"No man touches her!"
"Not even the Atreides would dare,"
Podarces assures me,
with a glare at Thersites
who grins a pale smile,
and mutters,
"Not after the last time."
Once,
ill-fated Iphigenia,
was led to believe
I was her intended,
before ruthless Agamemnon
led that poor girl to slaughter
to appease the goddess.
Once,
I turned down
an offer from Agamemnon,
overlord of the host,
to wed his choice of Argive princesses
upon a successful return to the lands of Hellas.
Once,
I pledged myself to Deidamia,
who still waits for me
and remains loyal to me
on the island of Skyros
with our son.
Once this one,
once that one,
but always, always, always,
there was Patroclus,
and now Patroclus is no more.
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 life beyond the war
was something we could contemplate.
But now?
I shake my head.
I wish I still had your counsel, Patroclus.
About Briseïs.
About Iphis.
What fate would you wish for 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 let her come,
and would provide comfort
which I can't accept.
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.