Multiply After Menelaus, massive, had spoken in the embassy for Helen’s return, his points refined, precise, the minimum number to usher down a towering tree, it was the turn of Odysseus, a head shorter, narrower, standing planted on his staff like the cloak of a man, his eyes shying the ground like the midday shade in summer; but when he opened his mouth to speak, from deep, like snow brawling on a winter gale, the words came blaring into the thick of the rug, indelibly into the elders assembled. Or so Antenor reports, years later, frail as rigging, his head…