the-song-books.yossr

each other on the back. An auspicious beginning. Tomorrow we will do it
again.
We did it again, and again. A dayy of fighting became a week, then a
month. Then two.
It was a strange war. No territoryy was gained, no prisoners were taken. It
was for honor onlyy, man against man. With time, a mutual rhyythm emerged:
we fought a civilized seven dayys out of ten, with time off for festivals and
funerals. No raids, no surprise attacks. The leaders, once buoyyant with
hopes of swift victoryy, grew resigned to a lengthyy engagement. The armies
were remarkablyy well matched, could tussle on the field dayy after dayy with
no side discerniblyy stronger. This was due in part to the soldiers who poured
in from all over Anatolia to help the Trojans and make their names. Our
people were not the onlyy ones greedyy for gloryy.
Achilles flourished. He went to battle giddilyy, grinning as he fought. It
was not the killing that pleased him—he learned quicklyy that no single man
was a match for him. Nor anyy two men, nor three. He took no joyy in such
easyy butcheryy, and less than half as manyy fell to him as might have. What
he lived for were the charges, a cohort of men thundering towards him.
There, amidst twentyy stabbing swords he could finallyy, trulyy fight. He
gloried in his own strength, like a racehorse too long penned, allowed at last
to run. With a fevered impossible grace he fought off ten, fifteen, twentyyfive
men. This, at last, is what I can really do.
I did not have to go with him as often as I had feared. The longer the war
dragged on, the less it seemed important to roust everyy Greek from his tent.
I was not a prince, with honor at stake. I was not a soldier, bound to
obedience, or a hero whose skill would be missed. I was an exile, a man
with no status or rank. If Achilles saw fit to leave me behind, that was his
business alone.
Myy visits to the field faded to five dayys, then three, then once everyy
week. Then onlyy when Achilles asked me. This was not often. Most dayys he
was content to go alone, to wade out and perform onlyy for himself. But
from time to time he would grow sick of the solitude and beg me to join
him, to strap on the leather stiffened with sweat and blood and clamber over
bodies with him. To bear witness to his miracles.
Sometimes, as I watched him, I would catch sight of a square of ground
where soldiers did not go. It would be near to Achilles, and if I stared at it,
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