And there’s something in the way these tales are spun, their desperate urgency, that one feels poor Chabrias is trying to conjure it up as much for himself as for you. That he wants the ashes of his present to kindle and glow with Argos, till it all gets too much and he stops midsentence, looks at the sky, hums an odd tune, and shows you the stump of his arm. I like Chabrias.
