A huge skirmish was taking place across the plain, to the south-west. A handful of Greek soldiers were laying ferociously into a larger Trojan force. If this was who I thought it was, then this was the man-killer, himself.
Terrified and overwhelmed, the Trojan force split, half of them racing back towards Troy and the other half falling back into the River Scamander itself, maybe hoping to find some safety there.
Not so. A magnificently armoured figure roared commands and urged his men on. Could this be – please let it be – it must be – Achilles. I’d always pictured him as a giant. A colossal killing machine in golden armour, but even with his distinctive black horsehair crest, he stood no taller than anyone else. And his armour was of bronze, just like everyone else. He was just a man. But he fought like a god. Roaring like a bull, he plunged into the water after the fleeing Trojans, striking left and right.
No one escaped.
They say: ‘The river ran red with blood,’ and it did that day. So many bodies lay in the water that they blocked the flow of the river, which backed up, flooded its banks, and began to change its course.
Nor did the killing stop there.
Back on the dry and dusty plain, tireless Achilles once again gathered men to himself and set off in relentless pursuit of more Trojans. And Hector.
I didn’t know where Hector was. Or Paris. Or Deiphobos, of any of the Trojan generals, but the whole world could see Achilles in his fury, slaughtering Trojans by the truckload and working his way ever nearer to the Gate of Troy.
One brave warrior stepped forward – it might have been Agenor, Antenor’s son – and threw his spear, which caught Achilles a glancing blow, just below his well-armoured knee.
Whoever it was, he wisely didn’t hang around and was off like a deer with a roaring and completely uninjured Achilles in hot pursuit. What happened to Agenor, if indeed it was he, I couldn’t see in all the dust, but a hundred Trojans used Achilles’ absence to try to cram themselves in through the gate as fast as they could go. There was no dignity. No chivalry. No honour. They fought and elbowed and shoved in their eagerness to be within the safety of their own walls. To be as far as they could from the big, blond killing-machine outside.
All except one.
I’d found Hector. Exactly where Homer said he’d be.
In the distance, Achilles abandoned the pursuit of Agenor and raced back across the plain, still on fire with his need to avenge the death of his friend.
With one voice, the people along the walls shouted a warning. Even Priam, the king himself, rose to his feet and gestured.
But Hector stood firm. His ornate bronze armour was heavily dented and his red horsetail streaked with dust. But he hefted his bronze and wicker shield, planted his feet firmly. And waited.
It’s not easy to stand quietly and watch someone die. Because that’s what we do and I wonder about us, sometimes. We were about to witness one of the greatest duels of the Ancient World. Hector and Achilles. The hero of Troy against the greatest killer of the age.
Silence fell.
The thud of Achilles’ footsteps was plainly audible even from my distance.
I craned my neck for a better view. The woman next to me, whose breath reeked of garlic and had the worst teeth I’d ever seen, pushed spitefully and said something nasty, but I was in no mood to give way. I jabbed back and muttered something very rude in German. One of the best languages there is for a really good curse.
Priam was joined by his wife Hecuba and then by Andromache, who turned her head and spoke. The nurse took Astyanax away. He wouldn’t see his father die today. It didn’t matter. He had only days left to live, anyway.
Troy’s time was running out.
That was when it hit me. Hard. This was not some remote event to be studied, picked over, and analysed. This was real. These were people’s lives. These people existed. They loved. They suffered. They were all about to die. And we were going to watch.
Whether the sight of his family, standing together, and pleading for his return was too much for even Hector to endure, I don’t know. He turned his head to look at the fast approaching Achilles, then back to his family again. His wife lifted her arm as if to plead with him, then let it fall. Hector looked back to Achilles and then suddenly took off, back towards the gates.
Which had closed.
All around the walls people screamed a warning, but there was no time to get them open.
Unprepared, no weapon drawn, and with Achilles close behind him, Hector did the only thing he could.
He ran.
He did not run three times around the walls as legend claims. He ran away from them, racing across the plain, hurdling the bodies of the slain, and dodging broken bits of chariot and discarded armour, as Achilles, roaring his fury, chased along behind.