Chapter Text

CHAPTER I

Music echoes through the agora, crowded with men. Not only have they placed benches there, as they do at meetings, but they have also brought tables. Groups of two, three, four men, all kings and captains, take their places at each one. Slaves bustle to and fro, their hands laden with trays, with craters filled with the finest Cretan wine, with cups brimming with stolen Trojan beef, goat’s cheese from Euboea, figs, pomegranates, walnuts... They are depleting their storehouses, but they do not care. Tonight they have much to celebrate.

The day before, they had received reinforcements from their home cities. One hundred and eighty ships had arrived on the shores of Troy, carrying thousands of soldiers from Crete, Salamis, Pylos, Athens and Messenia. And that same afternoon, they had carried out a successful raid on one of the cities neighbouring Troy. There they had obtained a substantial booty of cattle, slaves and gold. They deserved this banquet.

The lyres, flutes and drums of the Trojan slaves sitting on the dais did not drown out the voices of the men. Seated at the tables under the starlight, dining and drinking lavishly, they shouted to each other from one end of the agora to the other. Some rose to sit at other tables. Others remained standing and talking. Some even began to dance.

“Noble son of Menoetius, let me pour you a cup of wine, I beg you!” Idomeneus asked cheerfully, in a loud voice, appearing unexpectedly behind Patroclus. And he filled his empty cup with wine, to the brim, over his shoulder, without waiting for a reply. “You have been magnificent today, brave leader... You finished off Pedasus, you knocked him down from his chariot...”

Patroclus managed to smile, bringing the cup to his lips, under the enthusiastic gaze of the king of Crete. The wine that night was from his homeland, and Idomeneus was particularly excited about it.

“The success of the raid is due to the efforts of all the Achaeans, as one, brave Idomeneus. I have only done my duty,” he assured him in a calm voice. With his usual modesty. Patroclus’ reputation as a gentle man was more than justified...

He remained polite even at that moment, when, as Achilles could clearly see, sitting next to him at the table they shared, his face was flushed. And his eyes were glassy. And he was taking a sip from his... umpteenth cup.

Patroclus never drank to excess. He drank almost as little as Achilles, who had never liked wine. But that night, several companions had approached their table, congratulating him on his warlike actions that day and pouring him cup after cup. Cups that the gentle Patroclus did not dare to refuse. And he was drinking them all, under the happy gaze of those who poured them.

Idomeneus, also intoxicated with wine, shouted something else in the ear of the son of Menoetius, slapped him hard on the back, and then walked away to another nearby table. There he was greeted with shouts of joy.

Patroclus then turned in his seat to face Achilles again. Now his expression was one of more sincere exhaustion. He left his cup, still half full, on the table. Achilles did not bother to hide a mocking smile.

“Do you think he even saw me?” he asked, struggling to contain his laughter. Patroclus smiled knowingly, amused.

“Thank the gods he saw the cup, I could see myself coated in wine...”

The son of Peleus let out a chuckle. He glanced behind his companion’s shoulder, watching Idomeneus gesticulate as he spoke to Meriones, his brother-in-arms.

“I’ve always thought that Idomeneus wished he could get into your bed...” he teased in a low voice, with his usual honesty. And with a slightly more mischievous expression now.

Patroclus, who was taking another sip of wine, almost choked. It took him a few seconds to control his laughter enough to swallow the liquid.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he snapped, as soon as he could speak again. He wiped the wine dripping down his chin with the back of his hand. Laughing, against his will. “Shut up, come on...”

“What?” Achilles laughed in turn, absent-mindedly bringing his own thumb to Patroclus’ chin and wiping away the drops of wine he hadn’t cleaned properly. “I really think so...”

Patroclus looked at him with playful reproach. His gaze followed the thumb’s journey until it landed on Achilles’ mouth, whose lips made short work of the remaining wine. He did not take his green eyes off him.

“Shut up,” Patroclus hissed again. Emphasising every syllable. Almost a warning. Achilles laughed softly. Cheerful. If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that Idomeneus would not get into Patroclus’ bed...

Just as Achilles moved his leg under the table, until his thigh touched Patroclus’, the music of the Trojans ceased. Both turned to look at the dais. Menelaus had climbed up there and was trying to silence the voices of his companions with some elegant gestures. Achilles leaned back in his seat, without moving his leg away from the warmth of Patroclus’ skin. A slave girl approached, solicitous, to refill his empty cup. He did not dismiss her, but he did not drink either. He did not want to drink any more. Patroclus did take another sip from his cup.

“Sirs, captains and leaders of the Achaeans!” cried Menelaus, smiling broadly. “There is still much time before the divine rosy-fingered Dawn honours us with her presence... I would like to announce a small surprise that our newcomer, Menestheus, King of Athens, will offer us tonight,” he said, pointing to the man sitting in one of the front rows. “He has seen fit to bring from the green meadows of Athens a dozen of the most beautiful Athenian dancers...” His voice was lost in the sudden uproar. Shouts of excitement and almost animal howls. Women. Women who were not slaves. Achaean women. “They have come to give us a pleasant evening, and we must respond with the utmost courtesy, as civilised Achaean warriors, which we all are. Needless to say,” continued Menelaus, raising his voice even higher. The warriors were excited, and they all spoke at once, “that anyone who does not behave properly towards these beautiful and virtuous women will be whipped by the divine Odysseus with his sceptre!”

The entire agora burst into laughter. The noise grew louder when Odysseus stood up, smiling sardonically, and waved the aforementioned sceptre in his hand. It was the sceptre used in meetings to indicate who was speaking. It was the sceptre used by the son of Laertes to strike anyone who spoke without holding it in his hand. The Argives roared with laughter.

The music began again. And the dancers took to the platform. They were young girls, all of them beautiful. Covered in veils and flowing tunics. Pieces of skin here and there. Long hair, curled in the style of women. The men shouted their ovation. Many stood up. None attempted to approach them. Even so, some guards stood near the platform, just in case.

They began to dance, moving in unison. In time with the music. A turn here, and the veils flew. Another turn, and their ankles peeked out. The men shouted with joy.

The girls continued to spin and sway their hips. At one point, three of them came down from the dais. They made their way between the tables, still dancing. The men almost went wild. One of the girls walked over to Diomedes, who was sharing a table with Odysseus. The king of Argos did not unfold his arms, but he did broaden his smile when he saw the young woman approaching. He smiled peacefully. He seemed quite serene in his drunkenness. The men at the neighbouring tables cheered and sang along. Odysseus shook his head, almost with resignation, and stirred his wine cup, lazily watching the young woman dance for both of them.

The women were not stupid, thought the Ithacan; they had studied their audience and knew who to approach and who to avoid.

Another of the girls approached Teucer. She danced for him, next to the table. His face looked particularly flushed. He smiled foolishly. But, true to his word, he did not try to touch her. Although he did make some whistling and definitely rude gestures, which were greeted with laughter and praise from his closest companions.

The third girl stood in front of Achilles. With a smile on her full lips. A frozen, practised smile. She turned around, waving the fabrics and handkerchiefs she held in her hands. Her feet barely touched the ground. She stood on tiptoe, on one foot, taking quick steps. She danced very well.

Achilles ignored the cheers and shouts encouraging him to be rude. He was a prince, not a sailor, for the gods’ sake... He also heard some laughter, and guessed what it might mean, so he forced himself to ignore that too. He gave his best princely smile and bowed his head to the dancing girl, thanking her for her attention. She was an Achaean woman, not a Trojan. She did not deserve any humiliation.

He followed her dance steps with his eyes. He recognised some of them, he realised with resignation, from when he himself danced at the court of Scyros with Deidamia’s women. Although the rest were unknown to him. She was not the princess of Scyros, but she was not bad at all.

The young woman then took several steps and stood in front of Patroclus. She danced for him with the same fervour. Achilles looked at him and was surprised to find his gaze fixed on him. He realised that Patroclus had been watching him the whole time. He didn’t quite understand why. Achilles gave him a discreet smile. A knowing smile. And he pressed his leg against Patroclus’. He saw the corners of Patroclus’ lips rise in response, a barely perceptible gesture. His grey eyes returned the soft look. Although it seemed a little difficult for him to focus his gaze. And, for a moment, they didn’t even hear the music.

Patroclus then turned his attention to the young woman who was entertaining them with her dance. She was now looking directly at Patroclus, performing the dance just for him. The voices of the men around them remained just as enthusiastic. Achilles struggled to suppress a laugh when he saw the awkward nod Patroclus gave the girl. He was trying to be nice to her. He seemed self-conscious now, being the target of their companions’ words of encouragement and expectant glances, as they waited for something juicy. Although many of them were aware that they would not get it, not from the gentle Patroclus.

Achilles saw him raise the cup to his lips again. As if he wanted to hide his embarrassment behind it. But he also saw him take a long sip. His eyes were still glassy. His cheeks were growing redder.

The son of Peleus smiled to himself, resigned. He would regret those last few cups tomorrow...