by Kate Quinn
Achilles gave a rough, jerking nod. “Tell Priam, or his daughter, that I accept.”
Philoctetes clutched the tie of his own leather belt to keep his hands still, to keep himself from bursting out with disbelief before all these men. The sight of the crow came back to him, its keen, glittering eye, the sharpness of its beak.
“Now let these men go back to Troy,” Achilles said to the scouts. “Accompany them to the gate, but do not abuse them.”
Achilles turned away and vanished back inside his tent before Aeneas could even don his helmet. Philoctetes shared a wary glance with Automedon, then he, too, ducked into the tent.
“Don’t do it,” Philoctetes said quietly.
Achilles turned, went to one of his lamps on its iron tripod, touched the sulfur-dipped stick he’d lit on the fire’s embers to the lamp oil. Light bloomed, and the tent’s interior was suddenly there, blinked into existence as if willed by a god.
“I will do it.” Achilles lit another lamp.
Philoctetes followed him across the tent, pleading as softly as he could. No one outside the tent should hear—not even Automedon. But Philoctetes was desperate for Achilles to listen.
“It’s just a feint by the Trojans. Just a play to keep the war going on forever. You remember what Hector said. You told me yourself that you should have listened to him.”
The twig burned down to Achilles’ long, graceful fingers. He shook his hand vigorously, and its flame snuffed out.
“And I told you, too, that this is all I’m good for. War is all I know.”
“You could know more, if only you wished it. You could know a better life.”
Achilles smiled, but not mockingly. “Like your life? Living alone on some rock in the sea?”
“I have known peace,” Philoctetes said sharply. “Peace in a world full of war. Who else can say as much? Not you. And that child your Briseis carries—would you rather your son know peace or war?”
“If I have a son, he’ll be expected to fight like me. He’ll be expected to follow in my footsteps. There is nothing but war for a man like me, and the same will be true of my son.”
Heart pounding, Philoctetes edged closer, staring up desperately into Achilles’ distant, angry eyes. “And if your child is a girl? What future for your daughter, Achilles? Will she be spear-won, too, like her mother? Will she become a slave, to be traded like a horse or a pound of tin?”
Achilles huffed a short laugh. He turned away, pulled open the black trunk where his magnificent armor lay. He lifted out the shield and examined it in the lamplight, then set it gently aside. He bent to retrieve another piece of armor, but Philoctetes’ hand snaked out of its own accord and caught Achilles by the arm. His muscle was hard beneath Philoctetes’ fingers, and his flesh was warm—alive, no matter what Achilles felt inside. He was still alive, for as long as Philoctetes could keep him safe. But how much longer could he manage it?
Achilles turned, brows raised in surprise, and gazed down at Philoctetes. Then his eyes fell to the hand that still clutched his arm. Philoctetes did not remove it—could not have, even if he’d wanted to.
“I’m afraid,” Philoctetes admitted in a whisper.
Achilles turned toward him. “Of what?”
“I fear you’ll be killed.” The crow as good as told me so.
Achilles bent his neck. For a heartbeat, Philoctetes thought the great hero was hanging his head in shame or yielding to his warning and giving up on Troy’s new champion.
But then he drew nearer and nearer still. Achilles’ lips brushed Philoctetes’ cheek, just above the graying bristle of his beard.
“I know, my friend,” Achilles said. “But I’m not afraid.”
He straightened, turned back to his trunk. Philoctetes was left in mute shock, the warmth of Achilles’ kiss still burning on his cheek, his hand still tingling with the feel of the man’s skin. He swallowed hard, fighting down the loss that surged in his chest.
“I’ll count it a great favor,” Achilles added, “if you’ll help me with my armor.
PENTHESILEA
The sun was just beginning to rise behind the walls of Troy when the Achaean hero Achilles, flanked by chanting, cheering troops, presented himself at the Scaean Gate. Penthesilea watched the crowd from the wall beside the gate’s great crest. The Achaeans gathered, jeering and howling, around the two red pillars that flanked the gate. The pillars were mostly lost in shadow, but even through that dimness, even from her high vantage, Penthesilea could not escape their frank color, the evocation of blood about to be spilled.
Gleaming in his many-hued armor, Achilles halted twenty paces from the pillars while the remainder of the Achaeans held back, contenting themselves with the insults they hurled at the city. A stocky, graying man limped up beside Achilles and squinted up at Troy’s walls, where the sun blazed.
“That one, the gray one, expects a crowd,” Cassandra said from her place beside Penthesilea. “Priam and his queen, at least; perhaps Paris and Helen. But he sees only the two of us. What do you think he makes of us, Amazon?”
Without a crowd to watch the fight,
Achilles no doubt suspected a trap. Penthesilea watched the warrior go still, almost as if he hesitated. Even most of the Achaean troops quieted. She could hear the rattle of armor and weapons as they shifted, gazing about the plain warily, fearful now of an ambush.
A slender, auburn-haired man sidled close to Achilles. He leaned close to speak into the hero’s helmet, into his ear. Achilles listened but then shook his head in denial or refusal. He steadied himself, his legs wide in a powerful stance, his hand firm on his spear. There was a readiness in his stance that chilled Penthesilea’s blood even as it stirred her admiration. The man was ready to die—eager for it. He stepped forward and raised his voice to address Cassandra and Penthesilea, two women alone on the wall.
“I am Achilles. I’ve come to meet Troy’s best warrior. Let him come out and fight me, as agreed.”
Cassandra turned and gazed at Penthesilea. She did not ask her to reconsider nor question whether she was ready. The seer only looked at her, silent and serene, and Penthesilea knew it was time.
She descended the long stairs to the court below while Cassandra gave the signal to the gatekeepers. The black Scaean Gate screamed like a chorus of the damned as it swung open just wide enough to reveal the lone figure of Achilles, backed by the crowd of Achaeans at a safe distance. Penthesilea stood in the gateway, braced and ready, never taking her eyes from the warrior in the gleaming, lacquered armor. She heard the gate close behind her.
Achilles held out his hand; the auburn-haired youth delivered his spear, then took the graying man by the shoulder and pulled him back, well away from the ring of Achaeans that now rushed forward to form before the closed gates. It was an arena walled by shouting, cursing, taunting men and floored by cold earth, still in shadow beneath the towers of Troy. Cold fear warred with readiness in Penthesilea’s gut. A fist seemed to reach up from her middle, seizing her heart, but she willed it to go on beating. All the chants of the men sounded like the screams of carrion crows.
The Achaean men and even Achilles himself seemed to stare right past her, waiting for the gates to reopen and disgorge a hero. Anger flared in Penthesilea’s heart; she would not go to her death invisible. She would let the gods see her, make them know her, so there could be no doubt who had set the balance to rights.
She slung her spear casually over her shoulder and strode out into the ring of Achaeans. Silence washed like a wave around the ring as the men finally saw her—as they realized that she was the hero come to fight the great Achilles, and no other.
She might stand as tall and proud as any warrior, but even through her strange, flowing trousers and oversized tunic, through the simple scale vest, they could all read the curves of a woman’s body. Penthesilea had braided her long black hair and bound it up around her head where it would not impede her, tucked beneath the small cap of hardened leather that served as her helmet. H
er olive skin, broad nose, and catlike eyes would mark her as a Cimmerian to Achaean eyes. She could guess their thoughts—Troy’s best warrior isn’t a Trojan at all. Troy’s best warrior isn’t even a man!—and she laughed at them, laughed at Troy and Sparta, letting her teeth flash in the rising sun.
She had small bronze-studded bucklers strapped to each forearm, but that was the extent of her armor. She halted several paces from Achilles, aware that she looked hopelessly slight and poorly protected against his obvious bulk and power. She tossed her spear in her hand, testing its balance, then gave it an experimental swing. She laughed again, louder this time—loud enough for the gods to hear.
“An Amazon?” one of Achilles’ men muttered. “What’s Priam playing at?”
Achilles looked up at the wall again. Penthesilea knew he would see nothing there—no one but Cassandra, staring back at him.
“I don’t want to fight a woman,” Achilles shouted up at the seer.
“You speak to me, Achaean rat,” Penthesilea shouted. It felt good to call out her defiance to the hero. It made her feel strong, alive. Her accent might be thick, but she knew Achilles would understand her well enough. She advanced on him, spear poised and ready. “It is I who will send you to the afterlife, to plead on your knees before your gods for their mercy!”
The ring of Achaeans erupted in laughter. Penthesilea ignored them all. She circled Achilles, but as she passed nearer to where his two attendants stood—the auburn-haired and the gray—she caught the older man’s eye. Only for a moment; she didn’t allow her gaze to stray from Achilles for longer than a heartbeat. But what she saw in the grizzled man’s eyes made her heart lurch, almost made her flinch. His pain was palpable, and such a perfect reflection of her own loss that it shuddered the breath in her throat. The joy of the fight and the certainty of deliverance slipped away from her. She felt the weight of grief dragging at her spirit again, trailing behind her as she moved, making her clumsy and slow.
She pushed the feeling away with brutal determination. There would be time enough to acknowledge her sorrows when death came to claim her. For now, she must fight—must give the gods a good show and prove her bravery, prove she was a worthy warrior after all. She must not lose sight of honor. She must not let the balance tip so far from level again.
Penthesilea glowered into the shadow of Achilles’ helmet.
“Do you see me, Achaean dog?” she taunted. “Your death is coming at the hands of a woman! You’ll bleed out under the point of a woman’s spear!”
Achilles said nothing. He circled to keep her within his sights, but his spear remained low, his shield tentatively high. He made no move to fight her. As Penthesilea turned him to face the rising sun, the light revealed his eyes. They were as pale green as new grass, and he watched her with an intensity that took her aback. It was not the bitter glare of enemies about to meet in war. It was wide-eyed, awed, like a man struck by love’s arrow.
“Gods,” he murmured, so softly she could barely hear him over the noise of the crowd. “Gods, but you’re alive.”
Alive. Only if the gods were cruel. Only if she couldn’t right the balance.
“Come,” she shouted. “Are you brave? Or are you weak? Show me, Achilles! Show me your true nature!”
But his spear remained stubbornly low. He made no move to advance. “I won’t fight a woman,” he said again. “Go back to Priam and tell him—”
“Fuck Priam!” Penthesilea yelled. “And fuck Troy, too!”
The circle of Achaeans cheered heartily at that. She advanced on Achilles, a few dancing steps, then a few more. She was within the reach of his spear now. “I don’t fight for Priam,” she said. “I fight for Hector only. His blood cries out for justice, and I will give him that!” Hippolyte’s blood cries out for justice, and hers is the only voice I hear.
“Hector is dead,” Achilles said calmly. “What’s done is done. And if you have no love for Troy, then you had no love for Hector. Tell me why you really fight, woman.”
For one brief moment, no longer than the beat of a blackbird’s wings, Penthesilea hesitated. Her eyes widened, holding Achilles’ steady green gaze. But in the next moment, her grief and rage came pouring back into her. The pain gave her life, and she could feel that life emanating like lightning from her eyes. Achilles sucked in a breath, as if struck again by awe—by longing. His own gaze softened and his mouth fell. The tip of his spear drooped ever farther toward the earth.
“You are too beautiful to kill,” he said.
“Damn it, Achilles!” The graying man threw himself forward, as if he sought to plant himself between Penthesilea and the warrior. His hands reached out as though he wanted to drag Achilles from the ring, even if it shamed him in front of all the these Achaean sea-wolves and Troy, too. But the younger one—the auburn-haired man—grabbed him roughly, held him back.
Penthesilea laughed hoarsely. She spat at Achilles; the spittle struck him on his enameled breastplate. “Do you fear a woman? Are you such a coward? Does Agamemnon keep your balls pickled in a jug of wine?”
“Go back to Priam,” Achilles tried again. “There’s no honor for me in this—in killing a woman in single combat.”
“Honor?” Her teeth clenched; she could barely force the words out. “What about my honor? What about my sister’s honor?”
Achilles, still circling slowly to face her, cast her a look of pure confusion.
“You will fight me,” she insisted. “I will not go back to Troy in disgrace. You will die to avenge Hector, or I will die to avenge Hippolyte. One way or another, I will have my honor, Achilles. For life without honor is not worth living.”
Penthesilea struck first.
Her spear flashed in the sun as it darted toward Achilles’ legs, seeking to sprawl him in his heavy armor. Achilles danced back, parrying the blow. Her spear whirled over her head so fast it whistled, and in a blink she attacked from another angle. Achilles’ shield deflected her blow with a loud clang.
The men in the ring hooted and cheered; the fight was on, whether Achilles willed it or no. Blow by blow, strike by parried strike, their clash shifted subtly. Achilles’ reluctance to fight a woman wore away as Penthesilea proved her skill. Her attacks came ever more quickly; with minimal armor, she was agile and light, and she knew that all the watchers could see her dexterity, could appreciate her lethal swiftness. She was as good as any of the men who stood watching—that, she knew. She thought she might be as good as Achilles himself. But she didn’t need to best him. She only needed to provoke him.
The clang of spear tip against armor echoed from the Scaean Gate. Then a high, panicked shout came from the same direction. Penthesilea spared the briefest glance at the wall, seeing in a moment that more people had joined Cassandra. White-haired Priam was easy to recognize, as were Paris and Helen, who hurried to stand beside him, both of them gleaming like treasure in the rising sun. Helen leaned over the wall, her mouth opening in another cry, though over the noise of crowd and combat, Penthesilea could not make out her words.
Penthesilea drove at Achilles with naked fury, and finally the last of his reluctance vanished. The rhythm of battle seemed to fall over him as a drummer’s beat captures the minds and bodies of dancers. He no longer retreated before her attacks, but drove at her with brutal speed, his spear slicing the air, singing against her bucklers, sending jarring blows up her arms to rattle her bones. His warrior self was at the fore now, eclipsing all thought, all hesitation.
Penthesilea feinted right, then dodged left, hurtling herself toward Achilles’ spear. It should have been a good move—to push herself in past the man’s reach, blocking use of his spear arm with her own body, forcing him to turn and expose his back to her weapon.
But Achilles, enthralled by the battle’s rhythmic dance, seemed to know what Penthesilea intended almost before she did. He was ready for the move. His spear swept low, knocking her feet from beneath her; she fell upon her back, her leather cap rolling away as her head struck the hard
ground.
Ignoring the shock of the impact, she began to roll at once, gathering herself to spring up and fight on. But Achilles was ready for that, too. As her left arm reached across her body, the unprotected spot just below her armpit was exposed. Only for an instant, but an instant was all a fighter like Achilles needed. He drove his spearhead in deep.
Penthesilea froze, never knowing whether it was pain or relief that stilled her—agony or the bliss of forgiveness.
Silence fell over the ring. She opened her mouth to speak, to call out Hippolyte’s name. But only a weak sound emerged, a whimper of surrender to her fate.
She sagged back against the earth, Achilles’ spear still quivering in her body. The shudder of the blow that ended her pain sang a sweet song along her limbs, sweeter than the rhythm of hooves across the steppe.
PHILOCTETES
When the Amazon’s blood darkened the ground, the life seemed to drain out of Achilles, too. He stood over her, panting, his fists slowly unclenching, his head, in its plumed helmet, drooping. The shield slid from his arm and rolled along the ground on its rim, then wobbled, teetered, and fell flat.
“No,” Achilles said. His voice was quiet, but so was the Plain of Troy. The word carried far.
He dropped to his knees beside the dying woman. “No!”
“Gods’ sakes,” Automedon hissed at Philoctetes’ side. “Come on.”
They went to stand at Achilles’ side. He didn’t look up. His mouth hung open; his eyes were stark with grief, with a terrible self-loathing.
The woman rasped on the ground, blood thick on her lips. Her braid had uncoiled itself from her head and lay like the shadow of a snake in the dust.
Automedon planted his foot on the woman’s chest and seized the spear. “Brave,” he said to her kindly. “And worthy.”
But the Amazon didn’t hear. Her black eyes already stared into a misty distance, and just before Automedon pulled the spear out, sending the last gush of blood from her side and from her mouth, Philoctetes saw her smile. Whatever glory or absolution the woman had sought in battle, she had found it in the end. It was a small mercy that would, Philoctetes suspected, comfort Achilles not one bit.