While the exchange of weapons between the two greatest Achaeans took place, their former companions watched them.
In the front rows of the divine coliseum's stands sat the ancient heroes of the Trojan War. Their gazes were fixed on the arena where two of their greatest comrades crossed steel.
Suddenly, a loud and proud laugh broke the solemnity of the moment.
"Those are my boys!" thundered Agamemnon, king of Mycenae and former leader of the Achaean army. "Forward! Show gods and mortals alike the power of the heroes who conquered the glorious city of Troy!"
At his side, a red-haired man raised an eyebrow with a half-smile.
"You're too excited, don't you think, brother" remarked Menelaus, king of Sparta and husband of Helen.
Agamemnon crossed his arms, puffing out his chest with almost theatrical pride.
"How could I not be? Today the whole world beholds the greatness of the warriors who fought under my command."
A broad smile, laden with vanity, spread across his face.
"And, of course, the magnificent king who led them to victory."
Menelaus sighed, bringing a hand to his face.
"You never change… you never change."
A bit farther away, a colossal figure remained silent. So tall and robust that even the red-haired Menelaus seemed small beside him. His arms were crossed and his expression was as hard as bronze.
"I should be down there" he finally declared.
It was Ajax the Great, whose strength and size were comparable to that of the Nemean lion that Heracles himself had slain. In his eyes burned the wounded pride of a warrior who never accepted being left aside.
Menelaus glanced at him sideways.
"I wouldn't mind wielding a sword once more either" he admitted. "But let's be honest… none of us could match what those two are doing."
The giant snorted in disdain.
"You know he's right" another voice intervened, light and sharp as steel. A man idly played with a pair of daggers. "If you stepped into the arena, you'd end up dead before raising your shield."
The speaker was Ajax the Lesser, also called Aiante, swift and bloodthirsty. The tension between the two Ajaxes grew like a spark about to ignite a dry field.
"Another dispute between us is unnecessary" an aged and serene voice intervened then.
Nestor, the wise man of Pylos, leaning on his staff, watched the arena with eyes burdened by centuries.
"The gods chose the combatants. It was neither chance nor glory that decided this… but fate. And fate did not call upon us."
His words, slow but firm, dispelled the dense air that had formed.
It was Aiante who changed the subject.
"Tell me, Agamemnon… which of the two do you intend to support?"
The Atrid brought a hand to his chest with exaggerated dramatics.
"You ask me to choose between two heroes who fought under my banner? One a friend and the other? What cruelty!"
"You support Diomedes" Menelaus declared, cutting the scene short.
Agamemnon's eyes gleamed intensely.
"Of course!" the king exclaimed, striking the stone railing. "That arrogant Achilles always needed someone to put him in his place!"
Menelaus gave him a sharp elbow to the stomach. Then he subtly tilted his head toward a young man standing a few steps away, apart from the commotion.
There stood Patroclus. His gaze never left the fight. He followed every movement with almost painful intensity. His hands were clenched, and on his face was a mix of anxiety and hope.
"Hey, Patroclus!" Menelaus called in a softer voice.
The young man gave a slight start, as if pulled out of a trance.
"Come with us. You look too tense."
Patroclus approached, trying to compose a calm expression.
"I'm sorry… it's just that…" he took a deep breath. "I'm nervous."
Nestor placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Boy, you know better than anyone that there is no force in this world capable of defeating Achilles."
A shy smile lit up Patroclus's face, though the unease did not fully disappear.
"Well" said Ajax the Great, looking around. "Now we're all here."
"Not exactly" Aiante corrected, sheathing his daggers. "Odysseus is missing.
Agamemnon frowned."
"That's true… where did that cunning trickster go?"
At the question, Patroclus reacted. He searched in a bag he carried and pulled out a small rolled parchment.
"Achilles' mother gave this to me" he explained as he handed it to the king. "It's the official list of the combatants."
Agamemnon took the parchment with curiosity and unrolled it so everyone could see.
The murmur ceased.
"It… can't be…" the Atrid finally whispered, the color draining from his face.
The Achaeans were petrified at the parchment in the Atrid's hands. No one spoke. No one even breathed normally. Finally, King Agamemnon stepped forward. His voice came out low, rough, almost unrecognizable.
"So… these are the ones chosen by the gods."
The list of the combatants of the Heromachy burned with a supernatural light:
Alcides — "Lionheart"
Achilles — "The swift-footed"
Arachne — "The weaver"
Asterion — "The bull of Minos"
Atalanta — "The huntress"
Diomedes — "Son of Tydeus"
Hector — "Slayer of men"
Jason — "The one with a single sandal"
Medea — "She of many potions"
Medusa — "The Gorgon"
Odysseus — "Of many wiles"
Orion — "The great hunter"
Penthesilea — "Queen of the Amazons"
Perseus — "Slayer of Medusa"
Theseus — "Son of Aegeus"
Alexander — "Son of Zeus"
The conquerors of Ilium looked at one another. That was not a list of warriors… it was a catalog of legends, of ancient terrors.
The silence was broken by a dry laugh.
The younger of the two Ajaxes, Aiante, tilted his head toward his gigantic companion, Ajax the Great, with a crooked smile.
"Heh… Seems the gods didn't hold back. Still feel like stepping into the arena, big guy… or has your courage already faded?"
The giant slowly turned his head.
"I'd last longer than you without even breaking a sweat, runt."
The exchange would have escalated, but Menelaus's voice emerged, still laden with disbelief.
"It's… all of them" he murmured, shifting his gaze from the parchment to the arena, where Achilles and Diomedes fought. "Heroes, kings, monsters… the best and the worst of our history. No matter who wins today… it's going to be difficult afterward."
A sharp thud echoed against the railing.
Patroclus leaned forward, his knuckles white from the pressure.
"That's the problem!" he exclaimed, his voice caught between anxiety and anger. "Even if Achilles survives… he'll still have to cross a sea of enemies capable of killing him. One after another!"
Menelaus placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Achilles is no ordinary man, boy."
Before Patroclus could respond, Agamemnon spoke again, in a darker tone.
"I see our old friend has also been summoned."
His eyes had fixed on a name.
"Hector."
Ajax the Great nodded slowly.
"He's not the only familiar face. The queen of the Amazons will be present as well."
A heavy silence fell over the group. Memories of blood, of fierce duels, and of funerals on foreign soil crossed their gazes.
Agamemnon snorted in disdain, though his jaw was tense.
"Both fell to Achilles. And they would fall again."
He tossed the parchment over his shoulder with a gesture of contempt and stepped forward, upright, puffing out his chest as if he still bore crown and scepter.
The parchment did not touch the ground. The old man's hand caught it in the air.
Nestor unrolled it calmly, as if completely ignoring the Atrid's bravado. His eyes, dulled by age yet still piercing, scanned each line with almost reverent attention.
"One must never underestimate an enemy..." he finally said.
The Achaeans turned toward him. Nestor barely lifted his gaze.
"And even less so if the gods have granted them a second chance to kill you."
Patroclus stepped closer, uneasy.
"Nestor… what is it?"
The old man remained silent for a moment, as if weighing each word before releasing it.
"I know almost all of these names" he said at last. "With some, I sailed when the Argo crossed the seas of the world. I know what they are capable of…"
His trembling finger descended to the last line.
"But this one…"
He frowned.
"I do not know this one."