The air is close and thick; at the height of summer, the stars glare down from the firmament, and there is no respite from the heat. Now that the earlier desperation is past, they lie on opposite sides of the tent, not wanting to touch. It's too hot, too sticky. To look at them, you wouldn't think they'd been rutting like swine half an hour earlier.
The whisper pierces the darkness, barely audible over the chirping of crickets and the pacing and clanking of sentries. "Achilles. You awake?"
Achilles closes his eyes and pretends not to have heard.
Odysseus won't be dissuaded. "Achilles!"
"Nnnh. What?"
"You ever miss your folks on a night like this?" In Ithaca, now, we'd be up until dawn, feasting and talking. The hall is small and close and smoky, and the ceiling is black with soot since my father's father's time. I can smell the roast lamb now; I can almost see Penelope hurrying to and fro among the long benches, her brown hair pulled back and damp with sweat. She's a good hostess, our Pen; after everyone's withdrawn, we'd clean the hall together, before collapsing into bed. I miss her. I miss knowing that I can reach out during the night and feel hear breathing next to me.
"Yeah, I guess." Oh, God, he wants to talk. He always wants to talk. I've got nothing to say. Words words words words, all my life, and sometimes I just want to tell everyone to shut up for five damn minutes so's I can hear myself think. I don't know if I have thoughts of my own anymore. I don't know if you can when you're going to die before long. I try not to think about that. I try not to think about home, about Mom and Dad, about the woman and the kid; I try not to even think about Patroclus anymore, because that hurts too much, worse than any blow I've ever taken.
"You got plans for the summer?" Yeah, like I don't know the answer to this one. You'll lead a couple of raids, sack a couple of cities, make us almost believe that you're going to beat the prophecy—and then, one day, when nobody's looking, that will be The End. I know this. You know it, too. I don't have a death fate, yet, so I can't imagine living on borrowed time the way you do. And yet it only makes you bolder. If anyone could cheat death, it would be you.
"Naw, not anything worth mentioning. You?" Nice, Odysseus, real nice. You think I don't know? All my life, all our lives, have been hemmed in by prophecies, old creaking oracles, even if we don't notice them. I hate this mess, hate it, hate it, and the fact that fighting and dying is my purpose doesn't make it any easier for me. Do you think that I've never envied some snot-nosed, grubby recruit fresh from the plough, some kid who's going to die without a single thought or any awareness of himself? Do you think that I'm not jealous of you? Yeah, the prophecy says that you're not going to reach home for another twenty years—at least you're going to get there.
"Don't know yet. Prob'ly got some recon work ahead of me." There's only so much reconnaissance we can perform; by now I know every single hill and valley, every nook and cranny of the coastline, every single mouse turd on the plains of the Troad, by heart. This is dragging on beyond all reason and all measure, and I'm about ready to do anything if it means I can go home, or at least get a start on going home. I spend more time with Diomedes than with any Ithacan, and not that he's not great company and all, but I've seen enough of him to last me the rest of my life.
"'Zat so? Figure there's plenty for me to do." There always is. When Agamemnon needs me, he kisses my ass. When I've done his dirty work, I'm a lazy, shiftless hick, and he'd just as soon I sail off to Hades. At least he doesn't treat you the way he treats me, the fuckin' amphisbaena. Now there's a man who deserves a death-fate…but maybe he already has one, and I won't have the satisfaction of being around to see it hit home. Talk about unfair.
"Yeah, no doubt." Odysseus falls silent for a little while. "Hey…uh…you ever miss Deidamia?" Like you ever miss anyone who isn't Patroclus. Does Deidamia ever cross your mind? Do you ever think about her when she doesn't write? Would you give half a shit if she were fooling around with someone else? Would you weep and cut your hair if she died? Do you even remember that you have a son? I can't stop thinking about Pen and Telemachus, and even if I can manage to forget for a few minutes, they come roaring back at me with a vengeance. I haven't found time to write, and I always keep meaning to and something always comes up, or I'm tired, or I want to get drunk because it hurts too much even to scratch out Dear Penelope.
"Mmn…I guess. She's okay." Or she was okay, when we were kids together. I don't know what she's like now. I don't know what anybody at home is like now: not my old man, not Lykomedes and my sisters-in-law, not my kid, not anybody. The only person from then I know anymore is my mother, and even then she knows as well as I do what's going to happen next. It's hard. I know when she's been crying. I wish I could have done what she wanted, but I couldn't. I couldn't do anything but pick up that sword when you and Diomedes came. Then, right in front of everybody, I didn't care anymore and I knew what you were selling and I wanted to buy it so bad I could taste it, never mind that your asking price was sun and moon and soul and all.
"Yeah."
"Bet you're itching to see Ithaca."
"Like you wouldn't believe." Rub it in. Turn the dagger. I'm not overjoyed at the prospect of ten years between the end of the stupid war and the time I see my home again. At least you get to go home, if only in an urn. But no, what am I thinking—Patroclus is buried here. You'll be with him forever.
Achilles lets out a long sigh; staring at the apex of the tent, which he knows is there but cannot see in the dark, he lets down his guard a little, just once. "By Zeus, I miss Patroclus." Oh, by Zeus and Apollo, I miss him so much. Damn you for making me think about him. I'll be with him soon enough, I guess, and then nothing else will matter, because no one comes back from where we'll be. They say Theseus tried, and left part of his ass stuck to old King Hades' bench at that. It was Lykomedes who got him in the end, though we weren't supposed to know that when I was at Skyros. There's a lot of things I wasn't supposed to know, and found out anyway.
"Yeah. I know." Odysseus sounds far away, and almost sad. "I…hey. Look, I know it's not the same, but…"
Damn right, it's not the same! Achilles thinks. "Well, hey, don't put yourself out for me."
"No, I just meant…I meant, if you wanted to. That's all."
What the hell. We're going to die.
"Might as well," Achilles says, and rolls over to draw Odysseus to him.