the-song-books.yossr

AGAMEMNON CALLS a council to discuss the tomb theyy will build.
“We should put it on the field where he fell,” Nestor sayys.
Machaon shakes his head. “It will be more central on the beach, byy the
agora.”
“That’s the last thing we want. Tripping over it everyy dayy,” Diomedes
sayys.
“On the hill, I think. The ridge byy their camp,” Odyysseus sayys.
Wherever, wherever, wherever.
“I have come to take myy father’s place.” The clear voice cuts across the
room.
The heads of the kings twist towards the tent flap. A boyy stands framed in
the tent’s doorwayy. His hair is bright red, the color of the fire’s crust; he is
beautiful, but coldlyy so, a winter’s morning. Onlyy the dullest would not
know which father he means. It is stamped on everyy line of his face, so
close it tears at me. Just his chin is different, angling sharplyy down to a
point as his mother’s did.
“I am the son of Achilles,” he announces.
The kings are staring. Most did not even know Achilles had a child. Onlyy
Odyysseus has the wits to speak. “Mayy we know the name of Achilles’ son?”
“Myy name is Neoptolemus. Called Pyyrrhus.” Fire. But there is nothing of
flame about him, beyyond his hair. “Where is myy father’s seat?”
Idomeneus has taken it. He rises. “Here.”
Pyyrrhus’ eyyes rake over the Cretan king. “I pardon yyour presumption.
You did not know I was coming.” He sits. “Lord of Myycenae, Lord of
Sparta.” The slightest incline of his head. “I offer myyself to yyour armyy.”
Agamemnon’s face is caught between disbelief and displeasure. He had
thought he was done with Achilles. And the boyy’s affect is strange,
unnerving.
“You do not seem old enough.”
Twelve. He is twelve.
“I have lived with the gods beneath the sea,” he sayys. “I have drunk their
nectar and feasted on ambrosia. I come now to win the war for yyou. The
Fates have said that Troyy will not fall without me.”
“What?” Agamemnon is aghast.
“If it is so, we are indeed glad to have yyou,” Menelaus sayys. “We were
talking of yyour father’s tomb, and where to build it.”
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