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The monotonous drone of war falls quickly into routine, however bleak that notion is. The cycle is continuous: Rise, dress, raid or fight, return, repeat. For Odysseus—a homebody of the highest degree—though, he welcomes routine. It makes things all the more familiar.
Today was like all others in this way. Odysseus rose, dressed, fought, and returned. On his way to eat with Menelaus, (who he had agreed to speak strategy with) though, his day became interesting.
“Have you heard?” Diomedes asked, a smirk on his face, intercepting him.
“Haven’t you somewhere to be?” Odysseus said, continuing on his way.
“I figured I would join you.” He fell in step.
Odysseus sighed, giving in to his curiosity. “I have not heard. Is something the matter?”
Diomedes took a cautious glance at the soldiers around them before leaning in and whispering: “Antilochus tells me the noises that can be heard from Achilles’ tent at night are no war prize’s.”
“Are you dense? I honestly took you for a smart man, Diomedes.”
“It has never been my claim to fame, I admit, but this time I know what Antilochus says is fact.”
“Did I say it was not?”
Diomedes continued his previous thought as if Odysseus had said nothing: “In fact,” he took a second glance for security, “during a night patrol, I heard this for myself, and I can vouch there is no woman in that tent.”
“Diomedes, one day your indulgence in gossip will get you murdered. Perhaps soon.” Odysseus pat him on the shoulder before turning to meet with Menelaus at a long table under the dying rays of the sun.
“Wait!” He shouted after Odysseus, picking up speed to join him with Menelaus. “It is hardly gossip! Did you not hear me? I heard this for myself!”
“Heard what?” Patroclus asked from his seat—surprisingly—next to Menelaus, and—perhaps even more surprisingly—without the presence of Achilles.
“I had not expected you to be here, Patroclus.” Odysseus remarked, ignoring his question.
“I thought he would be of good company. I see you brought Diomedes for the same reason.” Menelaus said.
“Well—“ Odysseus started.
“Well, yes, that is exactly why I was brought here.” Diomedes inturrupted, taking a seat opposite Menelaus, who occupied the second seat from the end.
Admitting defeat, Odysseus took his place across from Patroclus.
“I am curious, Diomedes, what had you so riled up on the way here?” Menelaus asked.
“You haven’t heard?” Diomedes began.
“Nothing. Simply idle gossip,” Odysseus said, waving a hand as if to dispell the question. “Regardless, shall we?”
“Oh, I figured—given that we both brought company—we could just enjoy ourselves this night.” Menelaus proposed.
“War waits for no one, Menelaus,” Odysseus advised, prompting a laugh.
“Neither does good company, Odysseus.”
“I suppose…” He caved.
“Anyways, Diomedes, you said you had gossip?” Patroclus prompted, leaning forward and balancing his head on the palm of his hand. He was far younger than the rest of them at the table, and still found excitement in rumors. Truthfully, Odysseus wondered why Menelaus wanted him to join them. He had never taken them to be good friends.
“Ah, yes! Where was I?” He paused to think for a moment, and in that time was interrupted by the arrival of a fifth.
“Patroclus?” It was Achilles, of course. His hair hung long and damp, as if recently washed.
“Hmm?” He rolled his head that rested on his palm to look at him.
Odysseus spared at glance at Diomedes’ face, and saw wide eyes and a firmly shut jaw. He almost laughed at the sight.
“Will you braid my hair?” It was strange seeing Achilles of all people ask for anything. He often just took what he felt entitled to—which just so happened to be most things.
Patroclus did not respond, simply pushing his chair back and angling it slightly to make room for Achilles to sit in front of him. After handing Patroclus a string to tie the end, he did just that.
“This table has been filled with interruptions, I must say,” Patroclus chuckled, separating the lock of hair Achilles saved for Spercheus and placing it in Achilles’ hand for him to braid separately.
“Perhaps the gods do not want Diomedes to spread this rumor,” Odysseus said pointedly.
“It would seem not,” Diomedes agreed.
“A shame, I was interested,” Patroclus looked up, briefly locking eyes with Odysseus. In them Odysseus saw a glint of mischief. Only for a short moment, though, as his attention was drawn back to Achilles, who was handing Patroclus the braided lock—swift in everything, it would seem.
Patroclus’ hands, which Odysseus had seen kill countless men, were gentle as a lover’s touch as they carefully carded through knots in Achilles’ hair before separating it into three strands, one including the previously established braid.
Conversation between Diomedes and Menelaus picked back up, but Odysseus paid it no mind. He realized now, watching curiously as Patroclus treated the sourge of many villages as if he were something to be revered, that he had not paid enough attention to the two of them. He knew—everyone knew—that they were very close, and rumors tend to spread, but Odysseus saw no merit in them, and therefore often ignored them. His previous words to Diomedes on his rumor were provocations and nothing more, regardless of the fact Diomedes did not seem to notice.
Watching Patroclus work methodically on crossing strands all while listening and adding to the conversation made Odysseus believe that this was a common occurrence. He wondered if Achilles was able to braid his own hair. If he could not it would be a hindrance, but then again, when had he not had Patroclus to do it for him?
He let his eyes flick from Patroclus’ working hands to Achilles’ face, only to be met with cold, watchful eyes. The windows to the soul, they say, and Achilles’ was divine through and through. They held eye contact for a moment more before Patroclus tied the end and pat Achilles on the shoulder to signal he was done. Odysseus watched the cold drain from Achilles’ eyes as he turned to look at him. Perhaps these rumors had some backing to them.
“Care to join us, Achilles?” Menelaus asked as Achilles stood.
Achilles shrugged indifferently, “only if you are willing to give up your seat.”
Menelaus chuckled as if this were a joke. “It hardly matters where you sit.” Clearly Menelaus was not as observant as Odysseus.
“Well, I shall be on my way, then,” Achilles said, turning to leave.
Patroclus caught his wrist, though. “Stay?” He received no response for a moment, and Odysseus saw his eyes scanning his face. “It will be no fun without you,” was his response to whatever he saw in Achilles’ face.
Achilles sighed and moved to stand behind Patroclus’ chair instead of assuming a seat.
“Mmm—Odysseus, I heard a messenger who passed through Ithaca will be arriving soon. Perhaps they have a message from Penelope.” Menelaus mentioned.
“If Antilochus told you this it may be folly. He is a mischievous man,” Diomedes advised, prompting a laugh from Odysseus.
“And yet,” Odysseus smirked, cryptic to all others but offensive to Diomedes, who shoved him lightly. “I do hope what you say is true Menelaus, I miss her dearly.”
“Oh, we know,” Pratroclus chuckled. “And Diomedes, you would be wrong to call Antilochus a liar. He is simply…inattentive.” The pointedness of this comment did not escape Odysseus.
Curious to see his reaction, Odysseus asked, “Achilles, you are—if any of us—closest to him. Tell us, is Antilochus a lair or a bad listener?”
“I fear those two are one and the same,” he said, fingers of one hand drumming on Patroclus’ shoulder. “Though he is a liar before he is inattentive, I would say.”
“You would say a lot of things,” Patroclus said, leaning his head back to look at Achilles before looking forward again to address the table. “His lies are of the purest white, and mostly repetition spurred by rumors. I trust he at least believes a messenger from Ithaca is on their way.”
“It is funny, I did not hear this from Antilochus. I heard it from Nestor, who I trust to be honest. Tell me, Diomedes, why did you think I meant Antilochus?” Menelaus asked. He asked out of pure curiosity, but Odysseus knew if it were him asking it wouldn’t be.
“Well—You see…” He broke off, clearly knowing if he spoke the truth, that his rumor seemed now false, it would prompt questions. He sighed. “He told me something I now know I was misguided in believing.”
“Oh! Was this the rumor you spoke of upon your arrival?” Patroclus wondered, his curiosity returning.
“Rumor?” Achilles asked from behind Patroclus.
Leaning back once more Patroclus explained quickly: “When Diomedes first came he was speaking to Odysseus of a rumor he heard. He kept getting interrupted, though.” Achilles nodded and the two looked back up.
“Patroclus has made a good point. Why don’t you tell us this rumor now that we have the time?” Menelaus prompted.
“It’s—“ Diomedes fumbled.
“It was simply about Achilles’ hair color. Antilochus said he had yellow hair, but now Diomedes can clearly see there is a red to it.” Odysseus supplied. A bad lie, but with enough confidence anything could be believed.
Patroclus laughed,—a bad sign—and reached up to pull Achilles’ head down, whispering something quiet and brief that caused the two of them to snicker to themselves. “That is hardly a rumor, and if it were it would not warrent Diomedes’ entrance. Is there something more to this?” Patroclus asked, humor evident in his voice. Behind him, Achilles brought a hand to his mouth to stifle a laugh.
It was at this moment that Odysseus knew Diomedes was too loud in his telling of gossip. Patroclus knew—he must have heard the tail end of it, most likely Diomedes’ personal account. “It is what Diomedes told me,” Odysseus shrugged. He would have to dig himself out of his own hole this time.
Achilles dropped to his forearms behind Patroclus, his hands draped over his shoulders and chin a hair’s breadth from Patroclus’ hair, as Diomedes floundered, trying to work with what Odysseus gave him. He added an ’it was more complicated than that,’ here and an ’it was sparked by a rumor,’ there.
Once again, Odysseus’ attention was directed elsewhere, as he noticed Achilles’ hand come up to twirl a lock of Patroclus’ hair around his forefinger. Patroclus does not swat his hand away, nor does the knowingly humorous smile leave his lips.
“Well,” Achilles began, saving Diomedes, “while that sounds ever so interesting, it’s getting quite late, wouldn’t you say, Patroclus?” The hand in his hair returned to its place on Patroclus’ shoulder, but not without slow reluctance; Achilles let his hand drag down Patroclus’ neck before it took its place.
“I am inclined to agree, unfortunately,” he said, getting up and bidding farewell. Achilles began to walk away, but Patroclus, hanging back a moment, said, “Diomedes—we will be more quiet, if it so pleases you.” He winked and turned to follow Achilles.
“Odd.” Menelaus seemed to be oblivious to what had just transpired.
“Uh-huh,” Diomedes said smartly. His face had paled; he finally understood.