Chapter Text
All things are as they are: inevitable.
On the last day in Skyros, Patroclus rose with the dawn. He was up before the sky had yet to completely recover from the night before when there were still navy shadows clinging to the fringes of the horizon, edges vanishing into a yawning sea. Patroclus stood with his arms wrapped tight around his torso, guarding against the early morning chill, and blinking away wind and salt as he gazed at the ocean. The tide was just coming in and the foam cantered lazily onto the sand with each tug of the waves, Poseidon letting loose his horses while he stretched and clicked his muscles.
A weak, early sun fell on the surface of the water, burnishing the skyline gold. His mother used to call it Amphitrite’s necklace, when it was like this, as if the horizon were a trinket to grace the throat of the sea god’s wife. When he was younger, Patroclus had taken her literally and at times when he’d felt particularly lonely, or his father’s bruises were burning particularly fresh, he would take himself down to the shoreline and pray to the kindly goddess for strength and courage. As he got older, and his thoughts on such things turned more cynical, his gazing at the ocean became more of a search for answers, a kind of meditation that was as much of an outward plea as it was inward, a call on the forces of nature to align themselves with him and to explain to him his place in a world that was so much greater and wilder than he was.
He didn’t know when the change had happened, and he’s learned to look at the sea without asking it things.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” came a soft voice at his elbow.
Patroclus didn’t need to look up to see who it was and his eyes remained fixed forward as Odysseus came and stood next to him. He was wearing a thick cloak, made for travelling and harsh weather, and his hands were buried deep inside it.
“I often wonder,” he began. “Why the Gods didn’t go the whole hog and make more of the world Ocean. I’ve been so many places, seen lands and kingdoms you wouldn’t believe, and still nothing ever compares.”
Patroclus snuck a look at him. Although the words were laced with all the typical hyperbole of a poet, there was nothing poetic in the adventurer’s expression. He looked out at the waves with absolute conviction, and Patroclus knew he had meant what he said.
“Is that why you travel?” Patroclus asked him. “Because you love the sea so much?”
Odysseus made an assenting gesture. “Partly,” he confirmed. “But more than that; I travel because the sea is the only place that I have ever really been able to call home. Or,” he added with an afterthought. “I should say it was.”
“What changed?” asked Patroclus.
“Penelope,” Odysseus replied. “Now, wherever she is is my home. Which is a damn shame, to be perfectly honest. Before I met her I felt I could travel till my dying day. Now, I get sea-sick if I’m away for more than a month. I’m afraid marriage has made me a truly sub-standard pirate.”
His tone was jovial, full of laughter, but being friends with a liar had made Patroclus only more attune to when he was telling the truth.
“Why doesn’t she come with you?” Patroclus asked.
He didn’t just mean on his adventures, and he thought Odysseus understood the inference as he hesitated before replying. “Oh I think she would do,” he answered at last. “It was one of the conditions of our marriage actually. That if she agreed I would take her with me, to see the pyramids of Egypt and the legendary tombs of the Aethiopes, the Nile and the Ganges...but there are certain things we want to keep from those we care about from seeing. There is very little adventure in watching a city burn.”
Patroclus felt an involuntary shiver run down his spine at the hollow, bluntness with which Odysseus spoke. He swallowed dryly before asking, in a small voice, “Will it really be that bad?”
Odysseus sighed, drawing his cloak tighter round himself as a particularly bitter wind blew past. “War is always bad,” he admitted finally. “I have never one to see much glory in the bloody hacking of limbs, the raping of women and children, the pillaging of homes. I realise I’m in a minority here; I have been called ‘coward’ more times that I can count on one hand. Personally, I think that if the Gods have any plans of fame for me, they shall not be distinguished on the battlefield. However, that is only my destiny, and who am I to belittle the fates of other men?”
Here he looked at Patroclus, and in that look was a wisdom of such depth as could not come from any ordinary mortal and Patroclus remembered with startling clarity, that this man was said to be a favourite of Athena. This realisation made him want to avert his gaze, all at once embarrassed and a little fearful.
“You’ve made your decision,” said Odysseus. It was not a question.
Patroclus nodded. “Yes.”
Odysseus let out a sigh and Patroclus was surprised to hear how melancholic it was. “I cannot make any pretence at shock,” he began. “But I feel I would be remiss as a friend if I were not to ask: are you absolutely sure? Achilles is hardly the type to believe in his own mortality but Patroclus, the prophesy states in no uncertain terms that if he goes he will die. There is no future for you, for either of you, in Troy. But if you stay...Patroclus, if you stay you’ll be king.”
“I know what the prophesy said,” said Patroclus irritably. “But I’m sorry, a life without Achilles isn’t a life at all. If he is fated to die in Troy so be it. I don’t plan on out-living him.”
“I thought you might say that,” remarked Odysseus ruefully. “And I see that you are not to be pressed further. But I will just make clear to you: do not harbour any illusions that by going with him he will somehow be saved. No man can change the course of destiny. Not even such a one as brave and noble as yourself.”
Patroclus said nothing. Understanding that he had spoken enough, Odysseus sighed again, running a hand through his windswept brown hair.
“We set sail at noon,” he spoke again after a while. “The plan is for you, Achilles and Phoenix to return to Phthia, to make ready the Myrmidons and make your goodbyes. In three days’ time I will met you with Agamemnon at Aulis. Phoenix will explain the details.”
Patroclus nodded, a silent dismissal, and Odysseus understood it as much. He turned away and headed back up the beach, however as his footsteps had begun to grow familiar Patroclus heard him pause in greeting of a new arrival, heard the two clasp hands and then the sounds of new feet on the sand.
“Hello,” said Achilles. “What are you doing out here?”
Patroclus removed his gaze from the horizon to rest on Achilles. Looking into his face, wide eyed and innocent, with no hint of the wild clashing turbulence beneath, he felt there wasn’t all that much difference between his face and the expanse in front of him.
“I was remembering,” started Patroclus. “About how when I was little, I used to come down to the beach and ask the sea for things.”
Achilles snorted contemptuously. “That’s very foolish.”
“I mean, I was about seven.”
“It would have been foolish at any age,” Achilles continued. “You shouldn’t stake your fortune on something so fickle, and callous. If there’s one thing I know about the sea it’s that it doesn’t give two shits, not about you, or anything else. Nor does any force of nature. That’s why people make their Gods human.”
Patroclus smiled privately to himself. “You talk about the Gods as if we invented them,” he told Achilles. “Like you don’t know that they’re real.”
“Oh I think they’re real enough,” Achilles shrugged. “But who’s to say that means we didn’t invent them?”
Patroclus rolled his eyes, returning his attention to the gentle dragging of the tide. Achilles appeared to be contemplating, he was chewing his lip as if deep in thought.
“Of course,” he started up again. “I’ll believe and say anything they want me to, and make a dozen sacrifices, while we’re at Troy. I get the feeling we’ll be needing a little more than the sea on our side, against Hector.”
“Who are you thinking?”
“Athena. Hera. Maybe Ares, I don’t know.”
“How about Apollo?”
Achilles made a face. “I don’t like Apollo.”
Patroclus clasped his ears in horror. “Gods,” he hissed. “We’re going to war. You can’t say things like that!”
Achilles snickered and Patroclus whacked him. “What about Hades?” Patroclus asked. “Considering the prophecy, having death on your side can be no bad thing.”
Achilles shook his head. “Nah,” he replied. “Hades can fight me.”
Patroclus was saved the responsibility of begging forgiveness for both their souls by Achilles’ slinging an arm heavily around his shoulders, steering him back towards the palace.
“This kind of talk bores me,” he said. “Let’s find some food.”
oOo
The ships were made ready and at midday Achilles and Patroclus were finalising the provisions for the return to Phthia. Even in such circumstances, or perhaps especially so, neither of them could suppress their eagerness for the return and they prepared for the journey with the utmost haste. Finally, when all the luggage had been packed and Achilles’ dresses neatly stowed and folded away, all that was left to do were the goodbyes.
Unfortunately, this was the part that Patroclus had most been dreading.
Daedemia had been alternating between screaming fits and hysterical crying since Odysseus’ arrival. Patroclus, who now felt he had rather a good grasp on the character of the princess, was hard pressed to feel much sympathy. Indeed, it became quite plain to him that Daedemia’s tears were more of a plea for sympathy and attention than any real distress and while he pitied anyone who had to resort to such measures to be of notice, after Achilles’ account it was hard for him to feel much more than revulsion when he looked at Daedemia. However, he still could not suppress the stirring of humanity he felt when, at the hour of leaving, Daedemia rushed at Achilles, gripping the folds of his chiton with tears lacerating her cheeks.
“You can’t leave!” she screamed at him. “You can’t!”
“I absolutely can,” snarled Achilles, tearing away from her.
But Daedemia held on fast, curling her fingers around his ankles, as if she were a taloned harpy. “But our son!” she wailed. “Our baby! You’d leave me here to birth him and raise him on my own?”
“On your own, or with whomever you can coerce into bed with you,” Achilles replied. “I don’t care.”
He tugged away from her impatiently but Daedemia only wept harder, sinking her nails deep into his skin. Achilles’ eyes blazed and there was no trace of compassion as he turned them on her.
“Let go of me,” he ordered in no uncertain terms. “Or I will do something I’ll regret.”
At the look on her face, furious and terrible in a way that no mere mortal could manage, Daedemia released him with horror, as if she had been scalded. As Achilles whirled away from her however, her face changed from distress to pure hatred.
“Very well husband,” she choked, anger ringing through her sobs. “Leave me as you will. But know this: your son will grow up knowing exactly what kind of monster you are, and he will hate you for it!”
For a brief instant, Achilles looked troubled. It was no light thing to speak of the relationship between father and son, since the beginning of the world it had been at the centre of some of the very darkest stories. But the moment passed and Achilles’ face was as hard and cold as it had ever been.
“Do what you want,” he told her before shutting himself off completely and turning away.
Daedemia’s bottom lip trembled, however she rose resolutely to her feet, her fists tense with loathing. Automatically her hands passed over belly, as if through touch along she could pass some of that emotion to the infant sleeping there. Achilles grit his teeth and walked over to Lycomedes who stood, surveying the scene with bitter distaste.
“I curse the day the day your brother brought you to this house,” said the old man.
“Then we have that in common,” replied Achilles.
There was not much more to be said. After a last long, harrowing look Lycomedes led his red-eyed daughter back into the palace. The moment they were gone Achilles seemed to cheer and he said goodbye to Odysseus with good humour.
“Goodbye, you snaky, conniving, opportunist, sea-shitting pirate,” he said. “I’ll see you in three days.”
“Goodbye, you spoilt, pampered, sociopath, milk-sop mamma’s boy,” returned Odysseus gravely. “Safe journey.”
Achilles clasped his shoulder warmly and with a last wave leapt onto the boat to join Phoenix, leaving Patroclus alone once again with Odysseus.
“I think Achilles has already forgotten you were the one to rat him out,” Patroclus told him with a raised eyebrow. “But I haven’t.”
“I wouldn’t have expected anything less,” replied Odysseus sombrely.
Patroclus smiled and offered his hand. “Safe journey, king of Ithaca.”
“And you, prince of Opus,” returned Odysseus.
Patroclus turned away and was halfway to clambering aboard the ship after Achilles when Odysseus’ voice called him back.
“Patroclus.”
Patroclus looked at him expectantly. Odysseus was wearing an expression of complete nonchalance, as if he had just remembered something that had hitherto slipped his mind.
“I meant to tell you,” he started. “But by the Grey-eyed Lady I must be getting old. I might be mistaken, but rumours abound tell that you are interested in the whereabouts of a certain young lady?”
Patroclus felt his blood freeze in his veins, even as his heart stopped beating. He could scarcely dare to breathe the name out loud but thought he might faint if he didn’t. “Leptine?”
Odysseus snapped his fingers before slapping a palm dramatically to his forehead. “Ah yes,” he exclaimed. “Thought I knew the name. Was off the tip of my tongue.”
“Where is she?” Patroclus demanded. “Is she alive? Is she well?”
“She is alive and well,” Odysseus confirmed, all mocking humour leaving his voice. “My sources tell me that Amyntor’s ship landed in Abyssinia where she was sold to a brothel. However she managed to escape and secure passage aboard a merchant ship, headed for Anatolia where she is now working as a handmaid to that same merchant’s daughter. His name is Briseus, I believe, of Lyrnessos, a town not so far from Troy.”
Patroclus stared at Odysseus who was smiling pleasantly at him as if he had said nothing at all of any remote interest. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?!” Patroclus nearly screamed once he had found his voice.
“Well, I didn’t want to influence your decision,” Odysseus replied innocently. “And perhaps there is a slight chance that I was interested in what it would be without this information.”
Patroclus continued to gape at Odysseus, all responses completely blown out his system. Odysseus merely chuckled at his shock and, with a parting wave, left for his own ship. As his figure grew smaller, Patroclus felt the indignation inside him gradually bleed out. There was very little point in remaining angry with Odysseus. It was like being upset at a scorpion after it stung you. In any case, his heart was much too full with this news to feel anything other than the purest, most blissful joy.
“You look cheerful,” Achilles remarked as Patroclus joined him on deck.
“I feel cheerful,” Patroclus replied. “Fancy stopping off at Lyrnessos before Troy?”
Achilles looked at him quizzically. “Why?”
Patroclus grinned, and it felt like the first time in months.
“Well,” he said. “I hear Briseus has got some really pretty handmaidens.”
oOo
As is often the way of things, the journey back passed much quicker than the journey there. Patroclus didn’t know if this was because for the first time in four months he had Achilles beside him again, or because after so long wondering and hoping he now knew that Leptine was alright, or simply the relief that they were going home. Either way, it barely felt like any time at all had passed before they were steeping off the harbour and onto the reassuringly familiar soil of Phthia.
Nearly every inhabitant of the palace and the citadel was stood outside the gates to greet them. At its front stood Thetis whose eyes were nearly as raw as Daedemia’s had been. She greeted Achilles with a kiss and a hug so fierce Patroclus saw Achilles wince over her shoulder. Peleus waited patiently during these ministrations, casting a wary eye over his ex-wife. Once she had released Achilles however several retainers nearly went flying as he barrelled forward to embrace his son. Patroclus watched, a lump rising in his throat as the tears ran down Peleus’ pale withered cheeks while he clasped Achilles to his bony form. He remembered how Peleus had shut himself away, almost as Patroclus had done during the long months that Achilles had been in Skyros.
“Achilles,” Peleus rasped, as if too full of joy to say much else.
“Father,” Achilles managed and Patroclus saw that his eyes too were swimming. “Father, I’m so sorry. I have brought shame and disgrace upon you. I’m so sorry.”
“Shame?” Peleus repeated in disbelief. “Shame? The only shame that you should feel is that you did not say goodbye.”
Achilles squeezed his eyes shut but even so a tear rolled down his cheek. Perhaps it had occurred to him, as it had to Patroclus, that Peleus had not had the slightest clue where he had been, or even if he was ever coming home. With a heavy sight, Peleus released him.
“Soon you will be gone again,” he remarked mournfully. “There is little that can be done. However, we can at least give you a mighty send off so that you do not forget us again so quickly.”
These words were echoed with a great cheer and with Peleus’ hand on his shoulder Achilles was guided into the Great Hall, the elated crowd swarming behind him with Thetis taking up the rear. Patroclus hung back however, as did Ampelius.
They stood alone in the courtyard, within the thick sphere of awkwardness. After several seconds of uncomfortable silence, Patroclus took it upon himself to break the tension.
“Hi dad,” he said sarcastically.
“Hi son,” replied Ampelius.
Taken aback, Patroclus blinked. Catching sight of his bewildered expression, Ampelius laughed loudly and after a moment Patroclus joined in. Then, Ampelius clapped him on the back so hard he felt his knees buckle and together they followed the crowd into the Hall.
The Hall was decorated as if for a festival with fresh ferns upon the flagstones and the rafters laced with streamers. The tables were bedecked with such a feast as Patroclus had not seen since the Corinthian’s visit and after the past weeks of Skyros’ scanty hospitality he felt his mouth water at the sight. Achilles was directed to the seat at Peleus’ right hand side and Patroclus to the place next to him, however he viewed the table with the other foster boys’ with longing as talk turned predictably to Achilles’ time in Skyros.
“So Achilles,” General Acastus began jovially, filling both he and Patroclus’ cups with wine. “You enjoyed your brief spell amongst the fairer sex eh?”
“If all you need to do to catch a skirt is wear one yourself,” said a lord further down the table. “I might stop having my tunics altered.”
“You could always borrow your wife’s,” answered another, and the table roared with laughter.
Patroclus glanced at Achilles. His face was very white, and his knuckles shone starkly through the skin of his fist, however he didn’t say anything.
“Was she so beautiful, Achilles?” Cleitus continued. “She must have been, that you could stand so long wearing a dress. But I suppose if you regularly took it off?”
The lords laughed again. Inside, Patroclus felt a little sick. He saw his feelings mirrored on Achilles’ face, however was amazed to see him force a thin smile.
“Very beautiful,” he confirmed diplomatically. “Of course, I didn’t bank on her being clever as well. She threatened to tell everyone who I was if I didn’t do it, and so you see, I had no choice.”
“Ah, a decision of mutual benefit then!” Ampelius roared jocularly and the lords cheered their agreement.
Talk turned to other matters and Patroclus instantly relaxed. He looked at Achilles; he was still quite calm, however his face had taken on a hue that was almost green. Discreetly, Patroclus reached under the table until he felt Achilles’ fingers. When he did he took his hand, squeezing it hard. Achilles clutched back gratefully and did not let go throughout the remainder of the conversation.
Celebrations ran well into the night, in truth much longer than either Achilles or Patroclus had stomach for. By midnight Patroclus was thinking longingly of his bed in his own room, however he was jolted from his reverie by Acastus asking him a question.
“And you’re going with him?”
Patroclus, who had not been keeping track of the conversation, was about to reply that yes, with any luck he and Achilles would be going to bed together, when he realised that this was probably not an appropriate subject to voice at dinner.
“Sorry?”
“To Troy,” Acastus clarified. “You will be sailing with us?”
“Oh,” Patroclus swiftly yanked his brain into full consciousness. “Yes.”
“Atta boy,” slurred a drunken lord, slopping the majority of his mousakka down his front.
“I am very pleased Patroclus,” said Peleus. “Very pleased, but not surprised. I shall not fear nearly as much if my son has a clear head beside him.”
It was the first time Peleus had spoken to him since Achilles had gone away and Patroclus was too taken aback to think of a response. Before he had found his voice again Peleus had already turned away; Patroclus turned back round and found Ampelius looking at him oddly, his wild eyebrows drawn like a troubled storm down over his wine-ruddy face.
Later, when the majority of the lords were no longer in a fit state to plague them with questions, Achilles leant close to whisper in Patroclus’ ear.
“Let’s get out of here.”
Patroclus nodded eagerly and after Achilles had excused them and wished his father goodnight, the two stole from the Hall and sprinted the spiral steps upstairs to their room.
Once the door had closed behind them, Achilles wasted no time in pinning Patroclus to the mattress. They kissed until both their bodies ached for more, and then Achilles was turning over and Patroclus was moving against him. The moonlight slipped from the window ledge onto Achilles’ shoulder like it had done that first night, and every night that Patroclus had gazed in silent longing, half of him made silver as the coins they lay on dead eyes for the ferryman. Their breaths were like wind dragging the tide and when Patroclus came he closed his eyes and saw planets, stars, the whole of the Universe and its infinite constellations, spinning an endless dance along the peripherals of his vision and as they lay there, breathing heavily in each other’s arms, he understood for the first time that time, like the Gods, is no more than an invention.
Achilles had Patroclus’ hand and was gently kissing the knuckles. “What are you thinking about?” he asked softly.
“Life,” Patroclus told him truthfully. “And death. And immortality.”
Achilles grimaced. “Whatever floats your boat,” he said.
“Achilles, are you sure you want to go?” Patroclus pressed him.
Achilles looked up, startled. “Yes,” he replied, as if the question had been a very stupid one.
This did not satisfy Patroclus. “Why?” he asked.
Achilles did not answer immediately but instead let his head drop against Patroclus’ chest. Patroclus became instantly conscious of his heart, thumping rhythmically between them and knew Achilles felt it too.
“In the beginning,” Achilles spoke suddenly. “There was Darkness, and that’s all there was for a long time. Then one day, Darkness grey lonely. She gave birth and light came spilling out, not as a whole but into thousands of little star pieces. The problem was, they all sort of looked more or less the same. Only a few of them, the ones that were really bright, were the ones she could tell apart. So Darkness took these ones and set them apart from the rest and the brightest star pieces she set by her side to shine forever and keep her company while the others, after a long time, faded until there was nothing left of them, until it was as if they had never been.”
Achilles finished and looked up at Patroclus. “If you were a bright star,” he said. “Why would you choose to fade?”
Patroclus shifted tetchily beneath Achilles’ weight. “That’s a very elitist story.”
“Sorry,” replied Achilles boredly. “I missed out the part where the bright star meets another grumpy, pedantic one with a stick up its arse and can’t go and join Darkness without the other one tagging along.”
“I don’t have to come, you know.”
“I know,” said Achilles quickly. A pause, and then, “Why? Are you having second thoughts?”
Patroclus shook his head. “Just thinking about how you also missed the part when the bright star burns out,” he said. “And Darkness swallows her children.”
Achilles was quiet for a very long time, and Patroclus thought he had fallen asleep. Then suddenly, as Patroclus was dozing off, he heard his voice as small as anything against his chest.
“I need you to promise me something.”
“What?”
“If I die,” began Achilles. “I need you to promise me to live.”
Patroclus made a scoffing sound. “You ask far too much.”
“I’m serious,” Achilles insisted. “I can’t go if I think you’re going to do something stupid after I kick it.”
“God,” snapped Patroclus, shoving Achilles away from him with distaste. “Stop talking about death like that. It’s not funny.”
“I know it’s not,” said Achilles, although he didn’t sound convinced. “But I do need you to promise me.”
“And what am I supposed to do?” demanded Patroclus, tears springing into his eyes. “Tell me please, what I’m supposed to do without you?”
“Anything you like,” replied Achilles easily. “I’m making you steward until my heir’s of age. Rule Phthia. Marry Leptine. Look after my son.”
He looked up at Patroclus, eyes wide and plaintive. “Look after my son,” he repeated. “She’ll try and poison him against me...he’ll grow up hating me if she has her way. Don’t let him. Tell him about me. Don’t let him think I’m a monster.”
He looked at Patroclus and Patroclus had never been able to say ‘no’ to that look.
What he thought, however, was dependent on nothing. And Patroclus would promise nothing.
oOo
The next three days were taken up with preparations and, despite the fact that they were never apart, Patroclus rarely saw Achilles. He was constantly rushing in and out of the military barracks, checking weaponry and provisions with all the pedantry of an accountant. His eye was required to look over every list, his seal necessary for every new shipment and while the palace officials were loathe to act without him he responded to each task with real vigour, earnest with his desire for control over proceedings. He spent a good deal of time just walking amongst the men, getting them used to his face and voice, learning (and promptly forgetting) each individual name.
When he wasn’t with the Myrmidons he was in the War Room with Phoenix and Acastus and Peleus’ other advisors, going over strategies and re-examining their knowledge of the harsh plains of Western Anatolia. Patroclus sat with him but could barely keep his eyes open as they poured over maps and sketches, learning the towns with the easiest pickings, the safest trade routes. Then there were the allies. Achilles would keep Patroclus up at night having him test him on the makeup of the Greek force; each country, their king, their captain, his history.
Thus there was barely any time to get used to being back before they were making to set sail again. When Patroclus awoke Achilles had already gone down, no doubt to oversee the loading of the ships. He rose very slowly, heaving himself off the mattress to survey his room for the last time.
As he found himself looking at the small bed, the carved chest that contained clothes, the small table with its broken kithara, he found himself realising that it wasn’t much really, not for all the significance that this room with its four walls and large room carried. There was another door set into the far side which led down to the bathrooms and Patroclus had a sudden flashback of pushing it open and walking down a long, dimly lit corridor to find a boy, sitting fully clothed and shivering in cold water, covered in blood. He looked at the chest and remembered how his hands had trembled as he had filled it with his own belongings, the first night of moving into Achilles’ room, still drunk from the celebrations after being made hetairoi. He looked at the bed and saw Achilles laying on it, one arm outstretched towards the ceiling, his hand opening and closing around something Patroclus couldn’t see.
Patroclus surveyed the room and thought that it was more made of memory than stone. “Goodbye,” he said before exiting swiftly, closing the door behind him.
The Great Hall was noisy with the sounds of breakfast, bright morning chatter and the clatter of bowls on the wooden tables. Again for a moment Patroclus found himself standing in the doorway, thinking of how two years ago his name had been called from a scroll and he’d tripped as he stumbled up the dais. He saw the benches pushed back to the sides, the centre of the Hall cleared for trial as Nekros swept up and down, screaming for blood. Then someone shouted “Patroclus!” and he came plummeting back to earth.
It was the foster boys. They waved him over and moved along the benches to make room for him in between Stylax and Leonides. Initially Patroclus tensed, worried that someone was going to bring up Skryos, but through some kind of collective intuition the boys seemed to know not to talk about it. Instead they acted as though Patroclus had never been gone, stacking his plate with food and plaguing him with questions about Troy.
“You’re so lucky,” Calisthenes said with awe as Patroclus repeated what Odysseus had told him, about there being no war like this one. “Gods. If that’s not a direct ticket to Elysium I don’t know what is.”
“Do you think Hector’s really as good as they say?” asked Stylax.
“Nah, he’s all talk. My friend’s brother’s cousin’s met someone who knows him and apparently he isn’t all that. I bet we could take him, if we were allowed to leave the home defence.”
“Speak for yourself mate,” Quintos snorted. “I certainly would not want to fight him.”
“Quintos, you wouldn’t fight a baby who shat on your tunic.”
“Of course I wouldn’t fight a baby. Who would want to fight a baby?”
“Yeah but you actually couldn’t fight a baby.”
“Yeah, agreed. Could you fight a baby?”
“No, but you couldn’t because you’d lose.”
“If I fought a baby,” Quintos said, solemnly and deliberately. “I would win. Because of my superior speed and strength.”
Calisthenes rolled his eyes. “Anyway,” he said. “Hector’s nothing. Either way, he won’t last five minutes against Achilles.”
“He won’t last five minutes against Patroclus,” corrected Leonides and at this there was a great cheer during which the boys clapped Patroclus heartily on the back and ruffled his hair until Patroclus was blushing fiercely, his insides glowing with warmth.
After breakfast the boys departed for the beach. Someone had found a ball from somewhere and they spent a happy hour chasing it in teams, that is, until Calisthenes hit Quintos who promptly decided he had been killed and resolved to make one last stand, degenerating the game into a shotgun wrestling match. Patroclus and Leonides laughed themselves hoarse from where they sat watching events unfold with Quintos running around in circles while Stylax and Calisthenes rolled around on the floor, hindered by a severe case of sand in the eye.
“I wish the Trojans could see this,” Patroclus told Leonides. “So they’d know what they’re up against.”
“I wish Deiomachus could see this,” said Leonides.
Even after all that had happened, the sound of his old friend’s name was like a knife in Patroclus’ gut and when he exhaled it was almost painful. “Yeah,” he nodded. “Me too.”
Leonides didn’t say anything but continued to watch as Stylax and Calisthenes tossed Quintos into the sea. As Patroclus looked on, it seemed that out of the corner of his eye he could see another boy standing there, his hands in his pockets and his head slung back as he laughed loudly, youthful, eternal.
Someone drew a dick on your shirt?
“Listen mate,” said Patroclus. “I think I know where Leptine is.”
Leonides looked at him and when he spoke, Patroclus wasn’t sure whose voice he heard. “Then you’d better fucking find her mate,” he said.
Patroclus nodded. Leonides spat on his hand and offered it and Patroclus did the same, clasping it tightly so that it wasn’t just a promise. It was an oath.
“Try and make it back, yeah?” Leonides said. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the rest of us have kind of started to like you.”
Patroclus laughed and nodded. Hearing him, Calisthenes looked up from where he had been kicking Quintos into the foam and waved them over.
“What are you old ladies talking about?” he yelled at them. “Come and help beat up this coward deserter.”
“Conscientious objector,” snarled Quintos.
Grinning, Patroclus offered Leonides his arm and pulled him before running to join his brothers into the sea.
By the time they struggled off the beach, soaking wet and laughing it was afternoon. The sun was at its highest in the sky and Patroclus could feel its rays burning the sea off his skin, leaving nothing but salt. It was very nearly time to go; walking up to the castle he was passed by an ongoing stream of men, carrying crates and sealed jars on their way to the port. Patroclus felt a swooping sensation in his gut as he watched them, feeling an inexplicable kinship to the cargo that was to be stowed away, compelled by heavier arms to the ship without any say in the matter. He banished the thought from his mind. He had had a say in the matter. He had made this choice and he wouldn’t allow himself to get cold feet about it now.
“Are you all set?” asked Leonides who was also watching the lifters levelly.
“Yeah,” said Patroclus, just as a thought occurred to him. “Hold on. I’ll be right back.”
Without further explanation he took off for the palace’s back entrance, shooting along the corridors until he found the tunnels that led to the slaves’ quarters. As his feet echoed against the dimly lit stones he couldn’t suppress a jab of nostalgia, remembering all the times he had taken this route, darting into the shadows on some heroic escapade, Leptine’s quick, clever feet flashing ever in front of him. He reached the splintered door at the end and, pushing it open, remembered how he had first been sent here to serve as a slave and be taught obedience and had learnt so much more.
Loras was leaning against the wall, polishing his caduceus. He glanced up indifferently when Patroclus entered but addressed his words to him as he approached. “You still here?”
“Only briefly,” Patroclus replied. “I’m looking for something.”
Loras snorted. “And here’s me thinking you came down to say goodbye.”
Patroclus made an acquiescing gesture. “That too.”
Loras scoffed but he put down his caduceus very tenderly and straightened up to switch his gaze to Patroclus. “I know what you’re looking for,” he said, beckoning at him. “Come on.”
Loras wove through the piles of ragged, rat-eaten blankets and threadbare mattresses and Patroclus followed him, curiosity brimming until Loras stopped at the far side of the cavern. He bent low, reaching out into the darkness and his fingers closed around the edges of a loose brick. Wiggling it assertively, he slid it from the wall before proceeding to reach in and take out various assorted objects; coins, jewellery, packaged food. Patroclus watched bemusedly as the pile of treasures grew larger before Loras finally exclaimed “Aha!” and turned back to face Patroclus. In his hands gleamed a yellow ribbon.
“Any one of these arseholes would have had this if it had just been laying around,” he explained. “I had a feeling you might want it.”
Touched, Patroclus reached out to take the ribbon. In the cavernous dark of the slaves’ quarters, it was the only bright thing. “I really did come down here to say goodbye as well, you know,” he told Loras after he had tied it securely round his wrist.
“Sure, okay,” Loras rolled his eyes. “As if you didn’t forget about us little people the second you got invited to play house with the prince.”
Wounded, Patroclus frowned. “Is that what you think?”
Loras shrugged and shuffled his feet. It was difficult to tell whether he was being genuine, or just his typical surly self. Either way, the idea that the slaves thought Patroclus had abandoned them perturbed him enough to set a hand on Loras’ shoulder.
“I’ll never forget about you,” he promised solemnly. “Not as long as I live.”
Loras, colouring very faintly with the sentiment, nodded. “Good,” he mumbled. “Because you’d be surprised how much of the world does.”
“Not me,” Patroclus assured him. “I promise.”
Loras offered his hand and Patroclus shook it. “Good luck, Vassal of Hermes,” he said.
“Actually, it’s Rod of Hermes now,” Loras corrected him. “I’ve just been promoted. Official quasi-fulltime messenger official.”
“Proud of you,” said Patroclus.
They said their goodbyes and then Patroclus was clambering out of the gloom and once more into the light, the flame from the torch brackets bouncing off Leptine’s ribbon bound securely round his wrist. The corridors seemed quiet when he emerged from the tunnels and once outside he realised why; the entire palace had gathered to see off the Myrmidon soldiers. Patroclus saw them shining in their armour, the sun splitting their helmets as if they were the guardians of Olympus. At their head was Achilles who was attempting to peer over the crowd; when he saw Patroclus he released a huff of exasperation and waved him over.
“There you are!” he exclaimed. “We’re leaving, come on!”
And suddenly, they were leaving. Patroclus found himself pulled into embraces, his ears ringing with goodbyes and good fortunes as heavy hands clapped his back and shoulders, or ruffled his hair. For a moment he thought that he might actually break down as he hugged each of the foster boys in turn, promising to come back with stories of Troy and to confirm which warriors really were as fierce as legend said. When he reached Peleus Patroclus reached out to shake his hand, however he just about had all the wind knocked out of him when the old man yanked him in for a hug.
“Look after him,” Peleus whispered. “And look after yourself.”
Patroclus nodded. “I will.”
After squeezing him tightly, Peleus loosened his hold and placed his hands on both Patroclus’ shoulders. “Who but the Wise Ones could have predicted how you’d turn out?” he said warmly. “It seems a very long time ago that a clumsy little boy tripped in the Hall upon having his name called out.”
Patroclus pulled a face at the memory. “Can we not?”
Peleus laughed, reaching up to touch Patroclus’ face briefly. “Many times I have blessed the day that you came into my household,” he told him. “Now I bless the day you leave it. Go well, Patroclus.”
Patroclus thanked him and Peleus moved away to rejoin his son. When he was gone, Patroclus craned his neck to catch a sight of Ampelius.
He did not have to look for long. The enormous man was sending people flying in his attempt to reach Patroclus, tearing through the crowd like a terrifying force of nature. Patroclus barely had a chance to tell him to calm the fuck down before he found himself suffocating against the giant’s torso, ribs creaking feebly as Ampelius’ arms forced him into a bone-cracking hug. Patroclus felt tears spring into his eyes, not from emotion but from real pain.
“Let go, you fat bastard,” he wheezed. “I can’t breathe.”
“Don’t take this from me,” Ampelius growled.
At last Ampelius released him and Patroclus massaged his bruised left side. He had little time to recover however before Ampelius was clapping a hand to his shoulder and he was sinking a little further into the dirt.
“Patroclus,” Ampelius said, and his voice was serious. “Look at me.”
Patroclus looked at him. His beetle black eyes were nearly lost by the furrow of his brow and his face was crinkled with concern. He cleared his throat once and Patroclus braced himself, preparing for a lecture.
“I’m sure you’re tired of hearing this,” Ampelius began. “But I don’t think you should go.”
“For Gods’ sake,” Patroclus rolled his eyes. “You’re right, I am tired of hearing it. Why is no one giving Achilles grief over this, huh? Or Phoenix? The man’s pushing, eighty, friend. You know I do actually possess some degree of fighting ability? And have fought in like, over one battle. Plus, I’m not suffering from arthritis so really, who’s closer to death here-”
“-I’m not talking about your fighting ability,” Ampelius cut him off dismissively. “And to tell you the truth, I’m not too worried about you. You’re too sensible to lose your head in a savage blood frenzy and even if you did manage it Achilles wouldn’t be far behind to clean up the mess. No Patroclus, I don’t think you should go because I think you should be king.”
He paused, looking expectantly at Patroclus and when he didn’t answer took his silence as permission to plough ahead. “You have enormous talent, Patroclus. And I don’t just mean on the battlefield but off it; in the Council chambers, in the Treasury, even in the War Room. You have a kind of skill that so many soldiers can only ever dream of, the skill of understanding the world as it is and the imagination to make it as you want it to be. You have drive and passion and ambition but above all you have principles, and ideas of how to achieve them. A talent like that shouldn’t go to waste, Patroclus. Opus needs you, and from there who knows? You have the chance to change the world, and for the better. I can’t say that it’s your destiny to stay...but I could argue that it’s your responsibility.”
He removed his hand from Patroclus’ shoulder and scratched the back of his neck with an impatient huffing sound. “There now,” he said gruffly. “I’ve said what I have to say. Now I suppose you’re going to ignore me as usual and climb on the boat to go Gods know where and find Achilles and do Gods know what.”
Patroclus forced himself to smile, although he knew there wasn’t much humour in it. “Yeah I am,” he replied. “But thanks for trying.”
Ampelius’ shoulders sagged. He didn’t look disappointed, just resigned, as if he had already prepared himself for what Patroclus’ answer would be. “It would be a very good way of getting back at your father,” he suggested.
Patroclus feigned confusion. “Why would I want to do that?” he asked. “When I can just take the piss out of him here?”
Ampelius tried and failed to hide his smile. “You’re not funny,” he muttered darkly.
“You drink too much,” Patroclus retorted. “And your beard is stupid.”
Ampelius chuckled and cuffed him playfully on the back of head. “Go on,” he said. “Get going.”
Patroclus nodded and turned to go. He had barely gone a few steps however before he was rushing back and hugging Ampelius swiftly round the middle. “Thanks for everything,” he said. “I’ll make you proud.”
Ampelius grunted awkwardly. “Don’t be thick, boy,” he replied. “You already have.”
“What were you talking about?” asked Achilles by the time Patroclus finally joined him on board.
He was leaning against the deck, dressed in a plain white chiton and simple armour. A scarlet cloak flowed from his shoulders, setting against the gold like the plumage of some fabulous bird. His eyes were sharp with a rare hunger. Patroclus propped himself next to him, looking out onto a sea of beaming faces and joyful waves.
“Ampelius was trying to persuade me that you were hardly worth sailing across the world for to fight in some pointless battle,” he replied, flicking Achilles’ ear where his newly cut hair hung raggedly cropped just below the lobe. Achilles brushed him away with a tsk, nudging Patroclus to elaborate. “And?”
“Well obviously I said he had a point,” replied Patroclus.
Achilles swore savagely, pushing Patroclus away and he laughed. “Whatever,” he scowled. “As long as he doesn’t get on the boat or we’ll never leave port.”
Patroclus shook his head. “Nah,” he replied. “I think he understood the fact of the matter pretty well.”
Achilles raised an eyebrow. “Which is?”
Patroclus looked at him, eyes locking. Earth and water, always. “That I’ll go wherever you go.”
Achilles smiled, soft, radiant and in that moment the words that hung unspoken between them didn’t matter: To the end and onwards. He lifted his hand and Patroclus thought that he was going to touch his cheek but instead it settled on his neck, bunching round the material of his cloak.
“You’re wearing purple,” he observed.
Patroclus glanced down. He hadn’t even realised what cloak he had brought, just grabbing the one at the top of his trunk. “Oh yeah,” he acknowledged. “Guess I am.”
“Suits you,” said Achilles.
Patroclus grinned. Achilles slapped his head before planting a childish kiss on the back of his neck and turning away to address the sailors. “Full sail!” he shouted. “Let’s catch some wind!”
Patroclus watched him march up and down the deck, shouting orders to the men and strutting like a peacock. Smiling to himself, he looked back as the ship eased out of the bay, the sails swelling and billowing as the wind picked up, like enormous wings carrying them towards the horizon. As Phthia grew smaller and smaller into the distance, until it was nothing but a hazy green smudge on the skyline Patroclus saw it before him: the future, an infinite stretch of blue and gold, pledging nothing, promising everything.
First, to Lyrnessos, to the house of Briseus and to Leptine.
Then, as the Gods would will it and as the wind and the sea would steer them there, onwards and upwards into the future.
And to Troy.