Free The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller

woods at my side, and I jerked my head towards it. Too late. Something—someone—struck me from behind, throwing me forward. I landed heavily, facedown on the ground, with the person already on top of me. I closed my eyes and waited for a knife.
    There was nothing. Nothing but silence and the knees that pinned my back. A moment passed, and it came to me that the knees were not so very heavy and were placed so that their pressure did not hurt.
    “Patroclus.” Pa-tro-clus .
    I did not move.
    The knees lifted, and hands reached down to turn me, gently, over. Achilles was looking down at me.
    “I hoped that you would come,” he said. My stomach rolled, awash with nerves and relief at once. I drank him in, the bright hair, the soft curve of his lips upwards. My joy was so sharp I did not dare to breathe. I do not know what I might have said then. I’m sorry, perhaps. Or perhaps something more. I opened my mouth.
    “Is the boy hurt?”
    A deep voice spoke from behind us both. Achilles’ head turned. From where I was, beneath him, I could see only the legs of the man’s horse—chestnut, fetlocks dulled with dust.
    The voice again, measured and deliberate. “I am assuming, Achilles Pelides, that this is why you have not yet joined me on the mountain?”
    My mind groped towards understanding. Achilles had not gone to Chiron. He had waited, here. For me.
    “Greetings, Master Chiron, and my apologies. Yes, it is why I have not come.” He was using his prince’s voice.
    “I see.”
    I wished that Achilles would get up. I felt foolish here, on the ground beneath him. And I was also afraid. The man’s voice showed no anger, but it showed no kindness, either. It was clear and grave and dispassionate.
    “Stand up,” it said.
    Slowly, Achilles rose.
    I would have screamed then, if my throat had not closed over with fear. Instead I made a noise like a half-strangled yelp and scrambled backwards.
    The horse’s muscular legs ended in flesh, the equally muscular torso of a man. I stared—at that impossible suture of horse and human, where smooth skin became a gleaming brown coat.
    Beside me Achilles bowed his head. “Master Centaur,” he said. “I am sorry for the delay. I had to wait for my companion.” He knelt, his clean tunic in the dusty earth. “Please accept my apologies. I have long wished to be your student.”
    The man’s—centaur’s—face was serious as his voice. He was older, I saw, with a neatly trimmed black beard.
    He regarded Achilles a moment. “You do not need to kneel to me, Pelides. Though I appreciate the courtesy. And who is this companion that has kept us both waiting?”
    Achilles turned back to me and reached a hand down. Unsteadily, I took it and pulled myself up.
    “This is Patroclus.”
    There was a silence, and I knew it was my turn to speak.
    “My lord,” I said. And bowed.
    “I am not a lord, Patroclus Menoitiades.”
    My head jerked up at the sound of my father’s name.
    “I am a centaur, and a teacher of men. My name is Chiron.”
    I gulped and nodded. I did not dare to ask how he knew my name.
    His eyes surveyed me. “You are overtired, I think. You need water and food, both. It is a long way to my home on Pelion, too long for you to walk. So we must make other arrangements.”
    He turned then, and I tried not to gawk at the way his horse legs moved beneath him.
    “You will ride on my back,” the centaur said. “I do not usually offer such things on first acquaintance. But exceptions must be made.” He paused. “You have been taught to ride, I suppose?”
    We nodded, quickly.
    “That is unfortunate. Forget what you learned. I do not like to be squeezed by legs or tugged at. The one in front will hold on to my waist, the one behind will hold on to him. If you feel that you are going to fall, speak up.”
    Achilles and I exchanged a look, quickly.
    He stepped forward.
    “How should I— ?”
    “I will kneel.” His horse legs folded themselves into the dust. His back