People were always in and out the tents; on a really crowded day, it was hard to tell who lived where, and who was just dropping by for a cup of wine or a new spearhead or the running tally of dead and wounded. This last was of particular interest; we were almost womanish in our fondness for gossip, at least in the closing years of the war. By that point, our ranks and theirs had bloated to such an extent that it was almost impossible to keep track of who was where, and who was dead, and who was close to it; how strange that our numbers should swell so much when we were all growing tired of the whole exercise.
I, however, had a brother, and it was my job to keep track of him. Locating Antilochus was not a particularly difficult task; he was usually in the same place, or not very far from it. Cornering Antilochus, persuading him that I was really serious, that our father really did want to see us, and that he had better come back to our part of the camp with me, and actually disentangling him from his chosen surroundings and bringing him back were tasks that required an act of Zeus.
Lacking only my helmet, I trudged over the hard, cracked earth. There must have been no fighting that day, although we were all prepared for it; I remember how empty the field seemed, and how I felt as though my breastplate was conspiring with the Sun to bake me alive. Actually, I would have vastly preferred to be baked alive than to go wrest Antilochus from the Myrmidon tents.
Or, rather, go wrest Antilochus from one specific Myrmidon tent.
Naturally, four people were trying to get in and seven were trying to leave; in the lull between battles, we took whatever opportunity we had to fill our immediate needs. I left my spear in a Trojan shield. My charioteer says he needs new tack. I haven't gotten any oil for the past month and a half and I know that can't be right. I need a new breastplate that doesn't have a hole in it. I need new greaves that aren't dinged up. I need. I need. I need.
"I need my brother," I yelled over somebody's head into the dark din of the tent some fifty paces behind the quartermaster's. My voice sounded harsh, rather than urgent, as I had hoped. I couldn't see him from where I stood, but that didn't mean anything; he was often in and out. It was impossible to keep Antilochus in one place for very long. It would not have surprised me if someone had said, "Oh, sorry 'bout your luck, Thrass—last I saw him, he was headed out to the Argive tents."
It did surprise me when my brother's voice said, "Oh, sure, Thrass. One minute." I suppose he had grown tired, or was being kicked out so that the Myrmidon command could do its business. Or, possibly, he wasn't receiving enough attention; Antilochus was almost the baby of the family, much younger than Aretus and me. He had been, perhaps, fifteen when he came to join us, and he still took a boy's delight in warfare. He was still quite young, not yet twenty, and he knew how handsome he looked in armor.
He came out at the same moment as one of the Myrmidons came in; they stepped hesitantly around one another, swerved to miss each other, misjudged one another, and finally, crashed together with a terrific noise. I winced; Antilochus was not the type who would ever get out of the way for you, and I hoped only that he hadn't offended someone important.
"One more time before I go, then, Antilochus," the other man said. I knew his voice, although I had not seen his face—with arms that splendid, I should have recognized them, but they were still new, and I did not.
Achilles let my brother get away with all kinds of ridiculous stunts, perhaps because he felt responsible for him—it was, after all, he who had introduced Antilochus to some of the upper echelons. Perhaps, also, because he liked him; after Patroclus, I can't think of anyone else closer to him.
There was silence for a minute, and then my brother just laughed and laughed. Even as a young man, he still had a kind of nutty little kid laughter, as though everything were just too incredibly funny. He had laughed less in the past few years, and it hurt a little to admit to myself that I had missed the sound. "Save the last dance for me," he gasped back, and I could see that under the helmet, his face was red.
Achilles snickered. He never laughed exactly, at least not in my hearing—only sort of snorted or snickered, as though to say, Yeah, that one's good. Towards the end, it was always tinged with a certain sadness. Oh, not for the reason that you might think; it was just that Patroclus had loved a good joke. "Y'rall right, Antilochus." He clapped him on the shoulder. "Y'rall right."
"Guess I better go see what Dad wants."
"Guess you better," Achilles agreed. "Thrasymedes." He nodded to me. He was one of the few people who ever used my full name; I was generally "Thrass" to all and sundry.
"Achilles," I said. We'd exchanged names, we'd spoken the bare minimum—two unsociable men with my brother the only link between us.
We said our good-byes, and I dragged Antilochus, finally, into the light of day. I wondered, then, if he felt unwell, because he was never so calm and well-behaved about being summoned back to our father's tents.
I would know soon enough.
I don't even remember, any more, what my father wanted to see us about. It was unimportant in light of what we heard later that day.
"Memnon is coming from Ethiopia," someone said around the fire that night.
Antilochus was one of those people who can pretend that they are completely unfazed by major news; he raised an eyebrow, said, "Oh?" and continued to shovel in the Unidentifiable Stew, which itself was a running joke. Not that we were especially complaining; every man there would rather have had Unidentifiable Stew than go hungry.
I suppose my surprise—and my dismay—showed on my face, because somebody said, "It's a few weeks yet, Thrass. They gotta come up Africa first. You don't have to panic yet."
But I did. I had green troops under my control, who were young men, fresh from Hellas and eager for glory, and could not possibly understand the threat the Ethiopians posed to us; even had it been explained to them, I think they would have been more than happy to throw themselves under the wheels of Ethiopian chariots. Not that I could fault this sort of can-do attitude, but one must count one's costs. There was no earthly way I could keep them from hearing that the Ethiopians were coming, so I must work on some way of keeping them out of the fray, or at the very least, where they were likely to come to no harm.
I also had a brother, whom I could not control, and whom I knew would gladly throw himself in harm's way. At the thought of Prince Memnon and all his men, a chill ran up my spine.
Now that I think of it, it was a warning from the god.