrior.”
“There’s more to life than war,” Kat said.
“Not since Paris took Helen, there hasn’t been,” he said. “In my world or in yours.”
“Maybe it’s time that changed,” Kat said.
Odysseus’s gaze speared her. “Has Athena sent you here to grant us victory over Troy?”
No, actually, I’m here so that Achilles stays out of the war and, as quickly as possible, the Trojans win, she thought, but when Kat spoke she only said, “As Athena said, I’m here for Achilles.”
“Of course you are,” Odysseus said, making it clear that was the last thing he believed.
The seashore had gone from being flat and sandy to dune filled and grassy, and Kat was glad that she and Jacky had to fall back, scrambling single file behind Odysseus around the mini-hills, and making it impossible to talk. Then the dune gave way abruptly to a cove that was impressive in size, though smaller than the harbor where the Greek fleet docked. It was protected on either side by huge jutting teeth of dark coral. Between the teeth were more ships—all black sailed. Kat stopped counting at thirty something. The beach in front of the cove was filled with tents.
“Achilles is there, closest to the shore.” Odysseus slowed so that the two of them could walk around the sea side of the encampment with him as he made his way toward a huge tent that sat apart from the others. Its canvas had been dyed a yellow so bright it almost appeared gold, and on each side of it was painted a majestic eagle.
Kat could see that Achilles was outside the tent and had joined a little circle of men standing around someone seated in the middle of them.
“Nice of him to wait for us,” Jacky muttered. “Mr. All That needs some etiquette lessons…”
Kat sighed, silently agreeing with Jacky.
They had just caught up with Achilles, who paid them no attention. Clearly he was totally involved with whatever was going on with the guy in the middle of the circle, and Kat was wondering if she should ask him where she was staying, or if she should just go on inside the tent and check things out, when she realized what everyone was staring at. A guy was sitting on a bench, and he was bleeding pretty badly from a nasty cut down the outside of his left bicep. An old, short guy was rummaging around in a raggedy straw basket. With a grunt of victory, he pulled from the basket a large needle that looked almost as sharp as it was dirty. It was already threaded with a long length of something that reminded Kat of black fishing line. The old man looked at the bleeding guy on the bench and, with a wicked smile, said, “Well, my boy, this will hurt.” He bent over the arm, and started pressing the edges of the flapping flesh together, clearly getting ready to sew.
“Oh, no you do not!” Jacky exploded from Kat’s side, snatching the needle from the old man who stood openmouthed staring at her. “This”—she held up the needle—“is disgusting. If you stick it in that”—she pointed at the gaping wound—“his arm is gonna fester and rot.”
“How dare this woman—” the old guy began and Kat shoved herself to Achilles’ side.
“She’s a healer,” Kat told Achilles.
“I am a healer!” the old man sputtered in outrage.
“No, you’re a quack. And one with dirty hands,” Jacky said.
Kat ignored both of them and focused on Achilles. “She’s been given special knowledge by Athena.”
The old man rounded on Kat. “And who are you?”
“Athena’s oracle and Achilles’ war-prize bride,” Kat said smoothly.
“Athena’s oracle is a war prize! Bah! What game is this? Do you think Kalchas, soothsayer and prophet of the Achaians, would not know of the arrival of a divine oracle?”
Odysseus cleared his throat. “Kalchas, my old friend, we’ve just returned from the Goddess’s presence. Athena did, indeed, gift Achilles with Polyxena, who she has proclaimed her oracle.”
Kalchas narrowed his rheumy eyes. “You say you saw Athena yourself?”
“That is what I say.”
“And I say you have always been a better prophet than healer, Kalchas,” Achilles’ deep voice silenced everyone. “Polyxena’s servant will heal Patroklos. That is if my cousin has no argument with it.”
The bleeding guy’s voice was good humored. The sound of it made Kat glance over at Patroklos and she saw that he was cute, young and very, very blond. “I bow to your will, cousin,” he said, and then he flashed white teeth at Jacky, adding, “And, of course, to the will of the gods and my beautiful healer.”
“Good. I’ll need this mess”—Jacky held up the filthy needle—
“boiled. I’ll also need—” She paused and Kat was sure she was discarding words like “disinfectant” and “penicillin.”
“I’ll need the strongest alcohol you have.”
The men blinked at Jacky, faces question marks.
Kat turned to Achilles and touched his arm, noting but not reacting to the fact that his body twitched under her hand like a skittish horse. “She means the strongest drink you have. Something that gets men drunk easily.”
Achilles looked at Odysseus. “Didn’t you say that vile drink Idomeneus brought with him from Crete would take the hair off a hound?”
Odysseus smiled. “I did indeed. Idomeneus owes me a favor.” He turned his smile on Jacky. “Rest assured, I’ll get you your strong drink, little Melia.” He jogged off in the direction of the rest of the Greek camp.
“What else does she need?” Achilles asked Kat.
“I need thin, clean linen strips,” Jacky said as if he had been speaking to her. Kat noticed that Achilles’ wide mouth twitched up at one edge in just the hint of a smile, and he addressed his next question directly to Jacky.
“Anything else, little Melia?”
“Something to numb the pain,” Jacky said, barely glancing over her shoulder at Achilles as she continued her examination of the nasty wound. “Like, uh, the juice of the poppy, maybe.”
“I thought that was what the strong drink was for,” Patroklos said through gritted teeth, clearly trying to pretend like her poking and prodding wasn’t causing him excruciating pain.
“No, and hold still. The drink is to clean this out. By the by, what cut you?”
“Who cut me is the better question. Ajax did,” Patroklos said, and then couldn’t help wincing as she prodded the wound too deeply.
Achilles snorted. “You’re lucky you didn’t get your arm and your fool head cut off sparring with Ajax.”
Patroklos started to shrug, caught Jacky’s severe look, and obviously thought better of it. “He’s bigger than me, but he’s not as fast.”
“Looks like he was fast enough,” Jacky said. Then she glanced over her shoulder at Achilles again. “Is someone going to get me that stuff, or are we just going to let him bleed to death?”
“Get the healer everything she asks for,” Achilles commanded, and several men took off.
It didn’t take but a few minutes for everything to be assembled. Soon, much too soon for Kat’s stomach, the needle and thread had been boiled, and Patroklos had been dosed with something that looked and smelled like cough syrup. He’d also taken several gulps of the “vile drink” Odysseus had fetched, so he was bleary eyed and happy, and Jacky was currently giving her the look—the one Kat had dreaded—and motioning her to “come here.”
Kat sighed and walked over to her.
“Yes, you have to help me,” Jacky told her.
“You know I’m crappy at this blood stuff. Can’t you get the old guy to help you?”
“No, he scuttled off when I started boiling the needle. I think he’s allergic to clean. You’re it.” Jacky handed her a wad of clean linen. “Just blot the blood while I sew. It’s easy.”
“It’s disgusting, and I may puke.”
“You’re a shrink. That’s kinda like a doctor. I don’t know how you can get queasy at the sight of blood.”
“Hello—I treat people with emotional wounds. The only blood a shrink deals with is metaphoric.”
“You two have an odd type of speech,” Patroklos slurred at them.
“Blondie, my patients don’t talk unless I ask them somethin’,” Jacky told him sternly, giving him a little smack on the head to punctuate her words, which made him chuckle drunkenly. She looked back at the growing circle of men who were watching them and raised her voice commandingly. “Someone should hold him. It’ll mess up the tasteful yet manly scar I’m plannin’ for him if he jerks around.”
Achilles strode over to them. He sat on the bench facing his cousin and grabbed him firmly by the forearms. “Go on,” he told Jacky. “He won’t move.”
Kat decided that there was no sound grosser than that of a needle skewering human flesh, and was reminded all over again why she had opted for shrink school versus standard medical school (thereby never fulfilling her mother’s dreams of having a “real doctor” as a daughter). So instead of focusing on the seeping blood that she was dabbing for Jacky, and then puking up her guts, Kat kept stealing glances at Achilles, who was talking in low tones to Patroklos about some kind of race he’d won back in Greece, which was making the guy laugh, even though Jacky kept telling him to hold still and be quiet. Both men ignored her, which gave Kat the perfect opportunity to gawk at Achilles.
He was definitely a big guy. He had to top six-four with broad shoulders and a deep chest to match. He had excellent hair—long and thick and tawny. It was pulled back in a low ponytail with a leather thong, but a bunch of it had escaped and it reminded her of a lion’s mane. His hair was his second most striking feature after his incredible blue eyes. Well, actually, no. If she was going to be honest with herself the most striking thing about Achilles were the scars that crisscrossed his body. The longest one on his face ran from just above his left eye, through his brow, somehow missing the eye it continued down his left cheek. His nose was crooked, obviously having been broken multiple times. His strong right cheek-bone was zigzagged with a puckered scar that looked like it had been made by a rusty butter knife. Another scar wrapped around his neck like his throat had literally been slit, and she wondered, again, how the hell he’d lived through such horrible injuries.
His bare arms were heavily muscled and burnished a pretty golden brown. Back in the real world Kat knew women who would have killed for that shade of spray-on tan. But there, too, the perfection of his skin was marred by thick scars that ranged in color from old, white lines to one or two that were still angry and pink. From her vantage point she couldn’t see his legs very well, but Kat was sure they’d be the same as the rest of him—riddled with lines and welts.
Her eyes snuck back to his face. He had an excellent mouth. That was for sure. None of those too-thin lips and weak chins for Achilles. Actually the truth was that if you ignored his scars he was a damn handsome man. If you didn’t ignore his scars he was a damn scary looking man.
“Uh, do you mind not gawking and really assisting me?” Jacky said, loud enough to have Achilles glancing up in surprise at them.
“You know if I stare at the blood I’m going to puke. Or pass out. Or both,” Kat said.
“Fine. Then just dab the blood occasionally and hold these god-damned fucking tresses back out of my way. I do not believe what a pain in the ass Barbie locks are.” Between stitches Jacky glanced at her and smiled sweetly. “That is unless you’re too busy gazing at those blue eyes.”
Kat’s cheeks burned and she could feel said “blue eyes” boring into her. She looked down at him and, sure enough, he was staring at her with an obviously guarded expression on his face. Their eyes met. He thinks I keep looking at him because of his scars, Kat realized. So, still meeting his gaze Kat said clearly and deliberately, “Can I help it if the man has gorgeous blue eyes?”
Patroklos chuckled drunkenly. “The princess thinks you have pretty eyes, cousin.”
“She also thinks she needs to borrow this,” Kat said, and reached out to pull the leather tie from Achilles’ hair.
Achilles jerked back as if she had a hot iron in her hand and she was trying to press it against his cheek.
“Hey! Hold. Him. Still.” Jacky glared at Achilles.
“Sorry, that was my fault,” Kat said. Then to Achilles, “I just wanted to use your leather tie to get her hair out of her face.”
“Yes. Of course. Go ahead,” Achilles said in clipped words.
Kat pulled the leather tie from his hair, liking the feel of its thickness for the short time it brushed against her fingers. Then she pulled back Kat’s blond waves and knotted the tie securely. “Here, that should help.”
“Thanks. Keep blotting the blood. Just don’t look at it too long ’cause I am not in the mood to be picking you up off the sand, and I sure don’t want to clean up puke.”
“I’ll do my best not to inconvenience you,” Kat muttered, and went back to sneaking peeks at Achilles. Only now more often than not the warrior caught her looking at him because he was not looking at her, too.
“All right. That’ll do,” Jacky said. Kat yanked her attention from Achilles back to the now less bloody and newly sewed up ungaping wound. “Hand me that strip of linen.” Kat handed her the bandage and watched as Jacky expertly tied it around the guy’s arm. “Keep this clean and dry. I’ll check on you tomorrow,” Jacky said to Patroklos. “He should rest now,” she told Achilles.
Achilles nodded and helped the decidedly groggy Patroklos to his feet. Patroklos promptly pulled away from his cousin to address Jacky, who was fastidiously reboiling the needle and what was left of the suturing material.
“Thank you for saving my life,” he slurred and swayed. Kat bit her lip to keep from giggling at him. He looked like a drunken frat boy. Actually a tall, cute, drunken frat boy.
“You weren’t going to die of that scratch, idiot,” Achilles growled at him, though Kat could see that he, too, was stifling a smile.
“No. No.” Patroklos lifted his finger in the air like a great statesman making a point. “I insist that little Melia saved me, and I owe her a life. Mine. So I announce from here on she is under my protection.” Then he paused, frowned and blinked blearily at Kat. “That is if her princess will allow it.”
“Oh, please. Whatever,” Jacky said. “Just sober up and get well.”
Patroklos looked confused by Jacky’s strange words, but seemed undaunted. “My pledge is honorable. Princess, if you deem it so, the lovely Melia shall be formally under my protection.” He hiccupped and swayed again, this time precariously close to losing his balance, but kept his expression drunkenly serious.
Kat thought he was absolutely adorable. It would probably do Jacky good to have blondie following her around like a lab puppy, licking her lily white ankles. Kat giggled at the visual image she’d just conjured. “Hey, it’s all right by me.”
“Then it’s official. Melia is servant no more, but is now war-prize bride to me. Patroklos.” He thumped his well-muscled chest and then cringed at the pain he’d caused himself.
“Huh?” Jacky sputtered.
Patroklos grinned at her as if she was a big, red-bowed present and it was Christmas morning. “And I proclaim your skill for healing, my lady, is almost as great as your beauty.” Then he bowed, and promptly fell flat on his face in the sand at Jacky’s feet.
“Oh, sweet weeping baby Jesus,” Jacky said, completely disgusted. “Grab him. He’s gonna mess up my stitches.”
The three of them were pulling Patroklos to his feet (again) when old Kalchas hobbled up to them.
“Agamemnon commands the presence of Achilles in his tent, and orders him to bring Princess Polyxena, the so-called oracle, with him.”