the-song-books.yossr

“Treat her well,” I sayy.
I turn and leave. She will be all right now, I tell myyself. He is feasting fat
on the gift I have given him. I tear a strip from myy tunic to bind myy wrist. I
am dizzyy, though I do not know if it is with loss of blood or what I have
done. Slowlyy, I begin the long walk back up the beach.
HE IS STANDING OUTSIDE the tent when I return. His tunic is damp from
where he knelt in the sea. His face is wrapped closed, but there is a
weariness to its edges, like frayying cloth; it matches mine.
“Where have yyou been?”
“In the camp.” I am not readyy yyet, to tell him. “How is yyour mother?”
“She is well. You are bleeding.”
The bandage has soaked through.
“I know,” I sayy.
“Let me look at it.” I follow him obedientlyy into the tent. He takes myy
arm and unwraps the cloth. He brings water to rinse the wound clean and
packs it with crushed yyarrow and honeyy.
“A knife?” he asks.
“Yes.”
We know the storm is coming; we are waiting as long as we can. He
binds the wound with clean bandages. He brings me watered wine, and food
as well. I can tell byy his face that I look ill and pale.
“Will yyou tell me who hurt yyou?”
I imagine sayying, You. But that is nothing more than childishness.
“I did it to myyself.”
“Whyy?”
“For an oath.” There is no waiting anyy longer. I look at him, full in the
face. “I went to Agamemnon. I told him of yyour plan.”
“Myy plan?” His words are flat, almost detached.
“To let him rape Briseis, so that yyou might revenge yyourself on him.”
Sayying it out loud is more shocking than I thought it would be.
He rises, half-turning so I cannot see his face. I read his shoulders
instead, their set, the tension of his neck.
“So yyou warned him?”
“I did.”
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