One Chance...
Achilles repeated those words in his mind as he watched Diomedes hurl himself at him with his spear raised. The world around him seemed to have grown slow and heavy, as if even time itself were exhausted after the brutality of the combat. Even so, his eyes followed every movement of his rival with relentless clarity.
One Chance...
He thought it again as he extended his arm toward the ground, where an abandoned sword lay among the sand and the remnants of the battle. His fingers closed firmly around the hilt, although the trembling of his body betrayed the state he was in.
One Chance...
Achilles managed to dodge Diomedes' charge at the last instant. The tip of the spear whistled past his body, barely grazing the air where his chest had been a moment before.
But this was no longer like the beginning of the fight.
There was no longer that impossible speed in his movements that made Achilles seem like the very embodiment of war. Nor was there any trace left of the overwhelming strength with which both had shattered weapons and armor at the start of the duel. Now they were two broken bodies barely able to remain standing… two dead men stubbornly refusing to allow their souls to leave their bodies.
One Chance...
That had been one of his master's final teachings. A lesson that Achilles had heard countless times during his training… and that, ironically, Diomedes himself had proven to understand better than many other warriors.
A warrior needs nothing more than one chance. A single opportunity to change the fate of a battle. And sometimes… a true warrior must create that opportunity with his own hands.
Achilles knew it better than anyone.
_______________________________________
The songs of the aedoi tell that, upon seeing the son of Peleus advance toward him, Hector fled in terror, unable to face the wrath of the greatest of the Achaean warriors. That is how history usually remembers it: the prince of Troy running around the walls, pursued by an unstoppable Achilles.
But the truth had been very different.
That had been, up to that moment, the hardest battle Achilles had ever fought in his entire life.
For every cut he managed to inflict, Hector answered with another. For every blow Achilles delivered, the Trojan prince returned one just as fierce. Both breathed with difficulty, and even so neither seemed willing to take a single step back.
Achilles had wounded Hector again and again, but the protector of Troy simply… would not yield.
There came a moment when Achilles himself began to feel the weight of exhaustion sink into his muscles. A moment in which, for the first time, he thought that the man before him was as unbeatable as the very walls of Troy he protected.
And it was then that he remembered his master's words.
The calm and deep voice of the centaur Chiron echoed in his mind, as if the old tutor were standing at his side at that very instant.
A warrior needs nothing more than one opportunity…
Achilles looked at his opponent once more with renewed attention.
That day, Hector wore a very particular armor. It was not one forged for him, nor an heirloom of the kings of Troy.
It was Achilles' armor.
The very same one he had taken from Patroclus' body when he fell in battle, after having passed himself off as the son of Peleus to raise the morale of the Achaeans.
Achilles knew that armor.
He had worn it for almost ten years of war. He knew every rivet, every plate, every imperfection in its structure better than any other living man… even better than Hector himself.
So he waited.
He stepped back, observed, provoked certain movements… until he finally managed to position himself in exactly the way he was seeking. Almost imperceptibly, he forced Hector to attack from a specific angle.
And when the prince of Troy launched his strike…
Achilles saw what he had been waiting for.
Between the plates of the armor there was a small gap at the throat. A minimal space, almost invisible to anyone who did not know the armor perfectly. But
Achilles knew it.
And he did not miss the opportunity.
His spear shot forward like lightning. The tip found that opening with deadly precision, piercing Hector's throat before the prince could even understand what had happened.
Thus fell the protector of Troy.
Thus ended the life of the greatest hero of the city… pierced by the one opportunity Achilles had needed.
________________________________________
Even after so many years… you still teach me, old man.
The thought crossed Achilles' mind like a distant whisper, filled with silent gratitude.
But the battlefield granted no space for nostalgia.
Achilles' mind snapped back to the present. Before him, Diomedes continued advancing, determined to finish that fight.
Achilles took a step forward.
With a swift movement, or as swift as his wounded body still allowed, he raised the sword and launched a direct strike at his opponent. The blow was clumsy, predictable… and missed completely.
But that had never been the real objective.
Perhaps it was the exhaustion numbing his muscles. Perhaps the pain coursing through his body after an endless battle. Or perhaps it was the desperate urgency to end the fight before death claimed either of them.
Whatever the reason, Diomedes fell into the trap.
The son of Tydeus reacted immediately upon seeing the opening in Achilles' defense. With the fierce determination that had always defined him, he thrust his spear forward without the slightest hesitation.
The tip of the spear sank deeply into Achilles' thigh. A harsh grunt escaped the Pelid's throat as pain exploded through his leg.
But Achilles did not stop.
His gaze remained fixed, cold, focused. Before Diomedes could withdraw the spear or understand what was happening, Achilles raised the arm that still held the sword.
With a brutal blow, he brought the blade down against the shaft of the spear. The wood split with a dry crack.
The weapon burst into a shower of splinters that flew in all directions, leaving in Diomedes' hands nothing but a useless fragment. The impact was so sudden that the son of Tydeus, who had put all the weight of his body into the charge, lost his balance instantly.
Achilles had created his opportunity.
Diomedes staggered forward, trying to regain his footing before falling. His feet searched desperately for support on the sand, but his body had already leaned too far. And Achilles did not waste the moment.
With one last effort, he thrust his sword forward. The blade pierced Diomedes' chest with a dull sound.
For a second, time seemed to stop.
The son of Tydeus slowly lowered his gaze to the sword embedded in his chest, as if he needed to confirm what had just happened. Then his knees gave way under the weight of his own body.
He fell to his knees on the sand.
Achilles withdrew the sword and stepped back a couple of paces, breathing with difficulty as blood continued to fall from his wounds. His body trembled from exhaustion, but his one good eye remained
fixed on his former companion.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. They simply looked at each other.
Then, on Diomedes' face, a final smile appeared. It was neither bitter nor resentful. It was calm… almost warm. A farewell smile.