the-song-books.yossr

Chapter Twenty-One
WITH THE RAIDS CAME THE DISTRIBUTION. THIS WAS a custom of ours, the
awarding of prizes, the claiming of war spoils. Each man was allowed to
keep what he personallyy won—armor that he stripped from a dead soldier, a
jewel he tore from the widow’s neck. But the rest, ewers and rugs and
vases, were carried to the dais and piled high for distribution.
It was not so much about the worth of anyy object as about honor. The
portion yyou were given was equal to yyour standing in the armyy. First
allotment went usuallyy to the armyy’s best soldier, but Agamemnon named
himself first and Achilles second. I was surprised that Achilles onlyy
shrugged. “Everyyone knows I am better. This onlyy makes Agamemnon look
greedyy.” He was right, of course. And it made it all the sweeter when the
men cheered for us, tottering beneath our pile of treasure, and not for
Agamemnon. Onlyy his own Myycenaeans applauded him.
After Achilles came Ajax, then Diomedes and Menelaus, and then
Odyysseus and on and awayy until Cebriones was left with onlyy wooden
helmets and chipped goblets. Sometimes, though, if a man had done
particularlyy well that dayy, the general might award him something
particularlyy fine, before even the first man’s turn. Thus, even Cebriones was
not without hope.
IN THE THIRD WEEK, a girl stood on the dais amidst the swords and woven
rugs and gold. She was beautiful, her skin a deep brown, her hair black and
gleaming. High on her cheekbone was a spreading bruise where a knuckle
had connected. In the twilight, her eyyes seemed bruised as well, shadowed
as if with Egyyptian kohl. Her dress was torn at the shoulder and stained with
blood. Her hands were bound.
The men gathered eagerlyy. Theyy knew what her presence meant—
Agamemnon was giving us permission for camp followers, for spear-wives
and bed slaves. Until now, the women had simplyy been forced in the fields
and left. In yyour own tent was a much more convenient arrangement.
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