As the day wore on, the heat began to mount, the sun blazing down from a clear sky, the breeze fading away. The final of the archery tourney was won by the young Trojan soldier Cheon, who narrowly put Meriones into second place.
As the day neared its end, the ropes holding back the crowds were released, and thousands of spectators moved across the stadium, eager to see the last event and watch the mighty Achilles claim the champion’s crown.
Helikaon watched the Thessalian prince stride across the open ground. He was wearing a short kilt of fine pale leather, his upper body bare to the sunlight, his raven hair drawn back from his face. The crowd followed him, but not pressing in too closely. He looked, Helikaon thought, like a lion surrounded by sheep. The Dardanian glanced around, seeking out the challenger, but there was no sign of him. Achilles halted before the two thrones and stood quietly.
The kings of the west, led by Agamemnon, left their enclosure and strode across the open ground, the crowd parting for them. Odysseus walked forward to stand before Priam.
“I have just learned,” he said loudly, “that my fighter, Leukon, has suffered an injury. He tripped and fell on the way here, breaking two of his fingers. He cannot fight today.” A roar of disappointment went up from the crowd. Helikaon felt his stomach tighten. He did not believe for a moment that the story was true, and he sensed danger looming.
Priam rose from his seat, raising his arms for silence. “That is, indeed, grim news, Odysseus,” he said. “It is always regrettable when a man becomes champion by default. However, few can deny that Achilles is worthy of the crown.” So saying, he reached down and lifted the laurel band, preparing to offer it to the Thessalian.
At that moment Achilles spoke. “By your leave, Priam King,” he said, “it seems to me that your people gathered here deserve to see a contest. Why not, then, allow them an exhibition bout? It is said by some that your son Hektor is a fine fighter. I would deem it a privilege to spar with him, and I am sure the Trojan people would enjoy viewing it.”
A great cheer went up, and the crowd began to chant: “Hektor! Hektor!”
Anger swept through Helikaon. Hektor had not trained for these games and had been sitting all day, eating and drinking. Achilles spoke of an exhibition bout, of sparring. That was a lie. The moment the two men faced each other, it would be a fight to the finish. He realized then that this was the plan: for the games to finish with the Trojan hero sprawled senseless in the dust and Troy humiliated by the might of the west.
With any other opponent Helikaon would have had no doubts as to the outcome. Hektor was a magnificent fighter. But for the first time he found himself wondering if Hektor might be outclassed. It seemed like a betrayal of friendship even to think it, but Helikaon had now seen both men in action. Hektor was enormously strong and brave and fast. But Achilles was colder, and there was a cruelty in him that made him deadly. Helikaon glanced at Priam, hoping he would see the danger. His heart sank, for there was a gleam in Priam’s eyes that spoke of triumph. Here was a man who could not conceive of defeat for his son. As far as Priam was concerned, Hektor was the physical personification of Troy itself and therefore unbeatable. Priam once more lifted his hands for silence, and as the chanting died away, he turned toward his son. “Will you honor your people and take up this challenge?” he asked.
Hektor rose, his expression grim. “As always I will obey my father’s bidding,” he said. Stepping down from the dais, he pulled off his jeweled belt and removed his tunic. A soldier brought him a leather kilt, which he swung around his waist and tied into place. Helikaon moved down to stand alongside him.
“You know this will be no sparring match,” he whispered.
Hektor nodded. “Of course I know. This is about blood and humiliation.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE FALLEN HERO
More than twenty thousand people were present at the fight, though less than a tenth could say truthfully they witnessed it. People farther back than the first few rows could occasionally get a glimpse of the two men, but those at the rear could only listen to the roars of the crowd. And yet, decades later, men from all nations would say their fathers or their grandfathers had stood close by on that day. Two hundred years on a king from Macedonia named Antipas would insist that his ancestor had held the cloak of the victor. For seven generations his family claimed the title Cloakbearer. Bards would later sing of the battle, maintaining that Zeus and the gods had descended on Troy that day, disguised as mortals, and that ownership of the stars was wagered by them.
Odysseus saw no gods as he stood on the far side of the circle with the kings of the west. He saw two proud men in the full glory of youth and strength circling one another under a blazing sun. Achilles made the first attack, stepping in and feinting with a left before flashing a right hand that thundered against Hektor’s face. The Trojan champion reacted with an uppercut that hammered into his opponent’s belly and a left cross that glanced from Achilles’ temple. Then they pulled back and circled again. This time it was Hektor who moved in. Achilles swayed back from a straight left, then stepped inside, throwing a combination of blows that drove Hektor back. The punches were blindingly fast, each one pounding into Hektor’s face. The Trojan covered up, blocking further blows with his forearms, then counterattacked with a left hook that clubbed into Achilles’ cheek.
Achilles was bigger and faster than the Trojan and was landing more punches. Odysseus watched intently as the fighters circled once more. Each man had now tested the other, and both knew there would be no swift conclusion.
Odysseus stood quietly, the roars of the crowd washing over him. He knew Achilles was the stronger man, but he knew also that skill and speed alone would not dictate the outcome. The plan had been Agamemnon’s, and Odysseus had offered no argument against it. If Hektor could be defeated, it would damage the morale of the Trojans, whereas if Achilles lost, it would dent only the confidence of the Thessalians and have little effect on men from other nations drawn into the battle for Troy.
Even so he was torn as he watched the combat. He liked Hektor and had no desire to see him humbled. Equally, he longed to see the look on Priam’s face when his beloved son was defeated. Odysseus glanced at the Trojan king. Priam was watching the fight, his expression calm and untroubled.
That will change, Odysseus thought.
Both fighters now glistened with sweat, and there was a swelling beneath Hektor’s right eye. Achilles was unmarked. He surged forward, ducking under a murderous right, then smashing two blows into Hektor’s face, opening a cut under the left eye that sprayed blood over the nearby spectators. A gasp went up from the crowd. Hektor countered with a left hook that slashed above Achilles’ ducking head. Achilles hammered a blow into Hektor’s belly and a right cross that cracked against his chin. Off balance, Hektor tumbled to the dirt and rolled onto his back.
Odysseus flicked a glance at Priam and smiled. The Trojan king was ashen, his mouth open in shock.
Hektor rose to his knees, shook his head, and remained where he was for a moment, dragging in deep breaths. Then he stood, walked to the spear plunged into the ground, and patted the haft. Blood was running down his face.