I felt a tap on my arm: a herald from Agamemnon.

‘The High King requires to know why the fighting’s stopped hereabouts, King Nestor.’

‘I’ve agreed to a temporary truce. Look for yourself, my man! Would you fight if that was going on in your section?’

He stared. ‘I recognise Prince Ajax, but who opposes him?’

‘Go and tell the High King that Ajax and Hektor fight to the death.’

The messenger slipped away, enabling me to fix my attention on the duel again. Both men still hacked and tilted furiously – how long had they been at it now? I didn’t need to shade my eyes as I looked up at the dull yellow ball of the dusty sun to find it westering well and truly, almost down to the horizon. By Ares, what stamina!

Agamemnon pulled his car in beside me.

‘Can you be spared from the command, sire?’

‘Odysseus holds for me. Gods! How long have they been at it, Nestor?’

‘For about an eighth part of the afternoon.’

‘They’ll have to end soon. The sun’s setting.’

‘Incredible, isn’t it?’

‘You called a truce?’

‘The men weren’t willing to fight. Nor was I. How goes it elsewhere?’

‘More than holding our own, though we’re badly outnumbered. Diomedes has been a titan all day. He killed the trucebreaker Pandaros and got away with the armour under Hektor’s very nose. Ah! There’s Aineas, I see. No wonder he wanted a truce! Diomedes caught him on the shoulder with a spear and thinks he did some damage.’

‘So that’s why he came in from the wing.’

‘The Dardanian is the shrewdest man Priam possesses. But he always looks after himself first, so the stories say.’

‘How’s Menelaos? Did the arrow hit anything vital?’

‘No. Machaon bound him up and sent him back to battle.’

‘He put up a very nice show.’

‘Surprised you, didn’t he?’

The horn of darkness wound its long, dismal call above the dust and clamour of the field. Men laid down their arms and sobbed for breath. Shields were dropped and swords clumsily sheathed, but Hektor and Ajax fought on. In the end night defeated them; they could hardly see their weapons in front of them when I got down from my car and parted them.

‘It’s too dark to see, my lions. I declare a draw, so put away your swords.’

Hektor took off his helmet with a shaking hand. ‘I confess I’m not sorry for an end. I’m almost done.’

Ajax gave his shield to Teukros, whose knees buckled under its weight. ‘I’m done too.’

‘You’re a great man, Ajax,’ said Hektor, holding out his right arm.

Ajax twined his fingers about the Trojan’s wrist, smiling. ‘I can say the same of you, Hektor.’

‘If they rate Achilles better than you, I can’t see why. Here, take my sword!’ He thrust it forward impulsively.

Ajax looked down at the blade with unfeigned pleasure, then hefted it in his hand. ‘Henceforth I’ll always use it in battle. In return, I offer you my baldric. My father said his father said he had it from his father, who was Immortal Zeus himself.’ He ducked his head and slipped the treasured relic off; of brilliant purple leather chased with a design in gold, it was a rare specimen.

‘I’ll wear it in place of my own,’ said Hektor, delighted.

I watched the gratification, the mutual liking and respect they had gained for each other under such terrible circumstances. Then the icy wings of a premonition froze my mind: that exchange of property was ill-omened.

We camped where we were that night, under the walls of Troy, with Hektor’s army between us and the gaping Skaian Gate. The campfires were lit, the cauldrons hung above them on bars; slaves carried round great trays of barley bread and meat, and watered wine flowed. For a while I watched the sight of a myriad torches flickering in and out of the Skaian Gate as Trojan slaves went to and fro ministering to Hektor’s army, then I went to eat with Agamemnon and the rest about a fire in the middle of our men. As I stepped into the light their tired faces turned to greet me, and I saw the hollowness which always lies heavy on a man after a hard-fought battle.

‘We haven’t advanced a finger’s breadth,’ I said to Odysseus.

‘Nor have they,’ he said tranquilly, chewing on a strip of boiled pork.

‘How many men have we lost?’ asked Idomeneus.

‘About the same number as Hektor, a few less, perhaps,’ said Odysseus. ‘Not enough to tip the balance either way.’

‘Tomorrow should tell, then,’ said Meriones, yawning.

Agamemnon yawned. ‘Yes, tomorrow.’

There was little further conversation. Bodies ached and smarted, lids drooped, bellies were full. Time to roll into furs around the fire. I blinked across the flames, looking at the many hundreds of little lights dotted through the plain, each one a source of comfort and safety in the dark night all about us. Smoke plumed towards the stars, the smoke of ten thousand campfires under the walls of Troy. I lay back and watched those stars wax and wane in the manmade fog until they faded away into Sleep, the Bringer of Mind’s Darkness.

The second day was not like the first. No truces broke the slaughter, no duels held our attention, no gallant acts of heroism lifted the struggle above the plane of men. The work was grim and sourly tenacious. My bones cried for rest, my eyes were blinded by the tears every man must weep when he sees a son die. Antilochos wept for his brother, then demanded to take his place in the line. So I put another Pylian to drive my car.

Impossible to catch, as deadly as Ares himself, Hektor was in his element, up and down the field, harrying his troops in a brazen voice which gave no quarter and would never stoop to ask for quarter. Ajax had no time to chase him; Hektor brought the full force of the Royal Guard to bear on him and Diomedes, shackling his two most dangerous foes to one spot by sheer weight of numbers. Where Hektor cast his spear a man was sure to die: he was as good as Achilles. If a gap showed in our line he shoved his soldiers into it, then once he had them in he kept feeding more and more of them in, like a tree cutter driving the thin end of the wedge deeper and deeper into a forest giant.

Oh, the grief! The cruelty, the pain! I couldn’t see for the tears when another of my sons fell, his bowels torn out on a lance Aineas threw. Not a moment later Antilochos barely escaped losing his head under a sword – not this one! Please, merciful Here, almighty Zeus, spare me Antilochos!

Every so often heralds came to tell me how other parts of the field were going; I gave thanks that at least our leaders were unscathed. Yet perhaps because our men were tired, or because we lacked the fifteen thousand Thessalians Achilles held out of the battle, or for some other more obscure reason, we began to lose ground. Slowly and imperceptibly the venue moved further and further away from the walls of Troy, closer and closer to our own defence wall. I found myself in the very front ranks, my driver sobbing in rage as our team stepped over their tangled traces and began to rear.

Hektor came down upon us; I called frantically for help as his chariot loomed through the crush. Luck was with me. Diomedes and Odysseus had somehow got into the centre of our van, their men next to mine. Diomedes didn’t attempt to fight Hektor himself; he concentrated instead on Hektor’s driver, not his usual man and definitely not as experienced. He cast his spear and took the fellow straight back on his heels, dead and stretching the reins until the horses, feeling their bits, began to plunge. With some help from Odysseus we got away safely while Hektor spat curses and sawed through his reins with a knife.

I tried to rally my section of the line, but it was hopeless. Fear was in the wind and talk of ill omens was spreading. None of us could delude ourselves any longer – we were in full retreat. Realising it, Hektor threw the rest of his reserve lines forward with a shriek of triumph.