The Achaeans stood petrified before the parchment in the hands of the Atreid. No one spoke. No one even breathed normally. Their faces, hardened by wars, had drained of color, and their eyes, wide like those of men witnessing an omen, ran over the names again and again, as if expecting them to change.
Finally, King Agamemnon stepped forward. His voice came out low, rough, almost unrecognizable.
—So… these are the chosen of the gods.
It was not a question. It was a bitter acknowledgment. The list of the combatants of the Heromachy burned with a supernatural light:
Alcides — "Lionheart"
Achilles — "The swift-footed"
Arachne — "The weaver"
Asterion — "The bull of Minos"
Atalanta — "The huntress"
Diomedes — "Son of Tydeus"
Hector — "Slayer of men"
Jason — "The one with a single sandal"
Medea — "She of many potions"
Medusa — "The Gorgon"
Odysseus — "The man of many stratagems"
Orion — "The great hunter"
Penthesilea — "Queen of the Amazons"
Perseus — "Killer of Medusa"
Theseus — "Son of Aegeus"
Alexander — "Son of Zeus"
The conquerors of Ilion looked at one another. That was not a list of warriors… it was a catalog of legends, of ancient terrors, of stories that poets sang with trembling voices beside the fire.
The silence broke with a dry laugh.
The younger of the two Ajaxes, Aiante, tilted his head toward his gigantic companion, Ajax the Great, with a crooked smile.
—Heh… Seems the gods didn't hold back. Still feel like stepping into the arena, big guy… or has your bravery worn off already?
The giant slowly turned his head. His eyes were two blades.
—I'd last longer than you without even messing up my hair, runt.
The exchange would have escalated, but Menelaus's voice emerged, still heavy with disbelief.
—They're… all here —he murmured, shifting his gaze from the parchment to the arena, where Achilles and Diomedes were fighting—. Heroes, kings, monsters… the best and the worst of our history. No matter who wins today… things will get complicated afterward.
A loud whistling sounded against the railing. Patroclus leaned forward, his knuckles white from the pressure.
—That's the problem! —he exclaimed, his voice between anxiety and anger—. Even if Achilles wins… even if he survives… he'll still have to cross a sea of enemies capable of killing him. One after another!
Menelaus placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
—Achilles is no ordinary man, boy.
Before Patroclus could respond, Agamemnon spoke again, in a darker tone.
—I see our old friend has also been summoned.
His eyes had fixed on a name.
—Hector.
Ajax the Great nodded slowly.
—He's not the only familiar face. The queen of the Amazons will also be present.
A heavy silence fell over the group. Memories of blood, of fierce duels and funerals in foreign lands crossed their gazes.
Agamemnon snorted with disdain, though his jaw was tense.
—Both fell before Achilles. And they would fall again.
He tossed the parchment over his shoulder with a gesture of contempt and stepped forward, standing tall, puffing out his chest as if he still carried crown and scepter.
—Let demigods, monsters, or ghosts come —he declared—. None can equal the men who razed Ilion… and even less their king.
The parchment did not touch the ground. An old hand caught it in the air.
Nestor unfolded it calmly, as if he completely ignored the Atreid's bravado. His eyes, clouded by age but still piercing, scanned each line with almost reverent attention.
—One must never underestimate an enemy… —he finally said.
The Achaeans turned toward him.
Nestor barely raised his gaze.
—And even less so if the gods have granted him a second chance to kill you.
Patroclus stepped closer, uneasy.
—Nestor… what is it?
The old man remained silent for a moment, as if weighing each word before releasing it.
—I know almost all these names —he finally said—. With some of
them I sailed when the Argo crossed the seas of the world. I know what they are capable of…
His trembling finger descended to the last line.
—But this one…
He frowned.
—I do not know this one.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________
Back in the arena, the dust still floated in the air like a golden mist beneath the relentless sun. In the middle of that circle of cracked stone, Achilles remained standing, holding what was left of his sword: a metallic stump, twisted and smoking.The son of Peleus observed the useless piece with a mixture of curiosity and disappointment.
— I thought the weapons forged by Hephaestus would endure more than this… — he said, tilting his head.
In front of him, Diomedes did not lower his guard. His breathing was controlled, but his muscles were tense like bowstrings about to snap.
— They endure what is necessary — he replied in a deep voice —. They are made to break…
Achilles raised an eyebrow, as if that answer had seemed more interesting than the sword itself. Then, without giving it further importance, he tossed the shattered metal over his shoulder. The fragment struck the sand with a dull sound and was left forgotten.
— A pity — he added carelessly —. It had good balance.
Then he smiled.
It was not a wide or loud smile. It was worse: it was the smile of someone who has just remembered that he does not need weapons to win.
Diomedes felt it before understanding it. A chill ran down his spine like an invisible hand. His instincts, forged in countless battles, began to scream.
Achilles flexed his neck, his shoulders… and began to make small hops on the tips of his feet, light, almost playful. The sand barely sank under his weight.
Diomedes' eyes widened. He knew that gesture. He had seen it before.
Cold sweat slid down the back of his neck as his hand moved instinctively toward a fallen shield just a few centimeters away. He only needed a second. One damned second to lift it.
But against Achilles, a second was an eternity.
In less than a blink, the son of Peleus vanished. He did not run. He did not advance.
He simply stopped being where he was… and appeared in front of him.
The distance between them was devoured by a speed that did not belong to men. Not even to lightning. It was something purer, more primitive: the embodiment of war in motion.
The world slowed.
For Diomedes, those fragments of time, barely microseconds, stretched as if the gods wished to force him to contemplate his fate. He saw every grain of sand suspended in the air. He saw Achilles' golden hair floating like a living flame. He saw his eyes.
And that arrogant smile.
It was not hatred that was in it. It was certainty.
Achilles' fist closed; there was no prior shout nor warning. Only the impact.
The blow exploded against Diomedes' torso with the force of a divine battering ram. The sound was dry, brutal, like thunder trapped inside a human body.
The son of Tydeus felt the air leave his lungs before he could even understand the pain. His feet lifted from the ground, his hand let his axe slip away, and the sand exploded beneath him.
He was sent flying.
He shot across the arena like a projectile, his body spinning in the air before crashing violently against the opposite end of the coliseum. The stone cracked upon receiving him, and a cloud of dust rose toward the sky.