The Armor of Achilles

The Greeks had won, of that there was no doubt. Sparta, while not defeated in all means, had gone back to lick their wounds, draw up other soldiers. Whatever blood there was on the field of battle was of both sides now there only to provide for another generation of flowers.

But if the Greeks won, Achilles, their hero, felt nothing. He sat in his tent only allowing Patroclus to enter, to serve him, to salve him then finally to sleep with him. Naked almost all the time, Patroclus tried to appeal to the man he loved, pointed out the battles won but...there would be more and if Achilles was not at the front, desperation would set in, the men, particularly the Spartans, would think he had abandoned the cause. 

Taking an oil made from Laurel and Olives, Patroclus quietly applied this to his friend, no, his lover of many years. Achilles often dismissed him, reviled and rebuked him but when these rages past, he looked for the young man, his arms open, tears on his face quietly calling his name. Patroclus had the love that few men could exhibit; Absolute love that swelled into passion when they made love. He knew that after almost anything, Achilles could only be assuaged by the sight of his naked body in the bed, waiting, willing, to give his only friend what he wanted. Achilles was uncontrolled and knew that he could not go to far. His strong weapon of sex was ready to dig deep and not come out until Patroclus seemed on the edge of death. Then he fell back, he could not kill his beloved. But even then, bleary and only just regaining the blood flow, he crawled to mighty Achilles to venerate the spear that sprung from his loins. He was his own fountain of the white milk, never was he empty no matter how long Patroclus put his head under and on the spigot. During that, Achilles would wretch about, buck, made fists that could kill his pleasure was so great. He could feel the stream within him ever flowing, wanting to be out, to be in someone, some thing and there was loyal Patroclus.

There was a battle coming, all knew it, Achilles certainly knew it but in his tent, the cloth of the opening half closed, he sat not hearing the preparations for conflict. 

Colchis had a desperate errand and the prayer of all the generals. He must find Patroclus and, somehow, make him understand that if Achilles did not appear at the forefront, there hope of even saving men as they would have to retreat was...frightening. Colchis knew how many partners were there, how many sons of officers were assembled, how many of them must die and families would wail, beat their breast, throw themselves into a fire that they might find the lost. He must succeed. The battle was no more than two days hence and even a sign from Achilles would rouse everyone, put the roar back in their shouts, feed them the food of victory assumed. Colchis put his hand on the strong shoulder of this one man on which so much rested. He could be offered nothing if he succeeded and likely death if he did not. Patroclus seized the arm of Colchis in the great Greek salute, Colchis responded and saw a passion to achieve what he must. They parted as the sun set on a staggering field, so marched across, already, here and there simple cairns to mark the place a loved one had fallen. There were men and women kneeling, weeping, crying out to the Gods and to Achilles.

In the tent Achilles lay naked on his bed, his eyes seeing little save the slight he imagined. As was his custom, he held the base of his life in his hand and forced legions of soldiers never to be born to come forth and die, as their companions would, on the ground. This was what Patroclus saw.  It was not the time for conversation so he picked up the breast plate of Achilles, removed his clothing and sat on the ground beginning to polish it. Even in the dark, the slightest gleam of a star bounced off and showed the magnificent gold. Achilles, too, was illuminated by whatever lamp passed, the wedge of the moon as it cut through a seam in the tent. His magnificent body was made for only two things, war and sex. The Gods had given him the muscles to carry the long lance, the sword, to drive his horses as he thrashed through the enemy who saw the golden man and gave way or fell. 

A streak of cruelty was on him as he thought of how he perceived the cruelties of the Greeks, did they not know what he was to them? To all men? Looking down he saw Patroclus shining his armor. He rose and grabbed the man, even in the air plunging his symbol of man into the place where men were spat out. He pressed his victim to him, not letting him go but shaking him so violently that he was fucking him without moving his own body. Reaching around, and still holding him under one arm, he caught the stake of the other man and grimly bashed it back against his hard belly almost ripping the stake out. His anger was so great and so uncontrolled that he forced the man he held to yield a tribute of submission which fell on the ground making a silver pool.

Achilles threw the younger man at the ground and there he lay while his hero returned to his bed and stared at nothing. Occasionally he would rise, kick Patroclus who had yet to rise, gather some food and wine then return to his cover not noticing or caring what condition his companion, the man he loved was in. He was a Greek and like all the other Greeks, was repugnant to him.

It was well into the afternoon before Patroclus could rise, take some water and wash himself but in the time his mind was fluttering he had conceived a plan to put Achilles on the field of battle. He need do only two things and the first, he did as he hobbled trying to conceal his damaged body, was to take the sword of Achilles to Colchis and there swear his master had sent him with this sword, the sword of Achilles, as assurance the would be at the front the next morning.

On either side the next early morning, two heroes, Achilles for the Greeks and Hector for the Trojans. Each troop believed in these two men and seeing them spurred them on. The battle commenced slowly at first then the arrows flew, swords were drawn as the two sides approached each other then finally they were engaged, the dust, the noise, the fervor prevented those who watched from knowing but in a tent Achilles rolled over as the sound of battle reached him. On the dusty floor, the blood of Patroclus was there but his golden armor was not. He knew, as lightning struck his eye with knowledge, he knew what had happened. 

Rushing onto the place where men and horse were frightened and fighting and dying. Hector could only occasionally spot the golden armor of his rival and steadily moved toward it. Achilles, too, could see the golden armor and ran, tripping over the dead, the weapons the upturned armaments, toward the gold but...Hector won the race, spun the false Achilles around to plunge his sword through he back. He was instantly dead. Achilles saw that and, in an agony of heart and longing for his dead companion, moved about until he was behind Hector. Stooping to silently removed the armor and pick up the sword, he kissed the eyes that could not see him and then joined the battle.

He had but one prey; Hector. His men now assured of their leader fought harder until like the tide flowing out, the Trojans turned and ran. There was only one who did not and he would not until he, once again, killed the man in gold. Achilles did not hesitate but sprang on the bulkier man, savagely wielding his knife, plunging at his buckler, cutting all away until he was naked on the blood stained ground. He waved at a comrade to come and give him his tunic to tie up Hector and then, with several men, as they Greeks cheered, dragged him back to his tent. Asking only that a horse and chariot be brought, he threw Hector on the ground as he had the unfortunate Patroclus. He would exact only a few things. First the humiliation as he made a golden pile, raised his symbol of man and plunged it into Hector who screamed. He had never been violated but now he was fully, deeply, until the sun almost was down. 

He pulled the fallen hero out where all could see, unmanned him with a single cut, then attached him to the back of his chariot and rode at full gallop onto the field of battle where Hector was pierced, pummeled, hurt by all the Greek swords and weapons. Just as it grew dark, Hector died. Achilles cut the rope that had bound him leaving him for the Trojans to come for the corpse. 

He pulled off his armor and, naked, fell on the ground where Patroclus had fallen. Looked for his body so it might be properly prepared, washed and finally buried. The dark denied him but his lamentations to Patroclus could be heard. The troops knew a great deed had been done and if they begrudged Achilles that it had to happen, they knew that, finally the Gods had delivered victory. 

On the field, blood smeared and in tears Achilles looked at a dark sky and asked why. It is the question no sky or God or man can then or now ever answer. Achilles heart was dead but Patroclus was alive in his mind forever.