The two of them could pass for one another in a darkened room, or in a lamplit tent. They have the same leonine grace, the same smooth muscle, the same long sword-callused hands; the same trick of tilting their heads in silent invitation, a trick Odysseus has not seen from them before but reads clearly now. Watching them, he weighs his options.

Patroclus kneels before Odysseus, lifting a golden cup toward him, libation already spilled to the gods. His dark eyes are luminous in the jewelled light, and Odysseus sees a dozen ways this could turn to his own advantage.