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The wind blew cool and soft through the courtyard. The leaves of the oak stirred, their pale undersides glistening white in the bright sunlight. They crowded Achilles’ head like a crown where he lay on the thick, gnarled branch.
“Guess what I’m thinking about,” he said.
I smiled, leaning against the trunk. It was warm against my back, pulsating with quiet life. “Easy,” I replied. “The honeycakes we had for breakfast.”
Achilles’ eyes were closed; the dappled shadows stroked his sleep-soft features. I envied them, in that moment; I wished to reach out, to touch, but he was too far away.
“No,” he said. “Guess again.”
“The robin we saw nestled in the high rafters of the main hall. Autumn is coming.”
He shook his head. “Guess again.”
I laughed. “I don’t know. Tell me.”
Achilles shifted to look down at me, sprawled on the branch like a leopard, slow and lazy in the stifling summer heat, with his hair spilling golden down his shoulder. His mouth twisted in a wry grin. “Guess again. One more time.”
One time melted into two, to three. This, I told him. This and this. Every time, Achilles’ smile would get sharper, bright with mischief. “No. Guess again.”
“The cat that tangled in Neokles’ feet last week in the yard, while he was training the new recruits,” I said, “and he tripped and fell face first in the sand.” The tree branch above me shook as Achilles did, in a fit of laughter. “How he cursed up a storm and vowed to catch and make new sandals out of it.”
“S-stop,” Achilles sobbed, breathless, clutching his chest.
“Or when Aeson ran to help him up and knocked over the sword rack in his haste, and they all fell in a heap.” I was grinning so hard my cheeks were aching. “And when your father walked into the yard and found all the recruits laughing, and he ordered them to find the cat and bring it to him, so that he shall award it the highest honour for doing what no man has done before: knock Neokles on his back in the palaestra.”
“Enough, I can’t—”
We were both laughing so hard, there were tears beading in our eyes. I was still trying to catch my breath when one of Peleus’ attendants arrived. Achilles pushed himself up on the branch, brushing his hair out of his face.
“What is it?” he asked in his most princely voice, still hoarse from laughter.
“Prince Achilles.” The man bowed. “The King awaits you in the hall. The guests have already gathered.”
I bit my lip, glancing up at Achilles. Our eyes met, and I knew then what he was thinking: we had both forgotten entirely about the feast that was to take place that afternoon. Peleus had asked us both to be there on time and on our best behaviour, yet we were both still outside, unwashed, and with our hair uncombed and stiff with sea salt from lazing at the beach for most of the day. I stood up hastily, just as Achilles hopped off the branch, landing on his feet like a cat.
“Tell my father we’ll be there presently,” he said to the guard, who bowed again and left.
We allowed ourselves a few more moments of quiet giggling before running to Achilles’ room. We washed over the basin and threw on our best tunics —mine was simple white linen, while Achilles wore his favourite plum chiton, with its golden shoulder pins— and off we went to the hall. Peleus was already there, as well as the lords of the Phthian court and his generals, talking over goblets of wine. He gave us a brief, examining look as we stepped in, and frowned slightly. He could tell we had only prepared ourselves a moment earlier and in a haste.
“Achilles,” he said. “How good of you to join us.”
The chatter in the hall stopped abruptly; all eyes fell on us. I shrank behind Achilles. He, on the other hand, strode to his father’s side with his back straight and his head held high, as if the men’s scrutinising gazes didn’t even exist.
“This,” Peleus said, gesturing to the man beside him, “is Thersander, King of Thebes. And this is his son, Tisamenus. They have travelled far to be here.” The boy standing next to the older man was tall, with dark hair and olive skin like his father, a strong chin and shoulders that were broad for his age. He’d been watching Achilles carefully ever since we stepped foot in the hall, measuring his every movement. Achilles gave him a fleeting look before returning to his father.
“A wrestling competition will take place in the outer yard,” Peleus said after the initial greetings were over. “You and Tisamenus are to go there, and after the matches are over, we are all to gather back here for the feast.”
This was news to both of us, but it wasn’t a surprise. It was the Noumenia, a holy day, the first of the lunar month, and Peleus often threw a small feast or celebration to honour the gods. Sports competitions were usually a part of it. Achilles nodded and turned to leave, and I followed, when Peleus’ voice stopped us.
“Patroclus is to stay behind, this once.”
Cold crept through me at the mention of my name. Achilles stopped short and turned to fix his father with a curious stare. His expression was still blank, but his back zipped straight with tension. The hall was silent, to a man.
“Why?” Achilles said.
“The games are for the princes only, and the sons of the members of the court,” Peleus said, not unkindly. “Patroclus will have to stay back this time.”
“Patroclus is my therapon ,” Achilles said. His voice was sharp, unbending in the quiet. “He has every right to take part.”
“Achilles.” Peleus’ lips widened in the patient, placating smile that he reserved only for his son. “It is only a small affair, in honour of Apollo Noumenios. It will not take very long.”
“Patroclus is—” Achilles started again, more forcefully this time, but my hand on his arm stopped him.
“It’s alright, Achilles,” I said quietly. My cheeks were burning with embarrassment, and the floor of my stomach dropped when all attention shifted to me again. I did not wish to make this issue any larger by letting Achilles argue with his father for my sake. Besides, the Noumenia was the holiest of days, and the conditions for competing were always very strict. The victor of the matches, the one that would be crowned with the laurel, would have to be a youth of good family and noble appearance, both of whose father and mother were still alive. I did not meet any of the criteria. Most people in the hall already knew this; those who didn't could surmise.
“I will stay behind,” I said, trying my best to keep my voice level. “It’s fine.”
Achilles turned bodily to face me. “No. It is not.” His eyes blazed with defiance beneath his golden lashes, shoulders square as if ready to fight anyone who claimed otherwise.
I could not meet that heated gaze for long. I looked away. “I’ll meet you after it’s over,” I murmured. I bowed respectfully before Peleus, King Tersander and his son, then quickly removed myself from the hall before Achilles could stop me. Achilles’ feet whispered on the marble floor behind me, but it wasn’t long before they froze once more when Peleus spoke up. I couldn’t make out the words, nor did I want to. The sound of their voices, sharp and agitated and steadily growing more and more distant, followed me as I scurried away, my eyes cast downwards at my feet.
I did not know where I was going; I did not care. I simply walked as far as the gates, and once my feet hit the hard packed earth, I ran. I ran out of the palace and onto the sprawling grounds beyond, the wind whistling by my ears.
When my feet sank into warm sand, I stopped. I had followed the winding road to the beach, where Achilles and I often went on warm afternoons like this. It was empty now, only a couple fishing boats bobbing on the water along the narrow wharf. I took a deep breath to ease the burning of my lungs and walked along the shore, the waves licking up the sand towards me.
The edge of the beach was lined with rocks of all shapes and sizes, half submerged in water. I stepped over them mindlessly, my feet having long since learned which rocks were steady and which would wobble under my weight, which groove made for a sure foothold and which would lead me sliding into the water below. I climbed quickly, like the wild goats that often descended from the rocky hills for water, until I had reached the mouth of the bay.
Before me extended the long strip of jagged, sun-bleached rock which connected one bay to the next. I hopped past the hollows in which dried salt gathered, my legs kissed by sea spray. I made my way to the small alcove in the rock that stood a little way away, and hid underneath its thick shadow. I sat down on a wide, flat stone. It was warm from a day’s worth of baking under the sun. The place was quiet, void of people, of animals, of things. There was only the rock under my feet, the sky above me and the sea beyond, wine-dark and endless.
In the palace’s outer courtyard, the wrestling matches would already be starting.
My shoulders sagged with their own weight. I imagined Achilles with the other boys, his hair gleaming like spun gold amidst dozens of dark, tousled crowns. I pictured his slender body glistening with oil as he wrestled with strong, long-limbed Tisamenus, a competitor worthy of him, and all the rest of the noble youths watching Achilles in awe as he laughed and tossed the olive garland high up in the air, bright and buoyant with his victory. My heart burned with envy that they were there to see him and I was not.
The games are for the princes only, and for the sons of the members of the court. But I was not a prince anymore, and I was nobody’s son. I might have been Achilles’ therapon, but even he could not change the harsh facts of my reality. Peleus, in all his munificence, was still obligated to remind me of it on occasion.
And he was right. I was still an exile in a foreign land. My people value, above all, their family, their good name and their place of birth, and I had none. I had no family, no one to care for me as a son or a brother or a cousin. I had no land nor the right to claim it, and I would likely never see my mother again, or my father, even if I’d wanted to. I was alone, a pariah even among those closest to me. This was how it would always be.
Tears came, and I let them fall. They carved their way down my cheeks, hot and unrelenting. I made no move to stop them, to brush them away. There was no reason. There was no one there to see me and judge. I was nothing, no one. The salty sea breeze whistled through the rocks, as if it had a voice of its own, but it was not me it was speaking to. To the god of the winds I was no more than a spec of sand.
I did not know how long I’d been there, when I felt the coolness of a shadow fall upon me. My vision was blurry when I looked up, startled; it was Achilles, standing over me, the blazing afternoon sun crowning him in gold.
“Achilles,” I breathed. My voice was hoarse and scratchy. I quickly wiped my face with the back of my hand. “What— what are you doing here?”
“I came looking for you,” he said. His face was serious as he regarded me.
My stomach twisted tight with shame. I did not want Achilles to see me like this, in this sorry state. I turned away from him, indignant that he’d intruded upon the privacy I had sought to give myself. Embarrassment and injured pride flared into a sort of sullen anger when the scene in Peleus' hall came back to me in full force. I was angry that I was unwanted, and that we both knew it; that Achilles had had to quarrel with his father for my sake; that no matter what Achilles or I did, I would always be less. Less, in every way that mattered.
More than anything, I was angry with myself for being angry with Achilles, for things that neither of us could change.
My nose itched and I sniffled. Achilles could see my reddened eyes, my puffy face; there was no way I could hide from him. I avoided his steady, green-eyed gaze, looking out into the sea instead.
Quietly, he came to sit beside me on the narrow rock. I braved a glance in his direction. He was flushed from his climb here and glowing. Doused in the shadows of the alcove, he was a dusky rose, his high cheekbones and his lips tinted sweetly pink.
We sat there for a while in silence. I expected him to speak eventually, to scold me for leaving like this, to ask me to come back and attend him as his therapon , as was my duty. Achilles did not.
“Guess what I’m thinking about,” was all he said.
His voice was soft, and delicate. He often spoke thus when we lay in bed at night, talking in hushed whispers in the dark, our heads bent close. In those moments, the air and the negligible space between us took on a dreamy quality; it was something private, meant only for us two, like the sharing of a secret.
This, I told him. The scrape of the waves against the rock. The sun glittering on the water like gold dust scattered with the wind. The seagulls that drifted aimlessly overhead. The stone I had shown him how to skip that morning, sending it hopping far into the sea. This, and this and this.
Achilles smiled his secret smile and shook his head, like he had so many times that day.
“You have to tell me,” I finally said. “I’m never going to guess.”
He stayed silent for a while. It was as if we were alone in the world, nothing existing beyond this place, this moment. The bitterness that had choked me earlier was but a distant ache, an echo; I could never hang on to pain or fear for long when I was with him. His presence was soothing, like a balm, or a talisman against the world’s cruelties.
Achilles leaned closer to me and our thighs touched; his skin was hot where it met mine.
“This,” he said. He reached out to brush my knee, exposed as it was under my tunic. A shiver rolled through me when his fingers touched my skin. “This is what I’m thinking about.”
“My knee?” I asked. “What about it?”
“This scar, here. Where did you get it? You’ve never told me that story.”
I had fallen from a tree, in the courtyard of the palace of Opus, when I was six years old, I told him. I had escaped my tutor and ran away to play, and when I was found he’d given me a sound thrashing and a lecture on being unruly. Thankfully, he had spared me from telling my father about it, but as further punishment he had denied my seeking the physician to tend to the wound. It was quite deep, and it had taken me a while to stem the bleeding; it had healed soon after, but left a mark behind. My tutor always used to tap it with his stick when I was being restless, to remind me of the cost of insubordination.
There was a tiny crease between Achilles’ drawn brows as he listened; I had to resist the urge to brush my thumb over it, to smooth it out.
“Your tutor was a fool,” he declared with finality after I had finished my story.
A startled laugh escaped me, scaring away a seabird that rested on the rock not far away from us. “You’re not wrong about that,” I said. Achilles was still inspecting the scar with intense curiosity, running his finger over it. It did not surprise me that it fascinated him so; Achilles did not have any scars on him at all, nor had anyone ever been unkind to him.
“What else are you thinking about?” I asked.
Achilles lifted his eyes to mine and regarded me carefully, face tight with concentration. I loved that about him; no matter what I asked him, no matter how silly or trivial, he always thought about it like a real problem that demanded a serious answer. He reached up to the top of my head to touch my hair.
“This,” he said, threading one finger through my curls. “It has been sticking out like this since we woke up this morning.”
“Oh.” I bit my lip, suddenly embarrassed. I had forgotten to brush my hair that day; even when I tried, it was sometimes impossible to get a comb through my thick, unruly curls. Achilles had often had to wrestle me onto the bed and keep me immobile while he worked the tangles free with the fine-toothed comb he used for his own hair. “I’m… sorry?”
“I do not mind it,” he said. His eyes dropped lower, noticing the blush that crept up my neck.
I looked away, my cheeks feeling hot under the directness of Achilles’ stare, but soon I was glancing back at him, my gaze drawn to him like a fleck of iron to a magnet. I froze when he brushed his thumb over my cheek.
“This,” he whispered. The smooth skin of his fingertip scraped gently against the now-dried salt-track of a forgotten tear. “I was thinking about this.”
My heart skipped and tilted sideways; my skin prickled with our proximity, the tenderness of his touch. Achilles did not look away, his thumb following the path my earlier loss had carved. There was something in his gaze, weighted and solemn, like an apology.
“Why aren’t you in the yard, with the other boys, Achilles?” I asked quietly.
“I don’t want to be with the other boys,” he said. His words were simple and direct, as was his way.
“Your father will be angry with you.”
“Then so be it.”
“You do not care?”
He shrugged. The movement was slight, as if his father’s displeasure mattered little to him. I always marvelled at it, the way he made problems that seemed monumental to me appear so trivial.
The breeze combed through his hair, bringing its scent to me; he smelled of cloves, of rosemary, of sweet star anise.
“I was wondering,” said Achilles, “what you are thinking about.”
I blinked at him in disbelief, but then a quiet laugh escaped me. Wasn’t it obvious?
You. I almost said it. I felt drunk on it, the warmth of him so close to me, his attention focused entirely on me. Always you.
But I was robbed of words. A chill ran through me, like the early signs of winter frost, though the air was still thick and drowsy with summer heat.
“Do you think your father will be upset with us,” I asked instead, pushing the words through the knot in my throat, “if we stayed here until sunset?”
Achilles leaned back and let his hand fall. My cheek felt hollow with its absence. “He will not mind,” he replied, and sounded so certain that I believed him.
“We will miss dinner.”
“We can always sneak in the kitchens later.” His face was brightened with his cat's smile. “The cook always stores away half the honey cakes for the next day, anyway.”
We shared a conspiratorial grin. His hand found mine and gave it a small squeeze; he stood up and I did too, and on the rock behind us our shadows tangled. He pulled me to the water’s edge and I followed, helplessly drawn to him, like a flower following the sun.
“Show me that thing you did today,” he said, “when you sent the stones flying over the water.”