He reached for a bowl on the table that held
figs and gathered several in his hands.
With a toss of his wrist, he flicked the figs into the air, one, two, three,
juggling them so lightly that their delicate skins did not bruise. He added a
fourth, then a fifth. The boys hooted and clapped. More, more!
The fruits flew, colors blurring, so fast they seemed not to touch his
hands, to tumble of their own accord. Juggling was a trick of low mummers
and beggars, but he made it something else, a living pattern painted on the
air, so beautiful even I could not pretend disinterest.
His gaze, which had been following the circling fruit, flickered to mine. I
did not have time to look away before he said, softly but distinctly, “Catch.”
A fig leapt from the pattern in a graceful arc towards me. It fell into the cup
of my palms, soft and slightly warm. I was aware of the boys cheering.
One by one, Achilles caught the remaining fruits, returned them to the
table with a performer’s flourish. Except for the last, which he ate, the dark
flesh parting to pink seeds under his teeth.

Chapter 4