Just wanted to say a quick thank you to all your lovely comments and reviews! They really do give me the motivation to continue and my ego is huge and needs regular indulging so please, keep them coming. Thank you for such kind words, just to hear that this is being received well is enough to make my day (yes, I have a lot of spare time.) I promise to update regularly from now on so look out for it once a week on a Wednesday or a Thursday!

~fourteen~

It was like a dream, the next few days, but one they both had to try not to wake from. Achilles was still dictatorial and Patroclus often found himself wrestling with his disdain for authority but, after many a restrained word or eye roll, they began to reach some sort of balance and soon discovered that this, this "being nice to each other" thing really wasn't all that difficult.

In fact, after a while, Patroclus found himself becoming less and less bothered by Achilles' arrogance and pride. When he stopped sessions halfway through to check his hair it brought on more amusement than hatred. When he boasted of his superior skill or called himself a God Amongst Men (which he did a lot) Patroclus would respond by seizing him round the waist and knocking him over rather than walking away in disgust.

Of course he was still insufferable and their fights, verbal or physical, were frequent and explosive. Yet it seemed that all those little things; the narcissism, the conceit, all that had made Patroclus loathe him so were just part of everything that made him Achilles; and at the same time, nothing at all to do with him.

Another thing, mused Patroclus, watching Achilles climb a tree to retrieve a rogue arrow before promptly falling out of it, is how alike we are. And it's only taken me till now to realise it.

Later Achilles said something similar. "It's like we're two sides of the same dice," he told him one practice session. "Opposites and all, but the same."

Patroclus didn't even have the heart to tell him that a dice has six sides.

"You're still an arsehole," he reminded him.

"Yes but so are you," Achilles shrugged. "Just a closeted one. Take the bow."

Patroclus took the roughly hewn practice bow Achilles handed him, running the pad of his thumb along the knotted wood. "I thought you hated archery?"

"No, I hate archers," Achilles corrected him. "Weak-spirited, cowardly people; prefer to hide behind their battlements and hit a man from a distance because they can't handle braving death or facing the body they've killed. No, I've no time for archers but I've nothing against archery itself. It's a skilled vocation, even if it means people spend more time fixing an arrow than battling an enemy."

Sounds good to me, thought Patroclus privately but supposed Achilles might hit him if he said it. He raised the bow before him and, taking an arrow from Achilles, fit it into the string. Then he pulled his hand back, keeping two fingers on the bowstring and let the arrow loose. It flew straight through the air but, rather than piercing the red target, grazed only the side of the tree and landed in the grass. Patroclus lowered the bow and cringed. "Oops."

"That was awful."

"Hey, my people weren't built for ranged weaponry. We're stocky and, um, muscular. Very good at close contact."

"Oh yeah, you're a real Titan," Achilles raised an eyebrow, eyes grazing over Patroclus' lean body and slim hips. "Here."

He slipped subtly behind Patroclus, gesturing for him to raise the bow again. Patroclus did so and as he drew it back he felt the brush of Achilles' hand on his.

"Raise your elbow a little," said Achilles softly. "And bring your hand up."

"Like this?"

"Bit higher, up to your, um, mouth."

Patroclus nodded although it was difficult to concentrate. Achilles' breath tickled the back of his neck and his hand was warm on the one that held the bow. He pulled the string tighter, narrowing his eyes at the target. "Deep breath," said Achilles. "Count to three." Patroclus took a breath but it came out shaky. He counted to three and released the arrow.

It leapt from his fingers with a twang and the string shook like an earthquake with the vibration just as Achilles' arms moved from Patroclus' shoulders to slip round his waist. Patroclus gasped but as soon as he was aware of the movement it was gone; Achilles had thrust his hands into his belt and was looking innocently at the target. The feathered end of the arrow still shook with the impact. The metal head was imbedded in the tree, dead centre.

"I did it!" Patroclus exclaimed delightedly, the moment forgotten.

"I know," Achilles rolled his eyes. "I saw."

Patroclus, bigger person that he was, decided not to pay him the courtesy of a retort and instead responded with a crude but effective hand gesture. Seeing it, Achilles did not hesitate but launched himself at Patroclus, grabbing his shoulders and knocking him straight to the ground. Patroclus wriggled in his grasp, locking his legs around Achilles' calves and for a while the two wrestled, two pythons struggling for the upper hand and all the while giggling, like children drunk on their father's wine until Achilles swung Patroclus round with enough force to shake Olympus so that he was laying beneath him, his back against the dirt.

"Apologise," Achilles hissed menacingly but the effect was ruined by the giveaway twitch of his lip.

Patroclus struggled but Achilles' grip was tight, nailing him to the floor with the urgent pressing of his limbs and heavy torso. He could feel the warmth shifting from Achilles' body to his, tugging at the thick folds of his chiton which rose and fell with every laboured breath, tickling Patroclus' exposed chest where his own tunic had slipped. "Never," he rasped.

Achilles growled and shook his tawny head, bearing his teeth like a young lion deprived of his prey. "Apologise," he repeated, increasing pressure on his abdomen until Patroclus cried out.

"Ah! Ok ok! I'm sorry!" he released, cringing at himself.

Satisfied, Achilles rolled off him and stood up. Patroclus got to his feet gingerly, massaging his wrists and throwing dark glances at Achilles' smug face, repulsive with triumph. "Sorry for your mother!" he added and ducked the punch.

The next few hours passed in a series of disjointed practice sessions, frequently interrupted by hasty squabbles and wrestling matches. When the sun was beaming hottest, and the white-blues of the morning were beginning to bleed into afternoon golds they abandoned their weapons and lay down in the grass. The cool shade of the olive trees was soothing to their skin and the smell of the dark green leaves was thick and rich in the air. Achilles was staring up at the sky, one arm outstretched, his hand opening and closing as if trying to grasp a cloud.

"So," he said finally, letting his arm drop back to the earth. "Do you feel like a champion yet?"

Patroclus laughed. "I'm not sure I'll ever feel like a champion," he confessed. "I feel a lot less like a liability on the battlefield, if that's what you mean."

"And so you should," said Achilles. "I was talking to Ampelius the other day. He couldn't stop raving about you; how much you've improved, your attitude, your skill set, your hair...Reckons he'll be signing you up for the home defence within the month."

Patroclus' eyes widened. "Seriously? Are you sure? You're not…you're not pulling my leg?"

"No I am not 'pulling your leg'," Achilles rolled his eyes again. "Although from what it looked like Ampelius was pretty close to pulling on something, Gods does he like you-"

"-Achilles. Are you sure he said that? Really said that?"

Achilles turned to look at him, his blue-green eyes boring into Patroclus' with an intensity that almost shook him. "Patroclus," he said solemnly. "Would I lie to you?"

Patroclus suppressed a snort. "Um, let me think," he said mockingly. "Yes."

"I would not," Achilles protested, sounding hurt. "I told you. I don't lie. It's dishonourable."

"Ok so, what would you call what you're doing to your friends?"

Achilles stared at him wide-eyed, as if Patroclus had just accused him of some vile crime and he couldn't quite believe it. "That is totally different," he huffed. Patroclus waited for him to elaborate but no justification came.

"Well…it's not," reasoned Patroclus. "You pretend to like them when you hate their guts. You let them accompany you to places then spend half the time wishing you were somewhere else. I don't get it. You're lying to yourself as much as to them and it's just making you miserable."

"No, you don't get it," Achilles sighed heavily. "Listen Patroclus; when you're…when you're me…there are certain expectations people have of you. Everyone expects me to be charming and witty and beautiful and brave andgenerous all the fucking time. People expect me to have a band of merry followers; later they'll be my trusted generals and advisors and I'll win a lot of land for their fathers to grow tomatoes on. They don't really love me and I think a shallow grave's the best place for most of them but it's all part of the image. That's important, Patroclus."

"Why?" Patroclus frowned. "Why is an image important if it's an illusion?"

"Because people worship images, just like they believe illusions."

"But it's a lie."

"Of course it's a lie," said Achilles impatiently. "Most things men praise or worship are lies. Don't you see? It doesn't matter what the facts are as long as people hear what they want. And what people want to hear is always changing. Look," he pointed at the sky. "Fact: Uranus ate his children, Zeus castrated him and his body is the sky. Gaia is his consort, their children are the Gods and thus life as it is began. That's fact. A few centuries ago an almighty Titan mother gave birth to the heavens and the earth and Zeus and Hera and all the others are nothing but her disobedient accidents. That was fact too. Who knows what they'll be saying a thousand years from now?"

Patroclus shivered. "That's blasphemy."

Achilles made a dismissive gesture. "'Blasphemy' just means "not currently accepted". It's just another word to get you to think like everyone else. Listen: The only fact is perception. Whatever people believe is the truth."

He leant back and gave a little sigh, his face obscured by a thin wall of long grass. Patroclus was quiet, thinking about what Achilles had said. There was something wrong there, somehow. There had to be. Achilles had to be wrong, or else everyone else was. He looked back up at the sky, at its tremendous, pressing infinity and felt suddenly very small and unsure. Achilles turned his head to look at him, his lips parted so slightly.

"I've frightened you now," he said softly. "Haven't I?"

Patroclus gave a nervous smile. "A little bit," he confessed.

"I'm sorry," said Achilles. "Ignore me. I'm talking bollocks, as usual. I'm no philosopher, just a cynical teenager trying to justify himself. I don't even know what I'm saying. You do that to me, you know that."

Patroclus frowned quizzically. "Do what?"

Achilles' laugh was like a brook tumbling over pebbles. "Mess me up," he answered, grinning. "Spin me about. Force me to atone for my countless sins."

He looked at Patroclus, smiling. It brought creases round the corners of his rock pool irises, marking the smooth, impossibly smooth skin. There was nothing to do but laugh and smile back.

oOo

After a while of their mutual armistice, Patroclus found himself looking forward to his morning practices with Achilles more and more. One of the reasons for this was that the atmosphere amongst the slaves had been somewhat…chilly of late. Patroclus was well aware what the cause was, as was anyone within a mile radius of Leptine or Pamaia.

The day after the trip to the agora, Amyntor had sent Pamaia down to their quarters to make her permanent home and introduce herself to the other slaves. As usual, Leptine was given the task of making the new arrival welcome due to her famous sunny disposition and warm temperament.

If Patroclus hadn't known better, he'd have said Amyntor had the wrong girl.

As Leptine rounded up the other slaves she looked as though she were thinking hard on whether or not to hit someone with a brick. Her face was set and stony, her mouth was a thin, pursed line and her eyes were hard and steely as flints. She stood at the steps with her arms folded across her chest, her chin jutting out in a gesture of dismissive pride as the new arrival curtsied and beamed.

"So," she tossed sharply. "Where did you say you were from?"

Pamaia smiled at her and the whole room issued a little sigh. "Libya," she answered. Her voice was husky and soft, like embroidered silk yet smooth and deep. When she spoke the word it sounded like a prayer.

"Libya," repeated one slave in amazement. "But that's…well…that's far away!"

"It is," Pamaia agreed. "Very, very far. And it feels further still."

She gave a little wistful look to somewhere very, very far off. Beside him, Patroclus heard a breath hitch in the boy's throat. Leptine scowled.

"Pamaia," she began.

"Oh, please call me Mai," interrupted Pamaia.

"Pamaia," said Leptine. "What did you do before? Back in Libya, I mean."

"I was a dancer," Pamaia replied. "I used to dance for lords and kings all over the country. I was requested for all their parties, festivals, ceremonies. Any occasion, I would be happy to serve. Such parties! You must imagine, these men. In all my life I have never seen such cloth. Such finery…gold and silver brooches…beads like drops of fire and water…the celebrations would begin in the afternoon, when the air was just a little damp, and then would not stop till the next night. The music never stopped playing…it plays in my head still…"

Leptine rolled her eyes as at once the slaves began to clamour Pamaia for more stories, descriptions of her home country and all the fabulous balls and banquets she had danced. Later while Leptine and Patroclus were in the kitchen preparing the evening meal, she spoke to him crossly.

"You know what that means, don't you?" she snapped.

"What?" asked Patroclus, absentmindedly examining an oddly shaped bulb.

"When she says she's a dancer," said Leptine. "You know what that means."

"I had a notion it had something to do with moving in time to music," replied Patroclus.

Leptine glared at him. "Don't be coy," she said. "'Dancer'. It's just one of those stupid terms men use to make the profession more acceptable. So they can come home to their wives and look them straight in the eye when they say it. Dancer. Gods, that's a good one."

"What're you on about?" Patroclus sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

Leptine slammed the knife down through an onion and the whole table shook. "She's a whore," she said.

Patroclus raised an eyebrow and surveyed his friend. Her face was grim and set, yet decisive. And the enthusiasm with which she sliced the onion let him knew she was not in a mood to be argued with. Yet, once again, his scepticism got the better of him. "And you've just decided this now, have you?"

"I haven't decided anything," replied Leptine crossly. "It's as plain as the nose on her face. She's a whore, and a badly disguised one. Why else do you think Amyntor got so excited when he got her?"

Patroclus thought back to the other day where, while out running errands, he had overheard the overseer boasting loudly and elatedly about the bargain price he'd got on Pamaia to his friends. He remembered his fevered words and the way the other men had laughed like donkeys at the lewd gestures he'd made when describing her. He shrugged. "Ok, maybe she had her…duties…back wherever she came from. So what? That's no reason to be cruel to her."

Leptine looked wounded. "I am not being cruel to her."

"No of course not," Patroclus answered sarcastically. "You've been the epitome of warmth and welcoming. Hestia herself would have blushed."

Leptine did blush; a fiery flush of anger colouring her nut brown skin with pinkish irritation. "Okay," she huffed. "So I haven't exactly been the Hearth of Hospitality recently. I'm sorry, I just…there's something off about her."

A wry smile twisted Patroclus' lips. "Not her virtue, surely?"

Leptine fixed him with a black-eyed glare so piercing Patroclus almost put a hand on the table to keep his balance. "No," she snarled. "But there's something else. Think about it; Amyntor wouldn't just buy a so-called "dancer" on a whim to indulge his own lusts and what use has Peleus got for another palace slut? Mark my words, that girl is here for a reason. And sooner or later it'll come out."

She looked back down at the table and resumed focus on chopping carrots for the stew. Unconvinced, and more than a little amused, Patroclus decided to change the subject and the two moved on to less sensitive topics of discussion.

But as time passed soon there was no denying it. Regardless of Pamaia's previous history or past profession the effect she had on King Peleus' household was undisputable. Everywhere she went, whether she was practicing dances for upcoming festivals or just carrying a pitcher of water through a hallway heads turned and eyes strayed after her. When she entered a room the air changed, became warm and promising and when she left there would be many left lingering after the door. The twitch of her rosebud lip was all promises, a sidelong glance of her smoky-dark, almond-shaped eyes was a secret just for you and even her suggestive stride and slowly swinging hips were enough to drive men into a maddened frenzy.

Soon not just the slaves but the whole palace was rustling like leaves in the wind, full of whispered stories about the dark eyed Libyan dancer who with just one look could turn a man insane. Wherever Patroclus went there was a new tale about her, a new myth, and sometimes in the dead of night he would hear the word repeated softly, whistfully, almost like a prayer, Pamaia. Pamaia. She was a scent in the air, a silk scarf in a curtained room and everybody wanted to be near her in the vain, desperate hope that she might move and brush against their arms, or else it was enough just to see the candlelight dancing on her golden skin and in her long, dark hair.

Patroclus was, of course, aware of what was going on around him. Drills with the other boys passed in worship of her slim waist and breasts, "like two ripe pomegranates," as one exclaimed and everyday Deiomachus and Leonides were thinking up new strategies to get her on her own. But to him she was more of a story than anything else; a golden myth dreamed up by men, with little foundation to it but structure enough to pass the time. Until one morning.

He had been in the process of a beautiful dream (of which he was not certain of the details, but he was pretty there had been a blonde boy throwing food) when he was jolted awake by the deafening blast of a messenger horn, accompanied by cymbals, millimetres from his ear. Eyes watering and hands clamped over his aching eardrums he sat up and seized the culprit who turned out to be Loras, on orders from Achilles to wake Patroclus up "in an as annoying a way as possible." The prince wanted to meet him for a fight before breakfast.

So, pumped with fury and a desire to hurt, Patroclus had been on his way to meet him when he noticed Pamaia in the distance. She was standing in the middle of the corridor, carrying a batch of fresh linen and looking horrified around her. Patroclus waved.

"Hello," he said in what he hoped was a friendly and approachable manner. "Are you alright?"

"No," she and Patroclus saw shaky tears, like tiny pearls, threatening to spill from her eyes. "I'm…sniff…I think I'm lost."

At once Patroclus felt a surge of pity as he looked at the poor girl, alone and terrified in the marble halls. He put an awkward hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry," he told her gently. "I used to get lost all the time. It's a big house for such a small country. Where are you headed?"

"Lady Thetis' room," she answered, bottom lip shaking. "They tell me I'm to be her handmaiden…but I don't know where to find her. I've never even her face."

Patroclus shook his head. "Nor I," he replied. "And I've been here longer than you have. But I know where her room is. Follow me, I'll show you."

"Gods bless you," murmured Pamaia, wiping her eyes. "Thank you so much!"

"No problem," replied Patroclus, thinking with a smile about a time not so long ago when he'd been in exactly the same position.

Patroclus set off for the route he and Achilles had taken a few weeks ago, Pamaia moving subtly as a ghost beside him. As they walked Patroclus found himself observing that she really was very pretty, even with her eyes red from crying and tears still balancing on the ends of those long lashes. The way she glanced hesitantly around her, so gently vulnerable made him feel suddenly very self-conscious and by the time they arrived at Thetis' room he found he was quite a lot warmer, and he didn't think it was the stairs.

"It's just here," he gestured lamely at the door, inlaid with a swirling pattern of seashells. "I'm sorry, I don't know how to get in…"

"It's alright, I have a key," said Pamaia, reaching into her bodice. Patroclus looked away sharply, strikingly aware of the heat creeping up the back of his neck.

She opened the door and at once the warm, herby scent of the goddess' bedroom enveloped them. Pamaia set the linen next to the bed and turned to face Patroclus. "I am indebted to you," she said, dropping a curtsy and lowering her eyes in respect.

"Not at all, not at all," Patroclus coughed awkwardly. "No problem. Happy to do it."

"If there is ever any way I can repay you," she continued, eyelids fluttering like butterfly wings. "You must let me know."

"Wha-? Oh! No! That really won't be necessary," Patroclus cringed, face glowing red as a skillet on a fire. "I…just…Happy to help. You can find your way here now? For..um…ever?"

Pamaia gave a little giggle which sounded like silver bells. "Yes, I think so," she replied coyly. "Thank you, Patroclus."

"No problem," said Patroclus again, looking at the curtains covering Thetis' bed and wondering if it would be incredibly antisocial if he were to hang himself with them. "Any time. Um…how do you know my name?"

Pamaia gave another little smile, a smile that seemed to give so much yet tell so very little. "Your reputation for kindness presides you," she said.

With that she closed the door. And Patroclus, who was not quite sure where his brain had gone, found himself standing there ten minutes later, still staring at it.