Not long into the day the Trojans broke and fled. I looked for Aineas, wondering why he was making no effort to hold them together. But he must have been suffering an unlucky day, for there was no sign of him anywhere. Later on I learned that he kept to himself and wouldn’t send his men where they were needed as reinforcements. We had heard that there was a new Heir, we had heard his name: Troilos. Then I remembered that Achilles had told me Priam insulted Aineas at the time he had made Troilos the new Heir. Well, today Aineas had demonstrated that it was a foolish old King of Troy who insulted a Dardanian prince, also an Heir.
We had seen Troilos on the field before, when Penthesileia fought, and when Memnon fought. He had been fortunate, never coming up against Achilles or Ajax, but that changed today. Achilles pursued him relentlessly, following whichever way he turned, drawing closer and closer. When Troilos realised the inevitable he called for aid, his men hard pressed. I saw him direct the messenger to go to Aineas, who was nearby. I saw the man speak to Aineas, who leaned down from his car with what appeared to be interest. I saw the messenger remove himself. But I didn’t see Aineas lift one finger to help. Instead he wheeled his car and took himself – and his men – elsewhere.
Troilos was game enough. He was a full brother to Hektor and might, with a few more years added, have made another Hektor. At his age, he hadn’t a chance. While I came closer he raised his spear, the driver holding his vehicle steady for the cast, the only one he would loose before we got too close. I felt Achilles’s arm brush mine, and knew he was lifting Old Pelion. That great spear left on a superb throw, winging its way as straight as a shaft from the hand of Apollo. Its iron barb bit deeply into the lad’s throat, felling him voiceless, and above the heads of the despairing Trojan troops I saw Aineas watching with a bitter face. We got Troilos’s armour and the team as well, and cut what were left of his men to ribbons.
After Troilos died Aineas came to life. He shook off his apathy and threw the remainder of the Trojan army in our teeth, everywhere among the soldiers, but careful never to get within a spear-cast of Achilles. A wily one, the Dardanian. He wanted very desperately to live; I wondered what passions drove the man, for he was no coward.
The sun had gone, the storm was gathering fast. So massive was the latent power we could feel stored in the sky that the troops began to mutter loudly of omens. The clouds dropped lower and lower, the lightning flashed closer, we could hear the thunder above the roar of battle. I had never seen such a sky before, nor felt the Sky Father prickle and ripple up and down my backbone. The light had grown dim, had an eerie sulphurous glow, and the clouds were as black as the beard of Hades, curling like smoke from a huge oil fire, lit to vivid blue by the lightning. I heard the Myrmidons behind us saying that Father Zeus was sending us an omen of complete victory, and from the way they behaved I fancied that the Trojans took it as a complete Greek victory too.
There was a scorching flash of white fire right in front of us. The team reared and I had to cover my eyes for fear of being blinded. When the afterdazzle faded I looked at Achilles.
‘Let’s dismount,’ I said. ‘It’s safer on the ground.’
For the first time that day his eyes met mine. Dumbfounded, I stared. It was as if the bolts played around his head; his yellow eyes were alight with joy and he laughed at my fears.
‘See it, Automedon? See it? My great-grandfather prepares to mourn me! He holds me a fit descendant of his seed!’
I gaped. ‘Mourn? Achilles, what do you mean?’
In answer he gripped both my wrists hard. ‘I’m called. Today I die, Automedon. The Myrmidons are yours until you can send for my son. Father Zeus prepares for my death.’
I couldn’t believe it. I wouldn’t believe it! Like a man caught in a nightmare I whipped the team onward. When my shock evaporated a little I sought for the best thing to do, and as unobtrusively as possible I began to edge the car nearer and nearer to Ajax and Odysseus, whose men fought side by side.
If Achilles noticed what I was doing he dismissed it as quite irrelevant. I looked up at the sky and prayed, begged the Father to take my life and spare his; but the God only roared his derision and set me shaking. The Trojans made a sudden dash for their walls, we followed pellmell to head them off. Ajax was closer now; I kept edging the chariot up until I could get the message to him that Achilles fancied himself called. If any man could avert it, that man was Ajax.
We were within the shadow of the Western Curtain, too near the Skaian Gate to permit of Priam’s opening it. Achilles, Ajax and Odysseus penned Aineas against the gate in a last ditch stand. Achilles was determined to have Aineas; I could feel it in his silence even as I prayed that he wouldn’t get the chance to come at this most dangerous of all the Trojan leaders left alive.
I heard him give a grunt of content and saw the Dardanian within range, too beset to take a full account of those ranged against him. He was a perfect target. Achilles raised Old Pelion, the muscles in his arm bulging as he gathered power for the cast, his naked armpit covered in fine golden hair. My eyes followed the line of the spear to Aineas in fascination, knowing that life was over for the Dardanian, that the last great threat was no more.
It all seemed to happen in the same instant, though I swear that it wasn’t the chariot made Achilles lose his balance. He went over on his right ankle, even though it looked firmly braced in the stirrup, and his right arm flew even higher as he fought to keep his stance. I heard a thud, saw the arrow stuck almost to its bright blue flights in that naked armpit. Old Pelion fell uncast to the ground as Achilles reared up like some titan, then shrieked out Chiron’s war cry in a voice brazen with triumph, as if he conquered mortality itself. His arm fell and drove the arrow in to its hilt, deeper than shame or death. I held onto the team with both hands, Xanthos plunging in terror, Balios hanging his head, Podargos beating a tattoo with his hooves. But Patrokles wasn’t there to speak for them, to give their grief and horror human words.
All who heard the war cry turned to look; Ajax screamed as if he too had been hit. The blood gushed from that lipless mouth and from both nostrils, cascading over the golden armour in great rivers. Odysseus was right behind Ajax; he gave a shout of rage and futility, his hand outstretched, pointing. Safe near a rock, Paris stood with his bow in his hand, smiling.
It could not have been long that Achilles hung upright, before he toppled over the chariot’s rail into Ajax’s arms and bore him to the ground with a clang of armour that echoed in our hearts and would not fade away. I was beside Ajax as he knelt with his cousin in his arms, as Ajax took off the helmet and stared dumbly into the scarlet, running face. Achilles saw who held him, but the vision of death was much bigger, much closer. He tried vainly to speak, the words drowned; for a moment the farewell was there in his eyes. Then the pupils dilated, the yellow irises were driven away by featureless, transparent black. Three frightful jerks which taxed Ajax’s strength, and it was over. He was dead. Achilles was dead. We looked into the lucent vacant windows of his eyes and saw nothing behind. Ajax put out a huge, clumsy hand to brush the lids down shut, then put the helm on again and strapped it tightly, his tears falling faster and faster, his mouth all awry.
He was dead. Achilles was dead. How could we ever bear it?
Shock must have held both armies immobile; suddenly the Trojans fell on us like hounds licking the blood of men. They were after the body and the armour. Odysseus leaped to his feet, careless that he wept. The Myrmidons were standing silent, the impossible a reality at their feet. Bending, Odysseus picked up Old Pelion and brandished it in their faces.
