Still, the eerie silence reigned, broken only by the hoarse shriek of a solitary bird that swooped low above us, the beat of its wings startlingly loud.
And then, somewhere in the murky gloom, the rumble of chariot wheels sounded. Andromache was at my side, and I felt her body stiffen. We had expected to see a Trojan charge, but before they had taken a step, it seemed that, incredibly, the Greeks approached – the battered, almost beaten Greeks. A vast body of darkness swelled behind the dissipating fog, and, at once, a great whooping cry went up, reverberating against the ancient stones of Troy. A hideously familiar helmet shone in the first weak rays of the sun, the gleaming armour we all recognised.
Andromache clutched convulsively at my hand. ‘Achilles returns,’ she gasped.
I shook my head, squinted at the mighty figure spurring on the horses, standing proud upon his chariot, flanked by the Myrmidon army whose absence we had thought would save us all. ‘No – Achilles sits alone,’ I breathed. I saw him, solitary and brooding, as sullen as the smouldering embers of the fire beside which he sat. He stared resolutely out to sea; his nymph mother watching him, her black eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
‘It is not Achilles,’ I whispered. It was Apollo’s words, burning in my throat.
Andromache, oblivious to my words, went very still beside me, her eyes wide with horror. ‘Hector.’
Of course, my brother charged forward in pursuit of Achilles’ chariot; of course he could not watch his men cut down before him. I could feel the sleek, silver menace in the air, quivering like the taut string of Apollo’s bow poised over the battle, and I felt certain that one of the two men grappling urgently on the sand below would die.
In the distant quiet of the empty Myrmidon camp, I felt Achilles go rigid with sudden tension, and I knew that he whipped his head around in the direction of the faraway battle seething at the base of our city walls. And, in the same moment, I saw the impossible – Achilles’ shield dropped into the dirt of the battlefield, his knees buckling underneath him and his great plumed helmet rolling from his head as he tumbled backwards.
The blood glittered on Hector’s sword, its scarlet shine visible even to us on the battlements.
I paused. Sometimes, in dreams, I knew myself to be asleep, and I would feel trapped in the unfolding events of my slumbering mind, unable to break free. It was like this now, as people turned to one another in dazed disbelief.
Far below, Hector finished stripping away the armour as the Myrmidons swarmed, protective and busy over the tender flesh of the body. The corpse was the seething heart of a newer fight; a raw and desperate skirmish to claim the ragged, blood-streaked remains of whichever man had fought inside the armour of Achilles.
Priam’s head dropped, defeated, as he comprehended the message that rang back across the men. ‘It is not Achilles,’ he said.
I turned away, sick and weary. I could not watch the slaughter that day. I set my eyes upon the paved streets beneath my feet, searching for the truth lost in the muffling ache that rattled my brain. Somewhere, I knew, it lurked: a shining gem, kept tantalisingly just beyond my reach. If only Apollo would let me see it clearly; if only I could trace out the path to Troy’s destruction; if only I could know exactly the shape our doom would take.
In his temple, I prayed again. I did not beg for our salvation. I wanted only to know how long the torment of waiting would last. Wreathed in perfumed smoke, the statue of Apollo stared impassively out above my prostrate body. Out on the battlefield, the war raged. Every moment that passed stretched out interminably, but, somehow, the hours wore on. Outside the dim interior of the temple, the heavy bank of clouds began to dissipate, and in their wake, pale stars glimmered in the darkening sky. The men would withdraw; those still living would limp back to bathe wounds and grieve their friends and vow vengeance upon their enemies when the sun rose in the morning. And the jackals would slink, keen and hungry, from the shadows.
Hector came. He stepped past me, between the columns, and stood at Apollo’s mighty bronze feet. I raised myself to watch him.
My brother’s hair hung in damp curls. He must have cleansed himself of the dust and filth of battle before coming before the god. The back of his neck was bare; no vast plumed helmet nodding above his head. The vulnerability of this little patch of exposed flesh twisted my heart. Today, he gleamed with health and vitality, his arms taut and muscular, his chest rising and falling, blood running through his veins. I closed my eyes, tears prickling at my eyelids.
I heard the chink of metal and the pouring of liquid. The sweet aroma of wine mingled with the scent of incense, and I knew that Hector made his libation to Apollo. He would stand before the statue, his arms outstretched, and he would pray.