4.45: Everything I Do

1183 BCE - Troy's Southern Gate.

Adresteia and Athena’s battle carried them down the adjoining street, Odysseus chasing after them. Helen, wounded several times over, joined Menelaus at the gate as Agamemnon returned with dozens of men.

4.44: The Best of Us Can Find Happiness In Misery

1183 BCE - Troy's Southern Gate.

Agamemnon pushed Kassandra into the arms of two of his soldiers and lunged at Odysseus with his spear. Athena threw her spear at Adresteia, and then charged at her shield first. Diomedes, Ajax, and Teucer charged at Aeneas, and Greek soldiers poured down the street, trying to reach the wailing infant.

4.41: Walk All Over You

1183 BCE - Paris's Home in Troy.

By the time they reached Paris’s room, the alarm had sounded – the Achaeans had managed to silence all but one of the bells, which left many of the Trojans wondering if it was a prank, but then the sun rose above the walls and cast its light down on the beach. The Greek fleet had sheltered behind Tenedos in the darkness, and returned once the horse had been carried into the city. It had disgorged what was left of the Achaean army, and they were now marching up to the red gates of Troy – which were standing wide open thanks to Teucer and Ajax the Lesser. While the city turned into a boiling cauldron of chaos and fear, five of the war’s main actor’s squared off, Aphrodite and Paris against Nemesis and Menelaus, with Helen forced to the sideline.

4.37: It'd Be Safest If You Ran

1183 BCE - Desecrated Temple of Apollo, Mt. Ida.

While Adresteia flew into Troy in her owl form, Athena finished picking the shrapnel from her legs, willed them to heal, and then travelled to the building that had once been Apollo’s temple on the slopes of Mt. Ida, overlooking Troy itself. Built outside the walls of Troy, surrounded by only a small village to protect the accumulated offerings of Apollo’s worshippers, it had been the logical sacrifice to bring Apollo into the war on the Trojans’ side.

4.35: If You Don’t Love Me Now

1183 BCE - Hephaestus's citadel, Mt. Mosycholos, Lemnos.

Athena tossed the armored man off of her.  It rolled to its feet and stood up. A red light shown from its eyes and swept across her.

“What are you doing?”

4.31: No Colors Anymore

1183 BCE - Troy.

Just as the Greeks had been laying Patroclus to rest, the Trojans had been outside their walls celebrating Hector’s life and sacrifice, enjoying the breeze and the first of what they assumed would be many food shipments. Their men were at ease, relatively speaking, and wholly unprepared for Achilles – a man who was known for pathologically keeping his word – to apparently break their truce, rushing out of the dark on his chariot and driving straight into their feast.

Women screamed and grabbed their children. Many failed to escape his path of destruction, and were caught beneath hooves and wheels. Priam cried for Achilles to stop, trying to reason with him, but Achilles ignored him, his rage beyond reason. The Trojan soldiers tried to stand up to him, eventually killing one of his horses. His chariot overran the dead horse and flipped end over end, crashing into one of Troy’s walls, but Achilles, back in his seemingly impervious armor, burst from the wreckage and summoned his broken spear. He began hacking at men and women alike madly, crushing Trojan children with his shield. Voices in his head screamed at him.

Ten points for the soldiers! the oldest voice, Kasios’s voice cried.

You’re butchering innocent people! cried the voices of Typhon and Ares.

Achilles, this is wrong! pleaded the voice of Patroclus.

And then Achilles came upon a familiar woman, clutching her son.

Andromache! Scamandrius! Achilles heard Hector’s voice, and his muscles suddenly became rigid, as if they had all tensed at once, freezing him in place. Andromache shielded her child, expecting this to finally be the end, but a sharp whistle came from behind Achilles, and a sudden sharp pain penetrated the back of his right leg, where the armor plates met at his ankle. The force holding him released him, and he staggered to face his enemy, his foot growing numb.

Paris stood, bow drawn, with Aphrodite at his side.

“I told you,” Aphrodite said, “My ex-husband could never get the ankles right.”

“Will your poison kill him?” Paris asked.

“If you shoot him enough times, of course,” Aphrodite said as she strolled over to the wreckage of Achilles's chariot and began rummaging about for something, “Now, do what you do best and show this troglodyte the future of warfare is not swords and spears.”

Achilles threw his spear at Paris, but Paris dodged and fired again. Achilles raised his shield, expecting the shot to come at his head, but instead Paris aimed wide and shot Achilles open hand in the unarmored palm. Achilles pulled out the arrow, and tried to recall the spear, but he couldn’t snap his fingers. He felt the poison leech up his arm towards his chest. He tried to stun Paris with his shield, but Paris looked past it – as with the spear, he’d seen the trick before, and had spent hours thinking about what Hector could have done differently.

Achilles tried to rush him, shield raised, but the poison in his leg had reached his thigh – his foot dragged in the dirt. Paris strafed around him, firing again and again. Most of the arrows pinged off the metal plates, but a few stuck in the softer parts that connected them, their steel tips scratching Achilles's skin and spreading Aphrodite’s poison. At last, Paris got directly behind Achilles and fired a shot into his other ankle, sending the mortal god to his knees. Achilles collapsed forward onto his shield, and then rolled onto his back.

"You... you kill me?" Achilles cried in disbelief.

Paris shot him one final time through the throat and walked away. No pithy last words, no looting, no desecration or honors. He turned and walked back through the gates of Troy. Aphrodite snatched the golden cube from the remains of Achilles’s chariot, and followed her champion.

Achilles watched them walk away, sputtering and coughing as the poison reached his heart. He heard the red doors of Troy slam shut, and the locks fall into place. He turned his head as much as he could trying to see… anything worth seeing before he died. He looked at the gates, and their vibrant color seemed to drain away as the Trojan fires dimmed. He looked to the west, hoping to see a beautiful sunset, but then he remembered it was night, and he’d already seen his last sunset at Patroclus’s funeral. The moment was still sharp in his mind’s eye, and tears rolled down his cheeks as he gasped for breath. He reached up with what little strength he had left and deactivated the armor. It clanked and clattered away from his body as Briseis walked up to him awkwardly, her imminent motherhood undeniable behind the fine summer clothes she’d worn to Patroclus’s funeral.

Achilles coughed as he struggled to breathe, “My heart… it's black,” he said deliriously.

“No Achilles, no it’s not,” Briseis knelt down beside him and took his bloody hand, “but it’s done now, Achilles. It’s time to go see Patroclus.”

“He won’t be there,” Achilles said, “No one will.”

“Of course they will,” Briseis said, tears welling in her eyes, “A new day always comes, even if you don’t believe it will. Your end in this world is the beginning of your adventures in the next. And you will be a wiser man in the next world. You will love Patroclus with all of your heart, and nothing else will sway you from that. No war, no king, and no woman.”

“Thank you,” Achilles barely managed to get out as his voice trailed into a gurgle. Briseis put her hand on Achilles’s chest and felt his heart slow to a stop. She leaned over and gently kissed his lips, “You weren’t the men I wanted you to be when we met,” she whispered, “but thank you, both of you, for trying to be.”

The legacy of Kasios, though now weighed down with the memories of Typhon, Ares, Patroclus, Hector, and Achilles, gently wound its way through Briseis’s lungs into her blood stream.

Briseis had a strange feeling for a moment, but it passed quickly. She couldn’t carry Achilles body back to the Greek camp. Soon she would be strong enough, thanks to the power coursing through her veins, but today she was still a mortal. A notion compelled her, though – she shouldn’t leave the weapons of the gods lying in the dirt before the gates of Troy. She picked up the silver ball that contained Achilles’s last suit of armor and tucked it into her traveling bag. Then she picked up his shield, and slung it across her back. Finally, she pulled the ring from his mangled hand and placed it upon her own. She snapped her fingers and brought the spear to her hand without ever sparing a thought as to how she knew to do so.

“Goodbye, Achilles,” she said, “And gods’ speed to you.”

Briseis turned and disappeared into the darkness. She couldn’t save her home – it had long since become someone else’s – and she couldn’t save Troy. With the truce broken, and no more food coming in, it was surely doomed. But there would be chaos towards the end, and amidst the chaos, there would be survivors. There were always survivors – men and women like her who endured when others succumbed to despair or rage. When the time came, those survivors would need a means of escape, and right now, she was the only one who could give them that.

4.30: The Ragged They Kill

1183 BCE - Dry Sea Bed, Western Coast of Troa.

The pyre was built out on the sea floor, near where Patroclus's remains would be buried. Achilles seemed certain that his own end was near, so he requisitioned an urn large enough to fit both of their skeletons. Perhaps to cope with his grief, Achilles became obsessed with overdoing all of the funerary practices.

4.28: No More Destination, No More Pain

1183 BCE - Troy.

Hector joined Priam, Kassandra, Paris, and Aeneas on the wall directly over the western gate. Andromache had convinced Hector to stay put, but now Achilles was trying to force his hand. What remained of the Achaean army stood out on the field before them. They’d used pieces of their ships to create large jacks, and placed them before the eastern, northern, and southern gates in the middle of the night, locking them shut, and allowing them to bring all of their men to one place – right before the western gate.

4.24: If He Moves Will He Fall?

1183 BCE - Achaean Base Camp, East Coast of Troan Penninsula.

Patroclus left Agamemnon's tent and ran back to Achilles’ tent. He could see smoke off near the beach, and he met Odysseus coming back from the battle. He was limping and pale.

“Odysseus? What’s wrong?”

4.21: What Is It Good For?

1183 BCE - Troa.

Over the years the Greeks suffered substantial losses, while their ships remained trapped in the dried up sea bed, preventing them from summoning reinforcements or sending aging men home to rest. The Trojans, however, fared little better.

4.20: Say A Prayer But Let The Good Times Roll

1189 BCE - Troa.

Thanks to Briseis’s sacrifice, the Greeks were able to accommodate Nemesis and Apollo’s demands, and freed all of the captives from the temple’s desecration, ending Apollo’s plague. Counter to expectations, the Trojans refused the freed men and women entrance into the beleagured city; Astynome and the others simply wandered east and disappeared. When Kassandra learned details of what had transpired, she pleaded with her father to attack. With Achilles out of the battle, and the Greeks still weak from a year of plague, now was the time to strike! Hector supported her, but as before, Priam refused to listen, as if bewitched by some curse of self-destructive sexism.

The Greeks recovered their strength, and began preparing for an indefinite siege. They carried up a number of their galleys and dismantled them – their army had dwindled, after all, so they would not need all of the ships to return. They used the pieces of the ships to construct palisade walls around their base camp, outlined with trenches and sharpened stakes. Ajax the Greater, a savant in defensive strategy, made optimal use of the landscape to design an efficient defense. Moving forward, the Greeks would not have to expend nearly so many men on defending their stranded ships. They would be able to assault Dardanus again, and this time they would do so using heavy weapons of Odysseus’s design.

Their second battle in Dardania was long and exceptionally bloody. The Trojans fought hard to hold it as Troy’s lifeline to the sea, and with Achilles out of action, demigod Aeneas proved more than a match for the Achaean champions – especially with Apollo and Artemis at his back. Beginning to lose their second wind, the Greeks mobilized more of their army and sent it North to join the force assaulting Dardanus. Kassandra beseeched Hector once again – the Greeks depended upon their spoils of war, and most of these were stored at their basecamp on the shore. If Hector assaulted the Achaean camp while their troops were locked in battle at Dardanus, they could carry off much of their enemy’s supplies and burn the rest. The Greeks would have no choice but to abandon their attack and plea to Poseidon for safe passage home. This time, Hector persuaded Priam to give him leave to attack, but Kassandra gave him one last instruction – to not burn any of the Greek ships. Allow their enemies to escape, rather than force them into further confrontation.

Thanks to Ajax and Menelaus, the Achaeans held fast against the Trojan’s furious attack; it was into the midst of this melee that the mighty war god, Ares, finally appeared on the battlefield. Being the aggressors, the Greeks had expected to have his aid from the very beginning, but Zeus had kept Ares busy with other missions for Mt. Olympus, sending him far to the East and to the North to aid allies in other lands. When at last Ares had answered the call to arms, however, he'd found that it was the Greeks who were now on the back foot, the Trojans attacking furiously.

A supernatural engine of destruction, Ares was more than a match for any man on either side except (possibly) Achilles, and Achilles wasn’t fighting. His decision to support one side or the other would potentially decide the outcome of the war, and that wasn't something he took lightly. Ares looked around at the butchered men as he strode across the battlefield – their comrades and enemies had stopped fighting out of deference to their war god, but they hadn’t stopped looting the bodies of the fallen. Everyone knew Ares as the source of violent hate in men’s hearts, but that was not the case. Ares was a warrior, yes, and he fought for other warriors, but the hate and greed men brought into battle was their own.

When Ares was very young, there had been a callous, aggressive voice in his mind that constantly pressed him to attack, to kill and to murder. It treated violence as a game, kept score of defeated opponents, and pushed Ares to excel in the art of death. For a time, he indulged the voice - it praised him for every victory, and every victory seemed to come easier than the last. Ares embraced the violence because, like most rational beings, he found satisfaction in doing things he was good at. After a century or so, however, even that began to wear thin. He was the undisputed master of violence; combat victories came easily for him, too easily, and the praise from the inner voice became hollow. As the decades had rolled past, Ares had ultimately come to place far more value on difficult victories than easy ones. That had pressed him to contemplate what it meant to be the god of war, and to think beyond the end of his spear.

Aphrodite appeared from the Trojan side of the lines and beseeched her lover, “Beloved Ares, have the Trojans not shown their tenacity and worth today? Fight for Troy, and end this war in the name of the true love between Paris and Helen.”

Hera then appeared from the Greek side, casting aside a rather clever disguise as an ox in the Greek camp, and similarly entreated her son, “My boy, my best son, my favorite son, the Greeks have held the Trojans back, despite being spread thin by their valiant attack on the city to the north, and despite the vile treachery of your older brother. Side with Greece, and defend the sanctity of Menelaus and Helen’s marriage.”

“Vile treachery nothing!” Aphrodite said, “Apollo’s curse was well deserved. The Greeks violated his temple. Murdered innocent women and unarmed men.”

Ares looked back and forth between them. Allowing Hera's Greeks and Aphrodite's Trojans to slaughter each other would be easy. Personally participating in the violence on either side would certainly expedite the war's conclusion, but again, that would be easy. The only real challenge would be bringing the war to close efficiently. No one imagined the god of war would want to minimize bloodshed, but at the end of the day, Ares wanted to go home to his sons knowing that he had attempted what was difficult in lieu of accomplishing what was easy.

“If it is justice you seek, you look to the wrong god," Ares answered, "You both make your case fairly, and I cannot easily choose between my mother and my lover, so I will leave it to the mortals to make their case.”

Agamemnon and Hector approached the war god from their respective sides, “A duel!” Hector proposed, “Let us decide Ares’s favor with a duel between Menelaus and Paris!”

Ares turned to Agamemnon and asked if the Achaeans would accept the offer.

At this point, Agamemnon would have been happy to see the war continue indefinitely - after all, what did he have that was worth going home to? But most of the Achaeans would rage against him if he passed over an opportunity to end the war, and if he offended Ares, he could be reduced to a bloody smear before any other god could intervene. So, he did the only thing he could do and consented.

"Agreed," Agamemnon said, "Menelaus will duel Paris, if Ares will agree to fight for the victor's cause."

Then Odysseus had to jump in with his two cents, “Whoever’s side the god of battle chooses is almost certain to win the war,” the Ithacan king pushed his way past Agamemnon, “So why complicate matters? Let Menelaus and Paris fight, and the victor will accept the opposing army’s surrender.” Agamemnon looked back and scowled at him, but Odysseus pretended to ignore the man's aggravation.

“What would the terms of surrender be?” Ares asked.

Odysseus didn't give Agamemnon a chance to answer, “If Paris dies, then Helen is to be returned to our camp. We will leave, and take the spoils we’ve already claimed as recompense for the war. Troy will provide the offering to Poseidon that our ships may leave these shores.”

That was a generous offer. Hector nodded, “And if Paris wins, your army will surrender its spoils to Poseidon, and leave without further violence.”

Though irritated that Odysseus and Hector had simply shut him out of the negotiation, Agamemnon agreed to the terms, and the two men turned to fetch their champions. Menelaus was already right behind his brother, ready to fight. Paris objected to the arrangement, but Hector talked sense into him.

“Menelaus isn’t a demigod,” Hector said, “And you’re not a child anymore. You are not so far apart from each other in skill as you think. You stand a good chance of defeating him.”

“A good chance, but not a better than even chance,” Paris said.

“No…” Hector admitted, “But the peace terms the Greeks are offering, even in the event of our surrender, are good. If we turn them down, maybe we win the war, maybe we don’t – best case scenario, though, hundreds of these men standing around you right now will die. Accept the duel, though, fight Menelaus bravely, and no matter which of you prevails, hundreds, perhaps thousands will be spared."

“So you’re asking me to sacrifice myself for men whose names I don’t even remember.”

“No, I’m asking you to risk yourself for men whose names I do remember. I can’t force you to fight him little brother, but…”

“No… you’re right. You’re right. It’s the least I can do as a prince of Troy.”

“Okay, remember, Menelaus is great with that shield, so you probably won’t hit him with your bow. I know you love that weapon, and I know Aphrodite gave you those fancy arrowheads, but I don’t want to see you standing there like an idiot shooting when he runs right up on you. Be ready to drop it and go hand-to-hand.”

“Got it,” Paris borrowed a bronze helmet and a round shield from one of their men. He donned the helmet and swung the shield over his back, adjusting it so that he could still reach the arrows in the quiver hanging at his hip. He stepped into the clearing, bow in hand.

Menelaus shook his hand. Part of him thought it was foolish for an archer to go close quarters with a man in armor, but he knew Paris was second only to Teucer when it came to the bow. If Menelaus got careless, he could get dead.

“What are the rules?” Paris asked, looking to Ares who stood on the sidelines like a referee.

“Rules?” Ares said, “You’ve got me confused with someone else. There are no rules in this fight. Strength of arms, strength of mind, and strength of heart will decide this contest.”

Aphrodite started cheering for Paris, and the Trojans joined in. They hadn’t been terribly fond of the young  man, but now that he was putting himself out in front of danger to save them, they were starting to change their minds.

Hera likewise riled the Achaeans. Many of the Greek soldiers blamed Menelaus for the war, so they were no fonder of him than the Trojans had been of Paris, but they would rather see Paris butchered in the dirt than their countryman.

Menelaus walked out with two spears - one ordinary spartan spear, and one capped with the very spearhead that Paris had given him years ago. Menelaus had been saving that weapon for a moment like this, an opportunity to return the 'gift'. Menelaus stuck the special spear in the ground, so that he could heft the ordinary weapon over his shoulder, “You seem to have forgotten your spear, Paris!” Menelaus shouted, “You can have my extra!”

Menelaus threw the missile at Paris. It was a good toss for the distance – it was impressive Menelaus could throw that far, but the distance was also great enough that Paris, more agile on his feet with his shield on his back, was able to dodge the thrown weapon.

“Minnie!” Paris shouted back, “Your shaft missed its mark! I suppose that explains all those bruises I found on Helen’s back-side the first night I fucked her!”

Menelaus growled and pulled out his second spear, "You recognize this spearhead Paris? This is the one you gave me. Your spear. I saved it just for you." Instead of raising the weapon over his shoulder he held it out low and charged shield first.

Paris fired one quick shot straight at the center of Menelaus’s shield to test it. The steel-headed arrow punched through the shield and sliced Menelaus’s arm. It slowed Menelaus for a moment, but that lightly maiming the arm behind the shield was the most Paris could hope for. The archer switched to his ordinary arrows and fired as quickly as he could at Menelaus’s feet. It was difficult, aiming at moving legs beneath an advancing shield, but one of the bronze heads sliced Menelaus’s right calf, throwing him off balance as he closed on Paris. Paris dropped and slid, presenting his back to the oncoming spear. The head struck the shield on Paris’s back at an angle and skipped off, some of the gold peeling off the spear head to reveal the iron core.

Paris rolled past Menelaus and continued firing, focusing more on speed than aim at close range. The heavy red cloak on Menelaus’s back functioned like a second layer of armor and a flapping distraction – most of Paris’s shots missed, and those few that didn’t inflicted no more than flesh wounds. If he’d poisoned his arrows, the fight would be over already. Wisdom for another time, if he survived.

Menelaus spun around, releasing his spear and then catching it at the very end of its haft to give himself a surprisingly long reach. Paris jumped back to avoid the golden head of the spear, but the swing caught his bow and tore it from his hands. Fortunately for Paris, gripping the spear by its butt relied on the iron spearhead's momentum to keep it raised – as soon as that momentum was spent, Menelaus lost his grip on it, and it clattered to the ground. The drew their swords and ran at each other.

Menelaus used his shield as offensively as his sword, while Paris kept his on his back. He’d seen Menelaus on the battlefield – the man was capable of some impressive footwork, and Paris wanted to protect himself in case Menelaus got behind him. With one hand free, he drew one of his steel-tipped arrows and brandished it like a knife, head down. Their swords clashed and Paris dodged about trying to find an opening. Menelaus struck downward with the edge of his shield, hoping to crush Paris’s feet. Paris hopped back, drove the arrow he was holding into the top of Menelaus’s shield, and used it like a crank to twist Menelaus’s shield back.

Menelaus struggled to keep his arm up, but took the opening to lung forward, swinging from the side, and striking Paris across the back. The heavy end of the kopis cracked Paris’s helmet and cut into the shield on his back. Paris rolled away in a panic, bleeding from a cut that traveled from his scalp down to his shoulder. Menelaus lunged again and Paris ducked, but the heavy blade caught the high crown of the helmet and twisted it, briefly blinding its wearer Menelaus smashed his shield into him hard enough to toss him through the air, eliciting raucous cheers from the Greeks.

Paris ripped the helmet off and threw it at Menelaus, but the Spartan knocked the improvised weapon aside with his shield. Paris pulled his own, smaller shield off his back just in time to intercept another strike from Menelaus. The kopis cut into the opposite edge of the shield from where it had hit before, and stuck. Paris lunged with his sword, but Menelaus blocked the strike deftly, and kicked the center of Paris’s shield as hard as he could. His sword pulled free, and Paris’s shield came apart into two pieces that clattered to the ground. The Trojans groaned in despair for their champion.

Paris scampered backwards, holding his sword up, shaking.

Menelaus smiled wearily. He’d half expected the Trojan boy to run. Instead, he was prepared to sacrifice himself so that Troy could have an honorable defeat. Menelaus hated the man, but with Paris’s shield and helmet broken, this was simply murder. Menelaus tossed his own shield aside and pulled off his helmet. Both sides of the battleline gasped in shock. Ares applauded.

“What are you doing?” Paris said between heavy breaths.

“When this is over, and the watchers on the walls of Troy tell Helen what happened, I want them to tell her it was a good fight on both our parts.” Menelaus waved Paris toward him with his sword, and Paris obliged, running forward. Their blades clashed repeatedly. Paris was faster, more graceful than Menelaus, but Menelaus was stronger and better skilled. The Spartan wrapped his cloak around his free arm and used it like a light shield. When Paris found he wasn’t strong enough to slice clear through the wrapped fabric with his bronze sword, he thrust with it. That proved a mistake.

The blade punched through the heavy fabric, narrowly missing Menelaus’s ribs, but then became tangled. Menelaus forced the blade to the ground, and stomped on it, snapping the bronze blade where it connected with the tang in the hilt, and leaving Paris with nothing more than the grip in his hand. He tried to attack Menelaus with the weighted pommel, but Menelaus simply punched him, knocking him away. Paris realized he was in reach of Menelaus's dropped spear; he scrambled for it, snatched it up, and charged with it. Menelaus casually dodged the charge and sliced Paris across the back of the legs, dropping him to his knees.

Athena appeared next to Hera, and watched as Menelaus circled about and prepared to execute Paris. She was surprised how hesitant the man seemed to be, but humans could get oddly squeamish about killing once their enemy was defenseless.

“It looks as if we are about to win,” Athena commented.

“Well, we can’t have that," Hera said, "My son has only just arrived on the battlefield. If the war ends now, our plan will go up in smoke.”

Athena nodded towards an archer on the far side of the field, one of Paris’s men, “That man, Pandarus, he’s thinking about saving his idol. Perhaps between the two of us, we can give him a nudge?”

“Hm, very clever,” Hera smiled. They focused on Pandarus’s mind, slipping in the imagery of him being hailed as a great hero by the other Trojans for saving Paris and killing Menelaus. Pandarus raised his bow and fired at Menelaus. His comrades tried to stop him, but only succeeded in throwing off his aim. The bronze-headed arrow struck Menelaus’s belt buckle, punched through two layers of leather and a heavy layer of cloth, but only barely sank into the flesh above Menelaus’s groin. It was painful though, and alarming. As blood poured down Menelaus’s leg he didn’t know how bad the injury was. By the time he collected himself, Paris was gone, spirited back to Helen by Aphrodite, to have his wounds bound.

“The Trojans cheated!” Hera shouted to her son, “What more proof do you need of their unworthiness? Their men disrespect the circle of fair battle, and Paris flees from the field like a frightened child!”

“No!” Hector shouted, “Let us discipline our man for violating the rules, but-”

Ares held up a hand to shush Hector, “I like you Hector, I always have, but my mother’s right. It’s done and I must honor my word. I side with the Achaeans now.” Ares raised a hand and a sand-clock appeared out of thin air, “Out of respect for you, Hector, I give you and your men twenty minutes to retire from the field. Agamemnon can tend to his brother, and you can tend to yours.”

Hector’s troops no longer had the advantage of momentum, and when Ares inevitably joined the fight, Hector knew they’d have no chance at all. The Trojans withdrew to the safety of their city.