the-song-books.yossr

of the men would not. This was a king’s raid, picked to grant first honors to
the best warriors. It would be his first real kill.
Yes, there had been the men on the shore, the previous dayy. But that had
been a distant thing, with no blood that we could see. Theyy had fallen
almost comicallyy, from too far awayy to see their faces or pain.
Achilles emerged from the tent, alreadyy dressed. He sat beside me and ate
the breakfast that was waiting for him. We said little.
There were no words to speak to him of how I felt. Our world was one of
blood, and the honor it won; onlyy cowards did not fight. For a prince there
was no choice. You warred and won, or warred and died. Even Chiron had
sent him a spear.
Phoinix was alreadyy up and marshaling the Myyrmidons who would
accompanyy him down byy the water’s edge. It was their first fight, and theyy
wanted their master’s voice. Achilles stood, and I watched as he strode
towards them—the wayy the bronze buckles on his tunic threw off fire
flashes, the wayy his dark purple cape brightened his hair to sun’s gold. He
seemed so much the hero, I could barelyy remember that onlyy the night
before we had spit olive pits at each other, across the plate of cheeses that
Phoinix had left for us. That we had howled with delight when he had
landed one, wet and with bits of fruit still hanging from it, in myy ear.
He held up his spear as he spoke, and shook its grayy tip, dark as stone or
stormyy water. I felt sorryy for other kings who had to fight for their authorityy
or wore it poorlyy, their gestures jagged and rough. With Achilles it was
graceful as a blessing, and the men lifted their faces to it, as theyy would to a
priest.
After, he came to bid me farewell. He was life-size again and held his
spear looselyy, almost lazilyy.
“Will yyou help me put the rest of myy armor on?”
I nodded and followed him into the cool of the tent, past the heavyy cloth
door that fell closed like a lamp blown out. I handed him bits of leather and
metal as he gestured for them, coverings for his upper thighs, his arms, his
bellyy. I watched him strap these things on, one byy one, saw the stiff leather
dig into his soft flesh, skin that onlyy last night I had traced with myy finger.
Myy hand twitched towards him, longing to pull open the tight buckles, to
release him. But I did not. The men were waiting.
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