The dove fluttered in Achilles' hands. What a shame such a pure and perfect creature had to die, but Venus would be pleased with this offering. Achilles raised his dagger and slit the dove's throat, giving it a swift, merciful death. Blood soiled its pristine feathers.
Achilles gave the gods their due reverence for the same reasons he put on his armor before a battle- not doing so was a risk only a fool would take. But as fickle and unreasonable as the gods were, they were easy to placate. The right sacrifices and prayers and all scores were settled. Unfortunately, mere mortals weren't so simple.
The Trojan girl, Briseis, looked beautiful when she cried. But, no. Beautiful wasn't the right word. "Heart-breaking" was more appropriate, or maybe "haunting." Achilles wanted to dry the tears from those stunning hazel eyes and do everything he could to make sure she never had a reason to cry ever again. But he was the reason why her cheeks were wet.
Achilles placed the dead dove's bloody carcass on the fire as gently as if it were the body of a beloved comrade onto his funeral pyre. The delicious fragrance of roasted fowl wafted up to heaven along with the smoke, along with Achilles' prayers for Venus' forgiveness. If Venus were in a generous mood, then she might persuade her daughter, the weeping maiden in Achilles' tent, to forgive him as well.
Briseis had every right to weep and curse him. She couldn't be so innocent that she didn't fear rape. Achilles could have held her down on the bed and taken what he wanted by force. Wasn't that how his father had claimed his mother? Briseis was no sea nymph. She couldn't hold him off by transforming into a snake or a lion, into water or fire. Conquering her would be too easy, and the gods knew how much Achilles had been tempted. But such an act was disgraceful. Briseis would hate him afterward, and Achilles would hate himself even more.
Achilles shouldn't care what some willful Trojan brat thought of him, but for whatever reason, he did. That Briseis would see him as a scoundrel was more than he could bear.
Picking up a bucketful of damp sand, Achilles emptied it over the fire to smother out the remaining embers.  The first few rays of sunrise appeared behind the limestone crags and dense pine forests that surround Achilles. He had been out all night. Achilles rose early and retired late as a rule and rarely got enough sleep, but this problem had grown worse of late. Something had lured him out to the dunes beyond the Greek camp every night this past month.
At first, it sounded like the roar of waves crashing on the beach or the trilling of sandpipers, but you could make out a woman singing in a low, sorrowful voice if you listened closely. She sang of inevitable tragedy, unbearable loss, and regret for what had been and what could never be.
Achilles rubbed his eyes. He should go back and see if he could get a few hours of rest before he had to report for duty, but he couldn't. She was there. So, he lay back against one of the sand dunes and closed his eyes.

"Boy..." Achilles opened his eyes. Ulysses stood over him, jabbing his boot into Achilles' side. "What are you doing out here?"

Sunlight and the throaty squawking of gulls made Achilles' head throb. "Morning already," he said.
"The terce bells were ringing when I left the camp."
Achilles groaned. He should have been out of bed two hours ago at prime.
Ulysses offered a hand to Achilles. "Up you go, lad." He pulled Achilles to his feet.
Brushing the sand off his tunic, Achilles followed Ulysses down the path which led from the dunes back to the camp.  His legs were so sore and stiff that he could scarcely bear to walk. He only ever felt such pain after a battle. If Patroclus knew what was good for him, he would have some of those poultices ready.
The camp was alive with activity. Knights in full armor ordered around squires and grooms, who bustled from tent to tent, attending to their lords and their horses. A table set for three stood underneath the awning of Achilles' tent.
Ulysses clapped a footman on the shoulder. "Bring Prince Achilles his breakfast."
"I don't have much of an appetite," Achilles said.
"Well, I do." Ulysses gestured to the footman. "Bring two breakfasts."
Achilles raised an eyebrow. Was Ulysses going to browbeat him into eating something or just wolf down both of their meals?
The footman bowed and departed.
"Something troubling you?" Ulysses said.
Achilles pulled one of the chairs out from underneath the table. Where you would like me to begin?
The third seat at the table was still empty.
"Our little Psyche still abed? Ulysses chuckled. "And Cupid not laying beside her? Maybe they quarreled last night?"
"A quarrel? Perhaps you could call it that?" Damn Ulysses. Didn't he have enough of his own business to mind without sticking his nose into Achilles' affairs?
"What did you do?"
"Why must it be my fault?"
Ulysses laughed. "That's how it is with women. It's always your fault, even if you didn't do anything."
Achilles stared down at the table. Where was that accursed footman with breakfast? Ulysses' teasing had grown as tiresome as his prying.
To Ulysses, Achilles must be just a youth caught in a silly lovers quarrel. He bought into the rouse that Achilles had claimed Briseis to warm his bed. Briseis had warmed his bed last night, only he hadn't been in it.
"I'm sorry for what I did," Achilles said. "And I want her to forgive me."
How childish he sounded. As if he could get Briseis' forgiveness just because he wanted it. But, the desire to apologize wasn't one he was familiar with, especially not to apologize to an irritating Trojan wench like her.
Great Jove above, this girl is making a fool out of me.
Ulysses put his elbows on the table. "When it comes to women," he said. "The bigger the gesture, the better."
The footman returned with a dish of porridge mixed with dried fruit and a jug of ale. "Would you like anything else, My Lords?"

Achilles massaged his calves. The pain and soreness in his legs had spread upward toward his knees. The entire lower half of his body throbbed.
"A foot stool..." he said. "...with a cusion. And make it quick."
"Are your legs hurting?" Patroclus approached the empty third place at the table.
"Like the devil," Achilles said.
"The poultice?"
"Yes, and the garters."
Patroclus nodded and dashed off like Mercury to fetch what was needed. These poultices were the only thing Achilles trusted to soothe the pain that nearly crippled him after a battle or when he hadn't gotten much rest.
While he waited for the footstool and the poultice, Achilles tried to dull the pain with cold ale and hot porridge. However, the arrival of a messenger dressed in white and green Thessalonian livery interrupted his breakfast.
"An urgent message for Prince Achilles," the messenger said.
Achilles put down his cup of ale. "Is there any reason why it couldn't wait?" There was always something. What was it now?
"It's your father, My Lord." The messenger placed a letter on the table. "I'll just leave this here."
The letter bore the seal of Achilles' father, King Peleus.
"Are you going to open it?" Ulysses said.
The messenger continued to stand there, awaiting Achilles' answer. I hope you're content to tarry here a while, my good man.
Achilles rubbed his temples. "I'll get around to it."
Patroclus and the footman returned. One placed a cushioned footstool underneath Achilles' feet. The other wrapped the poultices, strips of linen soaked in camphor oil, around Achilles' legs. The pain eased like a raging fire doused out by cool water.
Achilles pulled up his hose.
"Don't forget about these," Patroclus said. He produced a pair of woven garters from a pouching hanging from his belt.

Achilles clapped Patroclus on the back. "You're a wonder." He tied the garters underneath his knees, and the pain disappeared completely.
The messenger was still standing there, doing nothing. Ulysses was eyeing the letter on the table as if he were a dog, and it was a juicy bone dangled in front of him.
"Open it if you're so curious," Achilles said. He respected Ulysses, but the man was utterly incapable of minding his own business.
Ulysses cracked open the seal and read the letter.
"What does it say?" Patroclus asked.
"Your father, King Peleus..." Ulysses lowered his head. "...is gravely ill. He was caught in the rain while out riding, was thrown from his horse, and broke his collarbone. Pneumonia and a gangrenous infection have set it, and he isn't expected to last long. Therefore, Peleus requests that you return to Thessaly with the greatest urgency."
Achilles snatched the letter from Ulysses' hands, crumpled it, and threw it on the ground. "Then tell him with the greatest urgency that his request is denied." He crushed the paper under the heel of his boot.
"But, My Lord," the messenger said.
"You're dismissed."
"Yes, My Lord."  Like a mouse, the messenger scurried away.
Achilles picked at the remains of his breakfast. This letter had to be some kind of trick. Peleus was still in the prime of life and had the constitution of an ox.  A few hours in the rain and a broken bone couldn't possibly be enough to bring him down.
Yes, Peleus was trying to humiliate him. Whatever choice Achilles made, he would look bad. If he stayed, he would be an undutiful son. But if he went home, he would be a coward who abandoned his responsibilities.
Mother had told Achilles that he could have a life in Thessaly or a death in Troy.  Achilles chose between the two seven years ago, and it was too late to go back now.