Cassandra and Apollo

Chapter 13

A new sun crests over the blue-green horizon. It paints the sky crimson and gold, like a demigod's blood.

Two armies gather into formation. The walls of Troy stand behind the battle lines, staring pale and impassive. Women and children gather atop the battlements, squinting their eyes through the dawn to find a particular soldier, a particular soul. But they are too far away. All the men look the same, a sea of blood-caked bronze and leather.

Except for two.

The Trojan ranks part down the middle, making a narrow path for two new soldiers. One has armor of purest gold, with interlocking planes polished to a smooth, high shine. There is not a speck of dirt on him, even his greaves are flawless.

The second figure's armor does not shine. In fact, it seems to suck the light from the air. There are a dozen scratches on it, too, revealing hundreds of near misses, and some landed blows.

A scream pierces the beach—a command from the leader of the Greek host, that bull king of Mycenae. From the ramparts, it is impossible to understand what he says. But the Achaeans hear it well enough.

Greek soldiers begin to shuffle and reorder, making way for their own champions. The sound is like rolling thunder.

Two men walk side by side, their dusted feet trampling what little green remains on the field. But to call them both men is to call a leopard a cat. Technically correct, but the difference is significant.

The shorter of the two soldiers is wide and sure-footed, he handles his shield and spear like old, familiar friends. His hands are calloused and scarred. But his armor is impressive, carbuncled with sky blue sapphires and blood rubies. If that were not enough to distinguish this man from the common soldier, there is his fierce stare. He is a king. One could easily imagine him commanding the sky itself to rain, or the seas to calm.

The taller soldier does not need to command. He does not order, he subdues. His shield is taller than most of the men behind him, though it only covers him from shin to shoulder. A lionskin pelt drapes over his left side, opposite his shield arm. It belonged to the legendary Herakles, a friend of his father. He wears no other armor, for the skin of the Nemean Lion can repel both sword and spear.

"Well met, princes," says the warrior king. He glances at Hector before cutting Paris in half with his iron-gray eyes. The golden prince shuffles uncomfortably, and it is as if his armor is too big, or too small.

"Well met, King Menelaus," returns Hector. There is no anger or fear in his voice, anvil flat and heavy though it is. He turns to the great mountain next to the king and lifts his chin, "Ajax the Great, I presume?"

Ajax gives the briefest nod of respect, "You are Hector the Manslaying, yes?"

Hector pauses, tightens his mouth into a thin line. When he speaks, it is with a low growl. "Only when pressed."

Surprisingly, Ajax inclines his head in agreement.

"A hundred paces' distance between the battle lines?" suggests Menelaus.

Hector eyes the field, gauges the wind's speed and direction. He agrees on the distance, but picks the specific locations for the two duels. The Spartan king does not object, believing his victory will be sweetened by giving his opponent every advantage.

The winds still, eerily so. Two sets of opponents take to their pitch.

For Hector, this is really two fights—his attention is split between the mountain that is Ajax and Paris's fragile, golden self.

The sun bears down on the armies and the fighters alike. Hector kneels and rubs sand on his palms to improve his grip.

He has a ritual. Every time he steps beyond the walls, he pictures everything that drives his return. He sees his son, round faced and golden haired, with two bright eyes like green marbles. He sees Andromache, her brow furrowed in concentration as she considers the remaining grain rations and how to make them last another winter. She is not dull, he thinks, not dumb. But there is no arguing with Cassandra, who once heard Andromache ask if Thebes sits west or east of Troy and has never forgiven the failing. His sister is quick to judge, and protective. He hopes they will take care of one another when he is gone. Hopes they will take care of his father, too.