Achilles had been sent by Peleus to wait at the port for an important package. For months, his father had been expecting an item of value to arrive in Phthia. Each day of the preceding week, the king sent his son out to the harbor to look for the trader ship. Once it finally arrived, a self-interested relief flooded Achilles’s chest. How he hated standing on the hot beach for hours every day.

The young man reclines against the leg of a pier as he watches the trader dock. The anchor drops into the water with loud splash. The gangplank collapses into the white sand. Suddenly, dozens of men are carrying cargo off the ship, most of them being slaves. Another few anxious merchants meet these men in surveillance for their own packages. Achilles slowly rises and approaches the commotion.

“Peleus,” he calls out, clear voice ringing over the rest of the demanding customers. A few of the sailors look behind them to one who has not yet stepped off the ship, a heavy wooden crate laid in their arms. Achilles understands, and moves towards the gangplank.

“Merchandise for King Peleus,” Achilles says again.