‘Are you going to let them take him?’ he yelled, spitting. ‘You saw what a cur’s trick it took to kill him! Are you just going to stand there and let them take his body from you? In the name of Achilles himself, stand by him now!’

They shook off their shock and rallied; no Trojan would get near Achilles while one of them lived. Forming in front of us, they took the charge in savage and sullen grief. Odysseus helped the weeping Ajax to his feet, helped him swing the limp and very heavy form into his arms.

‘Carry him back beyond the lines, Ajax. I’ll make sure they don’t break through.’

As if it were an afterthought, he shoved Old Pelion into Ajax’s right hand and pushed him on his way. I had always had my reservations about Odysseus, but he was a king. Sword in his hand, he swung round and planted his feet widely on the earth still steaming with Achilles’s blood. We took the Trojan charge and beat it off, Aineas howling like a jackal when he saw Ajax trudging away. I looked at Odysseus.

‘Ajax is strong, but not strong enough to walk far carrying Achilles. Let me catch him up, put Achilles with me.’

He nodded.

So I turned the team in pursuit of Ajax, who had emerged from the back of our lines and still plodded towards the beach. At which moment, while I was still too far away to help, a chariot flew past me, its driver aiming to head Ajax off: one of Priam’s sons was in it, for he wore the purple insignia of the House of Dardanos on his cuirass. Trying to put some heart into my team, I yelled a warning to Ajax. But he didn’t seem to hear.

The Trojan prince saundered down from his perch, sword in hand, smiling. Which indicated that he didn’t know Ajax, who never faltered as he walked on. He lifted Achilles higher in his arms and spitted the Trojan on Old Pelion, the afterthought Odysseus had placed in his hand.

‘Ajax, lie Achilles in the car,’ I said, drawing level.

‘I’ll carry him home.’

‘It’s too far, you’ll kill yourself.’

‘I’ll carry him!’

‘Then at least,’ I said desperately, ‘let us take the armour off him, put that in the car. It would be more fitting.’

‘And I’d feel his body, not its casing. Yes, we can do that.’

The moment Achilles was freed from that awful weight Ajax walked on, cuddling his cousin, kissing his ruined face, talking to him, crooning.

The army was following us slowly, coming across the plain; I kept the chariot just behind Ajax, his great legs toiling as if he could have walked a hundred leagues holding Achilles.

The God had contained his grief long enough. He let it loose upon our heads, and all the vault of the heavens broke into white bolts of fire. The team shivered and stopped, pinned by fear; even Ajax came to a halt, standing while the thunder cracked and rolled overhead and the lightning played a fantastic lacework in the clouds. The rain began to fall at last, huge heavy drops coming stiffly and sparsely, as if the God was too moved to weep easily. The tempo of the rain increased, we floundered in a sea of mud. The army drew level with us, all conflict abandoned before the might of the Thunderer, and together we brought Achilles in across the Skamander causeway, Ajax leading and the King behind him. In the pouring rain we laid him on a bier, while the Father washed his blood away with sky tears.

I went with Odysseus to the house to find Brise. She was by the doorpost, it seemed expecting us.

‘Achilles is dead,’ said Odysseus.

‘Where is he?’ she asked, voice steady.

‘Before Agamemnon’s house.’ Odysseus still wept.

Brise stroked his arm and smiled. ‘There’s no need to grieve, Odysseus. He will be immortal.’

They had rigged up a canopy over the bier to keep off the rain; Brise ducked under its edge and stood looking down at the ruins of that magnificent man, water and blood matting his bright hair, his face drained and still. I wondered if she saw what I did: that the lipless mouth looked right in death, though it never had in life. Owning it, his was the face of the quintessential warrior.

But what she thought, she did not say, then or ever. With perfect tenderness she leaned over and kissed his eyelids, took his hands and folded them on his chest, tucked and patted at the shift until it suited her idea of rightness.

He was dead. Achilles was dead. How could we ever bear it?

We mourned him for seven full days. On the last evening as the sun was setting we laid his body on the golden death car and ferried him across Skamander to the tomb in the cliff. Brise went with us, for no one had the heart to banish her; she walked at the end of the long cortege with her hands folded and her head bent. Ajax was the chief mourner, held the head of Achilles in the palm of one hand as they carried him into the chamber. He was clad in gold, but not in the golden armour. That Agamemnon had taken into custody.

After the priests had said the words, fitted the golden mask over his face and poured out the libations, we filed slowly out of the tomb he shared with Patrokles, Perithesileia and twelve noble Trojan youths. Strangest of all those many strange events and portents was the atmosphere inside the tomb; sweet, pure, ineffable. The blood of the twelve youths in the golden chalice was still liquid, still richly coloured crimson.

I turned back to make sure Brise was following, to find that she knelt by the death car. Though I had no hope of reaching her, I ran into the tomb, Nestor by my side. We couldn’t speak as she laid the knife down with the last of her strength and sank upon the ground. Yes, that was proper! How could any of us face the light of a day that knew no Achilles? I half bent to pick up the knife, but Nestor stopped me.

‘Come away, Automedon. They want no others here.’

The funeral feast was held the following day, but there were no games. Agamemnon explained.

‘I doubt anyone has the heart to compete. But that isn’t why. The why lies in the fact that Achilles didn’t want to be buried in the armour his mother – a Goddess! – commissioned from Hephaistos Fire. He wanted it awarded as a prize to the best man left alive before Troy. Instead of funeral games.’

I didn’t disbelieve him, exactly, but Achilles hadn’t mentioned this to me. ‘How, sire, can you possibly decide that? By feats of arms? But sometimes they’re not indicative of genuine greatness.’

‘Precisely,’ said the High King. ‘For that reason, I’m going to make it a contest of words. Any man who thinks that he’s the best man left alive before Troy, step out and tell me why.’

Two contenders only stepped out. Ajax and Odysseus. How odd! They represented the two poles of greatness: the warrior and the – what did one call him, the man who worked through mind?

‘Yes, fitting,’ said Agamemnon. ‘Ajax, you brought his body in. Odysseus, you made it possible to bring the body in. Ajax, speak first and tell me why you think you deserve the armour.’

We all sat on chairs to either side of Agamemnon, I with King Nestor and the rest because I led the Myrmidons now. There were no others present.

Ajax seemed to be as troubled as he was wordless; he stood there, the biggest man I have ever seen, without a thing to say. Nor did he look well; there was something wrong with his right side from face to leg. When he had walked forward he had dragged that leg, nor did the right arm move in a natural way. A little stroke, I thought. He’s had a little stroke. Carrying his cousin so far has strained the weakest part of him, his mind. And when finally he did speak, he kept pausing painfully to search for a word.

‘Imperial High King, fellow Kings and Princes… I am the first cousin of Achilles. His father, Peleus, and my father, Telamon, were full brothers. Their father, Aiakos, was a son of Zeus. Ours is a great lineage. Ours is a great name. I claim the armour for myself because I bear that name, come from that line. I can’t let it be awarded to a man who is the bastard of a common thief.’