The ship's boards were still sticky with new resin. We leaned over the railing to wave our last farewell, the sun-warm wood pressed against our bellies. The sailors heaved up the anchor, square and chalky with barnacles, and loosened the sails. Then they took their seats at the oars that fringed the boat like eyelashes, waiting for the count. The drums began to beat, and the oars lifted and fell, taking us to Troy.

Chiron had said once that nations were the most foolish of mortal inventions. "No man is worth more than another, wherever he is from.

The door snicked shut.

and when he moved it was like watching oil spread across a lake, smooth and fluid, almost vicious

. . .nothing could eclipse the stain of his dirty, mortal mediocrity.

I lay back and tried not to think of the minutes passing. Just yesterday we had a wealth of them. Now each was a drop of heartsblood lost.

Perhaps it is the greatest grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone.