Before you read, know that this chapter contains themes that some readers might find upsetting. I've tried my best to deal with them carefully and with respect but please: if you are offended by anything or think that something could have been done better, please let me know and I will try my very best to fix it.

Thank you all for your wonderful reviews, they keep me writing.

~chapter thirty-six~

Patroclus re-entered the palace with a sense of renewed purpose. His nerves were still tingling from his meeting with Thetis, he felt as though whole bolts of electricity were running up and down his arms and through his fingertips. For the most part he was still in a state of semi-daze, unable to believe that he had come away with all his limbs intact, especially considering the leading topic of the tense conversation. But here he was; still alive, still whole and, at least for the time being, triumphant. Thetis had relented. He had succeeded in persuading a goddess. The only question that remained now was one he reflected on with a twinge of unease: would it be enough?

"Patroclus!"

He started and saw Penelope waving at him from further down the hallway. He was just about to wave back and relate excitedly all that had transpired between Achilles' mother and himself when he realised she was not alone. Behind her, a gleam of honey-coloured hair caught the light streaming in through an open window and, before he could say a word, Princess Chloē had stepped out to meet him.

"Hello again," she greeted him with an intimate smile.

Taken aback, Patroclus made to sink into a clumsy bow but Chloē stopped him. "No need for that," she said brusquely and Patroclus noticed she had dropped the cautious, hesitant tone with which she had last spoken to him. "I think we are both well enough acquainted with the others' disposition to dispense with formality by now. Shall we get to business?"

Sinking even further into bemusement, Patroclus glanced at Penelope who gave him an encouraging wink. "There's an unused guest room just up here," she said, leading the way.

The room was indeed empty, except for one lone slave sweeping who cleared out instantly at a look from Penelope. Chloē sank down into one of the long couches and Penelope followed suit, leaving Patroclus to claim a stiff, hard-backed chair which he sat on the edge on, looking tentative.

"So," Chloē began with the air of one settling down to a pleasant conversation. "Let us not beat about the bush. You want to ask for my acquiescence in ending this betrothal, is that correct?"

She looked at him expectantly, one slender eyebrow raised. Patroclus cleared his throat uncertainly before replying. "Um…yes. It is. Princess."

Chloē nodded in a satisfied manner, as if Patroclus had answered a test question correctly. "Right," she said crisply. "Well, first understand that it is indeed my inclination to go along with your plan. You are correct in assuming that any…erm…male fiancé will not be exactly to my…um…taste. An unfortunate characteristic in a princess, don't you think? To, if given the choice, prefer the witch over any handsome prince?"

She smiled, watching him ruefully and Patroclus realised he was expected to reply. "I don't think I myself am in any position to judge, my lady," he mumbled. "Give me the handsome prince any day."

To his surprise, Chloē slapped a hand over her mouth and issued a rather indecorous giggle. "Oh you are funny," she said from between her fingers. "Although I have to say, I have heard as much. I'm not sure how much drift you catch of foreign rumour but you would do well to be at least a little more discreet in your regard. Of course, one would have only to look at you together to see that you are completely enamoured with each other. Or talk to Achilles for half an hour."

"You've spoken to Achilles?" Patroclus' eyes widened in amazement. "Of this?"

"Of course I have," shrugged Chloē. "What else was there to say once it transpired neither of us felt the remotest attraction for the other? We had to break the ice somehow."

Patroclus thought of Achilles and Chloē together at breakfast, heads close as they talked animatedly under their breath and felt a little ashamed of himself. I shall have to apologise to him later, he realised. The thought gave him little pleasure.

"So like I say," Chloē continued. "The idea of tethering myself to some man for the rest of my life isn't particularly my idea of fun. Thus my first inclination is, of course, to help you. However, although I undoubtedly possess some of the…um...unconventional about me, I'm afraid I remain, in some respects, conservative."

Here she leaned forward in her seat slightly, her soft brown eyes fixed unwaveringly on Patroclus' face and suddenly he had the feeling that she'd arrived at what she'd come to say. "I love my father," she said. "And I love my country. I have been raised as a servant to both and I would do anything for either. No I don't want to marry Achilles, but since when has any woman wanted to be handed over to a man she has never met, like property, like chattel? Many girls have had it much worse; at least he is young with little interest in hurting me."

She paused warily, as if anticipating a reaction. Patroclus, however, said nothing, waiting for her to finish. When no one spoke, she ploughed ahead. "Here is what I am saying. I will have to be married at some point, as is my duty and desire if it means what is best for Corinth. And if I must be married, then I see no reason why it should not be to the prince of Phthia. So, Patroclus, I suppose what I am asking you is: what can you offer me to abandon a daughter's loyalty to her father and a princess' duty to her country?"

With the last word, she folded her hands prettily in her lap and blinked at him expectantly. For a long while silence followed her question as she waited, slightly nervously it seemed, for his reply. Patroclus glanced at Penelope. She was watching the exchange with anticipation, her eyes steely. She seemed to be holding her breath.

Finally, Patroclus' voice shattered the hush like the dropping of a pebble into still water. "It seems clear to me, princess, that you are looking for something specific," he spoke at last. "Why don't you name it?"

Chloē's blush was violent and immediate, colouring her rose pink from chin to forehead. Her voice when she spoke, however, was quite composed, if a little bashful. "I…well…I wanted to hear your answer first. What do you say? Will you give her to me?"

Patroclus' shoulders rose and fell. "She is not mine to give," he said plainly. "As much as I need and desire your help I can't compel another person against their own free will. But say I were to talk to her and she agreed…would it persuade you?"

Chloē's face, which had fallen slightly at Patroclus' reply, hitched back on its expression of reserved dignity. "It…it might," she answered quietly. "She would be a great…a great comfort to me, when the time comes that I do have to marry."

The note of sheepish embarrassment had crept back into her voice and Patroclus found himself warming irrevocably to this quiet, dignified, honour-bound princess who wore her loyalty like the gold band of state around her head. At that moment, he found himself hoping that he could do as she asked, as much for her as for himself and he tried to convey the sentiment in the sincerity of his next words. "I'll do what I can."

For a moment, there seemed to be fleeting flicker of understanding between the two of them as they held each other's gaze. Then Chloē stood up and straight away was back to her brisk, business-like manner, although her cheeks still retained a trace of their rosy hue. "I should be getting back," she said. "Father will be wondering where I am. Um…you will let me know soon, won't you?"

"Of course," replied Patroclus and Chloē flashed him one last grateful smile before disappearing with a flutter of skirt.

Patroclus turned a doleful face to Penelope who was watching him with an odd expression that he thought might have been pride.

"Well you certainly handled that very nicely," she told him glowingly, confirming his estimation. "Now all we need to do is bundle up the whore and we'll have ourselves one perfect, successfully demolished engagement."

"Easier said than done," muttered Patroclus, getting to his feet. The odds of winning over Thetis, a woman who barely tolerated his existence, had been uncertain enough. But Pamaia, a nemesis whom he knew felt nothing toward him but direst loathing, was more likely to spill their plan to the nearest overseer out of pure spite than agree to help him.

They made their way towards the slaves' quarters where Leptine was waiting for them as planned. Upon entering the cloying, dark gloom with all its stinking warmth Penelope looked around interestedly but said nothing, for which Patroclus was grateful. They sat down in the space Leptine had cleared out for them and recounted to her everything that Chloē had said, concluding with the bargain of her aid in return for Pamaia. When they had finished, Leptine looked as troubled and dubious as Patroclus felt himself.

"Convince Pamaia to leave Phthia?" she repeated in disbelief. "We'd have an easier job getting Achilles in a bodice, or asking Phoinix to stop drinking."

Trying very hard to ignore the rather distracting image of Achilles in women's underwear, Patroclus attempted another angle. "Is it at all possible that she might leave of her own accord? I mean, she and Chloē seemed to be getting on pretty well from where I was standing."

"Oh grow up Patroclus," Leptine chastised him wolfishly. "She was playing her like she played you, like she plays everyone. Pamaia is motivated solely by drive and ambition. I doubt she's got a real feeling in her body."

"Then that's what we'll have to appeal to," said Penelope, plucking idly at a loose thread coming away from the mattress she was sitting on.

"How?" Leptine persisted desperately. "Pamaia's probably worth more than half of Peleus' strongbox. Why would she trade her position as one of the most valuable members of his household to become some little girl's handmaiden? And don't say for love, Patroclus, not everyone is quite as romantic as you."

"I wasn't going to," Patroclus hummed calmly.

"I suppose we'll just have to offer her something else," said Penelope. "Make another bargain."

Patroclus' head dropped into his hands. "I have a feeling we're running out of things to trade."

Penelope grinned at him and this time there was no mistaking the pride in her voice. "Even so, you're becoming quite the wily merchant," she told him. "We'll make a politician out of you yet. How did you know it was Pamaia Chloē wanted?"

Patroclus shrugged and scratched the back of his head modestly. "I just thought about what I'd want if I was forced to live in a strange land where I didn't know anyone. A friend."

Both Leptine and Penelope gave him such sugar-coated, doting looks in response that he felt his face grow quite hot and he tried quickly to change the subject. "But uh, yeah, so, Chloē's a lesbian."

"Who'd have thought it," Penelope shook her head amusedly. "First a prince of Phthia, now a princess of Corinth, no less. Whatever is the world coming to?"

"Maybe it's spreading," Patroclus grinned.

"Gone is the time of traditional values!" cried Leptine, raising her hands in mock-distress. "Is there no morality anymore?"

"And she so prim and proper…looking like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth," added Penelope, wiping away an invisible tear. "But alas, another vice-wriggling degenerate to join our fetid ranks-"

"-That's enough!" came a sharp voice.

Patroclus, Leptine and Penelope looked up in surprise. There, standing before them, stood Pamaia, her face stark white and her eyes blazing with anger. She was shaking slightly, as if with fury, and in one hand she seemed to be holding something behind her back. The other was clenched in a fist.

"Pardon?" said Patroclus in polite bemusement.

"I said that's enough," Pamaia hissed again through gritted teeth. "I heard you having a go at Chloē, taking the piss, and you need to stop, right now. Just because she's stolen away your fuck buddy does not give you the right to talk about her like that…to make a joke of it…that girl has been through more than you'll ever know and you…you don't deserve to shine her sandals. She's suffered enough without becoming the butt of your childish jokes. So shut up, now, before I make you."

"Pamaia, calm down," Penelope appealed as Patroclus and Leptine stared, dumbstruck, at each other. "We weren't having a go at Chloē, we would never do that. We like her, we want to help her-"

"-You expect me to believe that?" snapped Pamaia, jutting her chin in Patroclus' direction. "After all the shit he's been saying about her? After all those plans to murder her?"

"That was before I found out she was a lesbian,"said Patroclus exasperatedly. "Now I think she's a delight."

"You said you were going to put hemlock in her food!"

"I was joking!" Patroclus protested as Leptine looked at him through narrowed eyes. "Obviously!"

"Why do you care, anyway?" Leptine rounded on Pamaia fiercely. "What should the honour of another deviant matter to you?"

The emphasis she placed on the word reminded Patroclus sharply and uncomfortably of the incident that had occurred between him and Pamaia so long ago, where she had spoken to him so scornfully. Clearly she was remembering it too although her reaction was not one any of them could have anticipated, for she dropped her head and lowered her gaze to the floor, almost as if she were ashamed.

"I admit that I may have spoken…misguidedly…in the past," she muttered darkly at the pavestones beneath her feet. "I know better now. But if you think I will stand by and listen while you-"

She broke off suddenly, grasping at her lower stomach. With the other hand slapped over her mouth she began to make odd, convulsive movements, as if suppressing a retch. Patroclus, Leptine and Penelope stared at her in bewilderment even as she wiped her mouth shakily with the back of her hand.

As she straightened up, Patroclus noticed again how very sick and pale she was looking. Perhaps it was just the absence of kohl that usually lined her eyes but somehow her beauty seemed washed-out, as if someone had smeared a hand over a damp painting. The shadows under her eyes had darkened to the colour of fresh bruises and her face seemed thin and oddly pinched, her collar bones sticking out of her chest as if she wasn't eating enough.

Leptine, it was clear, had made similar observations for she beheld Pamaia with a look of frowning concern. "Are you alright?" she asked. "You don't look well."

"I'm fine," Pamaia snapped testily. "And me at my worst is still better than you at your best, so."

"You're at your worst, are you?" said Patroclus quickly.

Pamaia glared at him. "Mind your own business," she snapped. "There's nothing wrong with me, apart from exhaustion at this pointless conversation."

"What's that behind your back then?" asked Penelope.

Pamaia made an attempt to hide whatever it was she was holding but Penelope was too fast for her. Quick as lightening she grabbed hold of Pamaia's bony wrist and wrenched it into her grip, revealing what looked like a lump of chalky mud clutched in her fingers. A large chunk appeared to be missing on one side, accompanied by little indentures that looked suspiciously like teeth marks.

"You're eating modelling clay?" Patroclus exclaimed in baffled disgust, staring at the teeth marks. "How ill are you?"

But Leptine was looking at Pamaia with a new expression, and when she spoke her voice was low and soft. "How long?"

Pamaia's eyes flitted to her. She blinked and Patroclus was startled to see tiny beads of water clinging to the long eyelashes. "Two months at the next half moon," she whispered.

Patroclus looked from Leptine to Pamaia in blank confusion. Leptine's eyes were soft with the heaviness of crushing understanding and there was an energy between the two women such as there had never been before, a kind of bond formed from wordless communication. "Oh Pamaia," Leptine sighed and Patroclus was shocked to hear something that sounded like sympathy in her tone. "Can I ask whose?"

"You can ask," answered Pamaia, hostility creeping back into her voice. "I couldn't say for sure even if I wanted to. Possibly Cleitus'. Not that it matters – a slave brat is still a slave, regardless of its sire."

And then it clicked. Patroclus' eyes widened and he gesticulated wildly at Pamaia. "You're pregnant!" he nearly yelled at her.

Pamaia spared him a look of deepest loathing, causing his flaying arm to drop limply back to his side. "How does it feel, Patroclus?" she asked him, her voice sharp as a knife's edge. "To have won at last? To have claimed victory over your enemy? Will you revel in your triumph, now that I am destroyed?"

"Destroyed?" Penelope's eyebrows knit together. "But surely a fruitful slave is held in esteem, as having greater value? I should have thought you'd be rewarded for your fertility."

Pamaia's hair whipped her face as she rounded on Penelope, eyes blazing like those of an enraged harpy. "I suppose you think I am to be congratulated, king's daughter?" she uttered spitefully. "And what reward should I be given? A trinket, perhaps? A few coins to spend at the market? In return for my child, scarcely ripped from my womb before being placed on a boat to some foreign land, thus to being its life in shackles. No mother there to ease the ache of the chains in the mines, or to teach it to endure rape in the brothels. And what of myself, after my body is torn and sagged from birth and my dancing days are over? A slum probably, after being sold cheap to whichever whoremonger will pay for damaged goods. Or else to live here for the rest of my days as a common serving wench, pining for the child I will never see again, until disease or my own hands take me."

She tore her gaze away, so that they would not see her blinking furiously over her shoulder. However she could not quite disguise the strangled sob that broke out from her throat even as she hid her face from them in the crook of her arm. Patroclus, Leptine and Penelope said nothing but avoided each other's eye, unsure of where to look. For Patroclus he felt oddly shaken, stunned by this swooping sensation of guilt and despair such as he had never known before. In those few moments every other emotion and desire deserted him until he felt nothing but sick to the core.

It was Leptine who spoke first, in a voice so small Patroclus almost had to lean in to hear it. "It doesn't have to be like that," she said.

Pamaia looked at her and for a second it was as if that fleeting understanding had returned between them. "No it doesn't," she agreed stonily. "And it won't be."

Patroclus frowned again at the prominent collarbone and the new translucence of her flesh as comprehension suddenly dawned. "Is that what you're doing?" he asked tentatively. "You're trying to starve it?"

Pamaia did not answer. Leptine, however, looked positively horrified.

"Oh Pamaia, you can't!" she cried.

"Do not tell me what I can and can't do," Pamaia retorted poisonously. "It's my body, I will do with it as I please!"

"No, I…that's not what I meant!" Leptine shook her head. "I mean it doesn't work like that! Human life is tenacious…the baby will not die but will continue to live off you until there is nothing left. It will take all the goodness out of the food you allow yourself until you both become weak…if you continue this way you are both going to die."

"Then what am I to do?" rounded Pamaia, not quite managing to hide the appeal of hopeless desperation in her snarl. "I'll not bring a new life into a world such as mine. I'll die first."

And with her hair matted about her face in her fury as she stared at them with eyes so wide, the black pupils dilated to enormous size so that they emphasised the dark shadows and luminescent paleness of her skin, Patroclus did not doubt it. And as those last words fell from her mouth, ringing with all the gloomy certainty of the direst prophecy, Patroclus realised suddenly how very cold it was in their darkened quarters.

Again, it was Leptine to break the silence. "There may be another way."

oOo

They had to wait until dark. It was only when they were certain that the very last slave had retired to their mattress that Patroclus and Leptine stole into the kitchens, with Penelope keeping watch. Despite the security ensured by the cover of darkness they could not take any chances and Patroclus did not need Leptine's warning of what would happen to them if anyone discovered what they were up to. It was perfectly clear to him, in the way her hands shook slightly as she worked and the restless glances she sent at the door that this was the most dangerous thing they had ever done.

They spread out the various plants and herbs they had gathered on the table before them, among which Patroclus recognised silphium, rue, and hellebore. Leptine gave Patroclus the task of boiling water while she prepared them, separating the useful parts from the rest of the plant with her little silver knife. Patroclus watched her out of the corner of his eye, cleaning and chopping with brisk, expert efficiency even as her hands trembled infinitesimally on the blade's hilt. Before he could push the thought away, he wondered whimsically how many times she had prepared this exact concoction.

"Are you sure this is safe?" Patroclus blurted out, again before he could stop himself. "It's not going to…hurt her, is it?"

"Oh it'll hurt," Leptine sighed, grimly and heavily. "There's no helping that. The least we can do is add a little poppy to help. But there shouldn't be any lasting complications."

She swept up the chopped herbs and tipped them onto the brass measuring scales as Patroclus set about extracting and crushing the pain-dulling seeds from the poppy pods. He could hear night sounds through the midnight black of the open window; the slow mournful hooting of an owl, the hissing whisper of crickets in the fields. An involuntary shiver ran up his spine. Despite Leptine's assurances, as well as his own awareness of the narrow ignorance surrounding such sciences, he could not suppress a little sympathy for those who would associate their purpose with witchcraft.

There was also, Patroclus remembered with a squirm, the more practical threat of Amyntor or Cleitus bursting in on them any moment. Although slaves had apparently been taking similar potions to rid themselves of unwanted pregnancies for years they had always to do so in utmost secret, as they were technically robbing their masters of the property they were entitled to. Patroclus new the enormous risk Leptine ran if an overseer were to discover she was stealing from them and the thought was almost enough to make him want to upturn the entire cauldron out the window.

If Leptine possessed any of Patroclus' uncertainty she did not show it. Her face was impassive as she added each quantity into the boiling water, stirring vigorously. The steam rose from the simmering surface, making her skin shine damp and rosy and her hair frizz about her face. A few minutes later she ladled the draught into a rough wooden beaker and gave it to Patroclus to hold while she doused out the flames. Patroclus peered into the murky, swamp-coloured depths. It was difficult to imagine that something so innocuous could possess such sway over life and death. He repressed another shiver.

"Okay let's go," whispered Leptine when she had extinguished the last candle and the two tip-toed out into the passageway where Penelope was waiting for them.

It took them a great deal longer than usual to exit the palace. Aside from the fact that Patroclus was balancing a full mug of hot liquid they had to move slowly and cautiously through the passageways, stopping at every corner to check there was no guard on duty and retreating speedily whenever there was. Patroclus could hear not only his own heart but Leptine's and Penelope's as they moved silently through the tunnels, their feet making only the barest sound against the stone. It came as a great relief when the back entrance finally came into view and their sweating skins made contact with the cold, night air.

Pamaia was waiting for them as planned in the furthest field, away from the prying eyes of anyone who might be outside the palace. She had lost all trace of her former vulnerability, her face hard once again with the steely boldness of resolution. However, her gaze faltered slightly as she watched them approach, her eyes narrowing at the steaming beaker in Patroclus' hands.

"You drink it," said Patroclus unnecessarily when several moments had passed.

"It's poison," replied Pamaia distrustfully.

"On my word it is not," said Leptine. "Drink. The child will be flushed from your body."

"How can I trust you?" asked Pamaia. "You, who have always hated me from the moment I first set foot in this place?"

Patroclus and Leptine looked at each other. They could make no secret of how they felt for Pamaia, any more than she could them. The old animosity still lay, thick as smoke, between them. But there was no hatred deep enough that could persuade them to abandon her now, with not a soul in the world to help her. How to explain to her, that it was not friendship or even sympathy that stirred their alliance now, but human duty? One hand extended to another in need, nothing more or less?

"If you want insurance," spoke Penelope at last. "There is something you can do for us. There. That's a language you can understand, isn't it?"

Pamaia held her gaze challengingly for a moment before her features softened in resignation. "It is," she accepted. "And, I suppose, what choice do I have?"

With that she took the beaker from Patroclus' hands and raised it to her lips. Patroclus held his breath as she drained it and swallowed. He could see it moving, travelling along her gullet before suddenly she dropped the beaker so that it landed in the grass with a light thump, and with a stomach-wrenching grasp her hands flew to her throat.

"What have you done to me?" she gasped, collapsing onto all fours and trying to retch.

Patroclus sent a terrified look at Leptine, scared that they had poisoned her after all, but thankfully there were no signs of shock on her face. She knelt in the grass next to Pamaia and placed a hand on her back, rubbing in circles as she continued to gag. "It's alright," she murmured against Pamaia's groans. "You're alright, be strong, it will all be over soon-"

Pamaia released a long strangled sob that seemed to split the night. She turned her face into a beam of moonlight and Patroclus could see the silver tears shining there. Then she screamed and Penelope nudged his elbow.

"Come on," she muttered. "This is not our place."

She led him away, far enough that Pamaia's tears and shouts of pain grew dulled. Patroclus could see them still, two black silhouettes crouching in the dark, one holding the other tightly to her as she convulsed and trembled. It was as if Leptine's tender words of comfort carried on the rustling of the leaves and the grass. Patroclus closed his eyes and muttered a prayer for Pamaia, feeling with the full weight of regret that there was nothing else he could do. Penelope was holding his hand; she squeezed it and Patroclus knew that he was crying.

It felt like several ages had passed by the time the shadow of Pamaia was able to rise unsteadily to her feet. Leptine helped her bury what remained and they did so in silence, staying a while before Pamaia was ready to walk, shakily away. Leptine came back alone, looking tired and for some reason, much older. Behind her a slim, black figure was swallowed up by the darkness.

"Where's she gone?" asked Penelope.

"The beach," Leptine replied wearily. "She needs to be alone for a time."

"Is she okay?" said Patroclus, knowing dully that it was a stupid question.

Leptine made a non-committal gesture. "She will be," she answered. There wasn't much more to say, so nothing more was said.

oOo

They said goodbye at the back entrance. Leptine took off to the well to wash the blood from her hands and clothes and Penelope disappeared soundlessly to her own quarters. As Patroclus climbed the steps up to his bedroom it seemed to him that the stairs wound higher than usual, that each time his foot fell it cost him extraordinary effort to pull the rest of his body back up, as if it had become heavier. Perhaps it was the extra weight he was carrying, of a grief that didn't really even belong to him. Or otherwise nothing more than the unbearable heaviness of life and being, the burden of understanding that always seems to drag us down until we learn how to shoulder it.

Achilles was awake, as Patroclus had known he would be. He was lying on the bed with his head turned to the side facing the window, out of which moonlight was pouring. His arm was outstretched, his fingers twitching as if he sought to grasp it. But he looked up when Patroclus entered, pushing himself into a sitting position and the silvery beams lay forgotten.

"Patroclus," he breathed, his face brightening like starlight. "I knew you'd come, it was only a matter of time. Does this mean I'm forgiven?"

Patroclus did not answer, only crossed the room until he stood in front of the bed. He saw Achilles' expression change before him, morphing from delight at his arrival to incredulity at the look on Patroclus' face. He paused before the foot of the bed, his face cast silver as a coin in the dark light and without moving, as if asking for an invitation. And Achilles, understanding, raised his arms as if giving one.

Patroclus fell into them. He eyes drifted closed as Achilles' arms tightened around him, bringing him securely into his torso. Patroclus could feel his heart beating through his chest, pulsating against his cheek like a tiny sun. Achilles did not ask what had happened, he did not need to.He radiated warmth. He always had done. And all he needs to do, thought Patroclus, holding him, is keep his heart beating forever and ever.

They stayed like that a long time and it was a longer time still before they fell asleep. Just before they did, Patroclus, remembering, asked Achilles when he had lied to him. And Achilles, smiling, told him.

For those of you who might not have picked up on it, the "lie" refers to something Achilles told Patroclus back in Chapter 22. Search, and ye shall find.
"Huios" is the Greek word for "child."