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They never let you be famous and happy.’
Perhaps in some other life I could have refused, could have torn my hair and screamed, and made him face his choice alone. But not in this one. He would sail to Troy and I would follow, even into death. Yes, I whispered. Yes.
His muscles were pulled so taut I was afraid to touch him, feared they would snap like bowstrings.
‘There is no honour in betraying your friends.’
He doesn’t know how to be angry with me, either. We are like damp wood that won’t light.
‘Do you think I do not hope the same?’ he asks.
‘True. But fame is a strange thing. Some men gain
glory after they die, while others fade. What is admired in one generation is abhorred in another.’ He spread his broad hands. ‘We cannot say who will survive the holocaust of memory. Who knows?’ He smiles. ‘Perhaps one day even I will be famous. Perhaps more famous than you.’
