Who knows how far and how fast they would have run? Achilles could not catch Hector and with his opponent between him and the walls, Hector could not get back to Troy.
He skidded suddenly to a halt, sliding in the dust and raising a cloud of it around him. Another figure stood nearby with two precious javelins. Now he had a fighting chance. Deiphobos had not abandoned his brother.
In the Iliad, Deiphobos is really that grey-eyed bitch, Athena, who leads Hector on and then abandons him to the wrath of Achilles.
The encounter was short and brutal. There were no fine speeches. No godly interventions.
Achilles threw his spear.
Hector ducked and it sailed harmlessly over his head.
Straightening, he threw his own spear. Achilles caught it square on his famous shield with a clang we could hear all the way back in Troy and deflected it away.
Hector turned for his second spear. But Deiphobos, maybe fearing for his own safety, had disappeared. Hector was abandoned and completely alone. Just as the Iliad describes.
The groan could be heard all over Troy.
Did he know? Did Hector know in his heart that he could not escape? In his last moments, did the gods grant him that knowledge? That his city could not escape? That his people could not escape?
He didn’t hesitate for one moment.
Casting aside his heavy round shield, he pulled out his sword, flourished it above his head, threw back his head to shout his last defiant battle cry, and hurled himself straight at Achilles …
… who stood his ground, head on one side, considering … then slowly, lazily even, lifted his spear and stabbed Hector a great blow in the neck.
A huge fountain of bright red blood arced through the air.
The champion of Troy fell on his back in the dust.
Not a sound could be heard on the walls. Not even from the watching Greek lines.
Hector lay in the dust in a spreading pool of red, twitching slightly. Not yet dead.
Achilles tilted back his head, clenched his fists, and roared his triumph to the gods, to the ghost of Patroclus, to the city of Troy, to the whole world.
With Hector still not dead, he stripped him naked, slashed his ankles and threaded them through with leather thongs. He tied the ends to his chariot and set off around the walls of Troy, with Hector’s still-living body bumping along behind him, leaving a long scarlet trail in the dust.
A great cry went up. The whole city gave voice to grief. The women sent up a wailing lament and Andromache dropped like a stone.
Her women rushed to her aid. Homer has her working her loom at the moment of Hector’s death, but she wasn’t. She was there. On the walls. She saw his death. She didn’t see her husband’s slowly disintegrating body being dragged time and again around the city of Troy whose walls, unfortunately, were not high enough to spare its occupants the sight of their hero’s humiliation. They wept.
All except one.
Paris, Hector’s brother, bare-chested but wearing an archer’s leather wrist guard, stepped carefully around the wailing women without even seeming to see them. Taking up his great bow, slowly and with great care, he selected a perfect arrow. Below, Achilles was approaching for yet another circuit of the walls. The thing bouncing off the rocks as it was dragged behind the chariot was no longer recognisable as a man.
Racing ahead of his own dust, Achilles approached at speed. Somewhere along the way he’d shed his helmet and his long, fair hair streamed behind him. Still he roared his victory at the Trojan forces, the words indistinguishable over the rumbling wheels. Galloping flat out, his black horses thundered across the plain, manes and tails flying. Foam flecked their flanks and flew from their bits. They looked as out of control as their driver.
I said softly, ‘Kal, your team is to stay with Achilles. My team – focus on Paris. Above the Scaean Gate.’
Because, unseen by most, with their attention fixed on the approaching Achilles, Paris had climbed on to the wall. Bracing himself with one knee, he leaned far out – almost too far – and slowly drew back his bow, seeking his spot. His face showed nothing but an intense concentration as he took aim. The sun was not low enough in the sky to dazzle and, as if the gods had spoken, the wind dropped.
I felt the world pause.
And then, smoothly, perfectly, he let loose his arrow.
I didn’t see the flight but I saw the impact, god-driven, straight into the famous heel. In his chariot, Achilles staggered, lost his balance, and control of his horses.
The chariot swerved wildly. One wheel hit a rock and the light vehicle bounced high off the ground.
Limbs flailing, Achilles flew through the air to land head-first and with massive impact onto the rocks. With a crack that could be heard from the walls of Troy all the way to the furthest of Agamemnon’s ships, his head burst open.
The world stopped. Silence fell.