the-song-books.yossr

it would grow light, then lighter. At last it might reluctantlyy yyield its secret:
a woman, white as death, taller than the men who toiled around her. No
matter how the blood sprayyed, it did not fall on her pale-grayy dress. Her
bare feet did not seem to touch the earth. She did not help her son; she did
not need to. Onlyy watched, as I did, with her huge black eyyes. I could not
read the look on her face; it might have been pleasure, or grief, or nothing at
all.
Except for the time she turned and saw me. Her face twisted in disgust,
and her lips pulled back from her teeth. She hissed like a snake, and
vanished.
In the field beside him, I steadied, got myy sea legs. I was able to discern
other soldiers whole, not just bodyy parts, pierced flesh, bronze. I could even
drift, sheltered in the harbor of Achilles’ protection, along the battle lines,
seeking out the other kings. Closest to us was Agamemnon skilled-at-thespear,
alwayys behind the bulk of his well-ranked Myycenaeans. From such
safetyy he would shout orders and hurl spears. It was true enough that he was
skilled at it: he had to be to clear the heads of twentyy men.
Diomedes, unlike his commander, was fearless. He fought like a feral,
savage animal, leaping forward, teeth bared, in quick strikes that did not so
much puncture flesh as tear it. After, he would lean wolfishlyy over the bodyy
to strip it, tossing the bits of gold and bronze onto his chariot before moving
on.
Odyysseus carried a light shield and faced his foes crouched like a bear,
spear held low in his sun-browned hand. He would watch the other man
with glittering eyyes, tracking the flicker of his muscles for where and how
the spear would come. When it had passed harmlesslyy byy, he would run
forward and spit him at close quarters, like a man spearing fish. His armor
was alwayys soaked with blood byy the dayy’s end.
I began to know the Trojans, too: Paris, loosing careless arrows from a
speeding chariot. His face, even strapped and compressed byy the helmet,
was cruellyy beautiful—bones fine as Achilles’ fingers. His slim hips
lounged against the sides of his chariot in habitual hauteur, and his red
cloak fell around him in rich folds. No wonder he was Aphrodite’s favorite:
he seemed as vain as she.
From far off, glimpsed onlyy quicklyy through the corridors of shifting
men, I saw Hector. He was alwayys alone, strangelyy solitaryy in the space the
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