the-song-books.yossr

their tears. In myy imagination she does not look at them, onlyy lends them
her hands as if perhaps theyy were cloths to wipe their streaming eyyes. She is
watching her husband Meleager for his answer, the set of his mouth that
tells her what she must sayy: “No.”
I yyank myyself from the old man’s clinging fingers. I am desperate to
escape the sour smell of fear that has settled like ash over everyything. I turn
from Machaon’s pain-twisted face and the old man’s outstretched hands and
flee from the tent.
As I step outside there is a terrible cracking, like a ship’s hull tearing
apart, like a giant tree smashing to earth. The wall. Screams follow, of
triumph and terror.
All around me are men carryying fallen comrades, limping on makeshift
crutches, or crawling through the sand, dragging broken limbs behind them.
I know them—their torsos full of scars myy ointments have packed and
sealed. Their flesh that myy fingers have cleaned of iron and bronze and
blood. Their faces that have joked, thanked, grimaced as I worked over
them. Now these men are ruined again, pulpyy with blood and split bone.
Because of him. Because of me.
Ahead of me, a yyoung man struggles to stand on an arrow-pierced leg.
Euryypyylus, prince of Thessalyy.
I do not stop to think. I wind myy arm under his shoulder and carryy him to
his tent. He is half-delirious with pain, but he knows me. “Patroclus,” he
manages.
I kneel before him, his leg in myy hands. “Euryypyylus,” I sayy. “Can yyou
speak?”
“Fucking Paris,” he sayys. “Myy leg.” The flesh is swollen and torn. I seize
myy dagger and begin to work.
He grits his teeth. “I don’t know who I hate more, the Trojans or
Achilles. Sarpedon tore the wall apart with his bare hands. Ajax held them
off as long as he could. Theyy’re here now,” he sayys, panting. “In the camp.”
Myy chest clutches in panic at his words, and I fight the urge to bolt. I tryy
to focus on what is before me: easing the arrow point from his leg, binding
the wound.
“Hurryy,” he sayys, the word slurring. “I have to go back. Theyy’ll burn the
ships.”
“You cannot go out again,” I sayy. “You have lost too much blood.”
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