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I knew what it was. It was Achilles, dragging the body of Hector, desecrating it in revenge for the death of his best friend.
Next to me, Achilles sucked in a breath. “It seemed fitting for this to be what I chose for the seal. This was the moment I lost myself, and became a monster.”
Hector took in a breath, ready to argue, but Achilles waved him off. “Do you know the story, Leo?”
Of course I did, but all I did was nod. His voice was too quiet, too… careful. Nothing like I’d ever heard from him.
Inching forward, he reached for the stone, and touched it. I made sure to give him space, so he would see he had nothing to fear from me. I wouldn’t sneak up on him or take his memories the way I had with Hector.
“Your father begged for your body.” The words were directed to Hector. Peering at him briefly, he turned his attention back to the stone. “Paris begged as well, didn’t you?”
Neither brother answered.
“You know my story, Leo?” he asked again.
“I—” It was all I got out before his big hand enfolded mine, and he laid his palm on the seal.
The roar of the crowd filled my ears. They called my name, cheering me, but I left pride somewhere on the battlefield. All that was left was fury.
I stood, chest heaving, and pulled my spear from Hector’s chest. He gasped, flecks of blood bursting from his mouth as he tried to breathe.
Somewhere above us, on a balcony in the distance, a woman screamed. His wife? His mother?
“General!” The voice was old, but in those seconds, made louder and stronger with passion. “Mercy for my son. Return his body to me.”
Rather than answer, I watched Hector’s eyes flick toward the palace, and then go distant and dull as the life drained out of him. One second. Two.
And he was gone.
There was another roar, jeering. My soldiers taunted the Trojans, surging forward to grasp beneath the arms of the warrior I’d bested.
And still I heard King Priam, begging. “On my knees, General! Return my son!”
No.
I had years’ worth of anger inside me, all of it stoked by the death of my only friend in this world.
It was my fault Patroclus was dead. He had begged me to push the Trojans back from the beach, and I had given in. With my armor, I thought he would be protected. But the gods loved to interfere, and when my friend had succeeded in causing the Trojans to retreat, he should have been content with the outcome of the battle.
Patroclus never would have acted as he did without being robbed of his senses by the gods.
From my place on the beaches, I couldn’t reach him fast enough. So I had to watch. Patroclus had been like an older brother—keeping me out of trouble, guiding me, teaching me—and all I could do was watch him die.
Watch Hector kill him.
Now, I would have my revenge. “Throw me the rope.”
The wails from the palace were almost louder than the laughter of my men, but that could have been because I wanted to hear them. Ineededto hear the pain I inflicted.
With careful, steady hands, I tied the rope around my enemy’s feet, and then around and around the chariot.
Climbing on, I stared up at the palace, singling out the one man whose own pain might touch my own.
My gaze drifted over his wife, face expressionless, and his mother, who was held up by her son, Paris, and went right to King Priam.
“Mercy.” There was no sound, only the shape of the word.
Smiling, I flicked the horse with my whip and dragged his beloved son’s body across the sands until not even his father would recognize him.
