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Coward! Odysseus couldn’t tell if it were merely a thought or if he had spat the word as he slit the Trojan’s throat. He felt the man’s blood splatter over his face in the split second he hung before falling. He vaguely wiped at it with the back of his free hand.
Where is Achilles? is the thought that followed immediately. On second thought, though, perhaps it was better he didn’t see. Assessing the man in front of him he saw that the spear piercing his lower back had broken disturbingly close to the injury it caused. Odysseus understood that the splintered wood would cause issue.
Odysseus called for a chariot, and threw an arm around Patroclus’ shoulders to help him into it. Glancing between the battle still raging behind him and the way Patroclus desperately clutched at his abdomen, Odysseus decided they would live without him, and got in with Patroclus.
He didn’t seem to be in much pain, but Odysseus was sure Patroclus was running high on shock. “I—I did not see him,” Patroclus started to speak.
“Save your words for Machaon,” Odysseus advised, adding pressure to the wound, careful to not disturb the spear. “You did not see him because he came from behind you, the coward.”
Patroclus winced at the contact. “Figured,” he said through gritted teeth.
The sun hung low in the horizon as they arrived at the medical tent. The battle would end for the night soon. Odysseus noticed this bitterly; he did not want to deal with Achilles any time soon.
He assisted in helping Patroclus to sit on bed and was glad to see that Machaon had returned from battle early to attend to the wounded. It was a habit he picked up earlier in the war, but there were times when the casualties were not egregious enough to warrant it. Today was—thankfully—not one of those days. If it had been Odysseus was sure Patroclus would already be dead, as his injury was something unable to be treated effectively on the field.
Machaon rushed to their side after a single glance. “Get his armor off,” he directed, turning away to gather herbs.
Odysseus complied, working as quickly as he could to remove Patroclus’ cuirass and the top portion of his chiton—after removing his helmet for easier access—to expose the wound. It was easy to accomplish, as the spear sat just under where the cuirass ended.
Machaon returned as quickly as he left, immediately beginning to work. “How did this happen?” He asked as he worked on whittling the rear end of the spear down.
“A Trojan stabbed him with a spear as he stripped a corpse of it’s armor. It broke off at some point, but I did not see how,” Odysseus supplied to prevent Patroclus from wasting his breath.
“Stabbed with a spear? We are lucky, I admit—but why not a sword?” Machaon asked.
“I am not sure. He lost it, most likely.”
There was a clamoring outside, indicating the arrival of the soldiers. Machaon and Odysseus shared a quick glance before Machaon said: “You will deal with him, yes? He will get in the way.”
Odysseus sighed. “Must I? Will he not obey you for Patroclus’ sake?”
“Odysseus, you are smarter than this. Please tell me you have not forgotten last time.”
“I do not believe there is a poor soul who was involved that will ever forget that,” he reminisced unhappily.
“And that was only a shallow arrow wound. Imagine if he saw this,” he gestured to the wound with a cock of his head.
“He is right. It is—best to stall him. If he does not… see it we may be able to—downplay it,” Patroclus suggested, his voice strained.
Odysseus began to assent, but was interrupted by a sudden yelp and jerk from Patroclus as Machaon pulled the largest piece out of the wound.
“The spear’s wood splintered. I apologize, but this will hurt,” Machaon explained. “Go,” he said to Odysseus. He complied and left the tent to search for Achilles.
And he was not hard to find.
Odysseus came face to face with him only a few feet from the tent. He was—dishearteningly—seemingly on his way to the medical tent.
“Ah, Achilles! I was looking for you.” He plastered a smile on his face and tried to veer him away from the tent, but Achilles stopped in his tracks upon seeing Odysseus.
Fear flooded Achilles’ eyes for a moment before it was masked by anger and confusion—his most common emotions. “Whose blood is that?” He asked accusingly.
Odysseus looked at him incredulously for a moment before he remembered the Trojan’s blood that had splattered his face. “No one’s—a Trojan’s. Are you in a hurry to be somewhere? It would be nice to speak with you.” He could come up with something to speak about when the time came. For now, he just needed to get him away from the tent.
“Yes, actually.” He glanced towards the tent for a moment. “Have you seen Patroclus? I have been looking for him.”
“No, not since this morning. You normally return together, do you not?” Any conversation was good, Odysseus figured, regardless of the dangerous topic.
“Yes, but when we went to return I could not find him, and he is still nowhere to be found.”
“Hmm, strange. Maybe he is visiting someone in another camp?”
“Perhaps, but I wanted to be sure he was not hurt before I checked.” He went to move forward again but Odysseus stepped into his path to block him.
“Machaon is quite busy at the moment. I do not think he would appreciate visitors.”
“You are acting strangely, Odysseus,” Achilles scrutinized his face.
“I am only trying to save you time. You see, Patroclus is not in the medical tent—“ Odysseus went to talk Achilles away from the tent, but was interrupted by another yelp. Achilles clearly recognized the voice as Patroclus’, as he pushed Odysseus aside and entered the tent with newfound determination.
Gods grant me strength. Odysseus followed him reluctantly.
-
All heads inside the tent snapped up as the tent flap opened. “Shit,” Machaon muttered, working on dislodging the last broken piece of spear from Patroclus’ back. It worked it’s way out just as Achilles arrived at the bed.
Patroclus groaned, but Machaon could not tell if it was caused by the removal or the arrival. “What has happened? Should he not be lying down?” Achilles began questioning Machaon immediately.
Machaon regarded him coldly before turning to start a poultice of yarrow leaves to help ease the bleeding. He would give him painkillers when the urgency died down.
“I am fine,” Patroclus tried to reassure him, but the strain in his voice betrayed him.
“You are not fine! You are bleeding!” Achilles began to raise his voice.
“I will live,” Patroclus insisted.
Achilles answered with a pathetic whine that under any other circumstances would have made Machaon laugh.
Machaon found a cloth and dipped it in a bowl of clean water. The poultice was almost done, but it would be best to clean the area around the wound before application to make sure no other measure needed to be taken beforehand. Turning to Achilles he said: “If you are to be here, you must be of use. Wash the skin surrounding the wound.” He handed him the cloth and turned around to finish the poultice.
“What happened?” He heard Achilles say from behind him, his voice firm and demanding.
“He was—“ Odysseus began, but was interrupted.
“I do not wish to hear from a liar.”
“Achilles,” Patroclus chided, trying to make his voice commanding through gritted teeth.
Patroclus hissed and the bedding shuffled behind Machaon, supposedly at the contact of the cloth.
Machaon heard the distinct sound of skin on skin as he finished the poultice, and turned to see Achilles rubbing Patroclus’ back with the hand not holding the cloth. The softness of the gesture directly juxtaposed Achilles’ cold demeanor.
He stood at Patroclus’ back, inspecting the wound for any remaining splinters. He came to two conclusions: Patroclus did not have any splinters left and he would need to sew the wounds shut rather than pack them with herbs.
“Have you no urgency?” Achilles asked accusingly in response to Machaon’s observing.
“Have you no tact?” Machaon snapped before he could stop himself. He sighed, “he will be alright. The bleeding will subside once the poultice is applied.”
“Still—“
“Achilles,” Patroclus attempted to chastise, but due to his strained voice it sounded like a desperate plea. It got Achilles’ attention nonetheless. “Stop. I beg of you.”
He stopped.
Achilles has been leashed by his own dog, it seems, Machaon thought humorously.
Machaon came in front of Patroclus to examine the other wound, “lean back on your hands, please.” Once he did—with Achilles’ help—Machaon inspected the exit wound. There were no splinters left that he could see, but there was still too much blood surrounding it to tell for sure.
“Would you hand me that rag, Achilles? I must clean this.”
“I will do it.”
“It may be better if I were to—“
“I am trained the same as you are,” he bit.
Machaon threw his hands up in defeat, throwing Odysseus an exasperated glance as Achilles moved to begin cleaning.
Patroclus sent Achilles a glance as well, but one that read: check your temper.
As much as Machaon hated to give Achilles his praise, it was clear he knew what he was doing. He was taught by Chiron, after all.
When he was finished Machaon looked over the wound again, and found that there was one larger splinter left.
As he began extracting it Patroclus took a sharp breath through his teeth. Machaon heard Achilles whisper something indistincly, and saw him support Patroclus with an arm around his shoulders out of the corner of his eye.
“Done,” he said as he dislodged the splinter. He assessed the wounds then. He had figured Patroclus would be in need of stitching, so he was not surprised to see that this remained true. Machaon immediately began to ready a needle with catgut to suture the wounds. “I will need to stitch the wound closed, I apologize again for the discomfort.”
“What?” Achilles asked fearfully. “Can you not simply pack the wounds?”
“While I could, I do not believe it would be effective enough for a wound this sizable. If it could be avoided it would, I swear.” Machaon knelt before Patroclus, preparing his needle. “Are you ready? It will not take long.”
“Will I be given something to bite?” Patroclus asked. He did not seem nearly as afraid as Machaon would have expected. Though the stitching could not be worse than being skewered by a spear, he supposed.
“Yes. Odysseus, there should be a rather thick strip of leather on the table behind you. Fetch it for me, will you?”
He did so without question or comment. Machaon moved forward to proceed, but stopped, looking up at Patroclus for confirmation. He nodded grimly, setting the leather between his teeth.
Machaon straightened up, positioned his needle and was about to begin his work when Achilles suddenly exclaimed: “W—wait!”
The unexpected voice almost caused Machaon to poke Patroclus with the needle. “Achilles. We cannot wait. If you do not wish to see him in pain you may leave, and if you will be a hindrance I will make you.”
He swallowed thickly, but nodded resolutely. He seemed more afraid than Patroclus, Machaon mused, before beginning his work in earnest.
Patroclus let his head fall back, most likely grimacing with his eyes squeezed shut—though Machaon could not see him, he had performed enough sutures in his life to know—grunting and fisting the fabric of the bed under him. Achilles continued to hold him upright, which proved to be very helpful, though it appeared he did so only for Patroclus’ and his own comfort. “It is alright, you are almost finished, beloved,” he whispered gently to Patroclus.
He was, coincidentally, correct; Machaon was but a few stitches from completing the exit wound’s suture. He finished the last stitch, tied the end, and cut the remaining catgut.
“I must say, Patroclus, you have quite the tolerance for pain. Most do not take it so well as you,” Machaon commented.
He laughed airily at that, removing the leather from his mouth. “Is that what I have been doing to others?” He joked.
“I am afraid so,” he returned the jest. “Shall we get this over with, then?”
“If we must,” he said, leaning forward without having to be asked. It was quite nice to work on another doctor, Machaon decided, they already knew what to do.
They repeated the same ritual as before; Achilles held him from the front this time, an arm across his chest, holding his shoulder. Patroclus hung his head over Achilles’ forearm and brought his hands up to grip it, surely leaving crescent shaped indents of his nails in his skin. Odysseus stood aside, helpfully out of the way.
He finished quickly, sooner than the front, as the wound here was cleaner and he had been warmed up by the first wound. “Alright,” he said, standing again, “now I will apply the poultice, and then you may rest.”
Sitting back up on his own, Patroclus smiled, but his breaths came short and fast, his face had paled, and there was a thin line of blood rolling down Achilles’ forearm beginning from a crescent shaped puncture. It was the first time he had seen Achilles’ blood, Machaon realized. Only Patroclus was granted the right to draw his blood, it seemed.
He began to apply the poultice, provoking a quiet hiss from Patroclus. Though it may have been pain, Machaon assumed it was instead because the mixture was cold. Once the poultice was applied, he wrapped his middle in a layer of bandages.
“Lay back now, you should rest.”
Achilles assisted in lowering Patroclus onto the bed, and continued to stand by his head.
Podalirius then entered the tent, having cleaned himself and donned a new chiton. “Quite a gathering here, I see,” he observed.
“Yes,” Machaon started, “would you heat up some water? I would like to begin some painkillers.”
As Podalirius began to do so Machaon moved to gather some maritime pine bark to create an extract. He motioned for Odysseus to follow him to the medicinal storage.
“He is being so quiet,” Machaon observed, reaching for a bowl with the bark in it.
“He is afraid,” Odysseus said, taking the bowl as Machaon gave it to him.
“Afraid? Of what? It has been clear since Achilles’ arrival that Patroclus will not be permanently injured. He is extremely lucky.” Machaon retrieved a mortar and pestle to crush them.
“Achilles has never had anything taken from him. He is afraid today will be a first. And not only that, it is Patroclus he believes will be taken from him. Patroclus is the only thing he lives for, truly,” Odysseus explained, following Machaon to a table.
Machaon scoffed, beginning to grind a few pieces of bark. “He lives for glory as much as he lives for Patroclus.”
“Yes, but without Patroclus to return to, his victories would mean nothing.”
“Hardly. The man fights to be remembered.”
“I suppose, but if you pay attention, you’ll see that it’s Patroclus he wishes to be remembered by.”
Machaon hummed. Perhaps he should be more observant, it clearly did Odysseus good.
He finished with the bark just as Podalirius brought the water. He combined the two, and returned to Patroclus’ side while it steeped.
He was starkly paler than usual—due to blood loss, this was not concerning—but his face was flushed. Machaon hoped this was not an indication of a brewing infection, but rather due to pain.
“How are you feeling?” He asked.
He sat thoughtfully for a moment before saying: “I feel… weak, and, well, it is painful.”
“I have painkillers in the making, you will be absolved of that soon. Nothing else?”
He shook his head.
“Alright, good. Your stitches will most likely be removed within a week or so, and I will have you stay here for at least the next few days to be sure of your health.”
“What does that entail?” Achilles asked.
“As in?” Machaon prompted.
“Being sure of his health, what do you mean?” Fear laced his voice. Machaon would not have noticed it if not for his previous conversation with Odysseus. He was right: Achilles was afraid.
“Well, it’s best to monitor his healing to make sure there are no complications. Also his bandages will need to be changed more frequently, and it is best to do it here at first,” he explained. “Now, while the painkillers steep I must attend to other patients. I will return soon.”
-
The next morning Odysseus decided to stop by the medical tent to see how Patroclus was faring. It was very early. So early, in fact, that Machaon had not yet arrived.
The tent inside was quiet, with only the occasional noise of snores to break the silence.
He made his way through the beds of injured and sick soldiers until he reached Patroclus’. He was unsurprised to find Achilles had pulled a chair up and slept beside him.
Disregarding him, Odysseus went to see how Patroclus seemed to be doing. He slept, but fitfully. It was clear from the line between his furrowed brows. He appeared to be sweaty, almost feverish. Odysseus hoped desperately he had not garnered an infection in the night.
He reached forward to test Patroclus’ temperature with the back of his hand, but was stopped by Achilles’ harsh grip on his wrist. In a matter of seconds Achilles had risen to his feet and grabbed Odysseus.
“Do not.” His tone was cold and commanding: Divine.
“I apologize,” Odysseus tested the waters, letting his hand return to his side. Given Achilles’ slight warming after the apology, Odysseus ventured: “He does not appear to be well.”
Achilles’ jaw clenched, and he reached forward to smooth the line between Patroclus’ brows with his thumb. Patroclus seemed to calm at the touch. “I know,” he looked back at Odysseus. “I do not know what I will do without him.”
“Let us pray you never have to find out.” For both of our sakes. “It is good there is no battle today.”
“Yes.” He paused in thought for a moment. “I would not join you if there were.”
“That is why it is best there is not,” Odysseus replied honestly.
Achilles hummed, confident in his abilities, but not overly—it is hard to be prideful as someone with as much fighting prowess as he.
Their silence lapsed for a moment more before Achilles broke it: “Why have you come?”
“I wanted to see how he was faring. I was there when it happened, don’t you know?”
“Then why was it not prevented?” Now that Patroclus was not actively bleeding it seemed Achilles was more willing to bite.
“I cannot see everything, Achilles.”
“So you say it was his fault?” He accused.
“The Trojan was a coward—“
“Patroclus is not weak,” he interrupted before Odysseus could mention the nature of the Trojan’s attack.
“I did not say he was!” Odysseus sighed, gathering himself. “It is clear you were never told of what happened. He was stripping a corpse of its armor and was stabbed from behind. That is cowardice only by the man who stabbed him.”
There was a vague mumbling from somewhere behind Odysseus. Machaon must have arrived.
Achilles opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by a quiet whimper from Patroclus’ sleeping form.
Both men’s attention shifted quickly to Patroclus, whose eyebrows were drawn inwards and up as if distressed. His shoulders were tense, hands balled into fists at his sides.
He looked to Odysseus as if he were having a particularly frightening nightmare, the sheen of sweat over his body the only indicator otherwise. He pitied him, it was clear he had garnered an infection, and it would be no less enjoyable awake than it was asleep.
Achilles reached out, laying a gentle hand on Patroclus’ shoulder in a clear attempt to soothe him. He muttered a quiet: “Oh, my sweet,” with a pitifully sad and afraid expression. The fear from last night had returned with the knowledge that Patroclus was not yet free from the grips of the House of Hades.
“Your silence concerns me,” Machaon said as he approached. There was a jest in his tone that left his demeanor upon viewing Patroclus. “Oh.”
Odysseus stepped out of his way as he approached, surveying Patroclus as he went to his head. He held the back of his hand to his forehead and neck, checking his body temperature. Machaon’s brows furrowed, and he moved lower to remove the bandaging that had been left overnight.
As he removed it Patroclus stirred, opening his eyes with a soft groan. His eyes were glassy and the frightened expression of his sleep had transitioned to something more confused. He began to try to sit up, bracing himself with his elbows. Machaon’s head snapped up and he gestured frantically for Achilles to prevent him from doing so. He complied quickly, using the hand already on Patroclus to push him gently back against the matress.
“What?” Patroclus asked tentatively. Machaon took this as an opportunity to remove the bandage, exposing the front wound. The wound itself looked similar to how it did the day before; it was raised—and the stitches surely did not help its appearance—but it did not seem to be very gory. The skin surrounding it was red, spanning across more unharmed flesh than what Odysseus would have deemed normal. Odysseus was not a doctor, but Machaon seemed frightfully concerned as well. “What is happening?” Patroclus’ voice was quiet and fearful.
Achilles replied quietly to him: “It is alright. I am here.”
Machaon stood and turned to Odysseus. “He must be delirious. Ask him simple questions: ‘Who am I? Where are you?’ I will return, I must fetch some medicine.”
Odysseus nodded and moved to perform his task. “Hey,” he said softly to get Patroclus’ attention. He turned his head to look at him, and in his eyes Odysseus saw no recognition. “What is my name?”
“You’re— Um.” He furrowed his brows in focus. It was clear Odysseus’ face was familiar, but he could not quite connect the dots. “I… cannot remember.” He seemed disturbed by this understanding.
“That is okay, you’re okay,” he reassured. “Do you know where you are? How you came to be here?”
He paused, looking around and thinking. He shook his head slowly, eyes wide and glossy.
“Do you know who he is?” He gestured to Achilles.
Patroclus turned his confused gaze to Achilles, eyes scanning his face. “I—“ Achilles’ face fell and he took a step back, arms falling limply to his sides. “I’m sorry.” Patroclus’ voice was vaguely slurred, Odysseus noticed now; the words came out thick and unsure, as if he struggled to conjure them up.
“He will die, won’t he?” He addressed Odysseus, his face etched with fear.
“No, Achilles—“
A choked sob escaped his throat and his hands moved to tug at his hair.
“Stop that. It will be okay,” he urged.
While Odysseus was preoccupied, Patroclus sat up on his elbows and peered at his wound. His face paled and his mouth fell agape. He reached out and began to try and remove the injury, it seemed. He stratched at is as if it were not—should not be—apart of him.
“Oh, Gods!” Odysseus exclaimed, noticing as Patroclus’ fingers came away bloodied. He grabbed his hands and pulled them away from his body. “Achilles, compose yourself! Hold him down!”
He did—thankfully—and grabbed Patroclus’ shoulders to hold his body down against the bed.
Machaon returned then, a steaming cup in one hand, in the other a bowl with a paste in it. He did not comment on their situation, simply saying: “Achilles, lift his head so he can drink.”
He complied, and Machaon brought the medicine to Patroclus’ lips, letting him drink. “It will put him to sleep,” he supplied an answer to an unasked question.
They stood frozen for several minutes, letting the concoction drag Patroclus’ eyelids shut over his feverish eyes. Only when his face calmed and his body stilled did either Odysseus or Achilles unhand him.
Odysseus stepped back, sighing and running a hand over his face. Machaon had begun to work as soon as Patroclus had fallen asleep, spreading the paste over the wound after inspection. Rolling Patroclus onto his side, Machaon repeated the motion on his second wound and wrapped him in a fresh bandage.
“He did not recognize me,” Achilles muttered quietly from where he stood to the side.
“He did not recognize any of us. He hardly knew his own name—if at all,” Odysseus reassured.
“It is only the fever speaking, Achilles,” Machaon added.
“That is no consolation! He has an infection—a severe one! Do you think I do not see this?” His voice was filled with panic and thick with unshed tears.
“Achilles—“ Odysseus started.
“Why do you linger? What use are you, Odysseus?”
“Well, I—“ He began to explain but was cut off again.
“Leave!” He shouted.
Odysseus was taken aback; he hadn’t taken himself to be any sort of hindrance. Not, at least, compared to Achilles himself. Regardless, he understood Achilles’ fear and did not wish to make his worry manifest itself into something more dangerous. So he nodded, turned, and left.
-
Patroclus’ fever broke two days later. Those feverish days, though, were terrible. Achilles absolutely refused to leave his side, he did not fight, he did not eat, he barely slept. Thankfully his distress had been noticed by his mother, who begged the Olympians to postpone battle for the time being. They miraculously complied, though rumor said this only came to fruition after a compelling argument made by Aphrodite.
This shocked Machaon, and he only half believed it. Aphrodite fought for the Trojans, why would she care for Achilles, the Greeks’ best soldier? Perhaps there were similar casualties that needed be dealt with in the Trojan lines. Odysseus explained what he assumed to be the goddess’ reasoning:
(“Maybe she pities the young lovers. Have you seen Achilles? He is hopelessly depressed. He sits there day and night waiting fearfully for Patroclus to open his eyes, unsure of whether or not he will recognize the person who matters most to him. Aphrodite resides over the domain of love, maybe they have tugged at the strings of her heart. But perhaps you are right. If Achilles were to fight in his current condition he would be deadlier than normal; his fear may turn to rage.”)
Either way, Machaon was thankful for the break. He used it well, nursing soldiers back to health far faster than he would have been able to while also battling.
When Patroclus had woken less deliriously, Machaon was busying himself by checking on an injury Antilochus had sustained a few days before. It was not a particularly bad injury, simply a cut formed by an arrow grazing the skin. Nestor stood nearby, doting over his son.
“It looks just fine. It is healing well, and should continue to,” Machaon assured.
“That is good,” Nestor commented.
Antilochus smiled, a bright young grin. “Thank you, Machaon! Your skill is unparalleled.”
“You are very kind, sir. Now go, enjoy your day off. Both of you,” he shifted his attention to Nestor.
The two left, speaking amicably. Machaon wondered how Nestor was able to bring his son to war. He understood it was because Antilochus was of age, but Machaon could hardly imagine not knowing if your child were still living at the end of every day. Nestor’s fear over the injury made perfect sense, and was not at all as cumbersome as Achilles’.
Achilles emerged into Machaon’s thoughts with the sound of his voice. It was not a strange thing to hear nowadays, but its tone was different. Usually it was fearful or consoling, but at the moment he sounded… relieved.
Machaon turned and made his way to Patroclus’ bed, only to be met with a lucid and awake Patroclus. His attention was focused upon Achilles. He seemed very concerned—and rightfully so, Achilles looked worse for wear.
“Oh, Achilles, what has happened to you?” Patroclus’ hands were as gentle as his voice as he cupped Achilles’ gaunt cheeks. “Why have you done this to yourself?” He asked softly, without anger.
“I was so afraid,” he murmured, shifting his gaze dejectedly to the ground. He looked to Machaon like a kicked puppy.
“That is okay. I am here now, aren’t I?” Patroclus reassured, rubbing a thumb over Achilles’ high cheekbone.
His eyes flicked back to Patroclus’ face, if he noticed Machaon he did not show it. “I am sorry, I don’t mean to worry you, but you must understand. I could not leave your side!”
“Oh, that is folly. I would awake all the same, whether you ate or not,” he chided gently.
“But you did not recognize me!” He argued.
“Then perhaps your show of grief frightened me.”
“That is mean. You are mean,” Achilles frowned.
“Am I?” Patroclus asked, voice sweet, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Achilles’ ear. There was a smile evident in his voice, though Machaon could not see his face.
Achilles did not respond at first, as if to challenge the assurance in Patroclus’ voice. Finally he caved: “No. Never.”
Patroclus hummed absentmindedly, running his fingers through Achilles’ hair. Achilles looked up then, meeting Machaon’s curious gaze.
He took it as his chance to speak: “I am sorry to intrude, but I do need to change his bandages.” Machaon addressed Achilles. “If you pay attention there is a good chance that by tomorrow you will be doing it yourself in your own tent.”
Achilles’ face brightened and he smiled at Machaon. It was a rare thing, Achilles smiling at anyone other than Patroclus. Machaon could do nothing but return it.