Achilles And Patroclus Quotes

That is — your friend?" "Philtatos," Achilles replied, sharply. Most beloved.

We reached for each other, and I thought of how many nights I had lain awake loving him in silence.

I have done it," she says. At first I do not understand. But then I see the tomb, and the marks she has made on the stone. A C H I L L E S, it reads. And beside it, P A T R O C L U S. "Go," she says. "He waits for you." In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of the sun.

I will never leave him. It will be this, always, for as long as he will let me.

I will never leave him. It will be this, always, for as long as he will let me. If I had had words to speak such a thing, I would have. But there were none that seemed big enough for it, to hold that swelling truth. As if he had heard me, he reached for my hand. I did not need to look; his fingers were etched into my memory, slender and petal-veined, strong and quick and never wrong. “Patroclus,” he said. He was always better with words than I.

Achilles’ eyes lift. They are bloodshot and dead. “I wish he had let you all die.

We are all there, goddess and mortal and the boy who was both.

When I am dead, I charge you to mingle our ashes and bury us together.

Patroclus, he says, Patroclus. Patroclus. Over and over until it is sound only.

Bury us, and mark our names above. Let us be free.

Achilles weeps. He cradles me, and will not eat, nor speak a word other than my name.

This is what Achilles will feel like when he is old. And then I remembered: he will never be old.

As for the goddess’s answer, I did not care. I would have no need of her. I did not plan to live after he was gone.

He looked different in sleep, beautiful but cold as moonlight. I found myself wishing he would wake so that I might watch the life return.

Those seconds, half seconds, that the line of our gaze connected, were the only moment in my day that I felt anything at all.

I conjure the boy I knew. Achilles, grinning as the figs blur in his hands. His green eyes laughing into mine. Catch, he says. Achilles, outlined against the sky, hanging from a branch over the river. The thick warmth of his sleepy breath against my ear. If you have to go, I will go with you. My fears forgotten in the golden harbor of his arms. The memories come, and come. She listens, staring into the grain of the stone. We are all there, goddess and mortal and the boy who was both.

I think: this is what I will miss. I think: I will kill myself rather than miss it. I think: how long do we have?

I saw then how I had changed. I did not mind anymore that I lost when we raced and I lost when we swam out to the rocks and I lost when we tossed spears or skipped stones. For who can be ashamed to lose to such beauty? It was enough to watch him win, to see the soles of his feet flashing as they kicked up sand, or the rise and fall of his shoulders as he pulled through the salt. It was enough.

And overpowered by memory Both men gave way to grief. Priam wept freely For man - killing Hector, throbbing, crouching Before Achilles' feet as Achilles wept himself, Now for his father, now for Patroclus once again And their sobbing rose and fell throughout the house.

When he was gone, would I be like Achilles, wailing over his lost lover Patroclus? I tried to picture myself running up and down the beaches, tearing at my hair, cradling some scrap of old tunic he had left behind. Crying out for the loss of half my soul. I could not see it. That knowledge brought its own sort of pain.

We cannot say who will survive the holocaust of memory.

This is how I think of us, when I remember our nights at Troy: Achilles and I beside each other, Phoinix smiling and Automedon stuttering through the punch lines of jokes, and Briseis with her secret eyes and quick, spilling laughter.

The never-ending ache of love and sorrow. Perhaps in some other life I could have refused, could have torn my hair and screamed, and made him face his choice alone. But not in this one. He would sail to Troy and I would follow, even into death.

I have done it,” she says. At first I do not understand. But then I see the tomb, and the marks she has made on the stone. ACHILLES, it reads. And beside it, PATROCLUS. “Go,” she says. “He waits for you.

If I had had words to speak such a thing, I would have. But there were none that seemed big enough for it, to hold that swelling truth. As if he had heard me, he reached for my hand. I did not need to look; his fingers were etched into my memory, slender and petal-veined, strong and quick and never wrong. “Patroclus,” he said. He was always better with words than I.

Patroclus,' he said. He was always better with words than I.

Will you tell me who hurt you? I imagine saying, 'You.' But that is nothing more than childishness.

We reached for each other and I thought of how many nights I had lain awake in this room loving him in silence.

In Troy they fought over Helen like children but Achilles mourned Patroclus the way a soul mourns a body.

Then the best part of him died, and he was even more difficult after that. [...] “What was his best part?” “His lover, Patroclus. He didn’t like me much, but then the good ones never do. Achilles went mad when he died; nearly mad, anyway.

He looked different in sleep, beautiful but cold as moonlight.

Those seconds, half seconds, that the line of our gaze connected, were the only moment in my day that I felt anything at all. The sudden swoop of my stomach, the coursing anger. I was like a fish eyeing the hook.

Indeed, he seemed utterly unaware of his effect on the boys around him.

Peleus acknowledged this. "Yet other boys will be envious that you have chosen such a one. What will you tell them?" "I will tell them nothing." The answer came with no hesitation, clear and crisp. "It is not for them to say what I will do.

My fears forgotten in the golden harbour of his arms.

...all the grace I saw then was his own: simple, unadorned, glorious.

The heat rose up my neck, wrapped fingers over my face. His hair fell around me, and I could smell nothing but him. The grain of his lips seemed to rest a hairsbreadth from mine.

Do not let what you gained this day be so easily lost.' - Chiron

The mightiest kings have had their minions; Great Alexander loved Hephaestion, The conquering Hercules for Hylas wept; And for Patroclus, stern Achilles drooped. And not kings only, but the wisest men: The Roman Tully loved Octavius, Grave Socrates, wild Alcibiades.

No one would remember his glory, or his honesty, or his beauty; all his gold would be turned to ashes and ruin.

As for the goddess' answer. I did not care. I would have no need of her. I did not plan to live after he was gone

He weeps as he lifts me into our bed. My corpse sags; it's warm in the tent, and the smell will come soon. He does not seem to care. He holds me all night long, pressing my cold hands to his mouth.

The difference between being Achilles and almost being Achilles is the difference between living and dying.

My friend Patroclus, whom I loved, is dead. I loved him more than any other comrade. I loved him like my head, my life, myself. I lost him, killed him. [. . .] . . .my Patroclus, son of Menoetius.

Patroclus. I have given enough to them. I will not give them this.

In the silence, I can hear Phoinix’s breaths, labored with the exertion of speaking so long. I do not dare to speak or move; I am afraid that someone will see the thought that is plain on my face. It was not honor that made Meleager fight, or his friends, or victory, or revenge, or even his own life. It was Cleopatra, on her knees before him, her face streaked with tears. Here is Phoinix’s craft: Cleopatra, Patroclus. Her name built from the same pieces as mine, only reversed.

Achilles weeps. He craddles me, and will not eat, nor speak a word other than my name. I see his face as if through water, as a fish sees the sun. His tears fall, but I cannot wipe them away. This is my element now, the half-life of the unburied spirit.

what was his best part?' 'his lover patroclus

We were silent a moment. 'So, which of the suitors would you have picked?' I shoved him, and he laughed

Forget him. What is treasure? Or Briseis, or honor, or anything? Next to the life of the one I loved best and dearest? My beloved, my only Patroclus.

What had Deidameia thought would happen, I wondered, when she had her women dance for me? Had she really thought I would not know him? I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell, I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world.

Briseis is kneeling by my body. She has brought water and cloth, and washes the blood and dirt from my skin. Her hands are gentle, as though she washes a baby, not a dead thing. Achilles opens the tent, and their eyes meet over my body. "Get away from him," he says. "I am almost finished. He does not deserve to lie in filth." "I would not have your hands on him." Her eyes are sharp with tears. "Do you think you are the only one who loved him?" "Get out. Get out!" "You care more for him in death than in life." Her voice is bitter with grief. "How could you have let him go? You knew he could not fight!" Achilles screams, and shatters a serving bowl. "Get out!" Briseis does not flinch. "Kill me. It will not bring him back. He was worth ten of you. Ten! And you sent him to his death!" The sound that comes from him is hardly human. "I tried to stop him! I told him not to leave the beach!" "You are the one who made him go." Briseis steps towards him. "He fought to save you, and your darling reputation. Because he could not bear to see you suffer!" Achilles buries his face in his hands. But she does not relent. "You have never deserved him. I do not know why he ever loved you. You care only for yourself!" Achilles' gaze lifts to meet hers. She is afraid, but does not draw back. "I hope that Hector kills you." The breath rasps in his throat. "Do you think I do not hope the same?" he asks.

And you think that no one but me can kill Hector.' 'Yes.' I said. 'And you think to steal time from the Fates?' 'Yes.' 'Ah.' A sly smile spread across his face; he had always loved defiance. 'Well, why should I kill him? He's done nothing to me.' For the first time then, I felt a kind of hope.

She thought that she had power to drive a wedge between us, but she had nothing.

Patroclus." Achilles did not slur my name, as people often did, running it together as if in a hurry to be rid of it. Instead, he rang each syllable: Pa-tro-clus.

Patroclus, in Achilles' arms, enlighten'd all with stars,

And then I remembered: he will never be old.

I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world.

Will you come with me?' he asked. Perhaps in some other life I could have refused, could have torn my hair and screamed, and made him face his choice alone. But not in this one. He would sail to troy and I would follow, even into death.

He is half of my soul, as the poets say. He will be dead soon, and his honour is all that will remain. It is his child, his dearest self. Should I reproach him for it? I have saved Briseis. I cannot save them all.

Patroclus. I have given enough to them. I will not give them this.” After that, there was nothing more to say.

He was watching me closely, reading my face over and over, like a priest searching the auguries for an answer. I could see the slight line in his forehead that meant utmost concentration. Something shifted in me then, like the frozen surface of the Apidanos in spring. I had seen the way he looked at Deidameia; or rather the way he did not. It was the same way he had looked at the boys in Phtia, blank and unseeing. He had never, not once, looked at me that way.

The Triumph Of Achilles In the story of Patroclus no one survives, not even Achilles who was nearly a god. Patroclus resembled him; they wore the same armor. Always in these friendships one serves the other, one is less than the other: the hierarchy is always apparent, though the legends cannot be trusted-- their source is the survivor, the one who has been abandoned. What were the Greek ships on fire compared to this loss? In his tent, Achilles grieved with his whole being and the gods saw he was a man already dead, a victim of the part that loved, the part that was mortal.

I had seen the way he looked at Deidameia; or rather the way he did not. It was the same way he had looked at the boys in Phthia, blank and unseeing. He had never, not once, looked at me that way.

I have done it,' she says. At first I do not understand. But then I see the tomb, and the marks she has made on the stone. ACHILLES, it reads. And beside it, PATROCLUS. 'Go,' she says. 'He waits for you.' In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood, like a hundred golden urns pouring out the sun.

I listened and did not speak. Achilles' eyes were bright in the firelight, his face drawn sharply by the flickering shadows. I would know it in dark or disguise, I told myself. I would know it even in madness.

Be careful tomorrow,' she says. 'Best of men. Best of the Myrmidons...It is truth,' she says. 'Let it stand, for once.

Her mouth tightens. 'Have you no more memories?' I am made of memories. 'Speak, then.

Achilles shook him. "Just come back.

I let him hold me, let him press us length to length so close that nothing might fit between us.

Our goddess of the moon is gifted with magic, with power over the dead. She could banish the dreams, if she wished. She did not.

She's like cream, she's that soft. Once her thighs are around you, you'll forget your own name.

He weeps as he lifts me on to our bed. My corpse sags; it is warm in the tent, and the smell will come soon. He does not seem to care. He holds me all night long, pressing my cold hands to his mouth.

He stands apart with Patroclus, his beloved through all eternity, and Patroclus - who loves Achilles but not as much as he is loved - waits for Achilles to move. His deference to Achilles is different from that of others, They honour and respect him, keep a wise distance, because Achilles was better than the rest. Better at being human. Fighting, singing, speaking, raging (oh, he is good at that still). Killing. But Patroclus alone is humbled by Achilles' love. Only a fool thinks that to be more loved than loving gives you power. Only a fool vaunts it and displays his own littleness by bragging to his friends and making capricious demands of his lover. Patroclus isn't a fool. He knows that he is less than Achilles even in this. Humbled by the intensity of Achilles' love he loves him back with all his large, though lesser, heart.

You think you killed me, Hector,’ Patroclus gasped. ‘But it took the god Apollo to do that. Euphorbus was next. You, famous Hector, noble Hector, were just the third. All you did is finish me off. I die knowing that your fate will be settled by one greater than any … by my Achilles.

my rage, my fury would drive me now to hack your flesh away and eat you raw – such agonies you have caused me - achilles, killing hector

He was worth ten of you. Ten! And you sent him to his death!

That is my mother's lyre,' I almost said. The words were in my mouth, and behind them others crowded close. 'That is my lyre.

And then I remembered, he will never be old.

The presence of the other boys did not comfort me; our dead come for their vengeance regardless if witnesses.

Cleopatra, Patroclus. Her name built from the same pieces as mine, only reversed.

I could not make him a god,' she says. Her jagged voice, rich with grief. But you made him.

There was more to say, but for once we did not say it. There would be other times for speaking, tonight and tomorrow and all the days after that.

Several things happened at once then. Achilles - for it was Achilles - dropped Deidameia's hand and flung himself joyously at me, knocking me backwards with the force of his embrace.

Swear to me,' he said. 'Swear to me that if you go you will not fight them. You will stay with Automedon in the chariot, and let the Myrmidons go in front of you.' 'Yes.' I pressed my hand to his. 'Of course. I am not mad. To frighten them, that is all.

With a roar he throws Antilochus from him, knocks down Menealus. He falls on the body. The knowledge rushes up in him, choking off breath. A scream comes, tearing its way out. And then another, and another. He seizes his hair in his hands and yanks it from his head. Golden strands dall onto the bloody corpse. Patroclus, he says, Patroclus. Patroclus. Over and over untill it is sound only. Somewhere Odysseus is kneeling, urging food and drink. A fierce red rage comes, and he almost kills him there. But he would have to let go of me. He cannot. He holds me so tightly i can feel the faint beat of his chest, like the wings of a moth. An echo, the last bit of spirit tethered to my body. A torment.

Achilles. I cannot bear to see you grieving. His limbs twitch and shudder. Give us both peace. Burn me, and bury me. I will wait for you among the shades. I will - But already he is waking. 'Patroclus! Wait! I am here!' He shakes the body beside him. When I do not answer, he weeps again.

Although Achilles wore no armour, the mere sight of him, standing high on the embankment, bathed in an unearthly light and uttering the most piercing and monumental battle-cry was enough to scatter the Trojans. Three times Achilles yelled his terrible war cry. The Trojans and even their horses were filled with fear. In triumph the Achaeans bore the body of Patroclus back to their camp.

But feeling fear was not the same as lacking courage. Anyone could be brave if he felt no fear. The Trojans murmured that this was true of Achilles, this was why he was so lethal. He rode into battle on his chariot, with no care whether he lived or died. None at all. He cared only for the safety of his friend, for Patroclus

When he was gone, would I be like Achilles sailing over his lost lover Patroclus? I tried to picture myself running up and down the beaches, tearing at my hair, cradling some scrap of old tunic he had left behind. Crying out for the loss of half my soul.

The never-ending ache of love and sorrow. Perhaps in some other life I could have refused, could have torn my hair and screamed, and made him face his choice alone. But not in this one. He would sail to Troy, and I would follow, even into death. Yes, I whispered. Yes.

I am not a lord, Patroclus Menoitiades.” My head jerked up at the sound of my father’s name. “I am a centaur, and a teacher of men. My name is Chiron.

Well, why should I kill him? He's done nothing to me.

Excellent. One tent's enough, I hope? I've heard that you prefer to share. Rooms and bedrolls both, they say.

Her safety for my honour. Are you happy with your trade?' 'There is no honour in betraying your friends.

Bring him back to me,' he told them. They nodded, and clattered their spears on their shields in approval.

It is right to seek peace for the dead. You and I both know that there is no peace for those who live after.' 'No,' Achilles whispers.

Patroclus.' Achilles did not slur my name, as people often did, running it together as if in a hurry to be rid of it. Instead, he rang each syllable: Pa-tro-clus.

Je ne le quitterai jamais. Je serai à lui pour toujours, autant qu'il voudra de moi.

Until this moment I had been a prince, expected and announced. Now I was negligible.

rounded his desk, coming to a stop before them. Patroclus and Achilles had been etched into small gold plaques below each preserved moth.

Achilles weeps. He cradles me, and will not eat, nor speak a word other than my name. I see his face as if through water, as a fish sees the sun.

Your white bones lay inside it, Lord Achilles, mixed with the bones of your dead friend Patroclus.

Fuck the rules, fuck duty. Achilles would have gone after Patroclus. Charlie would have gone after him.

FOR THE FIRST TIME since my death, he falls into a fitful, trembling sleep. Achilles. I cannot bear to see you grieving. His limbs twitch and shudder. Give us both peace. Burn me and bury me. I will wait for you among the shades. I will— But already he is waking. “Patroclus! Wait! I am here!” He shakes the body beside him. When I do not answer, he weeps again.

He was on his side, watching me. I had not heard him turn. I never hear him. He was utterly motionless, that stillness that was his alone. I breathed, and was aware of the bare stretch of dark pillow between us. He leaned forward. Our mouths opened under each other, and the warmth of his sweetened throat poured into mine. I could not think, could not do anything but drink him in, each breath as it came, the soft movements of his lips. It was a miracle.

Patroclus" It was the name my father had given me, hopefully but injudiciously, at my birth, and it tasted of bitterness on my tonge. "Honor of the father," it meant. I waited for him to make a joke out of it, some witty jape about my disgrace. He did not. perhaps, I thought, he is too stupid to.

I saw then how I had changed. I did not mind any more, that I lost when we raced and I lost when we swam out to the rocks and I lost when we tossed spears or skipped stones. For who can be ashamed to lose to such beauty? It was enough to watch him win, to see the soles of his feet flashing as they kicked up sand, or the rise and fall of his shoulders as he pulled through the salt. It was enough.

Sometimes, after long intervals, I have thought to feel the slight stir of an approach, a touch as light as the contact of eyelashes and warm as the hollow of a hand. And the shade of Patroclus appears at Achilles' side..

For Achilles, the death of Patroclus pushed him into a fury, but it was not only grief that drove him. It was also a sense of shame and guilt because he had not been there to protect his friend. Sometimes men in combat feel this sort of survivor’s guilt even though, realistically, they could have done nothing to prevent their comrade’s death.

He was watching me closely, reading my face over and over, like a priest searching the auguries for an answer. I could see the slight line in his forehead that meant utmost concentration. Something shifted in me then, like the frozen surface of the Apidanos in spring. I had seen the way he looked at Deidameia; or rather the way he did not. It was the same way he had looked at the boys in Phthia, blank and unseeing. He had never, not once, looked at me that way.

Achilles, son of skillful Peleus, I need to tell you disastrous news. I wish it had not happened. Dead lies Patroclus and the armies fight 20 around his corpse, stripped of your arms and weapons, which Hector in his flashing helmet wears.

In Homers Ilias scheint Thetis jedenfalls keine Einwände gegen die Beziehung ihres Sohnes Achilles zu Patrokles gehabt zu haben. Und Königin Olympias von Makedonien (eine der mächtigsten Frauen der Antike, die angeblich ihren Mann ermorden ließ) hatte offenbar nichts dagegen, als ihr Sohn Alexander der Große seinen Geliebten Hephaestion zum Essen nach Hause brachte.

When he was gone, would I be like Achilles, wailing over his lost lover Patroclus? I tried to picture myself running up and down the beaches, tearing at my hair, cradling some scrap of old tunic he had left behind. Crying out for the loss of half my soul.

You betray him by warning me.' It is true. Achilles has given Agamemnon a sword to fall upon, and I have stayed his hand. The words are thick and bitter. 'I do.' 'Why?' he asks. 'Because he is wrong,' I say. My throat feels raw and broken, as though I have drunk sand and salt.

My life is my reputation,' he says...'It is all I have. I will not live much longer. Memory is all I can hope for.' He swallows, thickly. 'You know this. And would you let Agamemnon destroy it? Would you help him take it from me?' 'I would not,' I say. 'But I would have the memory be worthy of the man. I would have you be yourself, not some tyrant remembered for his cruelty. There are other ways to make Agamemnon pay.

And let Apollo drive Prince Hector back to battle, breathe power back in his lungs, make him forget the pain that racks his heart. Let him whip the Achaeans in headlong panic rout and roll them back once more, tumbling back on the oar-swept ships of Peleus' son Achilles. And he, will launch his comrade Patroclus into action and glorious Hector will cut him down with a spear in front of Troy, once Patroclus has slaughtered whole battalions of strong young fighting men and among them all, my shining son Sarpedon. But then - enraged for Patroclus - brilliant Achilles will bring Prince Hector down. And then, from that day on, I'll turn the tide of war: back the fighting goes, no stopping it, ever.

It was not honor that made Meleager fight, or his friends, or victory, or revenge, or even his own life. It was Cleopatra, on her knees before him, her face streaked with tears. Here is Phoinix’s craft: Cleopatra, Patroclus. Her name built from the same pieces as mine, only reversed.

More than a hygenic method of disposing of the dead, cremation enabled lovers and comrades to be mingled together for eternity: The ashes of Domitian were mingled with those of Julia; of Achilles with those of Patroclus; All Urnes contained not single ashes; Without confused burnings they affectionately compounded their bones; passionately endeavouring to continue their living Unions. And when distance of death denied such conjunctions, unsatisfied affections concieved some satisfaction to be neighbours in the grave, to lye Urne by Urne, and touch but in their names.

The Trojans triumph. And the very best of all the Greeks has now been killed—Patroclus. 690 The Greeks are devastated by his loss. So run down to the ships and tell Achilles, and he may come in time to save the body, although it is too late to save the armor, which Hector, in his flashing helmet, wears.

That day, Zeus stretched the painful work of war for men and horses, struggling for Patroclus. But all the while, godlike Achilles still knew nothing of his death, because the battle 520 was very far away from the swift ships, beneath the wall of Troy, and he had not expected in his heart his friend would die.

I knew he spoke not of his death, but of the nightmare Odysseus had spun, the loss of his brilliance, the withering of his grace. I had seen the joy he took in his own skill, the roaring vitality that was always just beneath the surface. Who was he if not miraculous, and radiant? Who was he if not destined for fame?

He seizes my hand, and crows to me of the day's events, of how his name was on everybody's lips, of the power of his absence, big as a Cyclops, walking heavily amongst the soldiers. The excitement of the day has flared through him, like flame in dry grass. For the first time, he dreams of killing: the stroke of glory, his inevitable spear through Hector's heart. My skin prickles to hear him say so. 'Do you see?' he says. 'It is the beginning!' I cannot escape the feeling that, below the surface, something is breaking.

She loved Patroklos, she loved Meryapi, and it had nothing to do with desire, only joy—to see them was joy; to breathe with them was joy; to ride with Patroklos on a cattle raid was joy; scanning the pines for ambush was joy; holding the shield to protect them from Anyasha’s arrows was joy. If she failed, they would die together, and that too was joy.

She loved Patroklos, she loved Meryapi, and it had nothing to do with desire, only joy—to see them was joy; to breathe with them was joy; to ride with Patroklos on a cattle raid was joy; scanning the pines for ambush was joy; holding the shield to protect them from Anyasha’s arrows was joy. If she failed, they would die together, and that too was joy.

She's like cream, she's that soft. Once her thighs are around you, you'll forget your own name. The boys' voices had been sharp with excitement, their color high. But when I tried to imagine what they spoke of, my mind slid away, like a fish who would not be caught. Other images came in their stead. The curve of a neck bent over a lyre, hair gleaming in firelight, hands with their flickering tendons. We were together all day, and I could not escape: the smell of the oils he used on his feet, the glimpses of skin as he dressed.

His gaze, which had been following the circling fruit, flickered to mine. I did not have time to look away before he said, softly but distinctly, “Catch.” A fig leapt from the pattern in a graceful arc towards me. It fell into the cup of my palms, soft and slightly warm. I was aware of the boys cheering. One by one, Achilles caught the remaining fruits, returned them to the table with a performer’s flourish. Except for the last, which he ate, the dark flesh parting to pink seeds under his teeth. The fruit was perfectly ripe, the juice brimming. Without thinking, I brought the one he had thrown me to my lips. Its burst of grainy sweetness filled my mouth; the skin was downy on my tongue. I had loved figs, once.

I see.” The centaur turned to me. “And you, Patroclus? You are worthy?” I swallowed. “I do not know if I am worthy. But I wish to stay.” I paused, swallowed again. “Please.

She is also young and has the prejudices of her kind. I am older and flatter myself that I can read a man more clearly. I have no objection to Patroclus as your companion.

ACHILLES, the greatest warrior the world had ever known. His closest friend and perhaps lover was: PATROCLUS, a Greek warrior and minor noble. During the Trojan War, they captured:

What was his best part?” “His lover, Patroclus. He didn’t like me much, but then the good ones never do. Achilles went mad when he died; nearly mad, anyway.

Puoi usare una spada come un bastone da passeggio, tuttavia ciò non cambia la sua natura.

What could she do? Kidnap me?

He's going to Troy to kill men, not rescue them...He is a weapon, a killer. Do not forget it. You can use a spear as a walking stick, but that will not change its nature.

It is done then? She is safe? She must be. You would not have come back, otherwise.' 'Yes. She is safe.' A tired breath. 'You are a better man than I.

Chiron had once said that nations were the most foolish of mortal inventions. 'No man is worth more than another, wherever he is from.

You are holding us here, Achilles. You were given a choice and you chose. You must live by it now.

I have killed a son of Zeus, but it is not enough.

He has gone to the underworld, and I am here.

She made Pyrrhus, and loved him more than Achilles.

But he is already waking. "Patroclus! Wait! I am here!" He shakes the body beside him. When I do not answer, he weeps again.

...the sea was hidden by the house's curve, but we could both hear it, the distant hiss of waves against sand.

The world, for Achilles, reassembled itself around a new centre.

ACHILLES, it reads. And beside it, PATROCLUS.

His eyes, green as spring leaves, met mine. "Patroclus. I have given enough to them. I will not give them this.

Patroclus,” he said. He was always better with words than I.

I am made of memories" Patroclus - The song of Achilles

His voice was remote, almost careless. "You would not be displeased, I think. With how you look now." -- Achilles to Patroclus

Pa-tro-clus

and there lies Achilles; there lies his godlike friend and guide, Patroclus;

Odysseus shrugs. “We cannot say. We are men only, a brief flare of the torch. Those to come may raise us or lower us as they please. Patroclus may be such as will rise in the future.

If I had had words to speak such a thing, I would have. But there were none that seemed big enough for it, to hold that swelling truth. As if he had heard me, he reached for my hand. I did not need to look; his fingers were etched into my memory, slender and petal-veined, strong and quick and never wrong. 'Patroclus,' he said. He was always better with words than I.

But then he was awake, his lips forming a half-sleepy greeting, and his hand was already reaching for mine. We lay there, like that, until the cave was bright with morning, and Chiron called.

I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world. “Patroclus.

There is no law that gods must be fair, Achilles,' Chiron said. 'And perhaps it is a greater grief, after all, to be left on earth, when another is gone. Do you think?' 'Perhaps,' Achilles admitted.

My head drops back against the ground, and the last image I see is of Hector, leaning seriously over me, twisting his spear inside me as if he is stirring a pot. The last thing I think is: Achilles.

Agamemnon posted guards to watch Troy every hour of every day. We were all waiting for something - an attack, or an embassy, or a demonstration of power. But Troy kept her gates shut, and so the raids continued. I learned to sleep through the day so that I would not be tired when he returned; he always needed to talk then, to tell me down to the last detail about the faces and the wounds and the movements of men. And I wanted to be able to listen, to disgest the bloody images, to paint them flat and unremarkable onto the vase of posteriry. To release him from it and make him Achilles again.

I have done it,” she says. At first I do not understand. But then I see the tomb, and the marks she has made on the stone. ACHILLES, it reads. And beside it, PATROCLUS. “Go,” she says. “He waits for you.

I have done it," she says. At first, I do not understand. But then I see the tomb, and the marks she has made on the stone. ACHILLES, it reads. And beside it, PATROCLUS. "Go," she says. "He waits for you.

The knowledge rushes up in him, choking off breath. A scream comes, tearing its way out. And then another, and another. He seizes his hair in his hands and yanks it from his head. Golden strands fall on to the bloody corpse. Patroclus, he says, Patroclus, Patroclus. Over and over until it is sound only. Somewhere Odysseus is kneeling, urging food and drink. A fierce red rage comes, and he almost kills him there. But he would have to let go of me. He cannot. He holds me so tightly I can feel the faint beat of his chest, like the wings of a moth. An echo, the last bit of spirit still tethered to my body. A torment.

I watch the bolt of his triumph sliding home. He is a connoisseur of pain. There is nothing that could cause Achilles greater anguish: being betrayed to his worst enemy, by the man he holds closest to his heart.

And Patroclus, Shaking the voice out of his body, says: ‘Big mouth. Remember it took three of you to kill me. A god, a boy, and, last and least, a prince. I can hear Death pronounce my name, and yet Somehow it sounds like Hector. And as I close my eyes I see Achilles’ face With Death’s voice coming out of it.’ Saying these things Patroclus died. And as his soul went through the sand Hector withdrew his spear and said: ‘Perhaps.

As if he had heard me, he reached for my hand. I did not need to look; his fingers were etched into my memory, slender and petal-veined, strong and quick and never wrong. 'Patroclus,' he said. He was always better with words than I.

Well. We are settled then.” He turns to go, stops. “I was sorry to hear of Patroclus’ death. He fought bravely today. Did you hear he killed Sarpedon?” Achilles’ eyes lift. They are bloodshot and dead. “I wish he had let you all die.

When he was gone, would I be like Achilles, wailing over his lost lover Patroclus? I tried to picture myself running up and down the beaches, tearing at my hair, cradling some scrap of old tunic he had left behind. Crying for the loss of half my soul.

when he was gone would i be like achilles, wailing over his lost lover patroclus? i tried to picture myself running up and down the beaches, tearing at my hair, cradling some scrap of old tunic he had left behind. crying out for the loss of half my soul

I was astonished at her words, and said: 'Is this really true, O thou wise Diotima?' And she answered with all the authority of an accomplished sophist: 'Of that, Socrates, you may be assured;-think only of the ambition of men, and you will wonder at the senselessness of their ways, unless you consider how they are stirred by the love of an immortality of fame. They are ready to run all risks greater far than they would have run for their children, and to spend money and undergo any sort of toil, and even to die, for the sake of leaving behind them a name which shall be eternal. Do you imagine that Alcestis would have died to save Admetus, or Achilles to avenge Patroclus, or your own Codrus in order to preserve the kingdom for his sons, if they had not imagined that the memory of their virtues, which still survives among us, would be immortal? Nay,' she said, 'I am persuaded that all men do all things, and the better they are the more they do them, in hope of the glorious fame of immortal virtue; for they desire the immortal.

And he, he will launch his comrade Patroclus into action and glorious Hector will cut him down with a spear in front of Troy, once Patroclus has slaughtered whole battalions of strong young fighting men and among them all, my shining son Sarpedon. But then—enraged for Patroctus— brilliant Achilles will bring Prince Hector down. And then, from that day on, I’ll turn the tide of war: back the fighting goes, no stopping it, ever, all the way till Achaean armies seize the beetling heights of Troy through Athena’s grand design.

You have never deserved him. I do not know why he ever loved you. You care only for yourself!' Achilles' gaze lifts to meet hers. She is afraid, but does not draw back. 'I hope that Hector kills you.' The breath rasps in his throat. 'Do you think I do not hope the same?

A significant number of human cultures have viewed homosexual relations as not only legitimate but even socially constructive, ancient Greece being the most notable example. The Iliad does not mention that Thetis had any objection to her son Achilles’ relations with Patroclus. Queen Olympias of Macedon was one of the most temperamental and forceful women of the ancient world, and even had her own husband, King Philip, assassinated. Yet she didn’t have a fit when her son, Alexander the Great, brought his lover Hephaestion home for dinner.

For Achilles the fatal flaw had been anger. When he was angry, Achilles could not contain himself. Even though it had been foretold that he might die during the Trojan War, once his friend Patroclus was killed, Achilles returned to the battlefield blinded by a black and murderous rage.

And overpowered by memory Both men gave way to grief. Priam wept freely For man - killing Hector, throbbing, crouching Before Achilles' feet as Achilles wept himself, Now for his father, now for Patroclus once again And their sobbing rose and fell throughout the house.” ― Homer, The Iliad

There was silence then, and I did not care about the damp pallet or how sweaty I was. His eyes were unwavering, green flecked with gold. A surety rose in me, lodged in my throat. I will never leave him. It will be this, always, for as long as he will let me. If I had had words to speak such a thing, I would have. But there were none that seemed big enough for it, to hold that swelling truth. As if he had heard me, he reached for my hand. I did not need to look; his fingers were etched into my memory, slender and petal-veined, strong and quick and never wrong. "Patroclus," he said. He was always better with words than I.

There is a guard standing behind me. And then I hear footsteps. “Nicki,” I say. She’s wearing a white shirt and a navy blue skirt. Her Nike 130s are white with a blue Swoosh. “Carrie.” “You feeling all right?” I say. “How’s your ankle? How’s your back? Any injuries I should exploit?” Nicki laughs. “Unfortunately for you, I’m feeling one hundred percent.” “Good,” I say. “The win will be sweeter.” Nicki shakes her head. “I read an interview with you years ago, when I was still a kid,” she says. “Where you said your father called you ‘Achilles.’ ” “Yeah,” I say. “The greatest of the Greeks.” “I was always jealous of that. That sense of destiny you seemed to have. Do you remember what Achilles said to Hector after Hector killed Patroclus?” It has been a long time since I’ve actually read The Iliad. I shake my head. She smiles. “He says, ‘There can be no pacts between men and lions. I will make you pay in full for the grief you have caused me.’ 

The spear that I do not see comes from behind. It pierces the skin of my back, breaks again to air beneath my ribs. I stumble, driven forward by the blow's force, by the shock of tearing pain and the burning numbness in my belly. I feel a tug, and the spear-point is gone. The blood gushes hot on my chilled skin. I think I scream.

...They never let you be famous and happy.' He lifted an eyebrow. 'I'll tell you a secret.' 'Tell me.' I loved it when he was like this. 'I'm going to be the first.' He took my palm and held it to his. 'Swear it.' 'Why me?' 'Because you're the reason. Swear it.' 'I swear it,' I said, lost in the high colour of his cheeks, the flame in his eyes.

I know that you love him,' she said, hesitating a little before each word. 'I know. But I thought that - some men have wives and lovers both.' Her face looked very small, and so sad that I could not be silent. 'Briseis,' I said, 'If I ever wished to take a wife, it would be you.' 'But you do not wish to take a wife.' 'No,' I said, as gently as I could.

His eyes opened. "Name one hero who was happy." I considered. Heracles went mad and killed his family; Theseus lost his bride and father; Jason's children and new wife were murdered by his old; Bellerophron killed the Chimera but was crippled by the fall from Pegasus' back. "You can't." He was sitting up now, leaning forward. "I can't." "I know. They never let you be famous and happy." He lifted an eyebrow. "I'll tell you a secret." "Tell me." I loved it when he was like this. "I'm going to be the first." He took my palm and held it to his. "Swear it." "Why me?" "Because you're the reason. Swear it." "I swear it," I said, lost in the high color of his cheeks, the flame in his eyes. "I swear it," I echoed.

Patroclus. A voice like music, above me. I look up to see a man leaning on the walls as if sunning, dark hair to his shoulders, a quiver and bow slung casually around his torso. Startled, I slip a little, my knees scraping the rock. He is piercingly beautiful, smooth skin and a finely cut face that glows with something more than human. Black eyes. Apollo.

I shift an infinitesimal movement, towards him. It is like the leap from a waterfall. I do not know, until then, what I am going to do. I lean forward and our lips land clumsily on each other. They are like the fat bodies of bees, soft and round and giddy with pollen. I can taste his mouth - hot and sweet with honey from dessert. My stomach trembles, and a warm drop of pleasure spreads beneath my skin. More. The strength of my desire, the speed with which it flowers shocks me; I flinch and startle back from him. I have a moment, only a moment, to see his face framed in the afternoon light, his lips slightly parted, still half-forming a kiss. His eyes are wide with surprise. I am horrified. What have I done?

Achilles groaned and answered, "Mother, Olympian Jove has indeed vouchsafed me the fulfilment of my prayer, but what boots it to me, seeing that my dear comrade Patroclus has fallen- he whom I valued more than all others, and loved as dearly as my own life? I have lost him; aye, and Hector when he had killed him stripped the wondrous armour, so glorious to behold, which the gods gave to Peleus when they laid you in the couch of a mortal man. Would that you were still dwelling among the immortal sea-nymphs, and that Peleus had taken to himself some mortal bride. For now you shall have grief infinite by reason of the death of that son whom you can never welcome home- nay, I will not live nor go about among mankind unless Hector fall by my spear, and thus pay me for having slain Patroclus son of Menoetius.

Let Hector turn the Greeks around again and make them panic, lose their will to fight, and run away until at last they fall amid the mighty galleys of Achilles, the son of Peleus. He will send forth his friend Patroclus, who will slaughter many, including my own noble son, Sarpedon. Then glorious Hector, out in front of Troy, 90 will kill Patroclus with his spear, and then, enraged at this, Achilles will kill Hector.

The third feature which is of importance for romantic subjectivity within its mundane sphere is fidelity. Yet by ‘fidelity’ we have here to understand neither the consistent adherence to an avowal of love once given nor the firmness of friendship of which, amongst the Greeks, Achilles and Patroclus, and still more intimately, Orestes and Pylades counted as the finest model. Friendship in this sense of the word has youth especially for its basis and period. Every man has to make his way through life for himself and to gain and maintain an actual position for himself. Now when individuals still live in actual relationships which are indefinite on both sides, this is the period, i.e. youth, in which individuals become intimate and are so closely bound into one disposition, will, and activity that, as a result, every undertaking of the one becomes the undertaking of the other. In the friendship of adults this is no longer the case. A man’s affairs go their own way independently and cannot be carried into effect in that firm community of mutual effort in which one man cannot achieve anything without someone else. Men find others and separate themselves from them again; their interests and occupations drift apart and are united again; friendship, spiritual depth of disposition, principles, and general trends of life remain, but this is not the friendship of youth, in the case of which no one decides anything or sets to work on anything without its immediately becoming the concern of his friend. It is inherent essentially in the principle of our deeper life that, on the whole, every man fends for himself, i.e. is himself competent to take his place in the world. Fidelity in friendship and love subsists only between equals.

A dark cloud of grief fell upon Achilles as he listened. He filled both hands with dust from off the ground, and poured it over his head, disfiguring his comely face, and letting the refuse settle over his shirt so fair and new. He flung himself down all huge and hugely at full length, and tore his hair with his hands. The bondswomen whom Achilles and Patroclus had taken captive screamed aloud for grief, beating their breasts, and with their limbs failing them for sorrow. Antilochus bent over him the while, weeping and holding both his hands as he lay groaning for he feared that he might plunge a knife into his own throat. Then Achilles gave a loud cry and his mother heard him as she was sitting in the depths of the sea by the old man her father, whereon she screamed, and all the goddesses daughters of Nereus that dwelt at the bottom of the sea, came gathering round her.

Maybe she really fell in love with Paris.' 'Maybe she was bored. After ten years shut up in Sparta, I'd want to leave too.' 'Maybe Aphrodite made her.' 'Maybe they'll bring her back with them.' We considered this. 'I think Agamemnon would attack anyway.' 'I think so too. They never even mention her any more.' 'Except in speeches to the men.' We were silent a moment. 'So, which of the suitors would you have picked?' I shoved him, and he laughed.

The ultimate form of love is to see no difference between the self and the beloved. Patroclus' journey into battle wearing the armor of Achilles transforms him into his friend, in the eyes of the Trojans. ... Once Patroclus is dead, Achilles tries to transform himself into his dead friend, by rolling in the dust ... He anticipates joining Patroclus again, and becoming indistinguishable from him in death, when their bones are together in one jar.

Imagine such a happiness. Like drinking wine your whole life, instead of water. Like having Achilles to run your errands.” I did not know the name. His voice rolled like a bard’s: Achilles, prince of Phthia, swiftest of all the Greeks, best of the Achaian warriors at Troy. Beautiful, brilliant, born from the dread nereid Thetis, graceful and deadly as the sea itself. The Trojans had fallen before him like grass before the scythe, and the mighty Prince Hector himself perished at his ash-spear’s end. “You did not like him,” I said. Some inward amusement touched his face. “I appreciated him, in his way. But he made a terrible soldier, however many men he could bleed. He had a number of inconvenient ideas about loyalty and honor. Every day was a new struggle to yoke him to our purpose, keep him straight in his furrow. Then the best part of him died, and he was even more difficult after that. But as I said, his mother was a goddess, and prophecies hung on him like ocean-weed. He wrestled with matters larger than I will ever understand.” It was not a lie, but it was not truth either. He had named Athena as his patron. He had walked with those who could crack the world like eggs. “What was his best part?” “His lover, Patroclus. He didn’t like me much, but then the good ones never do. Achilles went mad when he died; nearly mad, anyway.

I stepped forward to put a hand on her arm, to reassure. She flinched as if expecting a blow. I saw the fear in her eyes, of rape and worse. I could not bear it. There was only one thing I could think of. I turned to Achilles and seized the front of his tunic. I kissed him. When I let go again she was staring at us. Staring and staring. I gestured to her bonds, and back to the knife. 'All right?' She hesitated a moment. Then slowly offered her hands.

And he, Achilles, will rouse his companion Patroclus, whom shining Hector with his spear will kill in front of Ilion, after Patroclus has destroyed a multitude of other young men, among them my own son, godlike Sarpedon; and enraged at Patroclus dying, godlike Achilles will kill Hector. And from that point, then, without respite, I will effect a retreat from the ships, all the way until that time the Achaeans​70 capture steep Ilion through the designs of Athena.

Dear boy, you call to mind how much we suffered, with strong, unyielding hearts, in distant lands when we were sailing over misty seas, led by Achilles on a hunt for spoils, and when we fought around the mighty city of Priam. Our best warriors were killed. Ajax lies dead there, and there lies Achilles; there lies his godlike friend and guide, Patroclus;110 my own strong, matchless son lies dead there too, Antilochus, who fought and ran so well. More pain, more grief—our sufferings increased. Who could recount so many, many losses? If you stayed here five years and kept on asking how many things the fighters suffered there, you would get bored and go back home again before the story ended. Nine long years we schemed to bring them down, and finally Zeus made our plots succeed. Odysseus,120 your father, if you really are his son— well, no one dared to try to equal him in cleverness. That man was always best at every kind of trick.

But fame is a strange thing. Some men gain glory after they die, while others fade. What is admired in one generation is abhorred in another...We cannot say who will survive the holocaust of memory. Who knows?...Perhaps one day even I will be famous. Perhaps more famous than you.' 'I doubt it.' Odysseus shrugs. 'We cannot say. We are men only, a brief flare of the torch. Those to come may raise us or lower us as they please. Patroclus may be such as will rise in the future.' 'He is not.

Her lips touched mine. I was so surprised I did not move. Her mouth was soft and a little hesitant. Her eyes were sweetly closed. Of habit, of its own accord, my mouth parted. A moment passed like this, the ground beneath us, the breeze sifting flower scents. Then she drew back, eyes down, waiting for judgement. My pulse sounded in my ears, but it was not as Achilles made it sound. It was something more like surprise, and fear that I would hurt her. I put my hand to hers. She knew, then.

On open roads they crossed the Ocean stream, went past the rock of Leucas and the gates of Helius the Sun, and skittered through the provinces of dreams, and soon arrived in fields of asphodel, the home of shadows who have been worn to weariness by life. They found Achilles’ ghost there, and Patroclus, and Ajax, the most handsome of the Greeks after unmatched Achilles. Agamemnon had just arrived to join them, in deep grief20 for his own death, and with him came the others killed by Aegisthus and his bodyguards. Achilles’ ghost spoke first. “O Agamemnon! Men used to say that out of all the heroes, Zeus, Lord of Lightning, favored you the most, because you had command of a great army in Troy where Greeks endured the pain of war. But death, which no man living can avoid, was destined to arrive at the wrong time. If only you had died at Troy and won30 the glory of your rank as a commander! All of the Greeks and allies would have built a tomb for you, and afterwards your son would have received great honor. As it is, it was your fate to die a dreadful death.

Dawn veiled in saffron rose from the streams of Ocean, to carry light to the immortals and to mortal men, and Thetis arrived at the ships carrying the gifts from Hephaestus. She found her beloved son lying with his arms around Patroclus, keening, and his many companions about him dissolved in tears; and she stood among them, the shining among goddesses, and clasped his hand, and spoke to him and said his name: "My child, grieved though we be, we must leave this one lie, since by the will of the gods he has been broken once for all; you now take the splendid armor from Hephaestus, exceeding in beauty, such as a mortal man has never worn upon his shoulders." Then so speaking the goddess laid the armor down before Achilles; and it clashed loud, all that was elaborately wrought. And trembling took all the Myrmidons, nor did any dare to look upon it straight, and they shrank afraid; but Achilles as he gazed upon it, so anger entered him all the more, and his eyes terribly shone out beneath his lids like fire flare; and he rejoiced as he held in his hands the glorious gifts of the god.

Perhaps he is right" I said. Achilles’ head came up, frowning. "You do not think that." "I do not mean –" I twisted my fingers. "I would still be with you. But I could sleep outside, so it would not be so obvious. I do not need to attend your councils. I – " "No. The Phthians will not care. And the others can talk all they like. I will still be Aristos Achaion." Best of the Greeks. "Your honour could be darkened by it." "Then it is darkened." His jaw shot forward. Stubborn. "They are fools if they let my glory rise or fall on this." "But Odysseus – " His eyes, green as spring leaves, met mine. "Patroclus. I have given enough to them. I will not give them this." After that, there was nothing more to say.

Perhaps he is right” I said. Achilles’ head came up, frowning. “You do not think that.” “I do not mean –“ I twisted my fingers. “I would still be with you. But I could sleep outside, so it would not be so obvious. I do not need to attend your councils. I – “ “No. The Phthians will not care. And the others can talk all they like. I will still be Aristos Achaion.” Best of the Greeks.. “Your honour could be darkened by it.” “Then it is darkened.” His jaw shot forward. Stubborn. “They are fools if they let my glory rise or fall on this.” “But Odysseus – “ His eyes, green as spring leaves, met mine. “Patroclus. I have given enough to them. I will not give them this.” After that, there was nothing more to say.

hot and close. The walls were hung with deep-dyed tapestries and old weapons kept gleaming by servants. Achilles walked past them and knelt at his father’s feet. “Father, I come to ask your pardon.” “Oh?” Peleus lifted an eyebrow. “Speak then.” From where I stood his face looked cold and displeased. I was suddenly fearful. We had interrupted; Achilles had not even knocked. “I have taken Patroclus from his drills.” My name sounded strange on his lips; I almost did not recognize it. The old king’s brows drew together. “Who?” “Menoitiades,” Achilles said. Menoitius’ son. “Ah.” Peleus’ gaze followed the carpet back to where I stood, trying not to fidget. “Yes, the boy the arms-master wants to whip.” “Yes. But it is not his fault. I forgot to say I wished him for a companion.” Therapon was the word he used. A brother-in-arms sworn to a prince by blood oaths and love. In war, these men were his honor guard; in peace, his closest advisers. It was a place of highest esteem, another reason the boys swarmed Peleus’ son, showing off; they hoped to be chosen. Peleus’ eyes narrowed. “Come here, Patroclus.” The carpet was thick beneath my feet. I knelt a little behind Achilles. I could feel the king’s gaze on me. “For many years now, Achilles, I have urged companions on you and you have turned them away. Why this boy?” The question might have been my own. I had nothing to offer such a prince. Why, then, had he made a charity case of me? Peleus and I both waited for his answer. “He is surprising.” I looked up, frowning. If he thought so, he was the only one. “Surprising,” Peleus echoed. “Yes.” Achilles explained no further, though I hoped he would. Peleus rubbed his nose in thought. “The boy is an exile with a stain upon him. He will add no luster to your reputation.” “I do not need him to,” Achilles said. Not proudly or boastfully. Honestly. Peleus acknowledged this. “Yet other boys will be envious that you have chosen such a one. What will you tell them?” “I will tell them nothing.” The answer came with no hesitation, clear and crisp. “It is not for them to say what I will do.” I found my pulse beating thickly in my veins, fearing Peleus’ anger. It did not come. Father and son met each other’s gaze, and the faintest touch of amusement bloomed at the corner of Peleus’ mouth. “Stand up, both of you.” I did so, dizzily. “I pronounce your sentence. Achilles, you

He snatches for his sword to slash his throat. It is only when his hand comes up empty that he remembers: he gave the sword to me. Then Antilochus is seizing his wrists, and the men are all talking. All he can see is the bloodstained cloth. With a roar he throws Antilochus from him, knocks down Menelaus. He falls on the body. The knowledge rushes up in him, choking off breath. A scream comes, tearing its way out. And then another, then another. He seizes his hair in his hands and yanks it from his head. Golden strands fall on the bloody corpse. Patroclus, he says, Patroclus, Patroclus. Over and over until it is sound only. Somewhere Odysseus is kneeling, urging food and drink. A fierce red rage comes, and he almost kills him there. But he would have to let go of me. He cannot. He holds me so tightly I can feel the faint beat of his chest, like the wings of a moth. An echo, the last bit of spirit still tethered to my body. A torment.

Odysseus smiled in return, teeth white against his dark beard. “Excellent. One tent’s enough, I hope? I’ve heard that you prefer to share. Rooms and bedrolls both, they say.” Heat and shock rushed through my face. Beside me, I heard Achilles’ breath stop. “Come now, there’s no need for shame—it’s a common enough thing among boys.” He scratched his jaw, contemplated. “Though you’re not really boys any longer. How old are you?” “It’s not true,” I said. The blood in my face fired my voice. It rang loudly down the beach. Odysseus raised an eyebrow. “True is what men believe, and they believe this of you. But perhaps they are mistaken. If the rumor concerns you, then leave it behind when you sail to war.” Achilles’ voice was tight and angry. “It is no business of yours, Prince of Ithaca.” Odysseus held up his hands. “My apologies if I have offended. I merely came to wish you both good night and ensure that all was satisfactory. Prince Achilles. Patroclus.” He inclined his head and turned back to his own tent. Inside the tent there was quietness between us. I had wondered when this would come. As Odysseus said, many boys took each other for lovers. But such things were given up as they grew older, unless it was with slaves or hired boys. Our men liked conquest; they did not trust a man who was conquered himself. “Perhaps he is right,” I said. Achilles’ head came up, frowning. “You do not think that.” “I do not mean—” I twisted my fingers. “I would still be with you. But I could sleep outside, so it would not be so obvious. I do not need to attend your councils. I—” “No. The Phthians will not care. And the others can talk all they like. I will still be Aristos Achaion.” Best of the Greeks. “Your honor could be darkened by it.” “Then it is darkened.” His jaw shot forward, stubborn. “They are fools if they let my glory rise or fall on this.” “But Odysseus—” His eyes, green as spring leaves, met mine. “Patroclus. I have given enough to them. I will not give them this.” After that, there was nothing more to say

I was witness to events of a less peaceful character. One day when I went out to my wood-pile, or rather my pile of stumps, I observed two large ants, the one red, the other much larger, nearly half an inch long, and black, fiercely contending with one another. Having once got hold they never let go, but struggled and wrestled and rolled on the chips incessantly. Looking farther, I was surprised to find that the chips were covered with such combatants, that it was not a duellum, but a bellum, a war between two races of ants, the red always pitted against the black, and frequently two red ones to one black. The legions of these Myrmidons covered all the hills and vales in my wood-yard, and the ground was already strewn with the dead and dying, both red and black. It was the only battle which I have ever witnessed, the only battle-field I ever trod while the battle was raging; internecine war; the red republicans on the one hand, and the black imperialists on the other. On every side they were engaged in deadly combat, yet without any noise that I could hear, and human soldiers never fought so resolutely. I watched a couple that were fast locked in each other's embraces, in a little sunny valley amid the chips, now at noonday prepared to fight till the sun went down, or life went out. The smaller red champion had fastened himself like a vice to his adversary's front, and through all the tumblings on that field never for an instant ceased to gnaw at one of his feelers near the root, having already caused the other to go by the board; while the stronger black one dashed him from side to side, and, as I saw on looking nearer, had already divested him of several of his members. They fought with more pertinacity than bulldogs. Neither manifested the least disposition to retreat. It was evident that their battle-cry was "Conquer or die." In the meanwhile there came along a single red ant on the hillside of this valley, evidently full of excitement, who either had despatched his foe, or had not yet taken part in the battle; probably the latter, for he had lost none of his limbs; whose mother had charged him to return with his shield or upon it. Or perchance he was some Achilles, who had nourished his wrath apart, and had now come to avenge or rescue his Patroclus. He saw this unequal combat from afar—for the blacks were nearly twice the size of the red—he drew near with rapid pace till he stood on his guard within half an inch of the combatants; then, watching his opportunity, he sprang upon the black warrior, and commenced his operations near the root of his right fore leg, leaving the foe to select among his own members; and so there were three united for life, as if a new kind of attraction had been invented which put all other locks and cements to shame. I should not have wondered by this time to find that they had their respective musical bands stationed on some eminent chip, and playing their national airs the while, to excite the slow and cheer the dying combatants. I was myself excited somewhat even as if they had been men. The more you think of it, the less the difference. And certainly there is not the fight recorded in Concord history, at least, if in the history of America, that will bear a moment's comparison with this, whether for the numbers engaged in it, or for the patriotism and heroism displayed. For numbers and for carnage it was an Austerlitz or Dresden. Concord Fight! Two killed on the patriots' side, and Luther Blanchard wounded! Why here every ant was a Buttrick—"Fire! for God's sake fire!"—and thousands shared the fate of Davis and Hosmer. There was not one hireling there. I have no doubt that it was a principle they fought for, as much as our ancestors, and not to avoid a three-penny tax on their tea; and the results of this battle will be as important and memorable to those whom it concerns as those of the battle of Bunker Hill, at least.