The stands fell into a dense and almost unreal silence, as if the entire crowd needed a moment to understand what had just happened before their eyes. The powerful Diomedes, the hero who had once dared to wound the very gods, now lay finally defeated upon the sand. In front of him, Achilles remained standing, staggering but indomitable, his right eye wounded and blood soaking his face. His own entrails, torn during the battle, were barely held under his arm as the hero breathed with difficulty, refusing to fall.
For a few seconds, no one said anything. The entire coliseum seemed to hold its breath before that vision, both brutal and glorious at the same time.
Then, suddenly, Calliope broke the silence.
"Two legends have clashed in this arena!" proclaimed the muse with a wide theatrical gesture, extending her arms toward the combatants. "Two names that will resonate forever in the songs of poets! But today… the legend of Achilles has prevailed over that of Diomedes!"
The stands immediately erupted into a deafening roar. Thousands of voices began to shout, to cheer, to celebrate the brutal victory of the son of Peleus as the echo of applause thundered against the walls of the stadium.
Calliope continued, raising her voice above the clamor of the crowd.
"The cunning and intelligence of Diomedes were formidable!" she declared. "But even they could not eclipse the indomitable power of Achilles! There could not have been a more grand beginning for the Heromachy!"
The name of the victor began to be repeated in chorus.
"Achilles!"
"Achilles!"
"Achilles!"
Among the spectators, Patroclus let out a long sigh that seemed to have been held since the beginning of the fight. His shoulders relaxed as he watched the bloodied figure of his friend still standing in the arena.
"Achilles…" he murmured, with a mixture of relief and pride. "Thank goodness…"
At his side, the imposing Ajax the Great crossed his arms over his enormous chest and let out a brief laugh, shaking his head with a satisfied smile.
"That boy… he did well" he commented in a deep voice. "Very well."
Agamemnon, on the other hand, did not share the general enthusiasm. The king of Mycenae watched the arena with a furrowed brow and tense lips, until he finally let out a snort filled with contempt.
"Lucky boy" he muttered coldly. "Nothing more than that."
Menelaus did not celebrate. His eyes were fixed on the motionless body lying on the blood-stained sand. The red-haired king of Sparta remained silent, unable to look away from his fallen old comrade.
"Diomedes…" he whispered, his voice barely audible.
The old Nestor, seated beside him, observed the scene with his usual serenity. His eyes, burdened with years and battles, understood that moment all too well.
"Do not torment yourself over him, Menelaus" he said gently, placing a hand on the Spartan's shoulder. "He died as every warrior would wish to die: with honor, with courage… and achieving something no mortal had ever accomplished."
Menelaus remained silent for a moment longer before casting one last glance toward the arena. Finally, a small and melancholic smile appeared on his face.
In the divine stands, where the gods watched the tournament, the atmosphere was very different. Hephaestus, Athena, and Ares observed the battlefield with expressions full of tension.
Ares was the first to break the silence, leaning slightly toward his brother with a mocking smile.
"Well… it seems your champion was the first to fall" he remarked in a provocative tone.
Hephaestus frowned and let out a snort, clearly irritated by the war god's mockery. Before he could respond, Athena spoke.
"He was…" she said, but her voice faltered slightly.
The goddess clenched her fists tightly, her eyes still fixed on the body of her fallen protégé.
"…a great warrior."
For a moment, neither Ares nor Hephaestus said anything. Finally, both placed a hand on Athena's shoulders in an unexpectedly supportive gesture.
"Yes…" Hephaestus admitted after a few seconds, in a deep voice. "He was."
Not far from there, Thetis watched the scene with tears running freely down her face. The Nereid trembled as she looked at her son still standing in the arena, unable to contain the sobs that mixed relief, pride, and a deep fear for the fate she knew awaited Achilles.
In another section of the stands, away from the crowd's bustle, a solitary figure had watched the entire battle in silence. His eyes had not missed a single detail of every blow, every step, and every movement of the two warriors.
He did not support either of them.
And yet, he hated the outcome.
His gaze slowly descended toward the arena, stopping first on the lifeless body of Diomedes… and then on Achilles, who remained standing despite his terrible wounds.
Then a voice pulled him from his thoughts.
"Did you enjoy the fight?"
The warrior slightly turned his head. At his side stood Apollo, the god of the sun, of music and the arts, whose presence radiated an almost irritating calm.
The answer came without any emotion.
"No."
Apollo smiled softly, as if that reaction were perfectly understandable to him.
"Do not worry" he said lightly. "Your moment will come soon. And who knows…" he added, glancing sideways at Achilles. "Perhaps you will have the chance to take revenge on that boy."
Without waiting for a response, the god of the sun turned around and walked away into the divine crowd.
The warrior remained motionless, his gaze fixed once more on the arena, silently observing the outcome of the battle.
___________________________________________________________________________
In the middle of the arena, Achilles remained standing barely by sheer will. His chest rose and fell with heavy, uneven breaths, each one more painful than the last. Blood ran down his body in long dark strands that vanished into the sand, and the world around him began to feel distant, as if everything were covered by a thick veil.
Each attempt to draw breath burned his lungs. His vision blurred at times, and the stands now seemed like a hazy sea of shapes and colors blending together without meaning. The hero tried to remain upright, clenching his teeth as his body trembled from the effort, but even his legendary endurance had its limits.
Then something descended from the sky.
A figure crossed the air with a light and elegant movement, as if the wind itself carried it. Achilles, his sight clouded by blood and exhaustion, could barely make out a pair of winged feet before the silhouette gently touched the sand.
The newcomer walked a few steps and stopped beside Diomedes' body. With almost ritual calm, he placed his staff upon the fallen hero's corpse. The instant the wood touched the bloodstained armor, Diomedes' body vanished in a faint flash, as if the sand itself had claimed him.
Achilles narrowed his eyes, trying to focus his gaze.
The figure turned toward him and began to say something. His lips moved clearly, but the words did not reach the warrior's mind with the same clarity. To Achilles, everything sounded distant, muffled… as if someone were speaking to him from deep underwater.
An incomprehensible murmur.
The hero tried to respond, or at least remain conscious long enough to understand what that figure was telling him, but his body no longer obeyed him. Weakness spread through his limbs like an unstoppable cold, and his legs began to tremble under their own weight.
The sand slowly tilted before his eyes.
The son of Peleus took an unsteady step, then another, trying uselessly to remain on his feet. At last, blood loss and exhaustion claimed their toll.
Darkness enveloped him.
Achilles collapsed heavily onto the sand, unconscious, while the distant echo of the stadium continued to resound around him.