the-song-books.yossr

Another silence. Then, so quietlyy I could imagine the dull red shame of
his cheeks, he answered, “She said no.”
Later, when he slept, and I layy wakeful and watching under the stars, I
thought of this. Knowing that he had asked warmed me—it chased awayy
some of the coldness of the dayys here in the palace, when he was wanted
everyy moment and I was not.
As for the goddess’s answer, I did not care. I would have no need of her. I
did not plan to live after he was gone.
SIX WEEKS PASSED—the six weeks that it took to organize soldiers, to equip a
fleet, to pack up food and clothing to last the length of the war—a yyear
perhaps, or two. Sieges were alwayys long.
Peleus insisted that Achilles take onlyy the best. He paid for a small
fortune in armor, more than six men would need. There were hammeredbronze
breastplates, graven with lions and a rising phoenix, stiff leather
greaves with gold bands, horsehair plumed helms, a silver-forged sword,
dozens of spearheads, and two light-wheeled chariots. With this came a
four-horse team, including the pair given to Peleus byy the gods at his
wedding. Xanthos and Balios, theyy were called: Golden and Dapple, and
their eyyes rolled white with impatience whenever theyy were not free to run.
He gave us also a charioteer, a boyy yyounger than we were, but sturdilyy built
and said to be skilled with headstrong horses. Automedon, his name was.
Finallyy, last of all: a long spear, ash sapling peeled of bark and polished
until it glowed like grayy flame. From Chiron, Peleus said, handing it to his
son. We bent over it, our fingers trailing its surface as if to catch the
centaur’s lingering presence. Such a fine gift would have taken weeks of
Chiron’s deft shaping; he must have begun it almost the dayy that we left.
Did he know, or onlyy guess at Achilles’ destinyy? As he layy alone in his
rose-colored cave, had some glimmer of prophecyy come to him? Perhaps he
simplyy assumed: a bitterness of habit, of boyy after boyy trained for music and
medicine, and unleashed for murder.
Yet this beautiful spear had been fashioned not in bitterness, but love. Its
shape would fit no one’s hand but Achilles’, and its heft could suit no one’s
strength but his. And though the point was keen and deadlyy, the wood itself
slipped under our fingers like the slender oiled strut of a lyyre.
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