I gauged the level of his charge and stayed where I was, Old Pelion in both hands, its point a little upwards, its base down. Closer now. Impelled by all the weight he carried on his bones, he could have bored straight through a tree trunk. When I saw the red flash of his eyes I crouched, then stepped forward and buried Old Pelion in his chest. He embraced me; we went down together, the steaming gush of his life pouring over me. But then I found my feet and dragged his head up with me to ride out his threshing with my hands wrapped about the spear shaft, my feet slipping in his blood. And so he died, astonished at meeting one mightier than he. I pulled Old Pelion out of his chest, cut out his tusks – they were a rare prize to adorn a war helmet – and left him lying there to rot.

Nearby I found a little cove, and descended a snakepath to its back reaches, where a brook meandered down to meet the sea. Ignoring the sparkling invitation of the rivulet, I loped through the sand to the edge of the lapping waves. There I cleansed the boar’s blood off my feet and legs, my hunting suit and Old Pelion, then waded out to spread everything on the sand to dry. After which I swam lazily before joining my stuff lying in the sun.

Perhaps I slept for some time. Or perhaps the Spell had come upon me even then. I do not know as I try to remember, only that cognisance faded. When it returned, the sun was slipping towards the tree tops and there was a faint coolness in the air. Time to go. Patrokles would be anxious.

I got up to fetch my things, and that action was the end of sanity. How to explain the inexplicable? To me it afterwards became the Spell, a period during which I was cut off from what was real, yet not cut off from some sort of world. A foetid smell I associated with death invaded my nostrils and the beach shrank to minute size while a shrine on the headland above suddenly zoomed to such an immensity that I fancied it was going to tip over and crash down on top of me. That world was a thing of contradictions, this grown large and and that diminished.

While brackish brine flowed from the corners of my mouth I sank to my knees overcome with terror, consumed by a lonely wilderness of tears and deprivation; nor could I do anything in all my youth and strength to banish the mortal dread I felt. My left hand began to shake, the left side of my face twitched, my spine stiffened, arched. Yet I hung onto consciousness, willing myself not to let that awful jerking march go further. How long the Spell lay upon me I have no idea, save that when I regained my strength I saw that the sun was gone and the sky flushed pink. The air was still, filled with bird songs.

Trembling like a man in the grip of the ague, I got to my feet, the taste of something foul in my mouth. I did not stop to gather up my things or think of Old Pelion. All I wanted was to get back to camp, to die in the arms of Patrokles.

He was there and heard me coming, ran to me, shocked, and put me down on a bed of warm skins by the fire. Once I had drunk a little wine I began to feel ordinary life steal into my bones; I lost the last of my confused panic and sat up, listening with boundless thanks to the thudding of my heart.

‘What happened?’ Patrokles was saying.

‘A spell,’ I croaked. ‘A spell.’

‘Did the boar wound you? Did you suffer a fall?’

‘No, I killed the boar easily. Afterwards I went down to the sea to wash off his blood. That was when the Spell came.’

He sank into his heels, eyes wide. ‘What spell, Achilles?’

‘Like death coming to me. I smelled death, I tasted it in my mouth. The cove shrank, the shrine grew gigantic – the world twisted and reshaped itself like something Protean. I thought I was dying, Patrokles! I have never felt so alone! And I was stricken with the palsy of old age, the fear of a craven. But I am neither old nor a craven. So what happened to me? What was that Spell? Have I sinned against some God? Have I offended the Lord of the Skies or the Lord of the Seas?’

His face loomed worried and apprehensive; later he told me that I did indeed look as if I had given death the kiss of welcome, for I had no colour, I shook like a sapling in the wind, I was naked and covered in scratches and cuts.

‘Lie down, Achilles, let me cover you from the cold. It may not have been a spell. Perhaps it was a dream.’

‘Nightmare, not dream.’

‘Eat a little and drink some more of the wine. Some farmers came with four skins of their best pressing in thanks for the killing of the boar.’

I touched his arm. ‘I would have gone mad had I not found you, Patrokles. I couldn’t bear the thought of dying alone.’

He clasped my hands, kissed them. ‘I am far more your friend than your cousin, Achilles. I will always be with you.’

Drowsiness came, a gentle sensation with no fear in it. I smiled, reached out to ruffle his hair. ‘You for me, and I for you. So it has always been.’

‘And so it always will be,’ he answered.

In the morning I was perfectly well. Patrokles had woken before me; the fire was going, a rabbit spitted over the flames for us to break our fast. And there was bread too, brought by the farm women as their thanks for the killing of the boar.

‘You look quite yourself,’ said Patrokles with a grin, handing me roast rabbit on a bread platter.

‘I am,’ I said, taking the food.

‘Do you remember as vividly as you did last night?’

That provoked a shiver, but bread-and-rabbit banished the fear in remembering. ‘Yes and no. A spell, Patrokles. Some God spoke, but I did not understand the message.’

‘Time will solve the mystery,’ he said, moving about, dealing with all the tiny tasks he took upon himself to ensure my comfort. Try though I did, I could never break him of this serving habit.

He was five years older than I. King Lykomedes of Skyros had adopted him as his heir when his own father, Menoetes, died of illness in Skyros. A long time ago. He was my cousin on the left hand, Menoetes being the bastard of my grandfather Aiakos; we felt the blood link keenly, both of us only sons and minus any sisters. Lykomedes thought very highly of him, which was little wonder. Patrokles was that rarity, a truly good man.

Our fast broken and the camp packed up, I donned a kilt and sandals, put on a bronze dagger and found another spear. ‘Wait for me here, Patrokles. I won’t be long. My clothes and trophy are still on the beach. So is Old Pelion.’

‘Let me come with you,’ he said quickly, looking afraid.

‘No. This lies between the God and me.’

His eyes dropped; he nodded. ‘As you command, Achilles.’

Finding the way easier this time, I went over the ground as fast as a lion can travel. The cove looked innocent as I ran down the snakepath to collect my clothes, the tusks, Old Pelion. No, the cove was not the source of the Spell. At which moment my eyes, roving the clifftop, fell upon the shrine. My heart began to beat heavily. My mother was an unofficial priestess of Nereus somewhere on this side of the island – was this her domain? Had I stumbled into her pavilions by mistake, profaned some mystery of the Old Religion, and been struck down for it?

I climbed slowly back to the summit and approached the shrine, now remembering how huge it had loomed while the Spell had been upon me. Oh yes, this was my mother’s domain. And hadn’t King Lykomedes warned me never to stray here, where my mother, defying him, had set up residence?

She was waiting in the shadows beside the altar. Suddenly I found I needed to use Old Pelion as a staff; my legs had lost their strength, I could hardly stand upright. Mother! My mother whom I had never seen.

So tiny! She came not far above my waist. Her hair was blue-white, her eyes dark grey, and her skin so transparent I could see every vein beneath it.