Chapter 235: The Name He Calls

Achilles remained beside the broken wagon after the wounded had been carried away.

The fire had weakened, but smoke still drifted across the field, turning the morning light red. Patroclus lay beneath a cloak a few steps away. One hand remained outside it, his fingers curled around a splinter of wood.

Achilles looked at that hand.

"Take the men who can walk back to camp," he said. "Carry the rest."

A soldier glanced toward the body.

"And Patroclus?"

Achilles walked to him and knelt.

"I will take him."

The soldier lowered his head and moved away.

Achilles pulled the cloak back from Patroclus’s face. Ash covered one cheek. Blood had dried beneath his jaw. He wiped it away with his thumb, then placed his fingers against Patroclus’s neck.

Cold.

He had known it already. His hand remained there anyway.

Two soldiers approached to help him lift the body.

Achilles looked at them.

"I said I will take him."

They stopped.

He carried Patroclus from the burning camp himself.

The soldiers made way as he passed. No one tried to speak to him. Behind them, the flames reached the stacked timber, and a section of the supply platform collapsed with a heavy crack.

Achilles did not turn around.

He carried Patroclus into his tent before the sun had fully risen.

The healer followed him inside, took one look at the wound beneath the ribs, and quietly left.

Achilles laid Patroclus on his own bed.

He cleaned the ash and dried blood from his cousin’s face and hands. When the water turned red, he replaced it and began again. The second basin became red as well.

A young soldier stood near the entrance.

Achilles recognized him from the supply camp.

"You were there," Achilles said.

"Yes."

"You saw what happened."

The soldier swallowed.

"Patroclus went back for a man trapped beneath the wagon."

"Why?"

"The man was calling for help."

Achilles wrung the cloth over the basin.

"He always did that."

The soldier lowered his eyes.

"He saved my life."

Achilles looked at him.

"Then remember it."

The soldier bowed and left.

Achilles sat beside Patroclus for a long time. He held one of his hands between both of his own, though the fingers had already begun to stiffen.

Patroclus had warned him.

Fear is wisdom.

You have never been careful.

One day, that will be the death of you.

Achilles could still hear his voice. He could picture the way Patroclus had stood beside him on the beach, speaking without fear because he was the only man who could.

Achilles bent his head.

"You were right," he whispered.

The tent remained silent.

After a while, he released Patroclus’s hand and stood.

King Agamemnon entered without waiting to be announced.

Dust covered his cloak. His sword was still at his side.

"Achilles."

Achilles fastened the straps of his armour.

"The eastern supply works are destroyed," Agamemnon said. "The men are regrouping. We can answer the Trojan attack, but not by throwing the army against the walls."

Achilles picked up his spear.

"Hector killed him."

"King Hector led the raid. That does not mean you can take the entire army into the city."

"I am not taking the army."

Agamemnon looked at the body on the bed.

"Then what are you doing?"

Achilles said nothing.

Agamemnon stepped closer.

"The Trojans broke the truce first. We will answer them. But we will answer with an army, not with grief."

Achilles turned toward him.

"Patroclus is not grief."

Agamemnon’s expression tightened.

"He is dead."

"He was the only man in this camp who could speak to me without wanting something."

"That does not change what must be done."

"No," Achilles said. "It changes what I will do."

Agamemnon moved between him and the entrance.

"You will not go alone."

Achilles looked at him.

"Move."

"Achilles, listen to me. Hector wants you outside those walls. He wants your anger to choose the battlefield."

"He can have it."

"You will be surrounded before you reach the inner wall."

"Then they should have sent more men to stop me."

Agamemnon held his ground for another moment.

He understood that ordering the guards to restrain Achilles would accomplish nothing except create another fight inside the Greek camp.

At last, he stepped aside.

Achilles walked out.

The Myrmidons near his tent followed when they saw him take up his spear.

No order was given. They knew where he was going.

They crossed the camp toward the eastern road, where the Greek soldiers were still reorganizing after the attack. Smoke rose from the ruined supply works. Beyond it, Troy’s walls stood beneath the pale morning sky.

A few soldiers tried to stop them.

"Achilles, wait for the commanders."

He did not answer.

The Myrmidons moved around him, not to restrain him but to keep the other Greeks from getting in his way.

The fighting had already spread across the plain. Trojan archers fired from the outer positions, and Greek shields rose in response. No one on either side pretended the truce still protected them. Hector had broken it when he sent his men against the supply camp.

Achilles entered the open ground.

The Trojan archers saw him.

For a moment, they did not shoot. They watched the small group crossing the field, trying to understand who had come so close to the wall.

Then Achilles stopped and lifted his face toward the battlements.

The first volley fell.

Arrows struck the earth around the Myrmidons. Their shields rose together. One arrow struck a shield hard enough to split the wood.

Achilles remained uncovered.

He looked toward the inner wall.

"Hector!"

His voice carried across the field.

The archers above shifted. More soldiers appeared along the battlements. The Myrmidons shouted at him to raise his shield, but Achilles did not move.

A second volley came down.

The soldiers closed their shields around him. Achilles stepped through the narrow opening and continued forward.

The inner wall rose above him, its stones dark beneath the morning sun.

"Hector!"

This time, the name reached the battlements.

A figure appeared above the wall.

King Hector.

He wore the armour from the raid. Blood darkened one sleeve, and smoke clung to the edge of his cloak. He looked down at Achilles but said nothing.

Achilles stopped beneath the wall.

For one breath, the field went quiet around him.

He remembered Patroclus’s hand in his own. The cold skin. The blood in the basin. The voice that had warned him for years and would never speak again.

He raised his spear.

Then he shouted with everything left inside him.

"HECTOR!"

The name struck the stone and rolled through Troy.

Hector remained above the wall.

He did not answer.

Achilles stood below, surrounded by the Myrmidons, Patroclus’s blood still dark beneath his fingernails.

No one moved.

The war had changed.