We read about the Hero’s life:

 
how he was born, 
little runtlet, in a large 
family. They didn't think 
of contraception at that time.
The more hands, 
the better for the harvest.
Except he went to school 
and kept going.
His sisters doted on him.
He learned one, two, seven, 
maybe sixteen languages.
He knew how to flex 
the point of a foil and just
lightly graze a shoulder 
or the edge of the gorget.
We read about his exploits, 
how he medicined the blindness 
out of his mother's eyes,
how he wrote letters that made 
priests and governors tremble.
We read about his travels,
his lovers, how they all had 
the same heart-shaped face,
the same dark curls. Everything 
we learned about novels, we 
may have first learned from him: 
how every town has a philosopher, 
a drunk, a woman crazed 
with love for her sons; 
a snake in a holy tunic,
a cynic ready to burn down
a country that has no love
for his kind. A boatman
taking a secret away 
that isn't ready for its time.