"There are too many of them," he said. "It's simpler if they just remember me."

THE FACES AROUND OUR HEARTH began to dwindle, as one woman after another quietly took a Myrmidon for her lover, and then husband. They no longer needed our fire; they had their own. We were glad. Laughter in the camp, and voices raised in pleasure at night, and even the swelling of bellies-Myrmidons grinning with satisfaction-were things that we welcomed, the golden stitch of their happiness like a fretted border around our own.

After a time, only Briseis was left. She never took a lover, despite her beauty and the many Myrmidons who pursued her. Instead she grew into a kind of aunt-a woman with sweets and love potions and soft fabrics for the drying of eyes. This is how I think of us, when I remember our nights at Troy: Achilles and I beside each other, and Phoinix smiling, and Automedon stuttering through the punch lines of jokes, and Briseis with her secret eyes and quick, spilling laughter.

I WOKE BEFORE DAWN and felt the first twinging cold of fall in the air. It was a festival day, the harvest of first-fruits to the god Apollo. Achilles was warm beside me, his naked body heavy with sleep. The tent was very dark, but I could just see the features of his face, the strong jaw and gentle curves of his eyes. I wanted to wake him and see those eyes open. A thousand thousand times I had seen it, but I never tired of it.

My hand slid lightly over his chest, stroking the muscles beneath. We were both of us strong now, from days in the white tent and in the field; it shocked me sometimes to catch sight of myself. I looked like a man, broad as my father had been, though much leaner.

He shivered beneath my hand, and I felt desire rise in me. I drew back the covers so that I might see all of him. I bent and pressed my mouth to him, in soft kisses that trailed down his stomach.

Dawn stole through the tent flap. The room lightened. I saw the moment he woke and knew me. Our limbs slid against one another, on paths that we had traced so many times before, yet still were not old.

Some time later, we rose and took our breakfast. We had thrown open the tent flap to let in the air; it ruffled pleasantly over our damp skin. Through the doorway we watched the crisscrossing of Myrmidons about their chores. We saw Automedon race down to the sea for a swim. We saw the sea itself, inviting and warm from a summer of sun. My hand sat familiarly on his knee.

She did not come through the door. She was simply there, in the tent's center, where a moment before there had been empty space. I gasped, and yanked my hand from where it rested on him. I knew it was foolish, even as I did it. She was a goddess; she could see us whenever she wished.

"Mother," he said, in greeting.

"I have received a warning." The words were snapped off, like an owl biting through a bone. The tent was dim, but Thetis' skin burned cold and bright. I could see each slicing line of her face, each fold of her shimmering robe. It had been a long time since I had seen her so close, since Scyros. I had changed since then. I had gained strength and size, and a beard that grew if I did not shave it away. But she was the same. Of course she was.

"Apollo is angry and looks for ways to move against the Greeks. You will sacrifice to him today?"

"I will," Achilles said. We always observed the festivals, dutifully slitting the throats and roasting the fat.

"You must," she said. Her eyes were fixed on Achilles; they did not seem to see me at all. "A hecatomb." Our grandest offering, a hundred head of sheep or cattle. Only the richest and most powerful men could afford such an extravagance of piety. "Whatever the others do, do this. The gods have chosen sides, and you must not draw their anger."

It would take us most of the day to slaughter them all, and the camp would smell like a charnel house for a week. But Achilles nodded. "We will do it," he promised.

Her lips were pressed together, two red slashes like the edge of a wound.

"There is more," she said.

Even without her gaze upon me, she frightened me. She brought the whole urgent universe wherever she went, portents and angry deities and a thousand looming perils.

"What is it?"

She hesitated, and fear knotted my throat. What could make a goddess pause was terrifying indeed.

"A prophecy," she said. "That the best of the Myrmidons will die before two more years have passed."

Achilles' face was still; utterly still. "We have known it was coming," he said.

A curt shake of her head. "No. The prophecy says you will still be alive when it happens."

Achilles frowned. "What do you think it means?"

"I do not know," she said. Her eyes were very large; the black pools opened as if they would drink him, pull him back into her. "I fear a trick." The Fates were well known for such riddles, unclear until the final piece had fallen. Then, bitterly clear.

"Be watchful," she said. "You must take care."

"I will," he said.

She had not seemed to know I was there, but now her eyes found me, and her nose wrinkled, as if at a rising stench. She looked back to him. "He is not worthy of you," she said. "He has never been."

"We disagree on this," Achilles answered. He said it as if he had said it many times before. Probably he had.

She made a low noise of contempt, then vanished. Achilles turned to me. "She is afraid."

"I know," I said. I cleared my throat, trying to release the clot of dread that had formed there.

"Who is the best of the Myrmidons, do you think? If I am excluded."

I cast my mind through our captains. I thought of Automedon, who had become Achilles' valuable second on the battlefield. But I would not call him best.

"I don't know," I said.

"Do you think it means my father?" he asked.

Peleus, home in Phthia, who had fought with Heracles and Perseus. A legend in his own time for piety and courage, even if not in times to come. "Maybe," I admitted.

We were silent a moment. Then he said, "I suppose we will know soon enough."

"It is not you," I said. "At least there is that."

That afternoon we performed the sacrifice his mother had commanded. The Myrmidons built the altar fires high, and I held bowls for the blood while Achilles cut throat after throat. We burned the rich thigh-pieces with barley and pomegranate, poured our best wine over the coals. Apollo is angry, she had said. One of our most powerful gods, with his arrows that could stop a man's heart, swift as rays of sun. I was not known for my piety, but that day I praised Apollo with an intensity that could have rivaled Peleus himself. And whoever the best of the Myrmidons was, I sent the gods a prayer for him as well.

BRISEIS ASKED ME to teach her medicine and promised in return a knowledge of the area's herbs, indispensable to Machaon's dwindling supply. I agreed, and passed many contented days with her in the forest, parting low-hanging branches, reaching underneath rotting logs for mushrooms as delicate and soft as the ear of a baby.

Sometimes on those days her hand would accidentally brush mine, and she would look up and smile, water drops hanging from her ears and hair like pearls. Her long skirt was tied practically around her knees, revealing feet that were sturdy and sure.

One of these days we had stopped for lunch. We feasted on cloth-wrapped bread and cheese, strips of dried meat, and water scooped with our hands from the stream. It was spring, and we were surrounded by the profusion of Anatolian fertility. For three weeks the earth would paint herself in every color, burst every bud, unfurl each rioting petal. Then, the wild flush of her excitement spent, she would settle down to the steady work of summer. It was my favorite time of year.

I should have seen it coming. Perhaps you will think me stupid that I did not. I was telling her a story-something about Chiron, I think-and she was listening, her eyes dark like the earth on which we sat. I finished, and she was quiet. This was nothing unusual; she was often quiet. We were sitting close to each other, heads together as if in conspiracy. I could smell the fruit she had eaten; I could smell the rose oils she pressed for the other girls, still staining her fingers. She was so dear to me, I thought. Her serious face and clever eyes. I imagined her as a girl, scraped with tree-climbing, skinny limbs flying as she ran. I wished that I had known her then, that she had been with me at my father's house, had skipped stones with my mother. Almost, I could imagine her there, hovering just at the edge of my remembrance.

Her lips touched mine. I was so surprised I did not move. Her mouth was soft and a little hesitant. Her eyes were sweetly closed. Of habit, of its own accord, my mouth parted. A moment passed like this, the ground beneath us, the breeze sifting flower scents. Then she drew back, eyes down, waiting for judgment. My pulse sounded in my ears, but it was not as Achilles made it sound. It was something more like surprise, and fear that I would hurt her. I put my hand to hers.

She knew, then. She felt it in the way I took her hand, the way my gaze rested on her. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

I shook my head, but could not think of what more to say.

Her shoulders crept up, like folded wings. "I know that you love him," she said, hesitating a little before each word. "I know. But I thought that-some men have wives and lovers both."

Her face looked very small, and so sad that I could not be silent.

"Briseis," I said. "If I ever wished to take a wife, it would be you."

"But you do not wish to take a wife."

"No," I said, as gently as I could.

She nodded, and her eyes dropped again. I could hear her slow breaths, the faint tremor in her chest.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Do you not ever want children?" she asked.

The question surprised me. I still felt half a child myself, though most my age were parents several times over.

"I don't think I would be much of a parent," I said.

"I do not believe that," she said.

"I don't know," I said. "Do you?"

I asked it casually, but it seemed to strike deep, and she hesitated. "Maybe," she said. And then I understood, too late, what she had really been asking me. I flushed, embarrassed at my thoughtlessness. And humbled, too. I opened my mouth to say something. To thank her, perhaps.

But she was already standing, brushing off her dress. "Shall we go?"

There was nothing to do but rise and join her.

THAT NIGHT I could not stop thinking of it: Briseis' and my child. I saw stumbling legs, and dark hair and the mother's big eyes. I saw us by the fire, Briseis and I, and the baby, playing with some bit of wood I had carved. Yet there was an emptiness to the scene, an ache of absence. Where was Achilles? Dead? Or had he never existed? I could not live in such a life. But Briseis had not asked me to. She had offered me all of it, herself and the child and Achilles, too.

I shifted to face Achilles. "Did you ever think of having children?" I asked.

His eyes were closed, but he was not sleeping. "I have a child," he answered.

It shocked me anew each time I remembered it. His child with Deidameia. A boy, Thetis had told him, called Neoptolemus. New War. Nicknamed Pyrrhus, for his fiery red hair. It disturbed me to think of him-a piece of Achilles wandering through the world. "Does he look like you?" I had asked Achilles once. Achilles had shrugged. "I didn't ask."

"Do you wish you could see him?"

Achilles shook his head. "It is best that my mother raise him. He will be better with her."

I did not agree, but this was not the time to say so. I waited a moment, for him to ask me if I wished to have a child. But he did not, and his breathing grew more even. He always fell asleep before I did.

"Achilles?"

"Mmm?"

"Do you like Briseis?"

He frowned, his eyes still closed. "Like her?"

"Enjoy her," I said. "You know."

His eyes opened, more alert than I had expected. "What does this have to do with children?"

"Nothing." But I was obviously lying.

"Does she wish to have a child?"

"Maybe," I said.

"With me?" he said.

"No," I said.

"That is good," he said, eyelids drooping once more. Moments passed, and I was sure he was asleep. But then he said, "With you. She wants to have a child with you."

My silence was his answer. He sat up, the blanket falling from his chest. "Is she pregnant?" he asked.

There was a tautness to his voice I had not heard before.

"No," I said.

His eyes dug into mine, sifting them for answers.

"Do you want to?" he asked. I saw the struggle on his face. Jealousy was strange to him, a foreign thing. He was hurt, but did not know how to speak of it. I felt cruel, suddenly, for bringing it up.

"No," I said. "I don't think so. No."

"If you wanted it, it would be all right." Each word was carefully placed; he was trying to be fair.

I thought of the dark-haired child again. I thought of Achilles.

"It is all right now," I said.

The relief on his face filled me with sweetness.

THINGS WERE STRANGE for some time after that. Briseis would have avoided me, but I called on her as I used to, and we went for our walks as we always had. We talked of camp gossip and medicine. She did not mention wives, and I was careful not to mention children. I still saw the softness in her eyes when she looked at me. I did my best to return it as I could.

Chapter Twenty-Five.

ONE DAY IN THE NINTH YEAR, A GIRL MOUNTED THE dais. There was a bruise on her cheek, spreading like spilled wine down the side of her face. Ribbons fluttered from her hair-ceremonial fillets that marked her as servant to a god. A priest's daughter, I heard someone say. Achilles and I exchanged a glance.

She was beautiful, despite her terror: large hazel eyes set in a round face, soft chestnut hair loose around her ears, a slender girlish frame. As we watched, her eyes filled, dark pools that brimmed their banks, spilling down her cheeks, falling from her chin to the ground. She did not wipe them away. Her hands were tied behind her back.

As the men gathered, her eyes lifted, seeking the sky in mute prayer. I nudged Achilles, and he nodded; but before he could claim her, Agamemnon stepped forward. He rested one hand on her slight, bowed shoulder. "This is Chryseis," he said. "And I take her for myself." Then he pulled her from the dais, leading her roughly to his tent. I saw the priest Calchas frowning, his mouth half-open as if he might object. But then he closed it, and Odysseus finished the distribution.

IT WAS BARELY A MONTH after that the girl's father came, walking down the beach with a staff of gold-studded wood, threaded with garlands. He wore his beard long in the style of Anatolian priests, his hair unbound but decorated with bits of ribbon to match his staff. His robe was banded with red and gold, loose with fabric that billowed and flapped around his legs. Behind him, silent underpriests strained to heft the weight of huge wooden chests. He did not slow for their faltering steps but strode relentlessly onwards.

The small procession moved past the tents of Ajax, and Diomedes, and Nestor-closest to the agora-and then onto the dais itself. By the time Achilles and I had heard, and run, weaving around slower soldiers, he had planted himself there, staff strong. When Agamemnon and Menelaus mounted the dais to approach him, he did not acknowledge them, only stood there proud before his treasure and the heaving chests of his underlings. Agamemnon glowered at the presumption, but held his tongue.