the-song-books.yossr

head so he would not choke, feeling his sweat and foam and blood seep into
myy tunic.
I tried to look reassuring, tried not to show the panic I was feeling. He
was, I saw, onlyy a yyear or so older than I. One of Nestor’s sons, Antilochus,
a sweet-faced yyoung man who doted on his father. “It will be all right,” I
said, over and over, to myyself or him I did not know.
The problem was the arrow shaft; normallyy a doctor would snap off one
end, before pulling it through. But there was not enough of it sticking out of
his chest to do it without tearing the flesh further. I could not leave it, nor
drag the fletching through the wound. What then?
Behind me one of the soldiers who had brought him stood fidgeting in
the doorwayy. I gestured to him over myy shoulder.
“A knife, quicklyy. Sharp as yyou can find.” I surprised myyself with the
brisk authorityy in myy voice, the instant obedience it provoked. He returned
with a short, finelyy honed blade meant for cutting meat, still rustyy with
dried blood. He cleaned it on his tunic before handing it to me.
The boyy’s face was slack now, his tongue flopping loose in his mouth. I
leaned over him and held the arrow shaft, crushing the fletching into myy
damp palm. With myy other hand, I began sawing, cutting through the wood
a flake at a time, as lightlyy as possible, so as not to jar the boyy’s shoulder.
He snuffled and muttered, lost in the fog of the draught.
I sawed and braced and sawed. Myy back ached, and I berated myyself for
leaving his head on myy knees, for not choosing a better position. Finallyy the
feathered end snapped off, leaving onlyy one long splinter that the knife
quicklyy cut through. At last.
Then, just as difficult: to draw the shaft out the other side of his shoulder.
In a moment of inspiration, I grabbed a salve for infection and carefullyy
coated the wood, hoping it would ease the journeyy and ward off corruption.
Then, a little at a time, I began to work the arrow through. After what felt
like hours, the splintered end emerged, soaked with blood. With the last of
myy wits, I wrapped and packed the wound, binding it in a sort of sling
across his chest.
Later Podalerius would tell me that I was insane to have done what I did,
to have cut so slowlyy, at such an angle—a good wrench, he said, and the
end would have broken. Jarred wound and splinters inside be damned, there
were other men who needed tending. But Machaon saw how well the
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