The Song of Achilles

by Madeline Miller

I planted my hands on his chest and shoved, as hard as I could. Our land was one of grass and wheat. Tumbles should not hurt. I am making excuses. It was also a land of rocks. His head thudded dully against stone, and I saw the surprised pop of his eyes. The ground around him began to bleed.

Something in the way he spoke it drained the last of my anger from me. I had minded, once. But who was I now, to begrudge such a thing? As if he heard me, he smiled, and his face was like the sun.

“They attacked. And the city of Calydon suffered terrible losses.” Achilles yanked, and I slid half out of the chair. I clung to the wooden frame so I would not be pulled onto the floor. “So the people went to Meleager, to beg him for his help. And— Achilles, are you listening?” “Yes, Father.” “You are not. You are tormenting our poor Skops.”

Dear gods, I think, let him not hate me. I should have known better than to call upon the gods.

Too late. Something—someone—struck me from behind, throwing me forward. I landed heavily, facedown on the ground, with the person already on top of me. I closed my eyes and waited for a knife. There was nothing. Nothing but silence and the knees that pinned my back. A moment passed, and it came to me that the knees were not so very heavy and were placed so that their pressure did not hurt. “Patroclus.” Pa-tro-clus.

A surety rose in me, lodged in my throat. I will never leave him. It will be this, always, for as long as he will let me.

“Patroclus,” he said. He was always better with words than I.

His eyes opened. “Name one hero who was happy.” I considered. Heracles went mad and killed his family; Theseus lost his bride and father; Jason’s children and new wife were murdered by his old; Bellerophon killed the Chimera but was crippled by the fall from Pegasus’ back. “You can’t.” He was sitting up now, leaning forward. “I can’t.” “I know. They never let you be famous and happy.” He lifted an eyebrow. “I’ll tell you a secret.” “Tell me.” I loved it when he was like this. “I’m going to be the first.” He took my palm and held it to his. “Swear it.” “Why me?” “Because you’re the reason. Swear it.” “I swear it,” I said, lost in the high color of his cheeks, the flame in his eyes. “I swear it,” he echoed. We sat like that a moment, hands touching. He grinned.

“Ithaca is well, thank you,” Odysseus answered. “I left my wife and son there, both in good health.” “Ask him about his wife,” Diomedes said. “He loves to talk about her. Have you heard how he met her? It’s his favorite story.”