The tent was warm, the morning sun hot in summer mornings, the light dimmed by the flap. The sea’s calls were quiet, undisturbed yet by the voices of men.

Inside, a man slept on a bed made of hay, soft cloth used as a sheet, circulating around his golden skin, the shade of just-pressed olive oil. Achilles’ soft copper hair was curly in its strands, reaching down his forehead,tickling his lidded eyes.