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Sing, O muse, of the irritation of Achilles, son of Peleus, that came across his noble brow once he had heard the tittle-tattle of the Achaean camp, where great men sat useless in their armor, and turned their malicious tongues upon him and his?It was this and this only: who, they all asked, embraced who in Achilles’ bed?Some averred that as the elder, Patroclus must do his duties. Those in this camp citied the unique beauty of Achilles, refined and young, though his hands were blackened by the blood of many Trojans — who else would part his thighs but him?Others denied this could be so, for noble Achilles — the killer, the legend, the one who could have killed the King of the Gods if the Fates had allowed it — well.He simply couldn’t be the one.Of course not.Stop it.How, O how, could such lowly men presume to know what happened between the two? Achilles fumed and fretted. He would have protested by not fighting, but that was the last of his defenses and would have to be played upon at a later date.He blamed that troublemaker, Odysseus, who smiled and talked guilefully about this and that and accepted no such responsibility. But Achilles knew.Patroclus came in the midst of the drama. When he was informed of it, he laughed. How bored everyone must be of war to argue over love instead, he exclaimed. Darling Achilles, he said, catching his friend’s eye, send them away and let us talk.After all, only you and I know the truth.Achilles sent everyone away and so I have nothing else to tell you.But we can guess the rest.