The horns had sounded; the Myrmidons and other Thessalians were waiting in so short a space of time that it was obvious they had been ready to leap into the fray. I walked with Patrokles to the assembly area while Automedon ran to harness up my car; though it would be of little use inside the camp, it was necessary that everyone see Achilles arrive to throw the Trojans out. In the gold armour I had rarely worn, everyone would know Achilles.

But how was this? The men cheered me deafeningly, looked at me with the same love they had always shown me. How was this, when even Patrokles had turned against me? I shaded my eyes and glanced up at the sun, to find it not so far above the horizon. Good. The deception need not last long. Patrokles would be all right.

Automedon was ready. Patrokles mounted the car.

‘Dearest cousin,’ I said, my hand on his arm, ‘content yourself with driving Hektor from the camp. Whatever you do, do not pursue him onto the plain. Is that order clear?’

‘Perfectly,’ he said, shrugging me off.

Automedon clicked his tongue at the team and moved off to the gate between our stockade and the main body of the camp, while I ascended to the barracks rooftop to watch.

The fighting now raged in front of the first row of ships, with Hektor looking invincible. A situation which changed in an instant when fifteen thousand fresh troops came at the Trojans from the Skamander side, led by a figure wearing golden armour in a golden chariot drawn by three white horses.

‘Achilles! Achilles!’

I could hear both sides crying my name, a sensation as odd as it was uncomfortable. But it was enough. The moment the Trojan soldiers glimpsed the figure in the chariot and heard the name, they were transformed from victors into defeated. They ran. My Myrmidons were out for blood and fell on the stragglers tooth and nail, cutting them down without mercy, while ‘I’ screamed my war cry and urged them on.

Hektor’s army poured out across the Simois causeway. Never again, I vowed, would a Trojan set foot inside our camp. Not the most cunning wile Odysseus could think of would persuade me. I found that I was weeping, and knew not for whom – myself, Patrokles, all those dead Greek soldiers. Odysseus had succeeded in luring Hektor out, but the price was ghastly. I could only pray that Hektor had lost at least as many men.

Ai, ai! Patrokles chased the Trojans out onto the plain. When I saw what he was about, I felt my heart sink. Inside the camp the crush had prevented anyone’s getting close enough to him to see the deception, but out there on the plain – oh, anything was possible! Hektor would rally, and Aineas was still in the fight. Aineas knew me. Knew me, not my armour.

Suddenly it seemed better not to know. I left the roof and sat on the bench outside my house door, waiting for someone to come. The sun was about to set, hostilities would cease. Yes, he would be all right. He would survive. He had to survive.

Footsteps sounded: Nestor’s youngest, Antilochos. He was weeping and wringing his hands together – telltale, telltale. I tried to speak and found my tongue clove to the top of my mouth; I had to struggle to produce the question.

‘Is Patrokles dead?’

Antilochos sobbed aloud. ‘Achilles, his poor naked body lies out there among a host of Trojans – Hektor wears your armour and flaunts it in our faces! The Myrmidons are heartbroken, but they won’t let Hektor near the body, though he shouted a vow that Patrokles would feed the dogs of Troy.’

As I got to my feet my knees went; down I went into the dust where Patrokles had knelt to beg. Unreal, unreal. Yet it had to be real. I had known it was going to happen. For a moment I felt the power of my mother in me and heard the lap and swell of the sea. I cried her name once, hating her.

Antilochos pillowed my head in his lap, his warm tears falling on my arm, his fingers chafing the back of my neck.

‘He wouldn’t understand,’ I mumbled. ‘He refused to understand. That never occurred to me. He, of all people, to think I would desert my own? They had my oath on it. He died deeming me prouder than Zeus. He died despising me. And now I can never explain. Odysseus, Odysseus!’

Antilochos stopped weeping. ‘What has Odysseus got to do with all this, Achilles?’

I remembered then, shook my head and climbed to my feet. Together we walked towards the gate in the stockade wall.

‘Did you think I might kill myself?’ I asked him.

‘Not for very long.’

‘Who did it? Hektor?’

‘Hektor wears his armour, but there’s some doubt as to who actually killed him. When the Trojans turned to face us on the plain, Patrokles got down from his car. Then he tripped.’

‘The armour killed him. It was too big.’

‘We’ll never know that. He was attacked by three men. Hektor dealt the last stroke, but he may already have been dead. Not unblooded. He killed Sarpedon. When Aineas came to help, he was recognised for an impostor. The Trojans were furious at the trick, and rallied well after the news spread. Then Patrokles killed Kebriones, Hektor’s driver. Soon after that he got down and tripped. They set on him like jackals before he could get up – he had no chance to defend himself. Hektor stripped away his armour, but before he could get the body the Myrmidons had come up. Ajax and Menelaos are still fighting to keep him safe.’

‘I must go and help.’

‘Achilles, you can’t! The sun’s going down. By the time you got there, it would be over.’

‘I have to help!’

‘Leave it to Ajax and Menelaos.’ He put his hand on my arm. ‘I must beg your forgiveness.’

‘Why?’

‘I doubted you. I should have known it was Odysseus.’

I cursed my loose tongue. Even in the midst of the Spell I was bound by my oath. ‘You’re to speak of it to no one, Antilochos, do you hear?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

We ascended to the rooftop and looked to where the plain was filled with men. I made Ajax out easily, and saw that he was holding the fresh Thessalian troops firmly in place while Menelaos and another I fancied was Meriones bore a naked body shoulder high on a shield away from the battle. They were bringing Patrokles in. The dogs of Troy wouldn’t feast on him.

‘Patrokles!’ I screamed. ‘Patrokles!’

Some of them heard, looked my way and pointed. I shouted his name again and again. The whole host stood silent. Then the horn of darkness wound its long, braying call across the field. Hektor, my golden armour flashing redly in the dying sunset, turned to lead his army back to Troy.

They laid Patrokles on a makeshift bier in the middle of the great assembly space in front of Agamemnon’s house. Menelaos and Meriones, covered in gore and filth, were so exhausted that they could hardly stand. Then Ajax stumbled up. When his helm dropped from nerveless fingers he had not the strength to bend and pick it up. So I did that, gave it to Antilochos and took my cousin into my arms, a way of holding him up with honour, for he was done.

The Kings gathered around to form a circle and gaze down on dead Patrokles. His wounds were the thrusts of curs, one beneath his arm where the cuirass had gaped, one in the back and another in the belly, where the spear had plunged so deeply that his bowels were hanging out. I knew this was Hektor’s blow, but thought that whoever had got him in the back had killed him.

One of his hands dangled off the edge of the bier. I took it in mine and sank down beside him on the ground.

‘Achilles, come away,’ said Automedon.

‘No, my place is here. Take care of Ajax for me, and send for the women to come and bathe Patrokles, dress him in a shroud. He’ll remain here until I kill Hektor. And this I vow: that I will lay the bodies of Hektor and twelve noble Trojan youths at his feet in the tomb. Their blood will pay the Keeper of the River when Patrokles asks to cross.’