Between Lions and Men

21: what will make you shudder at the very name of war

Briseis

Krista can barely stand by the time she reaches the tent. I take one look at her and wrap her in a blanket, bringing her wine that I bid her to drink. She does, while Sergeant Menoetius fetches me a medical bag. He gives me that to use at my discretion. I tell Captain Peleus we need to get her to the farmhouse, where the other girls can help me care for her. She cannot walk the two miles so she consents to let Sergeant Menoetius carry her on his back. Once there, I send Sadie to summon her mother and some of the other girls. We agree, we being I and the women, agree she should stay here, as no one will dare bother us with Captain Peleus here. He, for his part, remains at the piano while we care for her upstairs.

Krista will barely speak of what happened. She doesn't need to. We all know, or near enough. I bring her a drought to prevent child birth, the ones I should have been taking, but did not, but ah well. I suppose I should leave something up to fate.

We dress her in my clothes, and help her bandage her injuries. Only once the other girls promise to remain with her does she consent to taking something to help her sleep. She vomits a few more times, but we do get her to keep down a little wine and some cheese.

It's nearly midnight by then. And I go back downstairs. Typically, when Captain Peleus did some favor for me, be it get a particular food from the supplies, or walk me to camp, or consent to take in some of the other women, I would go flirt with him to repay him the favor.

Now, I don't think he even expected it. But I thought he would, so I did it anyway. This time, though, I realize when I'm halfway down the stairs I'm doing it because I want to go and see him. Not because I think I have to or I think he'll be cross if I don't. I just want to see him.

He's at the radio, fussing with it. He's changed into an old, a bit too large blue sweater that is nearly the color of his eyes. His hair is damp and tightly curled, and he's still wearing the faded army pants and boots that he typically does. He's moved his spear to access the radio that Menoetius took from Ithaca.

He's finally got it to a station that plays music, and a love song is playing, not a boring sad one, the sort that you dance to.

I know it, and in unison we both start singing it, laughing as we realize the other had the same thought and knew it as well. He automatically takes my arm and artfully spins me into his, before sweeping us around the room. We both sing all the words we know then laugh a bit at ourselves.

He dances all the time I forget though how it feels to be danced with. I can't remember the last time I danced. More than likely with boys in the village, before I was married. None of them compare to him, not only in lightness of foot, but we two have the practiced ease of lovers. He knows just how I fit in his arms and has no hesitation in smoothly spinning me into them, and lifting me up in the air to settle into his firm chest.

"You have a lovely voice," he laughs, when the song is over, still holding me for the sake of it. And in that moment, my face in the old sweater, his hands on my arms, I could imagine a future. A real one, with happiness. For the first time I saw it. I could have this child in me, we would laugh, and be happy, and listen to songs. He'd carry his child on these broad shoulders, and teach it to dance like him. Not here, but somewhere someplace, we could be happy sometime, because I do trust these arms to take me there. "You should sing more—are you all right?"

"Fine, I'm exhausted," I say, not at all moving from leaning against him, "That's all."

"Was that girl all right?" he asks nicely, if stupidly, like she'd fallen and broken a bone.

"No—she's resting. The others are with her. She'll be better coming morning. She made us promise to her that we'd wake her when the sun came up," I say.