A Taste of Honey
He watched Achilles from across an ocean of sand, hard-packed and pressed with the weight of a thousand footfalls, beneath a sun which left the land parched and the fiery-haired man’s skin sore from exposure. A thin heat-haze surrounded Achilles, causing his image to waver, as if retreating into the future, instead of approaching. “Did you see?” he asked, a bright smile causing his sweat-slicked brow to wrinkle.
“Aye,” answered Patroclus, “I did!”
Achilles shrugged his bare shoulders. Leather creaked as he dropped his bronze shield to the ground. It landed with a clatter, loose flecks of blood washed from its face and flecking the sand in its wake. “Four!” he announced, as if he didn’t quite believe the accomplishment himself. “Four of the bastards. Here!” He called to a youngster, thrust out his sword in one lithe hand.
The boy hurried over, taking the blade. Its surface was dented, bearing the marks of battle, but the boy accepted it, eyes wide. “You mean it, sir?” he asked, staring at the prize.
Patroclus knew the boy. His name was Jerome, but he doubted Achilles remembered it. No doubt, the man thought his cast-off tools of war would make an aspirational gift for the child — payment for the youngster’s aid in the siege. “Take it!” shouted Patroclus with a laugh from the shelter of the tent where he sat. “Take it, before the great Achilles flies off to Olympus to sit beside Ares himself!”
The boy clutched the blade, beaming in admiration, and retreated into the ramshackle mash of tents. Patroclus felt a pang of regret for the child, knowing he was not the only one who had followed in the warriors’ wake, desperate for food or coin, to find a home or work, or to boast that they, too, had stood side-by-side with the gifted fighters.
Achilles trudged into the tent, nudging several cushions into shape with his heel. “You shouldn’t jest,” he said, slumping down.
“Why not?” asked Patroclus. “You think the gods will grow angry, and take back your gifts?”
Achilles laughed. “Do you think they might?”
“They won’t.”
He looked at Patroclus, staring into the man’s dark eyes. “You know that?”
Patroclus nodded. The gods’ nectar they’d shared together one midwinter, so many seasons before, worked its wonder in different ways. Forging their bodies anew, Achilles had marveled at the might bestowed upon him. They said he was undefeatable, although he doubted these rumors. He was faster, yes. Stronger too, yet others who had tasted ambrosia had found similar strength and still found death.
Unfastening his sandals, he looked upward through the busy tents and into the clouds. “It isn’t worth it,” Achilles said, not taking his eyes from above.
“You killed four.”
“And for what? Four more to populate Elysium, four more bodies in the sands out there, and naught changes. Troy stands. The kings throw us at one another.”
Patroclus leaned over, recovering an apple from his plate. “We’re soldiers. It’s our duty.”
“We should leave.”
He stared at Achilles. Such words sat ill in Patroclus’ heart. “You cannot.” He held out the apple. “You’ve to kill Hector.”
“And if we did leave?” asked Achilles, turning his head. He took the apple. “Would that break your damned foresight?”
* * *
The evening had grown long, sunset painting the sky hues of orange. Achilles lowered the bowl, the taste of honey lingering on his tongue. His arms ached; his entire body bore bruises from the trials. They’d been harsh, combat and endurance feats demanding his greatest efforts. He struggled to stand upright. His left leg was weakened and damaged, his right eye swollen and blackened. But stand he did, clasping the bowl which was his prize.
Three times Achilles sipped from the bowl that held the essence of the gods. He’d fought for each mouthful, pushed himself, and shown his exceptionalism. His ardor to prove his worth to the fellowship drove him through his trials to where he now stood, deserving the might of one of the Circle of Heroes. Their fellowship accepted nothing less, holding what little ambrosia they possessed securely, granting it only to the most promising recruits. Their descendants would call them demigods, yet Achilles didn’t care to think so far ahead. He watched, awestruck, as pain and weariness fell from his arms, stiffness retreating from his legs, bruises vanishing.
“Come.” He turned, holding his hand to Patroclus. “We proved ourselves together.”
Patroclus, quiet and often sullen in those days, hesitantly approached the dais to take his share. As he did, tipping the bowl to his lips, the liquid’s honey taste filled his mouth. Time itself stilled, and infinity filled him.
Images of the past — his youth, schooling, tutorship, and training — assailed Patroclus. Broken glass paintings tumbled around him, absorbing him into their descent. He both saw and felt each moment of his life laid out before him on a starry field. He pushed back, forcing the images away, squeezing his eyes shut. Too much. Too many images. He saw lives beyond his own, including that of Achilles, so close and near. There were many more: His parents, their families, the ancestors of everybody he’d ever met. As his gaze grew broader he realized he could see the lives of everyone who had been, throughout a world far beyond the countries he knew, passing back into time before...
Then, he looked to the future and saw all there was to see: The lives of thousands — no, billions — of people; empires that would rise and fall; explorers’ travels through the world and past the skies; the lives and deaths of gods. Too much! he cried soundlessly, forcing the sight from his eyes. In screaming despair, he pushed the memories away, closing his glimpse of events long gone and far ahead into as thin and as narrow a view as he could.
When time moved again, he lay on the marbled floor, bowl beside him. The taste of honey lingered on his tongue. Achilles crouched beside him. Patroclus stared at him, through those narrow eyes which could see the world, and watched the man’s entire life ahead of him.
“They seek fighters,” he said.
Three summers had passed. Achilles traveled, oft in the company of Patroclus. Tales spread of their accomplishments. Achilles was a fighter like no other, felling terrifying beasts and mortal foes alike. His blade was a haze of speed, giving rise to rumors he was blessed by Hermes. His lithe body shrugged off all but the most grievous injuries.
At his side, always, was Patroclus. Although he bore fewer tales of his prowess, his skill found him darting beneath the sweeping arms of many brutes to drive home a timely fatal blow. People said he was gifted with fortune. He was no stronger than any other, but could readily step aside before an arrow whistled past, or knew preternaturally the perfect moment to strike home. In tandem, the pair were a devastating combination; where Patroclus shouted directions, Achilles dove to make the kill, as if his partner could see the opportunities and risks to come.
Secretly, they knew this was precisely the gift Patroclus possessed.
For three years, Patroclus’ visions guided them. His foresight granted them victories in war, in turn bolstering their reputation among the Circle of Heroes. Words of their deeds echoed across the lands; they’d bested monsters and beasts together with Achilles’ might and Patroclus’ prescience. Patroclus made use of his gift in secret also. Foreseeing the petty arguments and jealousies which threatened to strain their relationship, he shared these with Achilles and deftly weathered the worst of the storms. Sown with seeds of his foreknowledge, their love blossomed, leaving Patroclus fearful the Fates would take revenge for using his insights for selfish aims.
“Yes,” said Patroclus, “they’ll lay siege to Troy.”
“And we will go?” asked Achilles. The pair sat, sipping the last of the summer’s cider, watching the sun dip beneath the horizon.
“Not for another ten summers,” he answered with certainty. “But we will.”
Achilles had learned to hear his wisdom and not question it. He tipped the cup to his lips, finishing its contents. “So, I’ll live another ten years?”
Laughing, Patroclus nodded. “Yes. You’ll live long enough to be a hero.”
He set the cup down. “And how will I die?”
Patroclus remained silent. Moving his gaze from the sun, he stared at Achilles: his sun-bleached curls, his eyes the color of roast chestnuts. A man, yes, but with a youngster’s relish for life, eager to grasp each year in both hands.
Slowly, Achilles rolled over to face him, bedsheets wrapping around him. “Will I die at Troy?”
The answer lingered on Patroclus’ lips. It hung unspoken, an image seated in the corner of his vision which he tried to ignore. For three years, he’d tried with all his will to pretend it would not come to pass. The vision, its knowledge, sat heavy in the forefront of Patroclus’ mind, tasting of honey on his lips.
* * *
The siege of Troy wore on. In its early months, the bitter sands had grown marshy with the blood of the fallen. The war dragged on longer, and those gradually gave way to dust. Achilles watched many fighters struggle to find food, weakening by the day. Yet still they remained, entrenched and encamped. While his fellows faltered, weakened, and perished, the ambrosia in his blood buoyed him.
He remembered Patroclus’ words as his lover cleaned a deep wound on his upper arm. “Stop squirming,” Patroclus chided, drawing a stinging cloth anointed with stinging liquids, “you’re not immortal.”
Achilles chafed at the words, wondering if he’d been too arrogant. The injury would’ve killed anyone else. He winced at the burn, “You knew it wouldn’t kill me.”
“I knew,” answered Patroclus, dipping the cloth into the bowl, squeezing it. Crimson blossomed, swirling into the liquid mixture of herbs, oils, and thistles. “But I might be wrong.”
“You’ve never been wrong.”
Slowly Patroclus squeezed the cloth, pouring out the excess water. He didn’t answer. He hoped his sight of Achilles being carried from the battlefield, bloodied, the flush of life in his skin washed to a pale hue, would be wrong. With each day the image grew clearer: a ragged tear breaking the skin, muscle, and ligaments at the curve of the leg, blood pouring like an overflowing river as the man people thought to be the son of a god convulsed in his dying moments. Patroclus caught glimpses of other times, years when Achilles’ name lived on, remembered by the wound which killed him.
Patroclus prayed to all the gods that he’d be wrong.
“I’ve given thought to what we’ll do after the war,” announced Achilles.
“After?”
Achilles rubbed his shoulder, working the stiffness from his wounded arm. “I wish to sail beyond Thrinacia, past even Scheria. I wish to raise a fleet and travel out across the seas, like the tales told by explorers.”
“They already sing of your accomplishments.”
“I don’t hope for song,” answered Achilles, shaking his head. “I’ll do so for myself. I’ve fought enough monsters and seen enough death. I wish to see life, the world.”
Patroclus wiped Achilles’ wound one final time. “Are you asking if that’s what will occur?”
Achilles stood. “No. I’m saying that’s what I’ll do. What we’ll do together, if you will?”
Patroclus stared at him. Despite his injury, he shone with confidence and certainty in the future he’d envisioned, even without the blessing of prescience. In all their years, Patroclus had never told Achilles his fate.
And I never will, he thought as he stood and grasped Achilles’ shoulder. “I’d travel to Stygia alongside you,” he said. He smiled, as hopefully as he could, trying to ignore the lingering taste of honey on his lips.
