The woman coming through the Trojan ranks did not slow when she saw Achilles.
Her companions opened around her. She carried her spear as though its weight belonged to her arm, and the men she had driven back were still trying to find room behind the Greek shields.
Penthesilea, queen of the Amazons, had come to defend Troy.
Hector was dead. Achilles had killed him in vengeance for Patroclus, then returned his body to his father for burial. But the gates had opened again after the mourning, and this new army had come out beneath them.
Achilles moved to meet its queen.
Penthesilea’s first attack struck his shield hard enough to jar his shoulder. She followed before he had fully recovered, forcing him to turn. Behind her, the Trojans shouted. For the first time since Hector’s death, they were watching someone hold him.
He gave ground, found his footing, and drove forward.
For a few moments the battle around them became a confusion of moving shields. Then Penthesilea’s guard opened, and Achilles’s spear struck.
She fell.
He stood above her while the fight moved away. The fierce purpose he had faced was gone from her face. He looked at her and felt a sudden grief he had not expected, an ache for the woman whose life he had ended before he could know her.
Thersites saw him looking.
A jeering voice cut through the noise. Thersites mocked the great warrior mourning an enemy, mocked the love he said Achilles had found too late.
Achilles turned.
The blow that killed Thersites was over before anyone could restrain him.
This time the dead man belonged to the Greek army.
Voices rose around Achilles. No enemy stood between him and the men staring at him now. Penthesilea was given to the Trojans for burial, but Achilles could not simply go back to his shelter and wait for another battle.
He sailed to Lesbos. There he made offerings to Apollo, Artemis, and Leto, and Odysseus performed the rites that cleansed him of the killing.
When he returned, Troy still stood.
The Son of Dawn
Another champion had arrived to help the city: Memnon, son of Eos, the Dawn. He wore armor made by Hephaestus, as Achilles did, and led warriors who had come a long way to fight beside the Trojans.
Thetis came to her son before they met.
She told him about Memnon. Achilles listened, turning a fastening on his armor between finger and thumb. He knew the care with which she chose her words. She had already told him that his death would follow Hector’s.
He fastened the strap.
In the fighting, Memnon killed Antilochus.
The news reached Achilles amid the clamor of the field. Antilochus had been the one to bring him word of Patroclus, the young man who had knelt beside him and held his hands in the dust. Now someone else had to speak Antilochus’s name that way.
Achilles went looking for Memnon.
The two met where the armies had drawn back enough to give them room. Their shields flashed. Achilles tested his opponent’s guard and found it firm. Memnon pressed him, and Achilles turned the point aside with the edge of his shield.
He could not finish this fight by frightening the other man.
They circled, dust gathering on the bright work of the divine armor. Memnon stepped in. Achilles answered. The spears rang against the shields; each man sought the opening the other refused to give.
At last Achilles found it.
Memnon fell, and the men behind him began to retreat.
Achilles followed.
The retreat became a rout. Ahead, Troy’s gates were open to receive its soldiers. He drove toward them, past men throwing away what they could no longer carry. The dark passage beneath the gate grew nearer.
A bow was drawn.
Paris loosed the arrow, and Apollo’s power was with it.
It struck Achilles at the ankle.
His step failed beneath him. He tried to plant his foot and go on. The strength that had carried him faster than every other man would not answer. He fell within sight of the gate, his spear beside him.
Around him, the running men began to turn.
The Way Back
Ajax saw where Achilles had fallen.
He pushed through the fighting, his great shield held before him. The Trojans were closing on the body. He struck them back and planted himself over it, but more were coming.
“Odysseus!”
Odysseus reached him through the press.
For an instant the two looked down. Achilles’s face lay still beneath the helmet. Neither man waited for the other to say it.
Ajax bent and lifted him.
The weight settled against his shoulders. Without both hands free to fight, he had to trust the man beside him. Odysseus turned toward the attackers.
“Go.”
Ajax took the first step, then the next. Spears struck around him. He could hear Odysseus’s voice and the hard blows behind his back. Whenever he turned far enough to see, Odysseus was still there, giving ground only when Ajax had moved.
The Greek line came nearer. Hands reached out to help.
They carried Achilles down to the ships he had never sailed home.
Thetis came from the sea with her sisters, and the Muses joined their mourning. Men who had stood their ground before charging horses listened to the lament and could not keep their faces steady.
The army gave Achilles his funeral honors and raised a mound. From the water, sailors would be able to see where he lay.
Ajax stood near the shore when the work was done. His arms still remembered the weight of the body. Beside him, men were setting out the armor that had been taken off Achilles before the funeral.
The shield caught the light. The helmet stood upright.
No one was wearing them.