Chapter Text
It’s a warm summer day, a little too warm. They sit out on the old man’s front porch. Antilochus fans himself with his notebook and looks across at Mr. Pelides, the man he’s been interviewing for a story in the Trojan Times. Mr Pelides is wearing the exact same thing he wore yesterday. Blue cotton shirt and khakis, his white hair and beard neatly groomed. Antilochus wonders when that will start to go too.
“Alright, Mr. Pelides,” Antilochus says, fumbling in his jacket pocket for a pen. He wants to take his jacket off, it’s stuffy and the sweltering heat is getting to him. He can feel the sweat pinning his hair to his forehead and it bothers him. Mr. Pelides looks as unfazed as usual, a relaxed smile on his lined face. He doesn’t look as old as he actually is, but Antilochus thinks that has to do more with his attitude than his actual looks.
Antilochus wonders if he can keep up, this time. His notes are jumbled, he doesn’t know how he could even begin to compile them into comprehensible pieces for a story.
“Easy there, boy,” Mr. Pelides replies, looking amused as he leans back in his chair.
“No need to be nervous. I’m just an old coot, rambling on about the past.”
Antilochus finds his pen and sighs. “I understand your diagnosis has … made it more difficult to stay on a particular topic.” He tries to keep his tone gentle but unemotional. No point in upsetting the man.
Mr. Pelides doesn’t stop smiling. “Yes, yes. I forget things. That’s what dementia does.”
He points to his head. “Makes you lose a little of yourself, every day. It’s why I’m sitting here with you, isn’t it? I want someone to keep my memories alive, even after I’ve forgotten everything.”
Antilochus can’t help a small frown. “I will try to keep you on track, Mr. Pelides. If I stop you, just keep in mind I’m trying to follow the story, alright?”
Mr. Pelides nods. “I’m sure you’re very good at your job. You know, I always wanted to be a journalist. You’re lucky you work for the Trojan Times! The best damn paper in the world. That was my dream job, once.”
He sighs happily, gaze turning distant.
Antilochus nods. “Well, why don’t you go ahead and start? Yesterday we left off at-”
“What are you writing about again?” Mr. Pelides interrupts.
Antilochus pauses for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s a human interest story about the lives of refugees after the Great War? You were telling me about-”
“Yes, I was a refugee. Did you know that? I could tell you all about it, back when the Trojan government hadn’t granted us citizenship. Life was hard, but we took comfort in the little things. Food was hard to come by, and we didn’t have simple things like electricity or even water sometimes, even though we always paid the bills. Never missed one.”
“You’ve mentioned that,” Antilochus adds, softly.
“You also mentioned the Achaian occupation of Pelion. The bombing of Locris? The day the first Pelinese troops surrendered to the Imperial Army, and the invasion of villages in the Pelinese countryside.”
Mr. Pelides contemplates this for a moment. Then, he motions for Antilochus to start taking notes.
“You would think it all happened in a swarm of chaos and destruction. But it wasn’t like that. There was no gunfire, no warning at all. The soldiers simply marched into the village. It was all quite eerie, when you think of it now.”
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Pelion, 1941
There had been bombs dropped on the next town over, the day before. Patroclus had brought Briseis and Meriones away from the window, finding bits of cotton for them to stuff their ears with. Even so, they couldn’t keep their eyes away from the tower of black smoke reaching up to the sky. They couldn’t see anything else beyond that - but the sight, it branded their minds in all its horror.
There wasn’t enough food for the night. Patroclus debated asking a neighbor for some flour, but decided against it. They weren’t starving just yet, and he really couldn’t bear to burden someone else. It was his responsibility to provide for his siblings. They ate in tense silence, trying not to jump every time an explosion went off. They wouldn’t be able to sleep that night, and it didn’t matter, because they were disturbed by frantic knocks on their door before it was even dawn.
It was Thoas, who lived in the house next door. He was even poorer than they were, and had a lame leg, making it even more difficult to find work. The older man was looking panicked, a sweat having formed on his brow.
“Have you heard?” he gasped, the wild look in his eyes making Patroclus step back for a second.
“Heard what? Do you know what time it is?” Patroclus grumbled.
“Our men have surrendered.”
The chill that went down Patroclus’ spine was ice-cold.
Patroclus stopped Briseis and Meriones from running out of the house to look. There was nothing to see, not yet.
“They’re here. The Imperial Army. Word says they have the village surrounded. They’re going to take us too.”
Patroclus struggled to mask the fear he knew would be apparent to his sister and brother. “Thoas,” he said. “Go back to your house.”
“But Patroclus! They’ll come and kill us! We must run!”
“Run? Where exactly are we going to run, Thoas? Out of the village, right into their hands?”
Thoas had nothing to say to that.
“There is nothing we can do,” Patroclus replied, nearly quaking at the truth of his own words. “Go back to your house and wait there.”
It was all they could do. Wait.
Patroclus felt a flash of sympathy as Thoas gave in and limped back to his own house. The other man’s brother had left not too long ago to fight with the Pelinese army. If he was stationed in Locris, which had been destroyed the previous day, it was likely he wouldn’t return.
Patroclus sent Briseis and Meriones to dig up sweet potatoes for breakfast. It wasn’t long before they heard the crow of the rooster. Better to stay busy. He saw Briseis start to tear up, but made her wipe her eyes on her apron.
“Go wash your face,” he ordered, and gave Meriones a stern look when the boy started to object on their sister’s behalf.
“Are you done with the potatoes? Go.” Meriones bent his head and went back outside to pluck the leaves. Briseis returned, eyes still red, but she cried no more as they prepared breakfast. Patroclus sent Meriones with a plate to Thoas’ house.
After they completed their morning prayers, he left for his job selling produce in the market. It was a hot day, the sun scorching his skin, but he had his hat and a towel to wipe away the sweat. He struggled to pull his cart into the market square. He had lost weight recently, and his hands were worn from hard labor. Despite Thoas’ news, the market was as busy as it usually was. People stopped by to stock up on food. They were in the middle of a war, and most people didn’t have a lot of money. But life still went on. People had to eat. Patroclus was in the midst of a quarrel with a customer about the prices of his vegetables when the soldiers arrived.
He’d paused to realize that the market had gone quiet. Hushed whispers here and there, but most people stood still as the sounds of marching approached. It was surreal, the way those lines of green uniforms appeared in the square. He hardly saw their faces, just the symbols they bore, the mark of the Imperial Army. His hand clenched over the handle of his cart. Someone screamed, but was immediately shushed by a relative.
Patroclus could feel his heart pounding in his chest as the lines of imperial soldiers stood before them, as silent as statues. He was grateful, so grateful that Briseis and Meriones were at home. Their school had been closed recently, and they had no choice but to help Patroclus at the market. He had trusted a gut feeling not to bring them today.
One of the soldiers stepped forward and motioned for an imperial flag to be brought out. Patroclus could sense the fear and hatred rising in the people around him, could almost taste it. He cringed at the red and golden colors of the Achaian Empire, the crest of their famed army. Colors of murder and the shades of suffering.
“You are defeated!” cried the soldier, in Achaian. His voice rang loud and harsh in the square.
“You will surrender to the Empire! Those who do not surrender will be put to death.”
The words washed over Patroclus. He’d known this would happen, but it was still hard to believe. The soldiers hung their flag from the square’s main building, taking down the Pelinese banners and ripping them. Some of the villagers started to weep and cry out at the sight, but when one of the soldiers stepped forward and struck a villager so hard she fell unconscious, the noises stopped. They watched their home being claimed by these murderers.
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It was twilight by the time Patroclus returned to the house. The villagers had been rounded up and forced to register their names and addresses with the army. It was a new enforcement that officers would be welcome to stay in the homes of locals, as there were no army barracks in the village. Each registered villager was required to contribute a portion of their food to the army until resources from mainland Achaia arrived. Patroclus felt defeated as he trudged home. However were they going to feed these enemy soldiers?
It had all been rather civil, the way everyone had lined up to register themselves. The officers in charge had been stoic, yet polite. He wondered when the ugliness would begin. The Imperial Army was notorious for its brutality. He’d heard stories, everyone had. The humiliation of local men when their children were taken away to service the army. Homes being pillaged. Savage executions. It had been a great fear, ever since the army had shown up on the shores of Pelion. They’d lived in dread for the better part of a year, and now it was happening.
He came home to a dark house. Briseis and Meriones crouched in their sitting room. They’d heard the soldiers marching and had been too afraid to turn on the lights. They ran up to Patroclus as soon as he entered the doorway, and he held them both close to him.
“Meriones, bring out the lamps,” Patroclus said, after a moment. He knew they were watching him, looking to him for any comfort or guidance he could give. Some sign that they would be alright. He didn’t know if it was right to give it to them. He wished more than anything that their parents were still alive, but was also thankful they weren’t here to see this, didn’t have to suffer through it.
Briseis was still clinging to him, and he took her face in his hands. “Speak to me, little sister,” he said, trying to sound calm, although the storm in him raged.
“I’m scared,” she whispered, and he gripped her shoulders hard. He would have done anything for that look not to be there, in her wide eyes.
“I’m scared too,” he said. He beckoned Meriones over, and they all stood there, looking at each other.
“We don’t know what will happen to us. We must keep to ourselves, and not do anything to attract attention from the soldiers. You understand?” The way they stared at him. So much depended on his strength.
Briseis and Meriones nodded. He studied each of them. They were too young to die. Barely more than children. Meriones was only twelve. The year before he had cried because his toy dog was broken, the one their father had made him. And Briseis. If the war had not started, she would have finished with her studies at the village school by now. She was good at reading and writing, far better than Patroclus ever was. She could go to finishing school, in Pelion City. He shook his head. There was no point thinking of what ifs now. Their survival depended on their ability to adapt to Achaian supremacy. And even then … this was war. There was no telling what would happen.
They couldn’t eat that night, but they huddled together in front of the electric lamp in Patroclus’ room, Briseis reading the well-worn pages of their mother’s old storybooks. Patroclus liked them. They were stories about the world, about nature. They told the origins of their people’s traditions. They weren’t fairy tales. He didn’t think it a good idea, to fill their heads with fantasies, when their own reality was so harsh and demanded to be lived.
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The next morning, there was a knock on their door. Patroclus made a sign for Briseis and Meriones to be quiet, to stay in their room. He got up from his seat where he had been chopping onions, wiping his hands on a tea cloth.
There was a tall fair-haired officer outside the door, standing straight as a board.
“Good day,” the officer greeted, inclining his head a little. Aloof green eyes stared at him, then moved to scan the surroundings. His mouth gave a little twitch of derision. Patroclus felt irritated. Their house wasn’t much, but he kept it clean and well-maintained. His father had built it. He was proud of their home.
“I am First Lieutenant Achilles Chironides. I have been assigned to your house.”
There was a pause, as Patroclus gave no answer. He would not address this Achaian scum. Especially not in that language. He blocked the doorway with his body, ignoring the sight of Thoas in the corner of his eye, peering out a window in curiosity.
The First Lieutenant continued his gaze at Patroclus, unbreaking.
“I trust you have prepared a place for me? I only require a room to sleep in. I will not inconvenience you.”
Patroclus wanted to slam the door shut in his face, but held it wider and stepped back. He kept his eyes on the officer at all times, whose gaze started to turn scornful at such open dislike from a simple villager.
He had to give up his room, for the officer to have a place to sleep. It was the largest room in the house, and still, it wasn’t very big. There was a mattress on the floor and a rug for morning prayers. The officer took one look at the little shrine in the corner and glanced at Patroclus.
“This cannot be here,” he stated.
Patroclus said nothing, merely waited for what the officer would do next. After a moment’s pause, the officer strode up to the shrine and collected it from the floor. It wasn’t much, simply an altar with the names of Patroclus’ parents carved in stone, with incense to burn out of respect for them. Patroclus felt his lips clamp shut. The officer had just arrived and there was already this humiliation, having his parents’ memory in enemy hands. The officer looked down at the items in his hands as though at a loss for what to do with them.
Wordlessly, he handed them to Patroclus. “See to it that I do not see this lying around,” he spoke instead, but his voice held no venom.
Confused, Patroclus accepted the objects. He couldn’t fathom why the officer had not ordered him to destroy the shrine. Achaian religion saw other traditions as blatant heathenism. There were stories of soldiers burning temples, of priests being executed publicly to send a message. He went into Briseis’ and Meriones’ room next door and quickly reset the items before the officer could change his mind.