After that, our friendship found itself easily. I showed Patroclus who I am and what I do; tree climbing, sunbathing, field running. I took him to every part of the grounds that is me because scattered across the sand are bits of myself.
I do my best to impress him, introducing him to the pond where I swim. We splash each other and laugh too loudly, hair sticking flat to our foreheads, tunics transparent against our bodies. Patroclus' tongue loosens up and I get to hear the words within him, the thoughts that run laps around his mind. Patroclus has many things to say, though none of it is nonsense. He'll see things, ordinary things—like a falcon in the sky or a man with missing teeth—and find stories behind them, conspiracies, riddles.
With him I smile until I think my mouth might split, I talk until my throat raws and my voice wears. I get to be normal, and it's exhilarating. Skipping stones and carving wooden figurines. We raced, threw spears, and held our breaths. I have lived more in three weeks than I have in twelve years.
My fingers tangle in lyre strings. Patroclus watches with intent.
"Play again," he tells me.
And I do, until I can barely make out his shape in the dark room.
***
It was late summer, over a year after Patroclus' arrival when at last he told me of how he had killed the boy. We were in the branches of the courtyard oak, hidden by the patchwork leaves. He seemed tense, picking at the bark like a scab. He couldn't look at me, but I listened slightly, and when he had finished, I asked:
"Why did you not say that you were defending yourself?"
"I don't know."
"Or you could have lied. Said you found him dead." It wasn't his fault, but that fault brought him to me.
He stared at me, thinking many thoughts he didn't speak.
"You would not have lied," Patroclus said.
"No," I admitted.
"What would you have done?" he asked, leaning forward.
I tapped my finger against the branch I sat on. "I don't know. I can't imagine it. The way the boy spoke to you." I shrugged. "No one had ever tried to take something from me."
His eyes widened. "Never?"
Shame burns inside me. "Never." I am silent for a moment. Normal boys have been stolen from, beat. I've seen it, heard stories, yet I could never imagine being treated like scum, robbed. "I don't know," I repeated, finally. "I think I would be angry." I closed my eyes and rested my head back against a branch, breathing in the green oak leaves that tickled my ears.
***
Being Therapon, Patroclus got to accompany me for councils and dinners with my father. He was allowed to sit next to me, which he did, and speak, which he didn't. Instead, he listened, with those big owl eyes, drinking my father's stories like wine. I've heard them all a thousand times, but seeing him hearing them arouses feelings in me. I enjoy sharing my life with him.
***
The only place he didn't follow was to see my mother, but I could tell he desired to, watching with longing eyes from his thick pallet as I readied myself at night. When he asked about my secretive visits, I answered freely.
"It is always the same. She wants to know what I am doing and if I am well. She speaks to me of my reputation among men. At the end she asks if I will come with her."
YOU ARE READING
The Song Of Patroclus
Historical Fiction"𝗡𝗮𝗺𝗲 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗼 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗵𝗮𝗽𝗽𝘆?" Poets speak of warriors and gods, those strong enough to be remembered. But what about the lesser-known? The secret healers? The inferiority? We know The Song Of Achilles, so here is Patroclus. T...
