"You do not shoot them until they are on the battlements," Hector said. "Do you hear me, brother? We wait until they stand before us, then we attack."
"But Hector, why let them get that far?" Paris argued. "If I can get a clear shot, I can shoot them straight off their cursed rope, like apples from a tree. Nothing could be easier."
"It will be pitch dark," Hector reminded him patiently. "And I have no doubt that they will be wearing dark clothing. As soon as you fire an arrow, they will all be alerted to our presence and they'll get away. They're not going to send many men, but the ones they send will be their best. If we have a chance to kill Achilles without fifty Myrmidons behind him, then we will take that chance and kiss the hands of the gods in thanks."

Paris bit his lip in annoyance.
As usual, Hector was taking over. Paris' plan was simple and straightforward: find where they planned to climb the wall, kill the first man over the top and shoot the others behind them as they hung from the rope, thirty metres from the ground. If an arrow through the eye didn't kill them, the fall to the hard sand below certainly would. Now Hector wanted to let the Greeks climb the wall, thinking their plan had succeeded, and ambush them as they came off the ramparts. Paris knew that Hector was playing with the idea of taking hostages: what kind of leverage would he have, if he had Agamemnon's best men in the dungeons of Troy? Could he strong-arm the Achaean king into leaving their beaches in return for Achilles' freedom?

His brother was a fool, Paris thought.
Agamemnon didn't want to negotiate and trade like a horse dealer.
He knew the so-called king of kings wanted nothing less than total defeat, he wanted to see Troy reduced to ashes and dust. Hector's continued hope that they could come to a truce irritated Paris almost beyond words. His older brother's unvanquished belief in the best of other men was both his most admirable trait ... and his greatest failing.

"Very well," he muttered.
He would do as he always did: what he thought best.
And he would do it as he always did: without telling Hector.
He would not have his older brother steal his glory.
Paris had told Hector that the archers thought the invaders would try the southern end of the wall, the one not overlooked directly by a guard tower, but Paris and Iason had discussed it and agreed that the northern end was the more likely target. Paris could not be everywhere on the wall, he had to pick an end to defend, so he went with his gut instinct and made his way to the section guarded by Iason and two others. He ducked down behind the wall, his eye trained to the slit in the stones, trying to make out a figure in the darkness. But there was nothing, save the flickering of the camp fires on the beach. The Trojan walls looked quiet, but the extra men were crouched behind the walls, Hector's troop was assembled below the ramparts. Paris shivered with anticipation, with excitement, and ran his fingers along the string of his bow. All he had to do now was wait.

xXx

He was shoved awake. Iason's face loomed over his, a finger to his lips.
"My Prince," he whispered and beckoned.
They crawled along the ramparts in the darkness.
"Listen," Iason said.
They heard a low grunt, then another. Paris' hand flew to his quiver, but Iason held him back.
"Let him come over the wall, my lord. Then we'll slit his throat, hang the rope and let the others come up," his whispered.

Paris nodded and waited. His knees juddered with adrenalin as he heard the soft sounds of the climber's exertion coming closer and closer. Finally a small hand reached over the top of the stone, then an arm, and then a head appeared. Iason held Paris firmly, his arm gripping him like a vice. The climber pulled himself over the wall, crouching low and looking around furtively, like a hunted animal.
"Now," Iason whispered and crept forward, launching himself at the man's legs. The climber collapsed and one of the other guards clamped a hand over his mouth. Iason pulled a dagger and slit the climber's throat then, to Paris' astonishment, heaved the warm corpse up so the man's head and torso were visible over the wall. Like a puppet, Iason waved the dead man's arm.

"Now," he said in satisfaction, "now we secure the rope, young prince, and wait for the sons of whores to climb it."
Paris sprang into action and helped fix the rope, barely able to suppress the grin that split his face wide. They let it drop silently, slithering down the height of the wall, and then they sat back on their heels, waiting. The rope immediately went taut as it took the weight of a man. It juddered against the wall.
"They are climbing," Iason whispered in satisfaction.
"I will wait until the bastards are close enough for me to look them in the eye," Paris growled, "then they will taste my arrows."
In the darkness, Paris saw the white of Iason's teeth as he grinned.

One of their men came towards them, scurrying along the rampart with his back ducked so he would not be seen over the wall.
"My lord, my lord prince is coming!" he whispered urgently.
"What?" Paris hissed.
"Your brother, Prince Hector, is coming. He's seen the men on the wall, he is coming, my lord!"
Paris turned his head away to curse in the darkness.
Damn Hector. Damn him.

"Wait, my lord," Iason said. "He is not close enough. Listen."
They heard the very faint sound of a man's heavy breathing as he pulled himself up the thick rope.
The guards along the wall stirred, almost imperceptibly, and Paris knew his older brother was on the ramparts, making his way along through the men, hurrying to stop Paris from taking his kill shot.

The young prince drew his arrow, listening.
The sounds were coming closer. He looked over at Iason and the older man held up a finger, paused – and then nodded.

Paris stood and leaned over the wall.
There, metres below him, he saw a shadowy figure. As he drew his bow, the sound of the taut string stretching made the man on the rope look up and Paris saw the whites of his eyes in a dark face. It was all he needed: he took aim and fired.

The arrow whizzed and there was a thwack as it found a target.
Paris looked down, heard a grunt, but the man kept coming. The Greek called out something over his shoulder but Paris couldn't hear what the man said; then the rope juddered and he knew the men below the one he'd just shot were shimmying down as fast as they could. He aimed again.
"Paris!"
Hector's voice rang out across the battlements.
Paris squinted in the darkness and aimed again. The man on the rope had stopped climbing, had pressed himself against the wall in attempt to camouflage his form in the darkness. As he did so, his hood or head covering fell back and Paris saw his blond hair.
"Show yourself, you coward!" Paris shouted angrily.
He loosed an arrow and it flew, making no contact.
"Paris!" Hector roared.
"Are you Achilles, the mighty warrior?" jeered Paris. "Climb this wall and fight me! Did Agamemnon send you to take my woman? Come and get her!"

He heard footsteps on the battlements.
It was Hector – he was making no attempt to hide. Paris couldn't see his face but even the dull glint of his armour seemed to radiate his brother's fury.
"Iason," Paris said calmly. "Cut the rope."
Iason pulled the dagger – still bloody – and started to saw through the thick rope.
The man on the rope swung out a little and started to climb again, as though inflamed by Paris' taunts. The prince aimed again and fired – missed.
Then he fired again. There was a satisfying thwack once again as it made contact, and this time the man yelped, a surprised shout of pain.

The rope juddered once more and Iason sawed more furiously.
"Paris!" Hector said and grabbed his brother's arm to pull him back, but Paris was leaning over the wall. The young prince whipped out his knife and pushed Iason aside. He sawed furiously, keeping Hector at arm's length, even as his brother struggled to pull the knife out of his hand.

The rope frayed; split.
Paris leaned over the wall and saw the climber's eyes, wide with shock, with fear. The man fell back into the darkness as though he were tumbling in to the river Styx: gone, gone, gone.

Then a hair-raising crack as a body hit stone.

Paris turned to his brother, who was speechless with rage.
"I have killed Achilles," he said.
"How do you know?" replied Hector through gritted teeth. "How do you know it was Achilles? Did you put an arrow through his eye? Through his neck?"
"I hit him," Paris said. "And no one could survive that fall, brother. Are you crazy? Unless he sprouted wings as he fell, there is no way he could have survived – "

But Hector wasn't listening. Leaning over the battlements to peer into the darkness, he shouted, "Archers! Attack!"
A hail of arrows flew to the ground below, thudding on metal and flesh. There were screeches of pain as men were hit, though who was hit and how many was impossible to see in the darkness.

"You messed it up," Hector said. "You idiot, Paris. You idiot. This was our best chance of finally ending that Myrmidon devil and you didn't follow orders."
"I killed him," his younger brother said stubbornly. "Why won't you listen? No man could survive that fall. How high is that wall? He surely broke his neck and half a dozen bones when he fell."

Hector grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him hard. The archers standing around looked away in embarrassment.
"This is Achilles," he hissed. "Until I have his bleeding corpse in front of me, until I see his rotting body burn on a funeral pyre, I will not believe that bastard dead."
"But brother – "
"Get out of my sight," Hector spat and pushed him away.
He turned on his heel and stormed off down the battlements, ignoring the men who bowed as he passed.