For the Most Beautiful (36 page)

‘All right,' Apollo whispers, almost imperceptibly, out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Ten to one and the water nymph into the bargain, and count yourself lucky.'

Hermes settles back in his seat and crosses his arms in satisfaction.

Silence falls again as Hermes and Apollo watch the war, now eagerly following the progress of their two warriors. Ajax has come into Aeneas' range – they could be fighting at any minute.

‘Come on,' Apollo mutters, to the small red-plumed figure that is Aeneas. ‘Come on – just a little bit to the left …'

But then, unexpectedly, another hero – Odysseus, to judge from his distinctive boar's tusk helmet – veers into Aeneas' path, and the two engage in a lengthy duel.

Ajax moves off to the left and away from Aeneas.

Apollo slumps back in his seat and turns to Hermes. ‘This is boring.'

Hermes nods. Apollo is right. Nothing has happened for days except a few skirmishes. They haven't had something even vaguely exciting, like the death of a hero, to liven up the action.

He turns from the war to survey the rest of the gods instead.

Athena and Hera, of course, are sitting smugly side by side, watching the success of their Greek protégés with evident pride. But all the other gods, he notices, are distinctly uninterested. Hephaestus is playing croquet with his walking stick and a bit of cloud. Ares is tapping his fingers impatiently on one burly thigh and keeps glancing back towards Aphrodite, who is sitting just behind him, looking ravishing.

‘I don't know why you're keeping us here, Father,' Ares says to Zeus, in a low growl.

Hermes smiles to himself. Ares is clearly itching to get away. No doubt Aphrodite has promised him another secret rendezvous in her bedroom. He glances at Hephaestus, who is, it seems, still completely in the dark, poor fellow.
Look at him,
Hermes thinks
, playing with his croquet set. It's almost enough to make one feel sorry for him.

And yet he can't blame Ares for feeling frustrated. Hermes taps his foot irritably on the clouds, his brief moment of amusement gone. He can't stand the way Zeus always waits for the Fates to sort things out. What happened to being the all-powerful king of the gods? What was the point of being endowed with immortality and all kinds of fantastic powers if you weren't using them?

Hermes has had enough of sitting around. And, in a moment, he's made up his mind. There's one god on Olympus who still has enough initiative left in him to make things happen. ‘Psst,' he hisses at Apollo, who's nodding off. His head is bouncing against his chest, curly gold locks waving gently as his breath rises and falls.

Hermes nudges him in the ribs. ‘Psst. Sleeping Beauty.'

Apollo starts and grunts loudly as he wakes up.

Athena turns again, incredulous and disapproving, to give both of them a prolonged stare, which Apollo returns with interest.

‘I've had an idea,' Hermes whispers, pulling Apollo away from his staring match with Athena.

Apollo turns his attention to Hermes. ‘What?'

‘Something to liven things up.'

Apollo rolls his eyes. ‘At last,' he says, under his breath, cricking his neck. ‘How long is it they've been fighting? A year? Two?'

‘More like ten,' Hermes says, with a yawn. He leans closer to Apollo. ‘I think,' he says, lowering his voice, ‘it's time we caused some trouble.'

A slow grin spreads over Apollo's face. Hermes always knows how to cheer him up. Together, they get up from their seats, trying not to make a sound as they walk slowly away from the council, although most of the other gods are either asleep or watching Hephaestus' croquet game. The pair goes around the back of a particularly large cloud, and the council disappears out of sight.

‘So,' Apollo asks eagerly, as soon as they are far enough away not to be overheard, ‘what's your idea?'

Hermes grins mischievously at him. ‘I think Athena deserves a bit of trouble, don't you?' he asks, flicking at bits of cloud so they float on the air, like dandelion fluff. ‘The Greeks are so predictably successful. All those victories, one after another.' He yawns to illustrate the point. ‘It's not like we don't know what's going to happen in the end. But,' he says, grinning, ‘Athena and Hera are so smug. And we wouldn't want to make things too easy for the dream team, would we?' He leans over to whisper in Apollo's ear.

Apollo's eyes widen. Very slowly, a smile spreads over his face. The two gods exchange a look of pure mischief. They understand each other perfectly.

‘So who d'you think should do it?' Apollo sniggers in a very un-godlike way. ‘Who'd annoy Athena the most?'

Hermes considers the question, like a connoisseur assessing the value of a piece of jewellery. He gazes down at the plain to give himself time to think. The armies are still clashing beneath the walls of Troy. His eye is caught by a figure standing on the battlements. It's holding a bow and arrow, and is firing left, right and centre with no sense of aim whatsoever, arrows exploding from the bow, like water bubbling out of a burst pipe. Most telling of all, perhaps, is the leopard skin slung over one of the figure's bronzed and perfectly oiled shoulders.

‘Ah.' Hermes raises a hand to his chin, captivated. ‘Paris. The perfect match.'

Apollo raises his eyebrows. ‘Paris? That prince can't aim a bow to save his life. He never spent as much time training for war as Hector – he's an utter coward! Just look at him!' He gestures to the walls, where Paris has just let fly another arrow. It arcs up into the air and then, spinning out of control, plummets towards the ground some fifty feet west of the Greek line. ‘How's he going to hit anything except a passing bird?'

Hermes saunters up to Apollo and places an arm around his shoulders. ‘That's why it's so much fun.' He grins. ‘And why we need you, brother. After all, aren't you meant to be the god of archery? Or,' he asks innocently, ‘is that just another story the mortals tell?'

Apollo's chest puffs with wounded pride. ‘You know I'm the best shot on Olympus.'

‘Well, then,' replies Hermes, his eyes twinkling, ‘I think you should go and give this young Trojan a lesson in using that bow of his before it's too late.'

They exchange a last grin. Then Hermes winks at Apollo, and Apollo straps his bow and arrows to his back and leaps from the cloud with the grace of a bird.

He sees the little island of Tenedos far on the horizon, set like a green jewel in the glittering ocean, and the coastline of the Troad, curving out before it in a white line. He sees the thin blue lines of the two rivers of Troy, and the patchwork of green fields, olive and tamarisk trees, and the oak forest stretching to the south. Now he's getting closer, and he can make out the dust from the battlefield, the ships of the Greeks pulled up on the sand with their high, curving prows, and above it all, the towers of Troy rising into the sky …

And then, light as a leaf blown on the wind, he lands on the walls.

He's standing next to a young man who, he assumes, from the drench of scent that wafts towards him on the breeze, must be Paris. He looks up and catches Hermes' ironic wave from behind one of the clouds. His grin widens as he imagines Athena and the rest of the gods up there, watching the war with no idea of what he's about to do.

But not even the virgin goddess will be fast enough to stop him now.

The young Trojan is still firing arrows all over the place, his hands clammy and his face covered with sweat.

Apollo comes to stand right beside him, invisible and silent as a whisper of wind. ‘Hello,' he says in his ear.

Paris jumps.

‘Who— What—?' he splutters. He's looking wildly around as if he has been visited by a spirit from the Underworld. ‘Hector?' he whispers fearfully. ‘Is – is that you?'

Apollo laughs. He knows the young man can't see him, but it never stops being fun, watching the way the mortals act so surprised.

‘Not Hector,' he says. ‘A god. I have a job for you, Trojan.'

Paris quakes. ‘What kind of job?' he asks, and his voice rises uncontrollably. ‘You're not going to kill me, are you?'

‘Kill you?' Apollo asks, leaning back against the battlements and winking up at Hermes. ‘Heavens, no. In fact, I want you to do the killing for me.'

Paris looks down at the battlefield. ‘I'm not going down there, if that's what you want,' he says, with a stab at defiance, but his trembling lip gives him away. ‘I'm no good at fighting.'

‘You don't have to be,' Apollo says. ‘What's that you have there in your hand?'

Paris looks down. ‘A bow,' he says doubtfully. ‘But I can't shoot to save my—'

‘Oh yes you can,' Apollo interrupts. ‘You forget who's helping you, Paris.'

The young prince gulps and glances around him, as if hoping he's imagining things.

Apollo moves closer. ‘Do it,' he whispers, breathing courage into the young man's ear. ‘Nothing could be easier. Do it.'

Slowly, as if he's moving in a dream, Paris raises the bow and stretches the string tight to his ear. The tip of the arrow is shaking badly in his fingers.

‘That's it,' Apollo says, and he guides the bow down, so that the arrow is pointing straight towards the plain. ‘Now – let go!'

Paris does as he is told. The arrow jumps from the bowstring, like a bird, and flies through the air with deadly force.

Apollo leaps with it. Twisting and spiralling around the arrow, he shapes the wind to guide it closer, ever closer to his target. He's searching for a single warrior, the warrior whose name Hermes whispered in his ear.

The plain looms dangerously close. Suddenly shields and blood and swinging axes are all around, and still the god and the arrow spin down together as one.

Fighting men leap and thrust, bend and fall in the dance of war, but the arrow passes clean through, whistling through the gaps between shields and under raised arms as if the movements of the warriors had been choreographed around it in some savage dance. A chariot charges across their path, horses whinnying and manes thrashing in the battle-din. A sword swings within a hair's breadth, singing as it grazes the edge of the arrowhead. All around there is a confused mass of fighting men, Greek and Trojan, man and boy, the living, the dying and the dead melding into each other, shifting shapes in the confusion of war …

And then, at last, the god spots his target.

A long mane of blond hair. Glittering black eyes. Strength that no other mortal can match.

The arrow dives towards the ground, guided by the wind of the god, spinning and flashing in the evening sun.

Achilles is whirling, like a storm, upon the battlefield, flattening men, crumpling them to their knees as he comes upon them in the full fury of his battle-rage. His spear catches a Trojan in the back as he runs and brings him face down into the dirt. His sword is a blur of bronze and blood. He lunges to deal a deadly blow, whirls on his heel, dives under a thrown spear. He draws his sword and brings it high into the air to split a Trojan skull.

As he moves, for a brief moment, his feet can be seen clearly through the dust.

His heel is exposed.

With deadly precision the arrow makes contact. Sharpened bronze meets flesh.

Before Achilles can so much as turn to look at what has happened, the arrowhead buries itself in the ankle, punching through cartilage, splitting tendons and bone. It tunnels through the flesh, bursts out the other side and lodges itself in the plain. Blood – dark blood – leaks out into the dust in a slow pool.

Achilles stops.

Everyone around him stops.

They fall deathly silent as they stare at the spreading pool of Achilles' blood, the arrow sticking incongruously from his heel like a third limb. No one except Apollo notices the flash of brilliant white light from the sky, announcing that the goddess Athena has seen what has happened and is coming to her favourite's aid.

But she will be too late.

Achilles is on his knees now. The sounds of battle are muffled to his ears. The life-force is leaking out of him into the ground with his blood. He inches forwards, gasping. He wavers. Then he falls.

The veil of death covers his eyes.

Achilles, the best of the Greeks, is no more.