If Patroclus’s gentle gaze made Achilles and even Thetis feel startlingly human, you’ll love how Circe turns a feared witch into a woman you can ache for. Miller brings the same lyrical clarity to island exile, divine politics, and doomed love that she gave to Chiron’s cave and the long march to Troy—only now through Circe’s hard-won agency and choices.

If you were moved by how Achilles and Patroclus grow from hesitant companions to a devotion tested by prophecy and war, The Night Circus offers a similarly fated bond. Celia and Marco are bound to a dangerous game they don’t fully control—much like Achilles’s destiny—yet intimacy blooms in stolen moments, secret collaborations, and a love that risks unraveling the rules that trap them.

If Patroclus’s first-person voice—tender, observant, and fiercely loyal—was your anchor through Troy, Bagoas’s narration will grip you through Alexander’s conquests. Like watching Patroclus don Achilles’s armor, you witness the private man behind the legend, the jealousies of court (a Thetis-like chill in human form), and the cost of loving someone claimed by destiny.

If Miller’s sentences—whether in Chiron’s mountain air or in the camp outside Troy—made desire and memory feel luminous, Aciman’s voice will melt you. Elio’s summer-long infatuation with Oliver carries the same lyrical intensity and inevitability as Patroclus’s awakening toward Achilles, right down to the way small gestures become epic in the mind.

If the ending of The Song of Achilles—Patroclus in Achilles’s armor, the pyres, the uneasy mercy around Briseis—left you gutted, this novel deepens that pain and purpose. Briseis takes the stage to recount captivity under Achilles and Agamemnon, offering the kind of harrowing, intimate reckoning that echoes the original’s final, heartbreaking grace.