Chapter Twelve: Even in Evil…

Eudorus's return had been anticipated and Achilles, surrounded by several Myrmidons, met him on the beech, robed in blue with questions on his tongue. He bid Eudorus tell all he knew, all he'd seen, heard.
"My Alexandros, how are things with him? Does he send word in return?"
Eudorus held out the ring sparkling with the natural luminosity of pearl, explaining the parting kiss Alexandros had imbued it with. Then, with a heavy heart, Eudorus gave over every detail he'd committed to memory, even unto the near rape he'd witness from the hall.
By the end, Achilles was in a rage the likes of which Eudorus had never seen and wished never to see again. He ordered his armor brought and a ship made ready to sail with the tide. After that he spoke no more.
The trip to Sparta was made in half the common time, in the depths of a moonless night. The men took this to be sign, an omen. Eudorus only shook his head as his lord used all his skill to access the innermost keep of the palace- Menelaus's domestic quarters. By the time they stood before the gilded double doors, set with an ostentatious display of rubies and pearls, Achilles's beautiful, aristocratic face had crystallized into a cold, rage-glazed mask and his commands were empty of emotion, whispered across the dark.
Drawing his sword with a zing Achilles quietly pushed open the doors and went in, closing them behind him. Twenty horrible minutes later, Achilles opened Menelaus's door, closed it behind him, calmly wiping his blade on a dark rag and then smashing his fist into the wall. The yellow stone dented and cracks ran in every direction beneath his hand.
"My lord?"
Achilles smiled.
Eudorus shuddered.
"Return to the ship," Achilles hissed. Seeing the wind fluttering a rose-colored curtain in an open doorway, Achilles turned the opposite way and stalked like the predator he was down the hall.
Licking his lips, Eudorus opened Menelaus's door. He stared at the bed, at what was on the bed, and fought to understand what his mind was seeing. When the message came through he fought to control his heaving guts. He turned away, sweating, from the open door and stood there, too dizzy to move.
He knew he had to leave and only his years of repetitive training and dedicated discipline moved him from the steady frame.
Fear, and the pain of his nails digging bloody half-crescents into his palms, cleared his head and he did the only sensible thing. He ran.

Knocking away the strong downward lunge, Achilles ducked and pivoted on his heel with fleet grace, darting right then left to attack his cousin's weaker left. Demonstrating his cousin's ill-timed counter, the reiteration of an old lesson, "Never hesitate," preempted a similarly intricate, feral move.
Raising his wooden practice sword to the hollow sound of a successful defense, denying his cousin a swift kill-stroke, Patroclus smiled arrogantly at his Achilles, stabbing in forcefully only to be thrown by his own momentum passed a tumbled tier of stone. A rapid succession of blocks level with his torso kept Achilles on the defensive where he could observe his cousin's exuberant aggression and execution of long practiced techniques.
"Nervous?" Patroclus taunted as he swung high, recovering from a failed upper-cut.
Swatting aside his young cousin's next attack with patient, studious passivity, Achilles the golden lion struck out his hand, like a snake springing itself on a mouse, and gripped the boy's wrist loosely. Utilizing centrifugal leverage to uncomfortably twist Patroclus round on the balls of his feet, Achilles forced the errantly cocky youth back against an outstanding pillar, cowed by a wooden point to his neck.
"Petrified."
Releasing the captive wrist and bending back, displaying rare flexibility with possibilities, the experienced of the two fell low, passing his sword to his right behind his back, then springing up on his left foot just as his cousin was pulling out of a missed reverse cut. Achilles stopped his blade, dulled edge to Patroclus's neck, just along the shoulder.
"I thought you taught me never to change sword hands," the youth scolded breathlessly, using the moment to employ a mastered flick of the wrist to roll his elder cousin's blade away and dip down on bowed knees, touching the ground briefly to rediscover his balance before bringing his weapon around to clash solidly with Achilles's.
"Yes. When you know how to use it," Darting in, Patroclus lunged low, swung high, over-reaching himself only to fall to his knees as in a last ditch effort to steal victory he pitched forward. "You won't be taking my orders."
Achilles trapped his practice blade against the dusty stone floor, kicking the wooden too across the levels of the ruins.
Their dance through the crumbling, weathered ruins on the cliff had been blessed by a clear fair sky and the advantage of cool shadows slanted from the stone. Breathing easily, Achilles finally deemed the company of riders worth his attention, now that his play was through and so he walked from his panting cousin, still on all fours, to retrieve his spear. Hooking the shaft of the spear with his foot, Achilles kicked up the smooth wood and caught the weapon. Hefting it without needing to adjust his grip, Achilles stepped forward and through the spear, seeming not to aim.
The knot of the tree that saw the spearhead buried inches deep could easily have been the head of the alarmed man at the head of the company, black from the plumes of his helmet to the flanks of his stallion. Shaking his head once the deadly acknowledgment had been understood, the man, dressed for war, fought with the stubborn wood to take back the imbedded projectile.
Patroclus followed behind his cousin as he went to greet their visitors.
"You reputation for hospitality is fast becoming legend!" He laughed, removing his helmet and tossing the spear to its owner. Achilles caught it and put it aside, reaching back to twist his almost painfully curious cousin's wrist, smiling pleasantly as he gasped. Pressing the scuffed wooden point to his spine, Achilles introduced, "Patroclus, my cousin."
Achilles released him. "Odysseus, king of Ithaca."
"Patroclus. I knew your parents well." Odysseus gripped his shoulder as he mused, "I miss them."
Patroclus nodded silently, his eyes lowered and the ingenuous smile dissolved. The king smiled then at Achilles, looking between the two, for physical similarities. "Now you have this one watching over you, eh? Learning from Achilles himself. Kings would kill for the honor."
"Are you here at Agamemnon's bidding?"
Odysseus hesitated, rubbing his chin as he did, Achilles knew, when he was scheming. "We need to talk."
As they walked away together, closer to the inspiring vista, Achilles baldly stated, "I will not fight for him." There was a certain black venom in the mans voice, something sharp and fine that at its end would find any who probed too deeply, unwanted, dead as stone and twice as cold.
Changing tactics, Odysseus said, "I'm not asking you to fight for him. I'm asking you to fight for the Greeks."
"Why? Are the Greeks tired of fighting each other?" Beside him, his cousin smiled slightly, appreciating the dry humor and Odysseus's correlating answer of, "For now."
"The Trojans never harmed me. They even hold something very precious in trust for me, for the moment."
Odysseus's voice grew agitated. "They insulted Greece."
"As I heard it, Greece insulted them. I am more intimate with this situation than you know. Beware your clever tongue, king of fox's. My business in this conflict has naught to do with pride, or gold, or blood."
"Your business is war, my friend."
"Is it? The man has no honor. I killed his brother, slaughtered him and the whore in his bed and still Agamemnon forges ahead with his war mongering."
"That is because he needs you. He's already claimed his brother's lands, his wife, and his wealth. There's but one thing more that the man desires and for that Agamemnon's saying that the Trojans killed his brother. What rightousness there was on the side of the Trojans, the scales have tipped, at least if one follows the truth of rumors and accusations."
"I killed his brother. I'll let no other man take that kill from me. That bastard wronged me in way I'll not speak about, but I could not suffer him to walk away from it with impunity."
The son of Peleus looked away to the vastness of the sea and sky, taking a long breath. Odysseus was awed to see this man of all, who all thought could never be daunted, bated, or conquered, least of all by emotion, stood before him struggling to reign himself in.
"Let Achilles fight for honor. Let Agamemnon fight for power." The wily king coaxed, undaunted. "And let the gods decide which man to glorify."
"For the Greeks!" Patroclus proclaimed, throwing himself into a strong lunge aimed for his cousin's middle, but with a seamless, un-roused fluidity, Achilles turned the attack away, sending Patroclus stumbling behind him.
"Forget Agamemnon!" Odysseus continued, smiling as the young Patroclus turned his training on his master to the offbeat clash of wood against wood. "Forget Menelaus! Fight for me! My wife will feel much better if she knows you're by my side. I'll feel much better."
With his attention on the appealing king, Achilles rebuffed his cousin's attacks with such ease that the young man could do nothing else but push himself harder. Alas, the student remained the student as the teacher smack his arse with the flat of his blade, wringing a yelp and a hot flush from the boy. Nineteen summers, it seemed, was not enough.
From the sidelines Odysseus felt the need to drive his point home.
"We're sending the largest fleet that ever sailed. A thousand ships."
"Prince Hector. Is he a good a warrior as they say?" Patroclus asked, messaging his wrists.
"The best of all the Trojans. Some say he's better than all the Greeks too." Swallowing a mouthful or water, Achilles smirked at the smoothly injected insinuation. Ah, the old fox certainly had not changed.
"Even if your cousin doesn't come…" Odysseus met Patroclus's eyes, man-to-man. "… I hope you'll join us. We could use a strong arm like yours."
Reaching out to clasp the young mans arm amiably, his arm fell back instantly as the practice sword cut down between the king and Patroclus. "Play your tricks on me, but not my cousin."
"You have your swords. I have my tricks. We play with the toys the gods give us." His grin faded as he searched and tried to read that handsome face yielding, to his regret and puzzlement, not an inch of yearning for the coming war. No longing for immortality or eternal fame to be found, only a twisted, darker ruthlessness that the old Achilles had hinted at, but now was in season.
"We sail for Troy in three days," Odysseus ended abruptly, disturbed at this evolution in character that for all his tricks and powers of deductive reasoning he could not explain. There was something missing here and he would know it. The king of Ithaca turned back at the top of the steps. "This war will never be forgotten. Nor the heroes who fight in it."
Achilles narrowed his eyes against the sun, staring out over the sea, his mind distant. Patroclus waited by his side before leaving on his own.

TBC...
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