Odysseus ran through the darkness, his shield over his head, battered by the arrows that whizzed down from above. He scrabbled across the sand to where Patroclus and Eudorus knelt with two of the Myrmidons standing over them. Achilles lay in a heap, his limbs at impossible angles; the two Myrmidon warriors were trying to hold their shields over their fallen leader's body, but even in the brief moments Odysseus was there, one of them gave a low groan as an arrow landed in the sole of his boot.

"Is he alive?" Odysseus cried.
As if in answer, Achilles moaned.
"We need to get him out of here," Odysseus said. "Now."
"How?" Patroclus' face was chalk-white in the darkness, his eyes wild. "We cannot move him. Look at him."

He whipped off the black cloak covering Achilles' lower body and pointed at something white.
An arrow thudded on Odysseus' shield; the tip pierced the wood next to his ear and he shifted the shield's weight.
Odysseus squinted. "Is that his - ?"
"Bone," Eudorus finished grimly. "That's his fucking leg, my lord."
"If he stays here, he will definitely die – and so will we. Get him out of here. Patroclus, your shield. We lift him on to it and run."
"But the arrows, Odysseus – "
"We run," the Ithacan said. "Fast. Faster than you've ever run before."

He didn't wait for them to answer. He put his arms under Achilles' shoulders and yanked him onto the upturned shield. His friend's dead weight and long body made the task so grimly impossible, it might have been comical in other circumstances but here, in the darkness of a moonless night, with the relentless thudding of Trojan arrows, it was anything but funny. Achilles face was dark with blood; Odysseus had to wipe his hands on his cloak because they were sticky and wet. He didn't want to think about why.

They managed to load Achilles onto the shield somehow, and then they heaved him up and ran, slipping and sliding in the sand. Odysseus realised quickly that the Trojans on the wall could not see them: they were soon out of range of their arrows, which continued to whizz and thud onto the empty sand.
They stopped at a dune, drawing deep ragged breaths and Patroclus pointed at the waiting chariots.
"We need to get him back to camp," he gasped.
As carefully as they could, they placed him on the floor of the chariot and Patroclus knelt beside him. Odysseus took the reins.
"Cousin, don't die," Patroclus begged but Achilles' head just lolled backwards.
"Go," Patroclus shouted and Odysseus clicked the reins.

"Keep him still," he ordered Patroclus, "Mind his head."
Suddenly Achilles started to mumble something, then leaned over the footplate and vomited onto the sand.
"Achilles!" Patroclus cried.
"Am I dead?" he asked, his voice clear.
"No, you're not," Odysseus said firmly. "Far from it, old friend."
"Good," Achilles answered and closed his eyes again. "I do not wish to die yet."

xXx

Zeus looked at him and rubbed his beard thoughtfully.
"Oh, Achilles," he said. "What is this? What have you done?"
Achilles tried to shrug, but the pain shot through his upper body into his neck, his brain.
"Am I dead?"
"Your mother did not go with you to the underworld, did not stop by the foul river Styx to have you destroy your mortal body falling off a wall," Zeus said scornfully. "This I will not allow."
"Good," Achilles said. "I do not wish to die yet."
"It will be painful," Zeus said. "I gave you the ability to heal but I did not take away the ability to hurt."
Achilles closed his eyes.
He knew that. It hurt already.

xXx

"Well, man, will he die?" Agamemnon cried.
"I don't know," Phoenix replied.
"You don't know?" bellowed the King of Kings, but King Phoenix remained calm, wiping his hands on a rag.

They stood outside Achilles' tent. The dawn was beginning to lighten the sky and around them, the Myrmidons sat or stood, anxiously watching the people coming and going through the leather curtain of the tent.
"You have seen his leg, my lord. His skull has been cracked open, as far as I can see, and several ribs are broken. I don't know what damage has been done inside, I can only guess. He lies there, limp like a girl's doll. We will see if he survives the day and maybe tomorrow I can assess him better."

Phoenix folded the rag and handed it to his assistant. His slow, deliberate movements angered Agamemnon even more: he kicked a pot in rage. It shattered and the water it had held trickled away in the sand.
"This vexes me!" he roared. "Those damned Trojans! He's my best bloody warrior!"

The curtain of the tent was shoved open and Menelaus joined them.
"Is he awake?" Agamemnon asked his brother.
"He's rambling, rambling about something. The milk of the poppy is working and his little woman is cleaning him. But it looks bad, brother. Odysseus says he will make a full recovery, but I have my doubts."
"That's just wonderful," the Greek king spat sarcastically. "Tell the men to prepare for battle. I am absolutely certain that those bastard princes will use the opportunity to attack us, now that Achilles is laid low."
He sighed theatrically and stomped off, his brother in tow.

Phoenix peered back inside the tent.
Achilles lay on his low bed, moving his head slowly side to side, as if he were negating something in a silent conversation. The little dark-skinned woman was washing his arms gently and tenderly, crooning something to him in a language only she understood. The youth, Patroclus, was kneeling by the bed, stroking his cousin's bloodied hair back off his face.

And Odysseus was sitting on his heels in the corner, gnawing his knuckles. He looked up when he heard the rustle of the curtain, then stood and went outside.

"I have seen this man recover from injuries no mortal could – " he began but Phoenix held up a hand to silence him.
"When you carried him off the chariot," the old king said, "I thought for sure he was dead. When he groaned and I realised he was alive, I assumed he had broken his neck or maybe his back."
"And now?" the Ithacan king said.
"Now I don't know," Phoenix replied. "I cannot tell."
He patted Odysseus on the arm.
"Maybe it is his time," Phoenix said. "Maybe he is preparing to meet the boatman, old friend."
"No," he said, shaking his head. "No, he is not."
He turned on his heel and headed back to the tent.
"It is in the hands of the gods," Phoenix called.
"And they can't have him," the king of Ithaca snapped.

xXx

Achilles could not open his eyes. The pain was too strong. His head ached, as though it were underneath a huge and heavy weight.
He heard his name: "Achilles, my Achilles, liji, liji, my boy, my boy – "
It was Ahma.
He could smell the spices on her fingers, the herbs she cooked with. She smeared something on his lips and he swallowed reflexively.
"Go visit the gods," she whispered. "But come back, my prince."

xXx

Zeus regarded him with curiosity.
"And if I let you live, will you go back to Phtia?" he asked.
"No."
"Will you attack Troy again?"
"I will see Troy fall."
"Ah, so a king's hubris is to be the foundation of this prince's immortality?"
"You know my destiny better than anyone," Achilles said.
"And where is the girl?"
"The girl?"
"The one you took with you from Kalios?"
"I don't know," he said. "She's gone."
"Wouldn't you heal better if she were with you?"
"I let her go," he said.
"That was foolish," Zeus said sadly.

xXx

Ahma was not pleased.

There was a constant stream of visitors in and out of the tent: silent Myrmidons, curious kings and generals, the light-eyed one, Eudorus, who stared at Achilles with almost fervent devotion, wordless and grim.
Achilles was raving, his eyes closed, his head and lips moving silently, and she did not want anyone to see him like this.
Patroclus she could stand: the boy was as worried as she, she saw that his eyes were glassy with tears and she squeezed his hand before wiping his face with a cool wet cloth. Startled, he let her do it, then she patted his hair and pushed him gently aside so she could wash Achilles' hair.

Then the curtain rose and fell again, and that white-haired friend of the little pig king entered, nodding and smiling. She glanced at him through narrowed eyes and returned to her work. She could not forbid them to enter, so she had to satisfy herself with glaring at them evilly, hoping they would take the hint and leave.

"Ah," Nestor said. "Ah, I see."
Patroclus looked up.
"He is in good hands, I see," Nestor said hastily. "Very good hands."
He smiled at Ahma, but she turned her head to Patroclus so she could roll her eyes at him without being seen by the visitor.
"Will he recover?" he asked, picking his words carefully.
"Yes," Patroclus answered stoutly. "He just needs time to heal."
"And where is the girl?"
"The girl?"
"The one you took with you from Kalios?"
The boy looked at him, then looked away.
"I don't know," Patroclus said softly. "She's gone."
"But wouldn't he heal better if she were with him?" Nestor persisted.
"I let her go," Achilles said, suddenly lucid.
"Cousin!" gasped Patroclus, but the injured man's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he was gone.

"He needs rest!" Ahma cried, unable to stand it anymore.
The two men jumped at the sound of her voice.
"Go, go!" she said and whooshed Nestor out of the tent.
"You," she said, pointing at Patroclus and then the low couch, "You sleep, boy. Sleep."
He nodded and stretched out.
She covered him with the cloth that red-haired woman had brought with her from her foreign land and left behind when she disappeared.

xXx

"But Hector will come," Zeus said. "He knows the camp is weak. If he has any sense – and the gods all know that he has a fine head on his shoulders – he will march down the beach and rout the Greeks off his sand."
"But how can I fight? I cannot move."
"Indeed."
"I am vulnerable."
"You are."
Zeus smiled at him.
"But you desecrated the temple of Apollo, Achilles, the patron of Troy. Did you think you would be immune to the Trojan arrows forever?"
"No," he murmured.
The pain in his head grew stronger and the father of the gods disappeared in shower of stars.

xXx

Nestor pointed towards Troy.
"Yes, of course I think they will attack. They would be fools not to. Hector will come; he knows the camp is weak. If he has any sense – and the gods all know that he has a fine head on his shoulders – he will march down the beach and rout the Greeks off his sand."
Odysseus tugged his beard as he did when he was thinking.
"Then we need to move him," he said, nodding at the door of the tent.
They were standing just outside and they could hear Achilles' low moans.
"He is vulnerable," Nestor agreed.
"Indeed."
"But he can't be moved – and even if he could, then where?"
"Onto the boat, my lord," Eudorus said. "If I may speak, my lord."

Nestor shook his head.
"He can't be moved right now," he repeated. "The best we can do is hold them back till he's strong enough to be put on the boat. That way, if they do attack, you can at least retreat with him, Eudorus."
Odysseus nodded his head reluctantly.
"And the girl," Nestor began again. "It was the queen, wasn't it? The she-wolf?"

The Ithacan king glanced at Eudorus, then they nodded reluctantly.
"What were you thinking?"
"It was him," Odysseus said, jerking his thumb at the tent. "And he wasn't thinking – you know Achilles, Nestor. In any case, it seems he got more than he bargained for and he let her go. No, I don't know where she is, before you ask."
"Provided she hasn't already boarded a boat, she can't have gotten far, can she? We can check the neighbouring villages and find her, take her back. He seems to have taken a shine to her."
"That's true," Odysseus said.
"Then we'll find her," Nestor smiled. "How hard can it be to find a red-haired northerner on the beaches of Troy? And maybe some tender care from a pretty woman would help him back on his feet."
"I don't think she was the tender, caring type," Eudorus remarked drily. "But it would please him if she were returned to him, I'm sure."

xXx

"And where is she now?" Achilles asked. "The woman, the she-wolf."
"How would I know?" Zeus shrugged. "She is of other gods, the gods in the north, in the night-sky. She does not move in my domain."
"How hard can it be to find a red-haired northerner on the beaches of Troy?"
"Is she on the beaches of Troy?" Zeus pondered.
"Where else could she be?"
"On a boat to Carthage?"
Achilles considered it.
"Maybe," he admitted.

Zeus smiled at him.
"Or maybe she is in Troy," the god said thoughtfully, playing with him.
Achilles knew he was right; the White Queen was not in the realm of the Greek gods, but Achilles knew that Zeus could see her, no matter what he claimed.
"She is in Troy," Achilles said and the thought crashed a bolt of pain across his consciousness. "The wolf is in the city."

xXx

Ahma lay a cold, wet cloth on his swollen shoulder.
"Liji, liji," she whispered.
He was her son, her sun, her yellow-haired boy, and his broken body was lying, bruised bloodied, at her fingertips.
He opened his eyes again and looked at her.
"She is in Troy," he said "The wolf is in the city."
His eyes closed again and Ahma shuddered.