Page 44 of The Song of Achilles

The hairline cracks of a headache were beginning behind my eyes; I went to my bedroom, cool and dark, its shutters barring the midday sun, and slept.

A knock woke me. A servant perhaps, or Lycomedes. My eyes still closed, I called, “Come in.”

“It’s rather too late for that,” a voice answered. The tone was amused, dry as driftwood. I opened my eyes and sat up. A man stood inside the open door. He was sturdy and muscular, with a close-cropped philosopher’s beard, dark brown tinged with faintest red. He smiled at me, and I saw the lines where other smiles had been. It was an easy motion for him, swift and practiced. Something about it tugged at my memory.

“I’m sorry if I disturbed you.” His voice was pleasant, well modulated.

“It’s all right,” I said, carefully. “I was hoping I might have a word with you. Do you mind if I sit?” He gestured towards a chair with a wide palm. The request was politely made; despite my unease, I could find no reason to refuse him.

I nodded, and he drew the chair to him. His hands were callused and rough; they would not have looked out of place holding a plow, yet his manner bespoke nobility. To stall I stood and opened the shutters, hoping my brain would shake off its sleepy fog. I could think of no reason that any man would want a moment of my time. Unless he had come to claim me for my oath. I turned to face him.

“Who are you?” I asked.

The man laughed. “A good question. I’ve been terribly rude, barging into your room like this. I am one of the great king Agamemnon’s captains. I travel the islands and speak to promising young men, such as yourself”—he inclined his head towards me—“about joining our army against Troy. Have you heard of the war?”

“I have heard of it,” I said.

“Good.” He smiled and stretched his feet in front of him. The fading light fell on his legs, revealing a pink scar that seamed the brown flesh of his right calf from ankle to knee. A pink scar. My stomach dropped as if I leaned over Scyros’ highest cliff, with nothing beneath me but the long fall to the sea. He was older now, and larger, come into the full flush of his strength. Odysseus .

He said something, but I did not hear it. I was back in Tyndareus’ hall, remembering his clever dark eyes that missed nothing. Did he know me? I stared at his face, but saw only a slightly puzzled expectation. He is waiting for an answer. I forced down my fear.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I did not hear you. What?”

“Are you interested? In joining us to fight?”

“I don’t think you’d want me. I’m not a very good soldier.”

His mouth twisted wryly. “It’s funny—no one seems to be, when I come calling.” His tone was light; it was a shared joke, not a reproach. “What’s your name?”

I tried to sound as casual as he. “Chironides.”

“Chironides,” he repeated. I watched him for disbelief, but saw none. The tension in my muscles ebbed a little. Of course he did not recognize me. I had changed much since I was nine.

“Well, Chironides, Agamemnon promises gold and honor for all who fight for him. The campaign looks to be short; we will have you back home by next fall. I will be here for a few days, and I hope you will consider it.” He dropped his hands to his knees with finality, and stood.

“That’s it?” I had expected persuasion and pressure, a long evening of it.

He laughed, almost affectionately. “Yes, that’s it. I assume I will see you at dinner?”

I nodded. He made as if to go, then stopped. “You know, it’s funny; I keep thinking I’ve seen you before.”

“I doubt it,” I said quickly. “I don’t recognize you.”

He studied me a moment, then shrugged, giving up. “I must be confusing you with another young man. You know what they say. The older you get, the less you remember.” He scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Who’s your father? Perhaps it’s him I know.”

“I am an exile.”

He made a sympathetic face. “I’m sorry to hear it. Where were you from?”

“The coast.”

“North or south?”

“South.”

He shook his head ruefully. “I would have sworn you were from the north. Somewhere near Thessaly, say. Or Phthia. You have the same roundness to your vowels that they do.”

I swallowed. In Phthia, the consonants were harder than elsewhere, and the vowels wider. It had sounded ugly to me, until I heard Achilles speak. I had not realized how much of it I had adopted.