From behind stacked jars and baskets, Achilles stepped into view, once again disheveled and barefoot. “I’m here. What do you want?”
“A favor, cousin.”
Achilles groaned, “The blood tie. Every time you seek to persuade me, you address me as cousin. It’s a bad habit.”
A moment of silence hung between them. Patrokles took in the deep circles under his cousin’s eyes. “You look the beggar.”
Achilles laughed, and then quickly sobered, his mouth falling into a scowl. “There’s a greeting that will surely get you what you desire. Ask now or get off my ship. I have better things to do than stand here not drinking.”
An angry tear slid down Patrokles’ cheek. “What might that be, Achilles? What pressing matters do you have besides your next jar of wine? Can’t you see that the Trojans are near our camp? Can’t you hear the sound of our brothers dying? Smell death in the air?”
Sneering, Achilles replied, “What do I care if Agamemnon loses this war?”
Patrokles hardly knew the man before him. This was not the warrior who roared across the field, joyfully singing the song of war, inspiring the men around him to do the same. He knew first hand the magic of Achilles’ dance with Ares, and the surge of strength it gave. Where had that Achilles gone? “They are our people, Achilles. Years we have fought alongside them. Now, without us, they lose hope. Cousin, you must get back into the fight. By Ares’ sword, I beg you.”
Achilles picked up a nearby open amphora and swigged the bittersweet nectar. “You sound like a little girl lost in a market, crying because she can’t find her mother. Tell me …” he tilted the jar to his mouth again, gulped more wine, then wiped his lips on the back of his free hand, “do our fathers yet live?”
“Of course.”
Cocking an eyebrow, Achilles asked, “What reason do you have then to be moved to begging? Surely, you don’t concern yourself so much with Agamemnon’s army? Although, I do pity them for following an arrogant king.”
“When you pulled us from the war, you devastated everyone. Even the Myrmidons. You think your warriors are happy to sit around fires and swim in the surf, while others go to battle?”
“Do not presume to speak to me of the Myrmidons. I know my men.”
“Do you? Do you truly? When was the last time you walked among them and looked them in the eyes? Ate with them? Laughed with them? Sat drinking wine while they fucked their women?”
“You push me too far, Patrokles.”
Undeterred, Patrokles asked, “How can you be angry with men who have loved you? Been inspired by you? One glance of your helm from across the field was all the inspiration they needed to fight on. How can you abandon them now, when the Trojans have them pinned against the shore?”
Achilles walked to the railing behind his cousin, setting the amphora on the edge. “I have no pity left for anyone.”
“That is a lie. Look at you. You’re full of pity.” Grabbing Achilles’ shoulder, he turned him so their faces nearly touched. “Diomedes lays wounded, as well as Odysseus. Both are in the physicians’ tents where I should be. But, I am here, begging you to join Agamemnon. Put your pride aside, cousin. Don’t let the Trojans beat them back. Or all these years of fighting will have been for nothing because you refused to fight. What will your song be then?”
Achilles remained silent, but his eyes fumed.
“Who is there to inspire the men to fight on if not you?”
Taking in a long breath, Achilles stared out across the bay. He exhaled. “I hear your words, cousin, but where would my honor be if I go back on my word?”
“By all the gods! How can one man be so stubborn and full of pride? What is it, Achilles? What is it that you want?” His heart pounded, and angry tears fell. “Briseis?” He laughed in spite of himself. “If you’d truly wanted her, you would never have let her go in the first place.”
Lightning cracked behind Patrokles’ eyes; his knees buckled beneath him and he fell to the deck. Slowly, he rose to his feet, wiping the blood at his lip. His gray eyes blazed. “I hope the gods never harden my heart as they have yours.”
Achilles turned away. “It’s all Agamemnon’s fault.”
“Agamemnon? You truly believe you shoulder no part in any of this chaos?”
“You, of all my companions, know the truth. Agamemnon is a greedy whore’s dog. He could have had Troy laid at his feet, but he chose a slave woman over gold. Then, when he could not have her, he took my woman.” Achilles leveled his eyes at Patrokles. “And you know better than anyone that I love her. You can’t imagine the pain of knowing the woman you love lies beneath another man.”
If Agamemnon touched Briseis, Patrokles would kill him in cold blood. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d murdered a fellow Greek. If, however, Achilles ever found out that he had lain with Briseis, well, that would be his end. Grinding his teeth, Patrokles answered, “You should never have let her go.”
“I couldn’t go against the goddess.” Achilles softened with understanding. “But, I can’t blame you, cousin, for believing so. Love makes cowards even of the brave.”
“Then, win her back with your honor intact. Fight with Agamemnon and beat the Trojans once and for all. And if you won’t, then …” Nestor’s words came back to him. He could take Achilles’ position; a false hope planted could sprout to true victory. “Let me fight in your place. Wear your armor. Bear your shield. Lead the Myrmidons into battle. Give the men a sign of hope.”
“I swore to the gods I would not fight until my own ships were threatened—”
“Can you not hear the sound of war in the air? Smell the burning ships from the other side of camp? If you do nothing, the Trojans will catch us without armor or shields to defend ourselves.”
“That will never happen.” Achilles walked to a chest and opened it. “Come, Patrokles. Arm yourself.” He pulled his breastplate out first, and then his helmet. Even without Apollo’s light, Achilles’ armor glinted with untold glory. “Take them. Take it all, except my spear. For only I can wield it. ”
Patrokles was taken aback. “Are you certain?”
“My father was right to put you beside me. Your counsel is more often wiser than my own. I think of … other times when you advised me against my own stubbornness … had I listened my regrets would be less. Lead the Myrmidons to war in my stead. You’re right, cousin. We can’t let the Trojans win by pushing us back into the sea.”
As Achilles buckled Patrokles into his gear, he said, “I’ll do my best to honor you and our men.”
Achilles slapped Patrokles on the shoulder. “Keep the ships from burning, cousin, or else how will we ever reach home when the war is done?”
Patrokles grinned. “Home. Is there a sweeter word than that?”
“Your victory will be mine. And then the Greeks will know how wrong Agamemnon was. They will send Briseis back to me with gold. And because they haven’t wronged me, as you have made clear to me, I will accept their gifts and end the feud between me and the fat king.” Achilles grabbed Patrokles by the shoulders, digging his fingers into his flesh. “But you must swear by the gods that you will not push the men on to Troy. Don’t let your victory carry your heart away in rage and lust for more blood than I give you permission to take. Apollo loves the Trojans, and if you do more than save our camp, you will call his attention down upon us. Make no mistake, Apollo is a vengeful god.”
Patrokles made a short bow. “I promise, cousin. I will do as you command.”
Achilles adjusted the shield strap. “You resemble me, but not as tall.” He touched Patrokles’ dark braids falling below the helmet. “The Trojans will not know to notice your hair.” He embraced his cousin. “Take my horses and my chariot. Ride with fury.”
“I will.”
“Go now, and kill them all.”
Patrokles nodded and jumped lightly to the rail, despite the heavy armor. He longed for battle, as much as any other Myrmidon. He missed the dance of war, and the fighting would rele
ase his guilt over Briseis. Patrokles’ heart was free for the first time in ages. He turned and said, “I love you, Achilles. More than a blood brother could ever know.” Grinning widely at his cousin, he leapt to the sand and disappeared from view.
Achilles listened to Patrokles’ voice, like a lion roaring across a desert plain, calling the Myrmidons to battle. The wind chilled his skin as a dark cloud passed over head. He glanced up at the sky. Circling carrion floated high above him. He shivered. Mother, I pray you protect him.
He shouted to the sea, “Do you hear me, Mother? Protect him.”
A warm breeze wrapped around his shoulders and whispered, “I cannot … you know what you must do.”
Achilles nodded silently. Turning, he walked to the back of the galley where he kept the chest his mother had given him years ago. Opening the lid, he reverently pulled out the silver challis. His were the only mortal hands to ever touch it.
He poured wine into the shining cup and set his eyes to the sky. “If ever you favored me, Zeus, I pray you hear my words now. I’ve sent Patrokles to fight in my stead against the Trojans. I’ve given him the sacred armor which only I have worn. I pray you put your thunder in his heart. Let Hektor feel his wrath, a gift from you. And when the threat to our camp has been extinguished, bring my cousin safely back to me.”
After returning the cup to the chest, he leapt from his ship, making his way atop the beachhead’s rolling hills where he knew the Myrmidons would assemble.
✽✽✽
Patrokles stood tall in Achilles’ chariot as the men formed their ranks under their captains. “Myrmidons! The day we’ve waited for has come!” His voiced boomed above their shaking helmet plumes.
“It has indeed!” a voice roared from behind Patrokles.
“Achilles,” hundreds of voices whispered like a breeze through tall trees.
Patrokles turned, uncertain. Behind Achilles walked Odysseus and Diomedes released from the physicians’ tents.
Achilles flashed a stunning grin, as he leapt onto his chariot’s wheel, balancing easily on its edge. “I know many of you blame me for what has happened to Agamemnon’s army. Many of you wanted to go home if we weren’t going to fight. But now I ask you to remember the rage you have in your hearts for all your lost companions.”
The Myrmidons shook their shields and spears, and cheered their golden champion’s winning words.
“Although, I can’t break my word not to fight, I urge you, follow the only man worthy to wear my armor. Follow Patrokles as you would me. He will lead you to victory.”
The Myrmidons’ united voices thundered through the air.
Jumping from the chariot, Achilles strode from the gathering without looking back. In his heart, he longed to fight, but settled instead to wait and watch his Myrmidons win the day. He’d find some high ground to keep his eye on them. Soon, Hektor, the God of Death will whisper in your ear.
✽✽✽
Patrokles’ gray eyes matched the tumultuous sky above. Looking out over the shaking helms of the Myrmidons and the sea of bronze tipped spears, he allowed himself to think of Briseis. Her shining eyes. Her mouth. Her skin. Then, he pushed the thoughts back into the dark of his mind. He would fight this day to kill the Trojans to a man, and rid his heart of love for Achilles’ woman. Turning to his charioteer, Automedon, he signaled the advance. “Gods be with us,” he shouted, raising his sword, then slashing it downward.
With that, the Black Shields marched out of their camp to the fray. Beneath their feet, the ground shook. Their hearts desired nothing less than a river of Trojan blood. Their battle cry carried on the air, and Patrokles’ voice the most ferocious of them all.
As the wall of Black Shields approached the melee, the Greeks cheered and the Trojan forces faltered, when dozens of soldiers ran shouting in fright.
“Achilles has returned!”
“It’s Achilles!”
“Run! He’ll kill us all with his spear!”
“His death spear!”
“We’re doomed!”
The Myrmidons crashed over the Trojan forces, scattering their ranks. Patrokles, with the blood of war pounding through his veins, hefted his heavy ash spear, hurling it into the shoulder of a Trojan, pinning the man to the ground where he squirmed like a fish out of water. His agonized screams were drowned out by the din of battle.
Around them the Greek ships were ablaze, sending black smoke into the air. Patrokles bellowed to the captain at his left, “Eudorus! Take your men and put the fires out before they destroy all the ships.” From the corner of his eye, Patrokles saw his commands being carried out. “Kill them all!”
Bronze sang against bronze, while men groaned and screamed, filling the air with war song. Dust and smoke choked down throats, yet men from both sides fought on. The thirsty ground drank their crimson blood as a sacrifice to Ares. Patrokles leveled his spear time and time again, crashing through the ranks, smashing bones and severing limbs. The dead lay in a crooked path behind his chariot, broken and bleeding, guts leaking into the muck of war.
Fighting like lions caged for too long, the Myrmidons’ bravery infused the Greeks with renewed courage. Penelos nearly severed a man’s head off; it dangled by a strip of skin before he fell, his blood spurting a thin river winding around him in the dirt. Idomeneus jabbed his sword into a Trojan’s mouth. The dead man’s teeth lay scattered about his head like grains of wheat to be planted.
And in the midst of the carnage, Ajax hurled his spear at Hektor, but the killing point skittered across the wide shield of Troy’s prince. Hektor whirled in his chariot and dashed back across the ditch that surrounded the Greek encampment. Many of the Trojan captains followed, some crashing their chariots into pieces in the attempt. Horses loosed from their restraints galloped wide eyed with manes flying from the fray back to the city.
Forgetting Achilles’ words, Patrokles ordered Automedon to follow. Leading a small contingent of cavalry, Patrokles headed off the fleeing Trojans and pushed them back, trapping them between Troy and the Greek ships. Red fury filled Patrokles’ chest, as he carved a path through the enemy. He took the first Trojan with his sword, hacking his limbs cleanly off. Another man he speared through the teeth like a fisherman stabbing a fish in shallow waters. Splattered in blood and dirt, Patrokles laughed as he laid waste to every Trojan in his path. I will kill them all to get to Hektor.
From across the skirmish, a challenge rose to Patrokles’ ears. He turned to see Sarpedon, a mighty warrior rumored to be a son of Zeus and a Trojan ally, leaping from his chariot.
“Achilles! Come and fight a worthy man!” Sarpedon shouted.
Patrokles leapt from his chariot and charged with Achilles’ shield slightly tilted just as Achilles would do. Running like a god, he slashed a warrior standing between him and Sarpedon in half. The man’s guts spilled into his hands, slipping to the dirt. He fell to his knees screaming while frantically trying to gather his innards up in his arms. Sarpedon hurled his spear at Patrokles, missing wide and striking a startled horse nearby. The beast screamed and reared before it fell on its side, heaving heavily, blood pouring from its nostrils. Before he could grab another spear, Patrokles hurled his spear, striking Sarpedon through his armor, sending him to the ground.
Sarpedon lay immobile, but cried out, “Don’t let the Greeks strip my armor!”
Patrokles, covered in blood and war muck, stood over him, laughing. “You won’t need it where you’re going.” Grasping the spear shaft with both hands, he plunged it deeper until the point pierced the ground. Sarpedon gasped once in shock, as blood poured from his mouth and nose. Patrokles put his foot on the dead man’s chest, yanking the spear out followed by a bloody lung.
The clamor of war mixed with swirling dust, and Patrokles’ fury increased. It was a death gift from Zeus. “Strip Sarpedon’s armor,” he bellowed. “Take it to the ships.”
Patrokles’ sword flashed and glinted as bodies piled up around him. When Hektor turned his chariot from the fight
, Patrokles pursued him through the haze of war. As Automedon pushed Achilles’ horses like the wind, a chilling breath pressed against Patrokles’ ear. “It’s not your destiny to conquer Troy. Not even Achilles will take the shining city.”
“Apollo,” Patrokles whispered. He grabbed the reins from Automedon and slowed the chariot.
“What are you doing?” the charioteer asked. “Why are you pulling back?”
“Apollo is among us.”
Automedon shivered. “That is a bad omen.”
“It’s a warning. Achilles told me not—” Patrokles relaxed the reins and looked around him. His entire life had come to this very moment. He had not been a true contender for Helen, because he had nothing to offer. He would never have Briseis’ love, because again he had nothing to offer her. And her heart belonged to the only man he would not kill for her. It dawned on him that this was the first time in all the long years of war that he faced battle without Achilles at his side. “No matter. It’s too late now.”
From across the fighting, through the hazy air, Patrokles saw Hektor approaching by chariot at breakneck speed. His heart filled with renewed hate, forgetting completely Achilles’ caution. Handing the reins back to Automedon, he said, “Fly like the wind to Hektor.” His charioteer snapped the leather, and the horses bolted forward.
Reaching for a sharp stone in a basket at his feet, Patrokles threw it with all his strength, hitting Hektor’s charioteer between the eyes. The force of the blow knocked the man from his feet; his body tumbled from the platform. Hektor’s chariot careened wildly through the chaos on the ground, running over the fallen and the fighting men.
Patrokles leapt from the moving chariot, racing to the body to strip the warrior of his armor. As he bent to unbuckle the breastplate, he turned to see Hektor charging on foot toward him with sword raised.
“Kebriones! You’ll not take my brother’s armor, Achilles,” Hektor roared. “Not while I live.”
Patrokles sneered beneath the glittering helm and stood. He unsheathed the sharp blade at his hip. “Then you will die.”
Rage of Queens (Homeric Chronicles Book 3) Page 25