the-song-books.yossr

Myyrmidon captain cupped his hands around his mouth. “Prince Achilles,
son of King Peleus and the goddess Thetis. Aristos Achaion!”
As if in answer, the air changed. Bright sunlight broke and poured over
Achilles, went rolling down his hair and back and skin, turning him to gold.
He seemed suddenlyy larger, and his tunic, wrinkled from travel,
straightened until it shone white and clean as a sail. His hair caught the light
like buoyyant flame.
Gasps amongst the men; new cheers burst forth. Thetis, I thought. It
could be no one else. She was pulling his divinityy forth, mantling it like
cream on everyy inch of his skin. Helping her son make the most of his
dearlyy bought fame.
I could see the tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth. He was enjoyying
it, licking the crowd’s worship off his lips. He did not know, he told me
later, what was happening. But he did not question it; it did not seem
strange to him.
A pathwayy had been left open for him, straight through the crowd’s heart
to where the kings gathered. Each arriving prince was to present himself
before his peers and new commander; now it was Achilles’ turn. He strode
down the plank and past the jostling ranks of men, stopping perhaps ten feet
from the kings. I was a few paces farther behind.
Agamemnon was waiting for us. His nose was curved and sharp like an
eagle’s beak, and his eyyes glittered with a greedyy intelligence. He was solid
and broad across his chest, firmlyy planted in his feet. He looked seasoned,
but also worn—older than the fortyy yyears we knew him to be. At his right
side, a place of honor, stood Odyysseus and Diomedes. On his left was his
brother, Menelaus— king of Sparta, cause of war. The vivid red hair that I
remembered from Tyyndareus’ hall was touched now with threading grayy.
Like his brother he was tall and square, his shoulders strong as a yyoke-ox.
His familyy’s dark eyyes and curving nose seemed softer on him, more
temperate. His face was smile-lined and handsome where his brother’s was
not.
The onlyy other king that I could identifyy with anyy suretyy was Nestor—the
old man, chin barelyy covered byy a sparse white beard, eyyes sharp in his agewhittled
face. He was the oldest man living, it was rumored, the cannyy
survivor of a thousand scandals and battles and coups. He ruled the sandyy
strip of Pyylos, whose throne he still clutched stubbornlyy, disappointing
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