Philoi
for Alma Cook, my philê
Start with this: two men on the shore, half a mile from the farthest of the black ships, picking their way through a shambles of rock and seaweed. Although they are at war, they carry only light arms and no armor to speak of, and from their lazy, ambling gait, one can surmise that they are, perhaps, not overly concerned with the possibility of being caught unawares. One, the taller, has a bandage on his right arm; the wound has gotten better, for the splotch of wine-dark blood on the white cloth is smaller than in previous weeks.
"Agamemnon's a dipshit, anyway," the shorter and stockier of the two says, banging the butt of a javelin against a particularly large rock.
"At least he doesn't go back on things. One can't abide that in a commander."
"Because he can't bear to admit that he's wrong about anything. Jackass." The shorter man tosses a stone moodily into the sea, where it lands with a loud kerplunk!.
"Ah, the age-old progression," his companion remarks, seating himself on a nearby rock. "You are firm, I am stubborn, and Agamemnon is pig-headed."
"Well, you are stubborn. Which is way beyond me, for someone who's so easygoing."
"We've trod this ground before, Achilles. You know me, and you know I only fight when I think there's something worth fighting for."
"So where's that leave us now?"
"Oh, come on. What are you going to do, pull out of the war?"
The tide comes in, spraying Achilles lightly; he rakes a hand through his black hair, shaking it away from his face. "I should do it, one of these days. See how he likes me then."
"Here," his friend says, handing him a hunting knife.
"What's that for?"
"Go ahead and cut your nose off, then," the other man says, grinning.
Achilles starts, blinks, and then snickers; scooping up a handful of salt water, he flicks it at his friend. "I can't put anything past you, can I?"
"Haven't been able to yet."
"If I ever can, I guess I'll just lie down and die. I won't even be able to believe it."
The taller man puts his hand on Achilles' forearm, resting it there; for a long time, neither of them says anything, and they stare out over the sea. Somewhere in the distance, there's a large white bump that might or might not be Tenedos; beyond that is a draughts-board of other islands, and then Hellas. Home. Achilles knows, already, that he will never see home again; in this seventh year of the war, he has already begun to count the days. If his friend knows that they are living on borrowed time, he says nothing.
"Remember," the other man says, breaking the fragile, shared rhythm of their breathing, "what Chiron used to say about marriage? One alike in all things."
"Are we married, then, Patroclus?" The witticism slips out before Achilles can give much thought to it.
Patroclus turns and stares at him for a long time, hand in his chin; Achilles almost wants to draw back from the intensity of the blue-eyed gaze, and then squares his shoulders unconsciously to meet the challenge. He cannot imagine Patroclus married, and is not sure if he likes the idea; come to think of it, he cannot imagine himself married, although he is. Then again, his marriage is not a conventional one. Deidamia's missives are terse, snide, and infrequent.
"No, I shouldn't say so," Patroclus says. "We're not one alike in all things. My favorite color, for instance, is yellow, whereas you seem to prefer red."
"Oh, come on, now, that's not what he meant."
"Finally, you show an ounce of sense. Well done." Patroclus snickers, and then falls serious again. "I don't know if we're even one alike in all the things that matter. I think…I don't know, but I think if I were given the same choice you were, I might have chosen a long and undistinguished life."
Achilles reaches, instinctively, for his hand, gut twisting into a knot. "Don't even say it. I couldn't stand for you to be so…so…"
"Ordinary?"
"No, ordinary's all right." Ordinary is comforting and sane and known, something solid to fall back on. Patroclus is much more ordinary than Achilles is—but who isn't? "It's not that. I mean…I couldn't stand it if you didn't have any ambition."
"Hey, I could have had a long and distinguished career judging sheep at the livestock show every spring. Somebody's got to do it."
"I don't think," Achilles says slowly, "that I could love you, if that was all you wanted."
"In other words, you love me only insofar as I'm like you."
"No. That's not what I mean. If we were exactly alike in all the particulars, I wouldn't be much on that." There is only room for one Achilles. "I mean…if you weren't…" He trails off, uncertain, and rakes a hand again through his damp hair. "A man's got to want something more, you know? It's all well and good to judge sheep, but when you're old, wouldn't you want more than that to look back on?"
"Yeah, I guess my old age would be a paltry and sorry one if I didn't have the memory of killing Trojans to keep me warm." They laugh, although for Achilles it is mixed with a lonely curiosity—will he, too, be just another memory? Patroclus seems to sense this upset; their hands find each other, unthinkingly, as they stare out over the sea.
"I'm not like you," he says at long last. There is nothing new in this statement—both of them have always known this. "But I'm here because you make me want to be better than I am, and I'd rather die than disappoint you."
Achilles could almost choke on this confession, but doesn't; instead, he throws his arm over Patroclus' shoulders, drawing him closer. His fingers sink into his friend's flesh, as though to reach into him. "Patroclus…I'd go fucking crazy without you, man."
As the sun sets, together they watch the sea.