Achilles had been living at Skyros so long
he’d nearly forgot how to dance the spear-dance
to the clanging of bronze shields, how to stamp his swift feet
and leap and dart while all eyes were upon him
– oh, how his muscles ached for the dance,
and something other than swishing skirts
and red, curly wigs to wear.
He should be bedding the daughters of Lykomedes,
not pretending to be one of them.
(Though he thought the kohl accentuated his smoky eyes rather nicely,
when he gazed at his reflection in the burnished surface of a mirror.)
Such were his thoughts upon seeing
the beautiful ash-shaft tucked amid all the baubles and lady’s trinkets
the Achaeans had gifted Skyros’ Lord
upon disembarking from their black-sailed ships.
They were here to drum up support for the war in Troy
and hoped to woo Lykomedes’ ships and two-score of his men-at-arms
by flattering the man’s daughters, whom he loved above all others.
Such was the rumor, at least; and the twenty and one maidens
were making the most of it, giggling and listening intently and flattering back
these strangers from across the far sea. All but the last of the Lykomedai;
her gaze kept wandering to the shaft and its shining tip.
“Funny,” the man from Ithaka nudged Protesilaos in the ribs, and whispered,
“I could have sworn I’d heard our wolfish host had sired twenty bitches only.”
“But look where her eyes settle,” he who was first of the heroes laughed,
“I think we’ve got him.”
Both men watched as Achilles’ gaze fluttered between the spear
and Deidamia, apple-cheeked. His eyes shown with more than sisterly affection.
Once, during the feast when the maidens call
bull-horned Dionysos up from the swamp
by blowing the salpinx out of sight of all men,
Achilles danced the maiden-dance with Lykomedes’ daughters,
tossing his head back and side to side like a frisking filly
until he nearly lost his snood and the wig it was keeping in place.
Exhausted and able to dance no more,
Achilles staggered away from the others
and collapsed to the ground. He closed his eyes and dreamed of an island
with a forest where all the beasts were white as milk
and he hunted them with a net by night.
He awoke to the touch of Deidamia stroking his soft lips.
“The man who kisses these will be counted among the fortunate happy ones, my sister.”
She laughed at her own joke – and to banish the strange longing
that made her virgin’s heart dance – but there was no laughter from Achilles.
He grabbed her by the back of the neck and pulled her down into a kiss.
Deidamia struggled, but not much.
She’d long suspected her father’s charge was no girl,
and now she knew.
Achilles taught her many new things in the months that followed,
all without her father being any the wiser – until her belly began to swell.
They were about to reveal everything to Lykomedes when the Achaeans arrived.
Achilles was watching her nervously when the Ithakan made his move.
He grabbed Deidamia by her slender wrist, and held his dagger to her swan’s throat.
Impetuously Achilles ripped the gauzy dress from his body
and lunged for the spear but Protesilaos held it tight and said,
“Greetings, son of Peleus; we’ve come to collect you.”
