Chapter 10 - Achilles
If Hector belonged to Troy, Achilles seemed to belong only to himself.
I never spoke to him.
I want that clear.
Years later, people asked me what Achilles was like as though simply living inside Troy gave me access to his thoughts.
I knew him the way most Trojans knew him.
From distance.
From rumor.
From the effect he had on men.
The first time I truly watched him fight, I understood why his name had crossed the sea before he did.
It was morning.
Trojan forces had moved onto the plain after several days of smaller clashes. I stood on the wall with hundreds of others.
Dust rose beneath chariot wheels.
Spears flashed.
The battle spread too widely to understand all at once.
Then a section of the field changed.
Men began moving backward.
Not slowly.
Running.
A figure in bright armor advanced among the Myrmidons.
“Achilles,” someone said.
There was fear in the voice.
He did not look invulnerable.
He looked efficient.
That frightened me more.
Songs turn combat into dance.
Achilles did not dance.
He closed distance faster than opponents expected. He used his shield aggressively. His spear seemed always where another man did not want it to be. When weapons were lost, he did not hesitate.
Every movement had purpose.
Men who had fought bravely minutes earlier changed when they recognized him.
Some held.
Some retreated.
Some died because they could not decide quickly enough.
Ione stood beside me.
“Stop watching,” she said.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
She left.
I remained.
I regret that.
Curiosity is not always a virtue.
By noon, Achilles had become a story again.
“He killed twenty.”
“Thirty.”
“Fifty.”
“He cannot be wounded.”
“His mother is a goddess.”
“He was dipped in a sacred river.”
“He was trained by a centaur.”
Every hour added something.
I learned to distrust numbers first.
Then miracles.
But the fear was real.
Even experienced Trojan soldiers spoke differently about him.
Not respectfully.
Carefully.
As if saying his name too loudly might summon him.
Hector did not appear afraid.
That did not mean he wasn’t.
Courage is not the absence of fear.
It is performing duty while fear stands beside you.
I saw Hector and Achilles on the same field several times over the years, but fate—or tactics, or gods if you prefer—kept their decisive meeting for later.
Instead, the war continued its grinding exchange.
Cities around Troy were raided.
Allies arrived.
Supplies disappeared.
Men earned glory in songs while widows learned prices in markets.
Then something unexpected happened among the Achaeans.
Achilles stopped fighting.
At first, Troy did not understand why.
Rumors reached us through captives, traders, deserters, and the strange networks that survive every war.
Achilles had quarreled with Agamemnon.
A woman named Briseis was involved.
Honor was involved.
Pride was definitely involved.
Agamemnon had taken something Achilles believed was his.
Achilles, insulted, withdrew himself and his Myrmidons from battle.
Ione listened as Dymas explained the rumor.
“That is why?” she asked.
“Apparently.”
“Thousands of men crossed the sea because one man wanted another man’s wife, and now their best warrior refuses to fight because a king took another woman?”
Dymas considered it.
“When you say it like that, war sounds foolish.”
“When does it not?”
The effect on Troy was immediate.
Not miraculous.
But noticeable.
Trojan soldiers became bolder.
Achaean attacks lost some force.
Hector pressed harder.
For the first time in years, people in Troy began speaking seriously about victory.
That frightened me in a new way.
Hope returned too quickly.
It filled streets.
People smiled more.
Prices fell slightly.
Someone painted fresh color on a shrine near the market.
Myrine began talking about rebuilding part of her roof “after the Greeks go.”
After the Greeks go.
The phrase spread.
I said it too.
We had lived so long under siege that we mistook any change for an ending.
Outside the walls, Achilles sat beside his ships.
Inside, Troy began to dream.
During Achilles' absence, I became fascinated by the Greek camp in a way I had not allowed myself before. Traders sometimes passed near enough to exchange information. Prisoners were questioned. Deserters carried stories. Through these fragments, the enemy slowly regained human shapes.
Agamemnon was powerful but not universally loved. Odysseus was clever enough that even Trojans spoke his name with reluctant respect. Ajax was described as enormous and dependable. Menelaus, whose marriage supposedly stood at the center of the war, had become only one commander among many.
And Achilles—Achilles was angry.
It seemed almost absurd that a private quarrel could affect thousands of lives. Yet that was exactly what happened. One man's wounded honor altered formations on the plain. Trojan boys came home alive because Achilles stayed beside his ships. Greek boys died because he refused to move.
That realization permanently changed how I understood power.
A king's mood can become a tax.
A prince's desire can become a fleet.
A warrior's anger can become a grave.
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People like Ione and me lived inside the consequences of emotions experienced by men we had never met.
Neither side understood what his anger would cost before it was done.
