Pale blue dawn gave way to morning and he dreamed on beneath a tented ceiling lovingly sketched with tranquil clouds. Men from both camps had been up far earlier however, and the faint trumpets of carnage tore like little darts against the skin of his dream. His dream of dark-haired, dark-eyed Briseis, cheerfully a-mount and riding him to a bright sweat. Her own sweat ran red in the tent’s strange light and he lifted his sleeping arms to contain her, guide her, join her. One hand fondled her left breast, thumb blotting the push of plump nipple, the other slipping to the small of her back, pneumatic and wet, pressing her as she dug deeper, in a scrabble-swallow of desperate cries, as though his body were a mountain, his drops of milk the long-sought treasure. Her racing moan was made a rabbit by the hounding horns and Achilles woke choking to the sound of battle. And Briseis, as naked and desirable as in his dream, but sitting very still and facing away from him. He touched his calloused killer’s hand to the small of her back, whispered for her to turn and throw her head back in the tranquil blood-red clouds, to mount and murder him with her desperate touch.