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“We have offended the gods.”
His words break the honey-thick silence of late afternoon.
“We have offended the gods?” you repeat dumbly, sleepily. You feel his nod against the nape of your neck. He speaks no further. You wait, but the silence stretches, heavy.
You roll to face him in your narrow cot, take in his eyes the color of slow-dripping wine. You smile. “The gods, then. What, beloved, have we done to offend them, fickle as they are?” He winces. “Oh, be calm, will you, man? Mother will not ask Zeus to smite me for my musings.”
“She may.” His voice is dark, drawn.
Moments ago, you reflect, you were dozing in the heat, this man’s arms bracketing you in like the sweetest of bondage. Now everything is unsettled.
“Beloved, please,” you cajole. “What have we done? What has upset you so?”
His look sticks you in your place, as if you’ve been adhered to the cot. “ We are an affront to the gods.”
“ We ?” Has he been knocked about the skull during drills? you wonder. You smile, and once again, his face is unmoved. A man of stone. “Beloved, have you forgotten I am god-favored? The blood of the holy ones runs through me. I do their bidding -- my life mission is their bidding.” Perhaps this is an untruth. It was not lady mother’s will that you should be born.
Patroclus, reject prince, places his hands on the sides of your face. “Mark me, Achilles, please. No jesting.”
“As you like, sweet man.”
He winces, again. “These endearments, these quarters we share...” He traces a blunt finger across your collar bones. He has always admired their jut. He presses down, just slightly, on the faint, bruised imprint of teeth from days past. “This ‘ we .’ We have affronted the gods with our love.”
Your blood boils in your veins. Son of Peleus, even at twenty, your temper has spawned myth. It is a roving beast, untamable. It is only the thought of the man you love that prevents you from screaming.
“My mother has paid you another visit, I take it.” Your blood may be fire, but your tone is ice. “Damn her meddling, damn it .” You rise from the cot and pace around the fine tent like a caged beast. “I warned her to let us alone. I am my own man, damn it all! I’ve done nothing but please her and honor her. Have I not?!” You turn on Patroclus. “Have I not?!”
“Achilles,” he says carefully.
“No, no -- I will not have your fine words. Not at this time.”
“Achilles.”
“I’ve made it clear!” you snap. “You will not connive with my mother to leave me. Do you mark me, soldier?”
“Achilles.”
You cross the tent, your sandals sinking into the plush coverings that line the floor, and take him by the shoulders. You wrench him, stocky and struggling, to his feet. “You are my beloved, do you hear? And I am your commander. You will not leave me unless you wish it. That is an order.”
He wishes to argue. Wisely, you think, he holds his tongue. He offers you a tense nod.
You are not a wordsmith like this bookish prince. You cannot build mountains and meadows with your mouth as he can, but there are some things you know.
You know the gods have never loved .
They have married, yes, have spread their celestial seed through the cosmos, produced dozens of children. Some of them have even borne children themselves. But they have never loved.
Perhaps you have affronted them, but they have not loved .
The brutal making of children is sport to your grandsire, O great Zeus. The ravishing of women, their wails, desperate cries for mercy-- a pleasure show. Your mother told you once Zeus likes when women fight him, when they snarl with fury, when their eyes roll and they foam at the mouth like rabid animals. When these wild women produce children -- men who are unearthly strong and tall -- he is pleased.
This is not love.
There is your aunt, Aphrodite, you muse. She enjoys the pleasures of flesh as much as her father, but it is not true . It is the vanity of a man worshipping at her feet, the slavish devotion she inspires. There is Hades, faithful to his wife down in the shadow lands, but...even so. She is captive, a rare jewel on display, face drawn with misery. There is Hephaestus, with his steadfast loyalty, returning time and again to his fickle wife, even after being thrown down a cliffside. Your uncle, Apollo who shoots from afar, with his harem of pretty boys and girls. They are drunk on ambrosia, in honeyed delirium. They know only physical pleasure, euphoria, but --
This is not love. None of it.
Love is this man in front of you, pale brown skin oiled and shining like a thousand gold plates. It is his curls, black as the bejeweled night. It is that smile, ever soft and wanting, tentative, eyes troubled and devoted all at once.
It is Patroclus.
Achilles, the greatest Greek to live, you of the swift feet, you know love. If you attempt to speak of it, it will burst from your chest like Athena from Zeus and surely leave you with some gaping hole. Your hands are still clenched firmly ‘round his arms. His eyes show that he is leagues away. You wish to bring him back to you, to hold his attention all for your own “Let us leave this. Come, my men are expecting us. Afternoon drills.”
Patroclus is skilled in many things; battle drills are not one. He frowns, surely thinking this punishment.
You are both twenty. You have never been bested in battle; no man dares to raise his voice against you, even your beloved. He walks a ways behind you, your subservient chariot driver, and you feel those eyes on your back the entire time.
XXX
“Do you recall, Achilles, ” you say, “your childhood?” You are paging through a text, some tale of heroes and creatures, and you yearn to make a point.
He turns to you and his beauty nearly strikes you dumb. As always. He quirks a brow, gives you a bemused look. “Well, yes. I also recall you being there for a good majority of it.”
It is a warm day on the battlefield, sleepy. In the walls of Troy, they scheme on how to drive your ships homeward, and you use this as a day of rest. You are content with the knowledge that as long as Achilles lives, the Trojans will not drive you off. The day is beautiful and you are unarmoured.
You roll your eyes at his cheek. Your man is the champion of the Greeks, but he is still a boy in many ways. “I mean to say, Achilles, we’ve been at the base of this city for three years. Sometimes it feels as if we’ve lived here all our lives. Do you recall a feeling that was not war?”
He looks perturbed. “Patroclus, I wouldn’t wish to.”
It feels like a knife in your heart.
XXX
“My son,” Thetis says to you, “you came into this world eighteen years ago on this day.”
You are standing at the edge of the sea, holding her briny hand, letting the waves lap ‘round your feet. “Mother, I thank you for bringing me into the world. I thank you for your pain.” You have this conversation with her once per year. At this point, it feels like some drama, well-rehearsed.
She presses your hand and pulls away. “You are my greatest joy.” Her voice is hollow. “The moment I saw you, I knew you would be dearer to me than any other man.” She tangles her fingers in your curls and pulls your face to hers. “Any. Other. Man.”
“Mother,” you say, attempting not to squirm away, “I thank you.”
She nods. Her eyes, the pale blue of the tide pools, are crazed. “You understand, my joy, what sacrifices I have made for you?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“The pain I have borne for your sake?”
“Yes, Mother. I thank you.” You take her hands, limp, and draw them out of your hair. Your scalp aches down to the roots. “I understand my conception was a sorrow to you, and I understand that you love me greatly despite it.”
She nods. “Your father held me down and had his way with me. He took my innocence.”
Saltwater drips from your hair and leaves trails down your face. It feels contrived to compare it to tears, but...
“He told me he had tamed a goddess. That I would give him a son.”
“Mother, I--”
“And when I bore you, screaming, into this world, I loved you . Somehow, though your kingly father ruined me, I loved you.” Thetis draws back from you, her feet and calves turning into seafoam. “You favor him, my beloved. You are your father made young again.”
In this choreographed dance you perform each year on the anniversary of your birth, she has never said this. She has not told you that you are identical to the man who caused her madness. “I--I’m sorry. I do not mean to remind you of my father.” You brush the saltwater from your eyes.
The waves crash, near-howling, and she says nothing.
“I wish to bring you pride, Mother,” you try.
“You do.”
“I wish to give you happiness.”
“You do.” Her eyes are unfocused. The older you grow, the more bitter this yearly talk becomes. The more unhinged she seems.
“Mother, I--”
“Achilles, you are the greatest warrior to ever live,” she says suddenly, her lamplike eyes catching your own. “Mark me, my treasure. No man will defeat you if you are wise. You will marry, perhaps even a goddess if you please Father Zeus.”
You nod. The wet sand beneath your feet shifts slightly. What you would not give to stand on even ground. Near immortal or not, you still stumble in conversations with womenfolk. “I do wish to please the storm-bringer. Any reward he deems fit is secondary.” There. That seems appropriate.
With that, she crashes over you with the force of a riptide. You’re knocked to the sand, the wind rushing from your lungs, water filling your mouth. You gasp for breath, inhale more water. You are blinded. You feel her hands grasping at you, tugging your hair, shaking you by the shoulders, clawing your face. You are running out of air. Salt fills your lungs.
She retreats to the waves as fast as she came. Horrified, she keeps a distance between the two of you. “My son...I am sorry...deeply...” Thetis trembles, fragile as seafoam.
On your hands and knees, you hack saltwater out on the sand, leagues of it. “ Why ?” you sputter at last.
She approaches, lapping at your hands, stoking them. “You take nothing seriously, my sweet son. I want none of your pretty words about Zeus. I want you to mark me .”
You raise your eyes to hers. She offers a trembling smile.
“ Speak , then. I wish to return to my shelter.” You feel like a chastened boy beaten by his master-at-arms. Your ego is wounded.
Her smile is gone and replaced with poorly-concealed rage. “Who shares your shelter?”
“Who shares my--? Why, Patroclus.” You fail to see its relevance. Struggling, heaving, you rise to your feet. “I thank you for your sacrifice, Mother, and for all you have done for me. I wish you happiness.” You turn.
A rope of seaweed curls ‘round your ankles, binding them together. “Stay!” she says sharply. “Listen, boy. You are god-touched, yes, but you are still just a boy.” There is a startling clarity in her eyes. “I have been gifted with a vision of your death. Do you understand? Your death . That boy you practice abomination with will bring about your demise. You will only live if you send him far, far away. Please the Father. Take a goddess for your bride and give us heroes. You are at a fork in the path of your life, my son, and one road leads to ruination.” She curls around your already-soaked body, pressing watery hands into your own. “If you die, beloved, I die. I have never asked you to give up your toy until now, sweet man. Do this for me.”
A flurry of emotions rises. Death...ruination? You are eighteen. You cannot comprehend being bested in battle, much less dying . And at the hands of Patroclus? Preposterous. You reach down and rip the seaweed savagely from your ankles. You retreat to dry sand, where Thetis cannot reach you, and shout, “I will do no such thing!”
With that, you return to the love of your perhaps-short life.
XXX
You are ten years old, and you father has sent you away. You’ve shamed his household, and, as you understand it, this means you must be somebody else’s son now.
“We’ll arrive within the hour, little prince,” says Kleus, your guardian. He places his hands upon your shoulders and guides you to the bow of your ship. “We’ll be in sight of land soon, I imagine.”
The sea is calm today; you’ve already given thanks to Poseidon as Father taught you. “Kleus,” you say softly.
“Yes, Patroclus?”
You are careful not to turn. You’re unsure if you’ll be able to say the words if you look into this man’s kind eyes. “I do not want to live here. I want to return home.”
His sigh is so deep that you feel it in your bones. He tightens his hands on your shoulders. “Little prince...look at the sea. Really look.”
You obey.
“Look at its beauty, and its ferocity. It can never be tamed, or even understood. When you believe you’ve got the ocean figured, that’s when you face danger.” His fingers dig into your shoulders and shake you gently. Still you do not turn to face him. “The mind is much like the ocean. Do you understand?”
You are a bookish child, but his meaning evades you. “No.” You care not for his pretty talk of oceans and minds anyhow. “But I understand that I never meant to hurt Cly. He thought I cheated, and I didn’t . That’s all.” You voice grows soft. “He was my friend. I didn’t wish to hurt him. I--I did not know he’d fall.” You turn your hurt towards the sea and breathe it in. The salt air doesn’t refresh you as it should. Despite the grimness of your journey, it is a beautiful day. Your captain sails smoothly, chopping through small whitecaps with ease. The gods have gifted you with a truly lovely day, but you feel only fear.
Kleus turns you ‘round, not ungently. He is half a boy still. In another time, he could be your elder brother. “You’re undertaking a great adventure. Aren’t you excited?”
You dislike this changing of tactics. “No. This is no adventure. Father hates me now. He sent me away because I dishonored him.” You force this last bit through gritted teeth: “Children aren’t meant to be murderers. And I am one.”
“Put that in the past,” Kelus says firmly. “You hurt the boy, yes, but he knew better than to accuse a prince of dishonesty. Even children know this.” He kneels, not wobbling once, you notice with admiration. You are now level with him. “The mind is a difficult thing to understand, little prince. Lots of waves and rip-currents, just like our friend the sea. I know you meant him no harm. You own mind -- it can betray you sometimes. The rip-tide takes charge, rather than the placid lake. It is our job as men to harness the rip-tides best we can, and make use of them, rather than letting them control our actions. Do you understand?”
“After a fashion,” you say. You understand nothing.
“Then think of it no more! Consider: we’re one hour from your greatest adventure. You’ll be made the companion of Achilles. The boy is golden, truly, and the son of a goddess. One day in his company and you’ll forget your troubles back home.” Kleus is smiling wide. “I promise, my prince.”
Suddenly, a wanting is conjuered -- one so painful it nearly brings you to your knees. You wish, desperately and wildly, you could embrace Kleus and just be held for a time. You wish he would crush the guilt, shame, and terror from your body. You wish you could wrap your arms around him and weep long until you were purged.
But men do not take comfort in one another. You well know this. Instead, you offer him your bravest smile.
XXX
Her name is Briseis and she is yours. She is a strange beauty, coral-hued eyes and hair white as marble. Though her hands tremble, her queer, watery eyes are hard. The silence stretches.
"I am Achilles," you say at last. "And you are Briseis. I'm told they call you Bri."
She says nothing.
You palm the back of your neck. You had left it to Agamemnon to distribute battlefield spoils; he is trustworthy. A bare-faced scout had delivered the girl to your ship quarters with a host of treasures. Now, here she stands.
"You'll dwell here now...with me. And Patroclus." You have not had a woman gifted to you at the end of a battle before. You have made this certain. The men find you dreadfully generous for this, and Patroclus finds no reason to be jealous. It had worked so well, for so long. You gesture to him. “This is my...companion.”
She is not only hued like marble, you notice: save for her shaking hands, she is statue-still.
This is an odious task -- you have no desire for this woman. You don’t wish to make her some sort of war wife, to return to her each evening. You little world is only large enough for yourself and Patroclus. A childish flare of irritation rises with you. Go away, Briseis-called-Bri. I do not want you here. All I want is my Patroclus. You return to yourself abruptly. You are better than this. The poor girl is clearly terrified, expecting to be ravished by the both of you at any moment.
“We’ve had a bed brought in for you,” Patroclus says. Bless the man, he always knows the right words. He gestures to the left corner, where a straw-stuffed mattress covered in sumptuous blankets resides. “That is yours.” He gestures to the right corner where, surrounded by your treasures, another bed rests. “This is ours.”
Her strange pink eyes widen, just slightly.
“Bri, mark me,” Patroclus says, “this arrangement displeases us as well.” He gives her a meaningful look that you can only hope she catches.
She raises her eyebrows, her countenance unchanging.
“I am sorry you’ve lost your family,” you blurt. “The men told me they burned your father and brothers with highest honors.”
It is as if all the fury of Zeus has been unleashed upon you. She screams, high-pitched and keening, and makes to attack you. Your quarters are lavish but small -- she covers the ground fast. She beats your chest, still wailing nonsense, and raises a hand to strike you. Patroclus is faster. He snatches her hand from the air.
“Do not do this, Briseis,” he says softly, and tugs her away.
She sags against him, the fire gone from her quickly as it came. To your surprise, he wraps his arms around the girl. “I know,” he says, “the pain you are in. You may grieve as long as you need.” There is a moment of silence, broken only by the soft sounds of Briseis weeping. Patroclus pushes her away slightly, peers into her eyes. “What you may not do, Bri, is strike the prince. Not while I live. He is everything, and I will kill you if you ever raise a hand against him.”
She squirms out of his grip and moves away towards her pallet. She peers at the both of you, a queer look in her watery eyes. “Are you lovers?” she says at last. Her voice is high and soft, pleasing to the ear.
It feels as if your heart is clenched in an icy fist. Panic. You look to Patroclus. No one has ever asked this of you. Perhaps some of the men suspect, but they would never dare vocalize it. He holds your gaze, level.
“Yes,” he says evenly.
You say nothing.
She nods to herself. “You share your bed?”
“Yes.”
She looks at you closely. “Prince Achilles, do you love him?”
“Without question.” You have never spoken these words to another.
“I apologize, then. You will not harm me? You’ll be good to me?”
“Yes. We will not touch you. You’ll have what freedoms we can afford you,” Patroclus answers for you, ever the diplomat.
“Your men -- will I be --” Briseis struggles with the words. “Will I be -- shared -- with your men, I mean to say?”
“Certainly not. They honor me as their commander. No one will lay a hand upon you.”
“Alright, then. Yes. I would like -- I would rest, if I may. I would grieve my family.” Her speech is clipped and choked.
“Of course,” you say. You watch, feeling a voyeur in your own quarters, as she lies down to sleep in her rich pallet. She turns away from you, still clad in the robes she was taken in. A strange silence settles over the room. You sitg You draw Patroclus to you, hold him tightly. Her presence in the room is strange. Though she faces away, you do not indulge in the vague desire to take your companion. To do this with an audience feels...wrong. He falls asleep quickly, easily.
In the darkness, you say, “I hope we will all find some joy in this arrangement.”
There is no reply for so long you assume she has fallen asleep.
At last, so quietly you strain to hear it, she says, “As do I, my prince, as do I.”
XXX
You have been working in the medical tent for a few moon-turns now, and each day brings a fresh horror. You have seen men’s entrails clutched in their hands like great, fleshy snakes. You have seen men’s throats torn asunder, felt the wet spray of their last, hacked out breaths hit your face. You have seen men shit themselves at the moment of their death, smelled that rankness.
And of course you have held them as they die.
The banner-bearer yesterday was no more than ten, and you held him in your arms as he wailed for his mother. The lad had taken a spear to the gut, you were told.
“My insides feel afire,” he’d gasped.
This sentence haunts you.
You are weary of war. You are weary of hurt, and death, and the gnawing worry you feel each time Achilles leaves your shelter. Each day he leaves for battle could very well be the day he dies. How are you supposed to reconcile with that?
“Patroclus!” Bri’s voice draws you from your reverie.
“Apologies,” you murmur. You’ve befriended the girl, and recruited her for help in the medical tent. No man dares protest the companion of Achilles, and your mentor is grateful for the extra set of hands, woman or not. You pass the girl a set of clean bindings.
You watch as she rubs herbs into the wound of a soldier. He is young, this lad, perhaps three and ten. It is easy to see that he is holding back tears. “My, you brave lad,” Bri says, now binding the wound, “not a tear shed. I see men thrice your age screaming for their mothers.”
He cracks a smile.
You do not. All you can think of is the little banner-bearer. Bri sends the lad off with instructions on how to keep the wound clean, but you find yourself stuck in your head. More frequently these days, your mind is not on your work. It is on the isles of your childhood, the golden summers with Achilles when you were both lean and boyish. Those days feel lost to you.
“Patroclus,” Bri murmurs, resting a small hand on your inner arm.
“Hm?” You look to her guiltily. It is unjust to rely so heavily on the poor Trojan to heal her people’s conquerors.
“Your mind is elsewhere,” she says, gazing at you hard with those pale pink eyes.
“Apologies,” you repeat. “I only -- I worry...the battles are ever-bloodier. So much death.”
“My friend, there is always death. Are you well?” You’ve never managed to endure one of Bri’s pale stares in its entirety, and you quickly look away. “There is more in your thoughts than the bloody nature of our work.”
You stare longingly at the camp outside the medical tent. Achilles is somewhere beyond the strips of fabric, possibly gasping his last breath. Alone. “I am,” you say at last, “weary of this war. There are days I cannot recall why we fight. I -- I long for a life beyond this.”
Bri nods. Her eyes harden, and for a moment, there is only rage. “Yes. I tire of this war. Of these men.” She turns from you as she says, “I long for my family back.”
XXX
You sit at the edge of the beach, watching the waves lap gently at the shore. There has been a break in fighting. It is rare these days. You long for the fury of the battlefield, and find yourself itching to return. It causes Patroclus grief, you know, but you cannot change your inner truth. You are the greatest Greek to live. This has been hammered into your mind since birth -- and frankly, it is the truth. You have warred with Troy’s strongest berserkers, battled the Gods themselves. Still you have emerged triumphant. A smile ghosts across your face. You are proud of yourself.
The thought of Patroclus’s frowning face breaks your moment of inner pride. It wounds him to see you love the gore. He holds your heart, perhaps always will, the dear man, but he does not understand. He never will. Patroclus is a gentle soul, not a warrior. He is unskilled in battle. His hands, you consider, are made for healing and pleasure, not for the spoils of war. Poor man. You have little time to consider his feelings these days, but you know this war wearies him. He pulls away from you, just slightly, each day.
The sun winks off the waves. You do not see an end to this war in sight, but you are confident in your purpose. You will win, and see Helen returned to her homeland. Rightness will win the day, as it always does. You are assured of this. Your mother’s grim promise echoes in the back of your mind, on occasion, however you pay it no heed.
One day, you muse, this war will be over. You will return to the world with your dear Patroclus, likely with Bri in tow, and you will...well, you will live. You will thrive. You look forward to this day, relish it, even, but for now, you will focus on the war.
You have an entire life with Patroclus to look forward to.
XXX
You were, sweet men, so very wrong.