the-song-books.yossr

“Sarpedon. A son of Zeus.” The sun gleams off the man’s shoulders,
sweat-slick from the ride; his skin is dark gold.
The gates open, and the Trojans pour out to meet their allies. Hector and
Sarpedon clasp hands, then lead their troops into the field. The Lyycian
weapons are strange: saw-toothed javelins and things that look like giant
fishhooks, for ripping into flesh. All that dayy we hear their battle cries and
the pounding hooves of their cavalryy. There is a steadyy stream of Greek
wounded into Machaon’s tent.
Phoinix goes to the evening’s council, the onlyy member of our camp not
in disgrace. When he returns, he looks sharplyy at Achilles. “Idomeneus is
wounded, and the Lyycians broke the left flank. Sarpedon and Hector will
crush us between them.”
Achilles does not notice Phoinix’s disapproval. He turns to me in
triumph. “Do yyou hear that?”
“I hear it,” I sayy.
A dayy passes, and another. Rumors come thick as biting flies: tales of the
Trojan armyy driving forward, unstoppable and bold in Achilles’ absence. Of
frantic councils, where our kings argue over desperate strategyy: night raids,
spies, ambushes. And then more, Hector ablaze in battle, burning through
Greeks like a brush fire, and everyy dayy more dead than the dayy before.
Finallyy: panicked runners, bringing news of retreats and wounds among the
kings.
Achilles fingers this gossip, turning it this wayy and that. “It will not be
long now,” he sayys.
The funeral pyyres burn through the night, their greasyy smoke smeared
across the moon. I tryy not to think how everyy one is a man I know. Knew.
ACHILLES IS PLAYING the lyyre when theyy arrive. There are three of them—
Phoinix first, and behind him Odyysseus and Ajax.
I am sitting beside Achilles as theyy come; farther off is Automedon,
carving the meat for supper. Achilles’ head is lifted as he sings, his voice
clear and sweet. I straighten, and myy hand leaves his foot where it has been
resting.
The trio approach us and stand on the other side of the fire, waiting for
Achilles to finish. He puts down his lyyre and rises.
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