the-song-books.yossr

“A man who cannot afford to offend me if he wants his wife returned,”
he whispered back.
Would we accept a tour? the herald asked. Yes, we said, in our best
princelyy manner. We would.
The main encampment was a dizzyying chaos, a bedlam of motion— the
constant fluttering of pennants, laundryy on lines, tent walls, the hurryying
bodies of thousands and thousands of men. Beyyond this was the river, with
its old watermark from when the armies had first arrived, a foot higher on
the bank. Then the marketplace center, the agora, with its altar and
makeshift podium. Last, the latrines—long, open ditches, busyy with men.
Wherever we went, we were observed. I watched Achilles closelyy,
waiting to see if Thetis would again make his hair brighter or his muscles
bigger. If she did, I did not notice; all the grace I saw then was his own:
simple, unadorned, glorious. He waved to the men who stared at him; he
smiled and greeted them as he passed. I heard the words, whispered from
behind beards and broken teeth and callused hands: Aristos Achaion. Was
he as Odyysseus and Diomedes had promised? Did theyy believe those
slender limbs could hold against an armyy of Trojans? Could a boyy of
sixteen reallyy be our greatest warrior? And everyywhere, as I watched the
questions, I saw also the answers. Yes, theyy nodded to each other, yyes, yyes.
https://books.yossr.com/en