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Nestled in the center of the unmistakable chaos of a crowded bazaar, a prince lay.He wasn’t really a prince, though he did look as one. Honey colored skin and slightly slanted eyes, yet blond hair and his eyes shining a muted green. The town treated him as a prince– son of their ambassador. He served more as the town’s golden boy.It was a scene out of a play, undoubtedly; the golden prince resting upon an elevated cushion under a tapestry for shade, the sounds of trade and business surrounding him. Leaves and expensive clothes and strings of beads hung around him. Artisans were selling their crafts. Vendors selling their produce. Musicians equipped with fifes, maybe drums, and if you were lucky, a Greek lyre or kithara, were on about every street corner. All around, local villagers lounged on stairs and against stone walls. It was a normal day. He sipped wine from a gold-coated chalice.His friends, other sons of rich fathers, circled around him and chattered. They spoke about the blazing heat of the Eastern sun, about their plans later that day, about the prettiest dark-haired village girl they had seen that day. It was sometimes hard to hear them above the noise of the daily crowd.
“More wine, Achilles?”
His friends sometimes acted as if they were his servants, eager to serve him. They might as well have been at his sides, fanning him with great green leaves. He didn’t speak, only listened, as he tracked his eyes across the bustling marketplace.It was a routine. Every day, a bit before the sun reached its peak in the sky, Achilles and his friends would find their lounge in the center of the bazaar and act as royalty.Vendors and merchants sometimes walked up to him: “You should try some of these grapes, Achilles.” “Young Achilles, these beads would look beautiful on you.” Who was he to refuse?And so it went. Day after day the Anatolian prince and his servants basked in the warmth and in their glory. He had enough currency in his family he could go around and buy anything he liked for himself or his friends from the vendors, though they often offered the goods to him without charge. “I hear there is a war going on out west,” Ahmet said, one day.Achilles tilted his head up the slightest bit, acknowledging his friend. “Would you ever want to be a soldier?” asked Esra, to Ahmet.“No.” It was another day and Achilles was trailing his eyes over the bazaar, as he always did. However, today, there was a change, a break in routine.Among the merchants he had grown so accustomed to seeing, the same people setting up shop in the same spots every single day, he spotted a vendor he had never seen before. Around his age– nut brown skin, curly dark hair, freckles placed strategically about, and a set of deep brown eyes that one could only describe as impenetrable. Achilles stared at him from across the marketplace. He slowly sat up, taking the weight off his arm which he was leaning lazily against. Among the dark haired boy’s goods were herbs, tonics, and crystals. Though Achilles searched for his gaze, their eyes never locked.His friends followed his line of sight, tilting their heads in the direction of the freckled boy. They looked around at each other, squinting, wordlessy reasoning about why the prince’s attention was on him and not on them. Achilles made no move to get up. And so, Achilles’ daily routine changed. It remained partly the same, but for the boy now selling herbs and tonics and crystals. Achilles still chatted with his friends and sipped wine and ate grapes. Every day, though, instead of running his eyes over the busy marketplace, he’d run his eyes over and over the freckled boy. His appearance was a unique one– though his tan skin fit in well with the busy Anatolian vendors, his facial structure was that of one Achilles had never seen before. He almost looks…, Achilles thought, Greek. Beautiful. He wore a plain white tunic which was slipping slightly off his shoulders.In his somewhat small village, Achilles was not used to outsiders.As far as his knowledge went, the boy hadn’t yet noticed him, lounging and basking, lounging and basking, every day.For the first time, someone’s attention was not on him. Achilles never thought he would mind, but he was wrong. He wanted this boy’s attention. Why had he not come up to him yet? He was practically on display in the middle of the marketplace.Every day, the freckled boy tended to his goods, greeted his customers, even, though rarely, conversed with other vendors. Every day, Achilles watched him. His movements were carefully calculated yet beautiful. He seemed delicate. Reserved. Not to mention that face.“Watch this,” Achilles said to his friends one evening, a few days after he had seen the new merchant.He took up some of the apples that had been so carefully delivered to him by one of the local merchants, and made sure the freckled boy across the bazaar was facing his direction. He began to juggle.His friends chuckled and caught the ensuing apples that Achilles threw at them. “Beggars’ tricks,” Kamer remarked, teasingly. Achilles’ mouth tilted up into a grin.
“Do I look like a beggar to you?”
His friends continued to chat amongst themselves, Ahmet and Esra trying to juggle as Achilles did, but to no avail. Beggars’ tricks. When Achilles looked over to see if the freckled merchant had watched his little display, he found that he had not. He was turned around, busily arranging and rearranging his goods. A frown crossed Achilles’ beautiful face.The sun was starting to set. Slowly, the landscape started to lose its warmth. Ahmet and Esra continued teaching themselves how to juggle. Achilles and Kamer threw grapes at each other until it was time to go home.Achilles’ friends walked with him back to his house. Though surrounded by many other houses, it swamped them with its marvelous size.
“Until tomorrow.”
Alone, Achilles lay in his great wooden bed in his great stone house.He lay there and thought about the day. He thought about apples, and grapes, and wine, and the freckled boy. He was alluring. He was a mystery. A nameless face and a puzzle.Achilles had always liked puzzles. Achilles’ friends watched him as he walked across the bazaar, heading straight to the freckled boy’s stand. “You are not from around here. Are you new?” Sometimes it was best to start simple.The freckled boy looked up from his stocks, looking rather uninterested. He pressed his palms down on the counter and leaned forward slightly, his attention captured. Finally. Achilles had never been able to tell before, but the freckled boy was about a hand’s length shorter than himself. They were surely about the same age, as this boy could not have been over 20 years old. Achilles surveyed him, eyes narrowing, and was pleased when he saw his eyes run down Achilles’ body and dart back up. It was not the first time; in heat like this, it was common for men to wear only a cloth draped and tied across their waist. “Yes.” He had an accent.
“I am Achilles.”
The freckled boy cocked an eyebrow. “You do not look Greek…?”
“I am not. ”
The boy hummed and looked back down at his hands, again arranging and rearranging his stocks. Achilles watched as he organized various tonics and goods. “I have seen you around, golden boy,” he said, not looking up. He offered no more than that. “Oh?” replied Achilles. “And I have seen you. Perhaps, when you have the time, you would like to spend time with my friends and I?” The boy glanced over Achilles' shoulders to where Ahmet, Kamer, and Esra sat, talking and gesturing to each other.
“Perhaps.”
He was toying with him. Impenetrable. “Yes, perhaps. Though, if I’m being honest, I think I would better enjoy your company alone. What is your name?” A cat’s smile. Achilles cocked his head and pressed his palms into the wooden counter, mirroring the other boy’s actions.The freckled boy narrowed his eyes, the corners of his full lips turning up slightly. “I am not that easy.” “No,” Achilles shook his head and grinned, his lengthy blond hair tossing prettily around him. He ran a hand through it to settle it back into place. “I did not think so.” They stared at each other for a silent moment until Achilles turned and walked back to his makeshift dais. “What was that?” asked Esra.
“Curiosity.”
“Yes,” said Ahmet, looking from Achilles to the merchant boy, who was now leaning lazily against his stand. “Curiosity.”
That night, Achilles lay in his great bed and thought again. “Father,” he called, and the aforementioned man stuck his head into the room.“Son?” “I have a question. Why is my name Greek, though I am Anatolian, just as you are?” Achilles rolled over onto his side, facing his father, who stood in the arched doorway.
“Your mother always held a strong affinity for the Greeks.”
The answer was enough for Achilles. He rolled back onto his back. “Goodnight.” “So, from where do you hail?” Achilles asked the next day, right when the sun had reached its peak.The freckled boy hung some beaded necklaces, clearly handmade, on one of the posts of his stand. He looked over his shoulder, finding Achilles’ muted green eyes with his own brown ones.
“Greece.”
As I had assumed, Achilles thought to himself. “What brings you to Anatolia?”
“Curiosity.”
Achilles chuckled. “I am familiar with the concept.” “So,” the merchant boy said. He peeked over Achilles’ golden shoulder. “Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to buy something?” Ah. Achilles, standing so broadly in front of the stand, was preventing him from potential sales.
“I will get out of your way.”
Achilles returned to his three friends. He barely resisted glancing over his shoulder to check if the freckled boy was watching him.
“The wine, please.”
To Achilles’ annoyance, Ahmet went through the motion of pouring Achilles’ wine himself. But, oh well, it was part of the daily routine; look like a prince, act like a prince, get treated like one. “Hey, who is that you keep speaking with?” Ahmet asked after the wine was poured. Kamer and Esra turned their heads to look at Achilles. “I do not know,” replied Achilles.After a juggling competition with his friends at which he was winning, Achilles grew bored. He walked around, examining the various goods the bazaar had to offer, as he had done many times before.Where he went, eyes followed. He stuck out amongst the crowd, with his golden hair and his lovely skin that seemed never to scar or burn. A few vendors offered fruit and nuts and handmade jewelry as he walked through the crowded streets. He declined many of the offers, but accepted a bundle of figs when presented to him. He stopped to watch a few musicians, admiring their delicate hands and devotion to their sound. Sitting on a tapestry on the ground was a young boy, around 10 years old, selling beaded bracelets. Achilles bought one of them and donned it on his wrist.
“This is lovely.”
The boy thanked him graciously and Achilles moved on his way.He came across the stand where a vendor sold instruments shipped in from many different worlds. Among the instruments he saw fifes, flutes, many sets of drums, but the true cream of the crop was displayed in the very back, away from prying glances and sneaky hands; a Greek lyre made of dark carved wood. Achilles had no doubt it came straight from one of the finest Greek artisans, a face he would never know but would be thankful to. “The lyre,” he nodded towards the stringed instrument, eyes remaining on the vendor. “How much?” He did have instruments at home. In a chest in his room he kept a great array of instruments, winds and strings alike, but nothing as exquisite as the oak lyre that lay before him. “Make an offer, young man,” the bearded vendor replied, placing a gentle hand on the lyre.Achilles retrieved five gold coins and held them out to the bearded man.The vendor’s eyes widened. He motioned to push away Achilles’ outstretched hand. “My boy, I could not–” “I insist,” Achilles retaliated, and dropped the valuable coins on the counter. “Please.” Achilles returned to his friends with a brand new lyre and a sack of figs.
“I have returned with gifts for us.”
Achilles laid the bundle of figs in front of his friends, and set the lyre down proudly before them.His friends rang out their thoughts. “It is beautiful.” “Would you play for us?” “Do you think I can juggle these figs?” Achilles leaned the lyre between his legs, and began to play. His friends circled around him, watching his delicate fingers pluck the strings. They nodded their heads along to the gentle rhythm. A piece of art playing a piece of art.The songs Achilles played were ones expected of that area: distinctly eastern, waving beats and chords matching the heat waves constantly ripping through the village. Half steps and jumping octaves. What was amazing was not the sound of the music, but the grace with which he played. That, and the sound produced by the authentic Greek lyre was a sound not often heard in Anatolia. A couple villagers turned their heads.From across the bazaar, Achilles caught the freckled boy’s eyes. He had stopped whatever he had been doing with his display and turned to face where the beautiful music was coming from.A small crowd began to form. They circled around Achilles and his three friends. The freckled boy was among the crowd, walking cautiously closer to the music. A circle was formed– it was practically begging for someone to dance in it. “That boy,” Kamer said, nudging Achilles. “He is coming this way.” Achilles was surprised when he saw the merchant boy step into the circle. Regardless, he kept the music going, his fingers ceaseless.The style of dance that the freckled boy displayed was that of something Achilles had never before seen. It was a great contrast to the languid swinging and swerving of traditional Anatolian dance; this dance, Greek, Achilles presumed, was all arms and movement and fancy footwork.From somewhere in the crowd, a dummer joined in with Achilles’ melody.His dance was unique. It was foreign. It was– good. His feet, in turn, both pounded the ground and touched it with light steps, his arms followed the tune of his body. His hips swayed left to right. Around him, the crowd sang and shouted their praises. Achilles kept the music going with hopes that he’d never have to stop watching the Greek boy dance.All good things must come to an end, however, and after a little bit, the freckled boy was panting with exhaustion and his body was slick with sweat. His elaborate footwork stopped and he ducked back into the crowd, back to his stand, but not before he turned to Achilles.
“Sounds like home.”
It became a new routine. Achilles still lounged lazily with his friends and played silly games and ate fruit and drank wine. However, instead of watching the Greek boy every day, Achilles would talk to him. It was during those times that Achilles learned that in Greece, his father was a king, and that he was an only child, and that he had sailed to Anatolia alone (though for reasons that were still unknown to Achilles), and that his name was Patroclus. “Patroclus,” Achilles echoed. “That is right,” replied Patroclus.That day, Patroclus wore something different than his normal white tunic. He wore a cloth bound around his waist, dyed with vibrant greens and oranges and reds, with beads weaved in along the fringed edges. Achilles now could see that the freckles of his face extended down his chest and shoulders. “You look nice. Why the beads and colors today?” Achilles asked, curious as always.
“Do I need a reason?”
“I suppose not.”
“Perhaps I am trying to impress someone,” Patroclus grinned, crossing his arms across his chest.At that, Achilles smiled. Two can play at that game. “Perhaps.” Achilles placed his hands upon the wooden counter, watching Patroclus tie together various herbs and shove them in small sacks. It was then that he caught sight of his own wrist. Every day since Achilles had bought the bracelet from the youthful vendor, he had worn it. Today, he noticed that the beads matched perfectly with those ingrained in Patroclus’ garment.He slid it off his wrist and held it out to Patroclus. “Here.” “What?” Now Patroclus looked up from his herbs, eying the bracelet the Achilles held before him.
“It matches you. Wear it.”
Patroclus accepted it, and slid it onto his wrist. He looked stunning, Achilles thought. Like a prince. “Take this as my token of thanks,” Patroclus said, retrieving one of the beaded necklaces that hung on his post. “It matches your eyes.” It did match Achilles’ eyes. Brown beads strung along dark twine, with a bead of jade in the middle.
“I will wear it every day.”
“As will I.”
Achilles returned to talk to Patroclus at the end of the day. The sun was setting– he was packing up his goods. Achilles glanced behind his shoulder and saw Ahmet, Esra, and Kamer staring at him expectedly. “You may go on without me,” Achilles called out to them. The three boys nodded.Patroclus eyed Achilles wearily. “You are not going with them?”
“I will walk home with you today.”
Patroclus hesitated, but agreed. Achilles noticed this; he did not believe he’d overstepped any boundaries, though– they’d been playing at this game for over a week now.Patroclus packed up his remaining goods and led Achilles through the weaving streets of the villages. Achilles was impressed; it seemed almost as if Patroclus knew the village better than himself.Achilles did not know what he was expecting; surely something extravagant, something worthy of a Greek prince. However, once they’d escaped the winding corners and paths, Achilles was standing in front of a hut on the outskirts of the village. “It is… quaint,” Achilles remarked.
“It is enough. Come in.”
Achilles went in.Inside the hut, there was only one room. A small wooden bed lay in the corner, a few thick tapestries covering its slender frame. In the other corner, a firepit, with a couple bronze pots sitting near it. One large, colorful tapestry covered a majority of the sandy floor. There was a small window that let in the last rays of the day’s sun. “Welcome home,” said Patroclus, seating himself on the rug. He dusted off a place in front of him, and motioned for Achilles to sit. “Your father has not arranged for a… bigger house in which you can stay?” Achilles asked. He sat down where Patroclus had motioned and looked around. The small house was not bad by any means, but it was also not necessarily fit for a Greek prince. Achilles, so used to living in a large house with his ambassador father, was confused. “I am not in contact with my father, in truth.” Patroclus answered.Achilles understood at once. It made sense; Patroclus seemed to always be cautious, and what kind of prince spends his days in the hot sun selling herbs and jewelry?
“Tell me.”
And so, Patroclus told Achilles his story. He told him that he had recently been exiled, after committing an atrocious crime. “But it was an accident?” Achilles reaffirmed.
“Yes. My father was always looking for a reason to get rid of me.”
Having nowhere to go, and living on the coast, he packed his things, and stole a ship from his father’s harbor, one he would not miss. He sailed alone to Anatolia and walked for days, picking up the language along the way, scavenging stones and crystals and herbs to sell once he finally reached a safe village. “And now you are here,” Achilles said, when Patroclus was finished talking.
“And now I am here.”
“You must be lonely?”
“It is not so bad. You come and visit me every day, anyway.”
At that, Achilles smiled. At this point, the sun had set. A steady beam of moonlight was shining through the small window. Patroclus was now lying on his side, propping himself up with his elbow. Achilles mirrored his posture, and examined him. “I will say again, that garment looks marvelous on you.” Achilles hesitated. “Might I ask how old you are?” Patroclus got up, looked out the window, and lit a fire in his small fire pit. He watched Achilles’ face in the warm fire light for a couple moments, before replying, “I am 19.” He then returned to his previous spot.Achilles hummed. Poor young, beautiful prince, exiled from his own kingdom, now living in a foreign land. “I am 18.” Patroclus raised an eyebrow. He looked at Achilles’ torso, bare, sculpted with muscle. “You look older?”
“So I have been told. You are not disappointed?”
“Not at all.”
Achilles’ whole life seemed to follow those of a play; a beautiful boy, the ambassador’s son, lounging around with his friends, eating grapes and drinking wine and water. This scene was no different.Still on the woven rug, he shifted closer to Patroclus. He reached out, slowly but confidently, and grabbed Patroclus’ hand. Patroclus had no look of shock; instead, a rather amused look took over his face.Achilles brought Patroclus’ hand to his lips. Outside, a breeze could be heard blowing through the village. The sound of flags and clothes ruffling in the wind followed.Patroclus drew his hand from Achilles’ grasp and instead, cupped his face with it. “You are a romantic,” Patroclus teased. “I like it.” Outside, another breeze. “You father is the ambassador of this village, is he not?” Patroclus kept his hand in place.
“He is.”
“He will not mind if you are not home tonight?”
A sly smile crossed Achilles’ face. “So I’m staying for the night, am I?” “On the first day you met me,” Patroclus said, finally moving his hand from Achilles’ cheek to trace his torso. “You said that you would rather enjoy my company alone.” Ah. “I did say that.”
“We are alone.”
Achilles leaned in and pressed his lips against Patroclus’. He climbed on top of him, pressing the freckled boy’s back into the dusty woven rug. “You were right,” Achilles said, his long hair hanging around his head and touching the floor around Patroclus. “You were not that easy.” Patroclus chucked. He reached up and twirled Achilles’ beautiful hair with his fingers. “You are smart. And beautiful.” Those were the last words spoken that night. And so, Achilles’ routine changed a final time. He, being 18, acquired his own house. Patroclus brought his things from the small hut on the outskirts of the village and put them in Achilles’ house. Each day, Achilles still sat with Esra and Ahmet and Kamer, and he watched Patroclus sell goods from across the bazaar. However, each night, Achilles and Patroclus returned together to their house. “You know,” Patroclus said one day, lounging with Achilles and his friends. He had decided to meet them after all. “There is a war going on out west.” “I told you,” Ahmet said, jutting his chin out proudly. Esra and Kamer nodded.
“So we’ve heard.”
“The Greeks are coming,” Patroclus said, eying Achilles.
“Ah, so there are more of you? Excellent.”
Patroclus smacked Achilles’ chest. Eventually, the Greeks did come. Their small village was easily conquered, but Achilles and Patroclus were not bothered. More Greek villages started showing up around them. Achilles picked up the language. Patroclus was pleased with that. Achilles could tell how happy he was with his own culture surrounding him. He could tell he missed his homeland. “Would you ever go back?” Achilles asked one night, lying next to Patroclus in their great bed. “With you here?” Patroclus said. “No.”
“And if I were with you?”
“Do not forget I am still an exile.”
“I mean, to the north, ” Achilles said, gesturing. “Where you would be welcomed.”
“I will go wherever you go, golden boy.”
Achilles sat up. “You want to go back to Greece.” Patroclus turned onto his side, staring up at Achilles. “Why would I need to? We have that beautiful lyre, that’s close enough.” Patroclus nodded at the dark oak lyre, perched in the corner of their room, and he chuckled. Achilles fondly remembered that day, the first time he had seen Patroclus dance. He had seen it many times since then. “I would be okay with that,” Achilles said. “If you wanted to go back. With me.” Now a serious look crossed Patroclus’ face. “You would not mind?”
“I would not mind.”
Patroclus closed his eyes and smiled. “Then it is so.” And so, the village golden boy and his prince left to start their own kingdom.