Work Text
The merchant that showed up at Phthia’s gates that day is an interesting fellow.
His long flowy robes are in the brightest shades of red and blue Patroclus has ever seen, and the golden chains stacked around his neck in an extravagant display of wealth rattle when he moves. The stiff, circular cap he’s wearing gives him an almost comical appearance, but the man’s dark eyes are earnest and his smile is broad; he even greets Patroclus with it and pats him on the head when he and Achilles are summoned to the throne room to meet him.
“He comes from Babylon,” Phoenix tells them later, after they’ve all taken their seats at the table in the large hall. “His ship just docked this morning. The biggest vessel the port has seen in months.”
“What’s he doing all the way here?” Achilles asks, his eyes drifting every so often to the merchant seated by his father’s side on the table. The two men are talking animatedly, Peleus filling and refilling their cups.
“He has an interesting proposition for your father, no doubt. His wares are quite… unusual.”
Naphtha, Patroclus overhears as the men talk. Liquid fire, they say, granted to the Babylonians by one of their strange gods: a thick water-like substance that bursts into flames when the sun touches it. Volatile and destructive, it has turned the tide in many battles ever since the tribes in the desert there started using it against each other.
Patroclus doesn’t regard the merchant with the same appreciation after learning this.
“Why would your father even want such a thing?” he asks Achilles as they head towards their room, after the feast is over. “It sounds… dangerous.”
Achilles shrugs. “He said it’s for defence. There are always wars breaking left and right; if your enemy thinks you have some hidden trick, they’re less likely to attack you.”
Patroclus isn’t quite sure it’s that simple, but he trusts Peleus’ judgement. If anything, his unusual tactics have managed to keep the peace between Phthia and its neighbouring kingdoms for years.
Sleep comes easy for Patroclus after a busy day. He’s dosing, half-caught in a dream, when he’s roused by a poke at his shoulder.
“Patroclus. Wake up.”
He grumbles and opens his eyes, blinking blearily. Achilles is looming over him, the moonlight that’s slithering through the open window a pale halo about his head.
“What happened?”
“Get up. Come with me.”
“Where are we going?” Patroclus asks, shifting at the edge of his pallet to put on his sandals. When he fumbles sleepily with them for more than two seconds, Achilles impatiently kneels down beside him and helps him put them on.
“The armoury.”
Patroclus feels like he’s sleeping still— Achilles isn’t making any sense. “And why are we going there?”
“Hush, someone might hear us,” Achilles whispers crisply. He hurries ahead and Patroclus can do nothing but follow him through the castle’s dark and silent corridors, groggy and quite befuddled. He just wishes he was back in bed.
They cross the empty inner yard to reach the armoury. It’s a place that Patroclus very rarely visits: the large room filled with swords, spears, shields and arrows is reserved for the soldiers, guards and squires in the palace. Ever since starting training with Achilles, Patroclus hasn’t had a reason to come this way. Achilles glances left and right to make sure they’re alone before lifting the heavy bolt that holds the door shut.
“Will you finally tell me what we’re doing here?” Patroclus asks once the door closes behind them. Achilles fiddles with his flint and a torch; soon, the oiled cloth catches fire, illuminating the space.
Achilles turns to him then, and gives him a wide, fiendish grin. The torch’s trembling light dances in the golden flecks of his eyes. “To see that liquid fire for ourselves, of course.”
Patroclus gapes at him, lost for words. Fear creeps up his stomach, but also alongside it a sort of dreadful excitement. “Please tell me you’re joking,” he says, but by the way Achilles spins on his heel and marches towards the far corner of the room makes it clear that he isn’t.
“Peleus will string us up by the ankles if he finds out, “ Patroclus hisses under his breath, hurrying to catch up with Achilles. His friend only laughs.
“When have you ever known my father to do this?” He stops short in between two long racks of swords; after a moment’s contemplation he turns the corner and strides to the end of the rack, where the large crates filled with round stones for the hunters’ slings lie.
Patroclus swallows thickly. There’s really nothing he can say to change Achilles’ mind once it’s set on something, he knows this well; besides, Patroclus can’t deny that there’s some sort of morbid curiosity stirring inside him at the thought of seeing this curious liquid with his own eyes as well.
“Aha! Found it. I think.” Achilles stands over a large crate. It is firmly sealed, and the sturdy make and unusual shape of it is very much unlike the rest of the crates in the room. “Hold this.”
Patroclus obediently holds the torch while Achilles tugs at the lip of the crate’s seal with a wrench, huffing and puffing. Eventually, with Patroclus’ help, the seal finally yields, and they slide it off together.
They both stare down at the crate’s contents. There’s a handful of clay balls with delicately carved shapes on their surface, nestled amidst the straw. No burning, lethal liquid that Patroclus can see.
“What even is this?” Achilles asks, picking one of the clay balls. He inspects it dubiously, tilting it this way and that.
“Are you sure this is it? Maybe there’s another crate somewhere.”
“No, this is the one. I heard my father speaking with Phoenix.” He brings the artefact under the torch’s glow to look at it more closely. “What is this?” he asks, holding out the short wick dangling from the bottom of the ball.
Before Patroclus can respond, the fabric on the torch sputters softly. A spark lands on the wick. It starts burning.
Achilles and Patroclus look at each other for a moment before realisation dawns on them both. Achilles’ eyes widen in horror.
“Go, go, go!” he shouts, tossing the clay ball back in the crate and pushing Patroclus summarily towards the armoury door.
Peleus is winding down in his council room, having a quick drink with Phoenix before retreating to his bedroom, when a loud, booming crash echoes through the palace. The stones beneath his feet tremble with its force.
Phoenix is up and on his feet even before Peleus is, running to the door. There are soldiers and servants already rushing about, roused by the alarm that the guards on duty raised.
“Was there an attack?” Peleus asks a passing guard. “Is the palace under enemy fire? Report, man!”
The guard snaps at attention, setting down the bucket he was holding. “Not that we know of, my king. There was an explosion in the armoury, and that whole section is on fire; that’s all we know.”
Peleus lets the man go and joins the crowd towards the armoury, Phoenix in tow.
It takes a while to get the fire under control and prevent it from spreading to the rest of the palace. The sky is pink and gold with early dawn by the time he retreats, exhausted and smelling of smoke from head to foot, to his rooms. He is halfway there when he remembers his son.
“Where is Achilles?” he asks Phoenix. “Did you see him anywhere?”
His old friend shakes his head. They turn around and head towards the prince’s quarters. The door of the room cracks open just a bit at the sound of their footsteps when they draw near, and Patroclus’ tousled dark head peeks out.
“King— King Peleus,” the boy mutters. He opens the door and just stands there, his big dark eyes somewhat fearful.
“Where is Achilles? Is he with you?”
“Yes. But— um.” He glances over his shoulder, then bites his lip. “It isn’t as bad as it looks, I swear.”
Peleus follows his gaze into the room, where Achilles is sitting on the bed. His chiton is darkened by smoke and dirt, and his knees are scraped and bloody. A bandage is wrapped around his head, and there’s still blood along one side of his face. The ends of his hair look singed.
The boy just waves and smiles at them. “Hello.”
Peleus rushes into the room and kneels before him. “What happened? Did someone hurt you?”
“Yes, about that…” Patroclus shifts from foot to foot, his cheeks flaming dark pink.
“We set fire to the armoury,” Achilles says. “Sorry, father.”
“You did— what?” Peleus stares from his son to his therapon and back. “How did you— what?”
“We had to see the naphtha. It sounded… interesting,” Achilles explains, smiling awkwardly. “But we didn’t expect it to be— well, quite like it was.”
“Oh, gods.” Peleus presses his palm over his face, letting out a groan. “So you just had to sneak into the armoury and examine it for yourselves. I see now.”
And, oh, does Peleus see. Dozens of bags of gold tossed uselessly into the bottom of the sea, as well as a wrecked armoury out of which very few weapons will be salvaged. The damages and costs make Peleus’ head swim just with a quick, rough calculation, and his temper flares.
The anger dies down almost instantly, though, when he looks up and sees the apologetic look on both of the boys’ faces. They both look like guilty and drenched cats, their tails between their legs.
“At least you’re both safe,” he says. “You could have been gravely injured— you could have died. You know that, yes?”
Achilles nods. “Yes, Father.”
“I don’t want you anywhere near the armoury again, understood?”
The boys nod again, more eagerly this time. “Understood.”
Peleus pushes himself up and turns to Patroclus. “Keep an eye on him for the rest of the day,” he says. “That head wound looks nasty. If he starts feeling drowsy or nauseous, take him to the healer straight away.”
“Yes, sir,” Patroclus says, standing protectively over Achilles.
“And you.” Peleus glares at Achilles. “Don’t think you’re getting out of this so easily. Something tells me it was your idea.”
His son —his brazen, wild, beyond foolish son— must have realised by now that Peleus would never mete out a harsh punishment, no matter the crime. He grins. “It was wicked,” he says. “You should have been there.”
Peleus lets out a long, long-suffering sigh.
“Don’t even say it,” he grumbles at Phoenix once they’re out of Achilles’ room and walking down the long corridor.
“Say what?”
“You know what,” Peleus says with a sharp wave of his hand. Smoke is still rising towards the sky from the wrecked armoury building. “I can hear you thinking it.”
His old friend’s lips widen in a crooked smile beneath his beard. “That boy,” he starts merrily, linking his hands behind his back, “does remind me of someone I know.”
“I said, don’t say it,” Peleus groans, though he can’t stop the smile from creeping into his voice as well. He’s exhausted and frustrated and more than a little worried about all the repairs he’ll have to fund, but pride still has its way of sneaking in.
“He’s as wild as they come, isn’t he,” he chuckles, shaking his head. They’re finally inside the king’s quarters; Peleus doesn’t even ask Phoenix before pouring a cup of wine for them both. “He’ll drive me crazy one of these days. Will probably find himself in big trouble one day, too.”
“You’ll have an easier time taming thunder than bringing him to heel.” Phoenix grins, accepting the cup. “I wonder who he took after.”
“Ah, yes, something something the apple under the tree, something, something,” Peleus says with a bored wave. “Close enough, I suppose. But, just for the record, I have never almost burnt down a palace.”
“Not one of your own, certainly. Others’ palaces? Not so lucky.”
Peleus laughs and downs his wine. It’s strong and heady, just the way he likes it. He closes his eyes and rubs at his pounding temples. “I’m too old for this, Phoenix.”
“Nonsense. Spring chickens, both of us.” Phoenix follows Peleus’ example and tosses his wine back, then stands up. “Now get some rest. You sorely need it.”
“Yes, yes. Sleep nurtures children as the sun does oxen, I know.”
On his way out, Phoenix sets his hand on Peleus’ shoulder. “He’ll be alright,” he says softly. “And thank the gods he has that boy by his side.”
“Patroclus?”
“Mhm. Never far from him, that lad. Reminds you a bit of the two of us, doesn’t it?” He’s smiling, Peleus can hear it in his voice. “He’ll watch over him. As I have you.”
The words warm him. Peleus touches Phoenix’s hand where it rests upon his shoulder. They stay there in silence for a bit, watching the sun rise through the window.
His old friend has it right, Peleus thinks. They’ll be alright, all of them.