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I believe this is heaven to no one else but me
And I'll defend it as long as I can be left here to linger in silence
If I choose to
Would you try to understand?
Sarah Mclachlan, “Elsewhere”
“A soldier of your rank does not usually wash a general’s feet,” I mention lightly, referencing this evening’s return from battle.
Patroclus smiles, palms upturned upon his lap. His dark beard is neatly trimmed, his skin smelling of olive oil. “It is my role to serve as I am needed.”
“It seems you are well needed.” I sip wine from a golden goblet. Everyone else has been served in terracotta—this I notice. There are notes of strawberry, nutmeg and clay; the finish is bitter as ashes scraped from an iron pot. “There is no companion more loyal than you.”
“You are too kind, Odysseus.” He smiles again. “I only do what might be asked of anyone who serves a warrior as great as Achilles.”
“Of course.” It’s the only polite response, but any other warrior as great as Achilles would be embarrassed for his second-in-command to be reduced in status to that of a slave or a woman. His smile is entirely correct, terribly genuine—crinkling eyes, the wrinkles that speak to frequent acts of compassion. I take my last bite of a grape leaf stuffed with crumbling cheese and crushed almonds, considering whether I have underestimated the guile of Achilles’ lapdog. There is power in influence. There is violence in kindness and a trade in such favours that multiply upon the giver.
Ask anyone. Ask me .
With a friendly glance, Patroclus discreetly summons a serving girl to add skewers of meat to my plate. Her cheekbone is swollen and blue; when dismissed, she disappears like a black cloak in the night. He picks up a flagon painted with geometric spirals and drizzles a reduction of sticky vinegar across my skewer.
“Achilles tells me you have shown great valour on the field today,” says Patroclus.
“I am sure he might say that of any king,” I assure him. “While I cannot match his grace in combat or the efficiency with which he strikes, I try to fight so that my son might, one day, be proud to call me his father. So far, that aim is yet to be achieved.”
His smile broadens at the mention of Telemachus, but the muscles in his neck relax. It could be that he is truly soft, as they say. It is also possible that he aims for a gap in my armour.
“How old is he now?” asks Patroclus. “I should think four or five, yes?”
“Yes, he is five. I imagine he plays with sticks and slingshots and makes his mother sick with worry.” I grin the bearish and foolhardy grin of a man struck with love at the memory of his child. This is who I am, but I am also —forgive me—a skeptic and a cynic.
“He will be grateful to see his father home, safe and unharmed, I imagine.” Patroclus chews an olive, thinking. “It must be difficult to be away for so long.”
“No more difficult for me than for the many men who accompanied me from Ithaca and see much less in the way of reward.” I spear a chunk of beef and pull it off the skewer to taste. Like all of the food served at the head table of Achilles’ hut, it is cut from the finest flank of a fat cow slaughtered after pillage. “This meat is excellent, by the way.”
“We have some remarkable cooks.” Patroclus sips his wine. “I am still persuading Prince Achilles to expand upon our kitchen facilities so that we might treat guests with greater hospitality.”
“You show great hospitality already. My goblet has never gone empty, and my stomach is full to bursting.”
“That may be,” he concedes, “but there are hearths in need of remortaring and ovens not large enough to accommodate the growth of our camp.”
I want to ask —why do any of these improvements require Achilles’ interference when they are matters easily delegated?—but such bluntness would not serve me, a man who will never win his glory through the sword and shield alone. I know what I am. There is no shame in it. Does Patroclus know what he is? What he could be?
“I will make note to speak to a craftsman. There are several among my slaves who may be of use.”
“There is no need,” says Patroclus, looking down at his goblet. “We have all the craftsmen we need right now. There is simply so much to be done, and only so many hours a day.”
He glances across the hut at Achilles, bent low over a table to arm wrestle with Myrmidon after Myrmidon. He grins and throws his head back in laughter after each man is shocked by the immediacy of his overpowering strength.
“You can see he is in no mood for serious matters tonight.” Patroclus is smiling again. A different smile from his endless stable such expressions.
“I assume he defers the keeping of household matters to you?” Of course I don’t assume; that is why I am asking.
“At times.” A shadow crosses his face—Patroclus is offended by certain implications. His goblet is empty. He rests it on the table and a serving maid approaches, but he places his hand over the rim to politely refuse, thanking her anyway. “Achilles has a hand in all things.”
“I left my wife in charge of all household matters and accounts. The treasury as well. Few women are so shrewd with money as my Penelope.”
“She sounds quite rare.”
“She is.” I see her through memory’s bronze mirror, bending over to examine a ledger of expenses, pressing her seal into the clay to approve. Her wrists, pale and jangling with bracelets. The translucency of her white skirt against her calves.
“You miss her,” says Patroclus, with the gentleness he is known for.
“Like the shade misses the canopy. Like the feather misses the wing.”
“You have a way of speaking of her that is, I think, unusual among soldiers.” He lowers his chin in deference. “Although, I speak too soon. You are a king first.”
“A king second. A husband first.” The beef skewers are cooling off before me, but I cannot eat. When I think of her, I am hungry beyond any consolation of food.
The clatter of conversation and clanking goblets falls like a chest in exhalation. Across the long tables where soldiers drink to stupidity, two men who were laughing moments ago are now brawling. They rise from the benches; a dagger unsheathed draws a line of gold in the candlelight. Now, if these were my men, tomorrow morning would find them on their knees before my patron, Athena, begging her to intercede with me on their behalf. Because they are Myrmidons, I watch patiently and without anger.
“If you will excuse me,” says Patroclus. He rises and strides calmly over to the men, intervening with a hand on the shoulder of each. I cannot hear him from this distance, but I know he has a joke, an assurance, a compliment and a self-deprecating remark, and will drop whichever one is called for by the situation. The feud is resolved and the dagger disappears. Patroclus is laughing. The din of chatter resumes without a word or glance from Achilles, who is now pinching out a candle with his bare fingers for the entertainment of a serving girl.
Achilles is lenient and inattentive with his men. They respect him, they adore him, they certainly fear him, but they do not maintain order and that is because he leaves the tedious work of discipline to Patroclus, who can’t or won’t wield the power he has. Might have, I should say. Power is a muscle that atrophies without use. Regretfully, a general must be seen to administer harsh discipline such that others may learn from the transgressions of one. For a butcher on the battlefield, Achilles is remarkably indulgent of his Myrmidons.
There he is, standing up from the table where he has arm-wrestled into submission at least twenty men, seeking Patroclus at the foot of a long trestle table. He sweeps a lock of golden hair back from his face and grins at Patroclus. Upon his companion’s upper arm, Achilles’ fingers appear pale and slender as candles. He believes himself to be speaking privately, and I cannot hear him, but unfortunately for Achilles, I am pretty adept at reading lips.
Have you handled it?
I cannot read Patroclus because he is standing with his back to me. He says something, to which Achilles responds.
It always is. Let Evanthe see them to their tents and we shall have no further complaints.
Patroclus speaks with his head tilted downward, slightly, even though he is shorter than Achilles. A gesture of deference, perhaps.
And the horses have been watered?
Patroclus replies. Achilles squeezes his bicep and brushes his hand down to Patroclus’s elbow.
And I saw Odysseus. What does that conniving old goat want?
Well, now he has me leaning forward in my seat.
Patroclus speaks and Achilles responds: I have not… (unintelligible). ..the least bit… (unintelligible) but I will get rid of him if you like .
Patroclus shakes his head as a serving girl passes by, preventing me from catching Achilles' last few words to him. They stroll back to my table together; Achilles slings an arm around Patroclus’s shoulders in the easy manner of one who loves whomsoever he owns and owns whomsoever he loves.
Patroclus seats himself again but Achilles stands behind him, resting both hands upon Patroclus’s shoulders.
“I hate to be inhospitable,” says Achilles. “But you know even better than I do what a long day it’s been.”
“A very long day.” I rub a spot on my bicep where the crush of my shield left a dark bruise. “Don’t by any means feel obliged. I will take my leave, if you need.”
“You may stay as long as you like,” says Achilles. “Patroclus will see to your wine and ensure you are comfortable.”
Patroclus smiles, and adds, “We have some musicians—”
“Your conversation is more than enough for me,” I assure him, and looking up at Achilles, I add, “We were discussing my wife when we were interrupted.”
Achilles groans. “I apologize. These men have had too much to drink.”
“I’m afraid I have as well. Your wine is peerless,” I say, though I am not drunk and would not be in the presence of Achilles. I don’t mean to suggest that he would kill me—we are allied, and reliant upon one another on these foreign shores—but a man such as myself lives by his wits. Without them, I am like a man who leaves home without even a knife.
“I leave you in the hands of Patroclus, then. Goodnight, Odysseus.”
“Sleep well.”
Patroclus looks up, to catch Achilles’ eye. I expect them to wish each other goodnight, neither says a word; Achilles presses a hand to Patroclus’s beard and gently swipes it down to his chin, which he tilts upward just long enough for Patroclus to smile as beautiful woman might into her mirror. Achilles bites his lip; he swiftly lets go of Patroclus and disappears through a curtained doorway.
If Patroclus wants us to believe he has little to no influence on Achilles, he’s going to have to work much harder than this , I think.
“We were speaking of Penelope,” says Patroclus. “You were mentioning her skill with the treasury.”
“Oh, yes. She has a mind like a man.”
He laughs. “I might have thought that would hold little appeal for you.”
Sneaky little bastard . I cannot believe I didn’t see that coming.
“The mind of a man, but very much the body of a woman.” I sip more wine, closing my eyes and pretending to savour the taste. “I apologize for going on and on.”
“It’s no trouble.”
“Nobody asks to hear about my wife nearly as much as I want to speak about her.” I grin. “Least of all Diomedes, but…” I lean forward, lowering my voice. Patroclus mirrors me. “I actually meant to ask you something.”
“Ye-es?” He seems careful.
“You may find the question rude. I ask that you forgive my curiosity.”
He laughs, and gestures to the hall where Myrmidons are emptying out in groups of two and three. “You’ll find little in the way of manners in this room, most nights. This is… about Achilles, is it not?”
“No…” I fold my hands on my lap in as non-threatening a gesture as I can manage. “Well, yes. In part. It’s about you, in truth.”
I wait for his response, but he is still as a fallen log.
“You are a prince, yes? The son of Menoitius.”
He sighs. “I was a prince. At my birth.”
“You are high-born.”
Patroclus glances at the curtained doorway, unable to conceal his thinking. “I was, but no longer. You know I am in exile.”
“We are all of us in exile, here in Troy.”
“I mean that I cannot return to my father’s kingdom.”
“I did know that, yes.”
He looks puzzled. A fine thread appears in his forehead. “Then your question, it is…”
“One of a personal nature. You see—I like to believe I understand the nature of men. Their greed, their ambition, their violence, their loyalties. Their dis-loyalties.”
“That sounds like a poor vision of men,” he says drily.
“Perhaps it is, but it’s one that has served me well, for the most part,” I shrug. “Certainly in war, you have seen that men are grasping and rarely happy with whatever they close their hands upon.”
“I cannot say I see things exactly as you do.”
“But that leads me to my question.”
“Yes.” He looks into my eyes, his large mottled with mismatched shades of brown like plowed earth. There is nothing striking about his appearance.
“You have training. You have wealth. You are liked by most of your men,” I begin.
He chuckles. “I have moderate training. They are not my men, and most of this—” he waves at the golden goblets, the gem-studded serving bowl, “—is the wealth of Achilles.”
“Nevertheless, Achilles denies you nothing, does he not?”
He presses his lips together for a long while, before saying, “Nothing that I would want.”
“You have his ear. You have influence over the deadliest warrior alive. There are men who would kill for such power.”
Patroclus blinks. “I have a little influence… I don’t deny his skill. He is the greatest, by far. But I would not—describe Achilles as such.”
“Still.” My curiosity has endangered me before, but I will push on. Perhaps I would not be so bold, but this is Patroclus. More of a cow than a bull. “Why do you not negotiate? Take what is yours, or ought to be?”
He shakes his head, smiling. The candles are burning low and some have been snuffed out; the golden glow upon his skin has turned to bronze. “What is it that you think ought to be mine?”
“Well, your kingdom, for one.”
“Opus is not my kingdom. Not anymore.”
“Oh, Patroclus,” I wave away his objection. “You’re in exile? Show up to your father’s palace with an army lead by Achilles, and that problem would solve itself.”
“Well…” He picks up his empty goblet and holds it cupped between his fingers, examining the stained bowl.
“Unless you think he would not fight for you.”
“He would,” says Patroclus, quietly. “I know he would.”
“On the other hand… what’s to stop Achilles from taking Opus?” I muse aloud. “That is one point. You cannot harness the wind and then ask it not to blow. ”
Patroclus smiles into his goblet. “He wouldn’t take Opus… Not if I wanted it.”
“Then, why not? I mean—after Troy falls, of course. We do need you here for the time being.”
He looks up to lock eyes with a serving maid and gestures to his goblet. “Is that what you would do, Odysseus?”
“ Me?” Of course it’s not what I would do. Achilles is too rogue for my taste. His emotions get the better of him. Such a man is unreliable for political purposes.
“Yes. You—in my place. Would you go to war with your own father?”
“No. I would never have lost my kingdom in the first place. ”
“I killed somebody, Odysseus. A child. It was an accident, but—”
“No. You killed a nobody , but your mistake was allowing him to become a somebody. This is the difference between you and I, Patroclus. Have we not all offended the gods? Played our odds and lost? We have, but you admitted defeat. You admitted fault, which is even worse.”
The serving maid arrives—a different girl this time, very pretty, not much more than fourteen years old. She pours wine from a rough wooden pitcher. Where have all the fine silver carafes gone? The hand-painted amphoras? Is this what becomes of the Phthian camp after Achilles goes to bed?
She refills both our glasses. I taste the new wine and am surprised to find that it’s the same excellent vintage as my original goblet. Patroclus sees my attention to the pitcher and shrugs.
“The finer dishes are washed after Achilles retires,” he explains, somewhat embarrassed. “I apologize for the indecency. I should have reminded the girls to ensure you were attended to with the royal set.”
“But you see, this is what I mean, Patroclus.” I shake my head. “Why allow yourself to live as a commoner? Why serve, when you could rule?”
He laughs at my words, and kicks a rat away from his chair. Now that the hall is emptying, the pests have grown bold. “Believe me, my life is far from that of a commoner.”
“Even so. Are you content with this?”
“I would rather not stay in Troy another five years,” he admits. “But then…” He trails off. Thoughts are crossing his expression like dark clouds. “I have no desire to return to Opus.”
“Even if your father was dead?”
“Yes.” He drinks from his goblet, almost a full glass. Deep purple stains about his mouth remind me of a man I speared today, and the blood that bubbled from his lips just as his soul made its final departure.
“You know that if you stay with Achilles, he will expect your service indefinitely.”
“I am well aware.”
“And it’s impossible to become the equal of someone like him. Not I, not even—” I only mouth Agamemnon so that I cannot be accused of treason, “not Ajax or anyone else could hope to do so.”
“Nobody knows that better than I do,” says Patroclus mildly. He does not seem offended in the slightest. “Achilles is a demigod. Even when we were boys, he… he was different. We used to play together. He never lost. Not to me, or any of the other boys at the palace. He was impossible to beat, even then.”
“Did that bother you?”
He shrugs. “Perhaps the first few times. We were children. But then a few weeks later, Achilles said to me that it was more noble to lose to a worthy opponent than to win against a lesser one. He said he admired that… that I could lose, and still smile. After that, whenever we competed against each other, I didn’t really mind losing. It was kind of our joke—you know, how unevenly matched we were. I was glad he didn’t get bored of playing with me.”
I am struggling to reconcile this tender anecdote with the bloodthirsty butcher who, only today, speared a teenage boy in the groin, carelessly yanked out his dripping weapon, and thrusted it straight through the boy’s throat.
“I don’t think Achilles minds winning,” I suggest lightly. “That’s never been the question.”
Patroclus drains the last of his wine. There is a flush in his cheeks, a rosy pattern of capillaries in his eyes. “Then what is your question?”
“Why you give him everything and take none of what he might give you in return.”
He closes his eyes. The last few Myrmidons are leaving the hall, stumbling drunk and swearing under their breaths. The prettiest serving girls have disappeared into bedrooms and tents, leaving behind the old and ugly slave women to wipe the tables and beat away the rats with clubs. Most of them walk barefoot, their feet blackened with dirt. I know that Patroclus has his own concubine, a gift from Achilles. Whether she’s ever been used, I can’t say.
“Achilles would let me go,” murmurs Patroclus. “I mean—he does not keep me with him by force. I am not under duress.”
“So, why not strike out?”
“He is kind to me. I mean that sincerely, Odysseus.”
“Yet, you remain in his shadow.” I stare at the slave women, some over thirty or even forty, hunched with hard labour. Call me what you’d like, but I would never accept such a role—not even if I were a woman, or common born. It’s not my nature. If a door doesn’t open, you break the window. If the window is blocked up, you climb the wall. There’s always a way in.
“To you, it’s a shadow.” Patroclus smiles up at me, half-drunk, half-serious. “To me, it’s the brightest, warmest light.”
Shortly afterward, I am escorted to the camp gate. Patroclus bids me goodnight and makes his way out to the stable, a dark hulking shadow against the starry sky. Three of his hounds followed him outside and fell asleep in a bale of hay. Their soft dreaming growls and yips fade away as I step through the ruined grass and mud between camps. Somewhere in the darkness, a soldier and his woman moan. Tomorrow is a holiday. We will not fight. My body yearns to sleep past noon, but I know I will wake at sunrise to slice through the day’s fresh web of dilemmas.
Am I weary? Yes. Homesick? Yes. Longing to hear my wife’s gentle teasing? Beyond words. Patroclus will sleep better than I ever have. I suspect he will wake in the arms of his beloved, and I will wake in a cold sweat with my dagger in hand. In my dreams, I taunt death. I slip his grasp and grab his treasure, all I can hold. Even that’s not enough. Penelope knows this about me. I don’t make it easy for her, but then, she hates easiness with my own heart’s passion. We are cut from the same cloth, the pair of us. I hope she is thinking of me as I kick off my sandals and undress in the dark.
Always, a conundrum. A plot to foil. Another dark mast tipping forth from the hazy horizon.