the-song-books.yossr

Chapter Thirteen
THE NEXT DAYS PASSED QUIETLY. WE TOOK MEALS IN our room and spent long
hours awayy from the palace, exploring the island, seeking what shade there
was beneath the scruffyy trees. We had to be careful; Achilles could not be
seen moving too quicklyy, climbing too skillfullyy, holding a spear. But we
were not followed, and there were manyy places where he could safelyy let
his disguise drop.
On the far side of the island there was a deserted stretch of beach, rockfilled
but twice the size of our running tracks. Achilles made a sound of
delight when he saw it, and tore off his dress. I watched him race across it,
as swiftlyy as if the beach had been flat. “Count for me,” he shouted, over his
shoulder. I did, tapping against the sand to keep the time.
“How manyy?” he called, from the beach’s end.
“Thirteen,” I called back.
“I’m just warming up,” he said.
The next time it was eleven. The last time it was nine. He sat down next
to me, barelyy winded, his cheeks flushed with joyy. He had told me of his
dayys as a woman, the long hours of enforced tedium, with onlyy the dances
for relief. Free now, he stretched his muscles like one of Pelion’s mountain
cats, luxuriant in his own strength.
In the evenings, though, we had to return to the great hall. Reluctant,
Achilles would put on his dress and smooth back his hair. Often he bound it
up in cloth, as he had that first night; golden hair was uncommon enough to
be remarked upon byy the sailors and merchants who passed through our
harbor. If their tales found the ears of someone clever enough—I did not
like to think of it.
A table was set for us at the front of the hall near the thrones. We ate
there, the four of us, Lyycomedes, Deidameia, Achilles, and I. Sometimes we
were joined byy a counselor or two, sometimes not. These dinners were
mostlyy silent; theyy were for form, to quell gossip and maintain the fiction of
Achilles as myy wife and the king’s ward. Deidameia’s eyyes darted eagerlyy
https://books.yossr.com/en