Chapter VII: Borrowed Armor

Prince Paris yawned from his high tower in the royal castle of Troy. He was black-haired and brown-skinned, a true Trojan youth in the land that would one day be known as Turkey, but for now was called Asia Minor. The prince was bored today, for the battles that he watched from his window never went anywhere, no side ever making any progress.

"This is so dull," he moaned, a royal brat, as he combed a finger through his black locks. "Perhaps I will visit my dear Helen. Or perhaps I will play the harp instead."

He knew full well that hundreds of feet below him, good men were dying every day in a war over his stolen wife Helen, but did Paris care? Not a fig. All that mattered to him was good food, even better wine, his musical talents, and his fair queen Helen.

There were days when Paris missed the countryside, for he had not always been a prince. When he was born, there had been a terrible prophecy that he would bring ruin unto his home — silly things, prophecies, Paris never paid them any attention — but his parents were superstitious. They left him in the country to die, exposed to the elements, but the babe was instead taken in by the kind shepherd Agelaus, who raised him as his own son.

But growing up, Paris had always wondered who his true parents were, and the airheaded lad had left home to travel to the great city of Troy in search of his origins. It was there that he was finally reunited with the king and queen of Troy, who recognized their son and were heartily sorry they had abandoned him as a child. The prophecy was all but forgotten.

Then, of course, there came the golden apple. The judgment of the fairest goddess. And without knowing it, Pretty Boy Paris had brought ruin on his long-lost home.

"Paris," said a commanding voice from the hallway.

"You may enter, Hector," said the prince in a lazy drawl.

The man who entered could not be more different from Prince Paris, although he was also a prince, and was in fact, Paris's biological brother. But while Paris had long, curly black hair and a perpetually smug expression, this second prince wore his hair short-cropped in true military fashion, and he was proud but not smug. Hector entered his brother's bedroom.

"I see you have a nice view of the battle," said Hector, scowling.

"It bores me to tears," said Paris, stifling another yawn.

"So while you've been bored," Hector seethed, gritting his teeth, "I've been out there risking my neck to defend your stolen bride. What's wrong with this picture?"

"I don't know, Hector, why don't you tell me?"

"What's wrong," he said, glaring at Paris, "is that you dare to presume yourself a prince of Troy when you haven't lifted a finger to defend the city whose rewards you reap."

"Say that again in fewer words, brother."

"You haven't gotten off your lazy butt to fight."

Now Paris understood what his brother was saying, and he disliked him all the more for it. Paris frowned and pouted, fighting back the urge to dismiss Hector like he was an unwanted courtier, but Hector was a fellow prince — they were equal in rank.

The difference was that Hector had grown up as a prince with the understanding that he had to earn his right to rule, to put the hard work into being a prince of Troy, to work hard for his citizens' respect. Whereas Paris had grown up poor and in the countryside, and when he discovered he was secretly a prince, he treated it as if he'd won the lottery, and ever since putting on the crown, he hadn't lifted a finger when a servant could do it for him.

"You expect me to fight?" Paris laughed. "Why on Zeus's green earth should I?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe because it's your wife we're defending?"

"Helen doesn't need defending. Troy is impenetrable. Those foolish Greeks have been trying to take the city for nine years and they've never even come close."

"But one day they may break into Troy, and what will you do then?"

"When that day comes, I will fight. But not before."

"Then I pray it arrives quickly, treasonous as that may sound."

Paris and Hector glared at each other a while longer. They could not have loathed each other more — when it had been discovered that Paris was the lost prince of Troy, Hector had at first been happy to have a brother, at least until he'd gotten to know how rotten Paris was — and so Hector brushed past his brother and marched to the window overlooking the battle.

"If you'll excuse me, I need to get down there and fight. That way at least one of us is fulfilling their duty."

"Oh good, I can get back to my music. Off you go then."

Hector shot his brother an ugly look. But then something, or someone, on the battlefield below caught his attention. Someone whose armor reflected the sun.

It was unmistakably him. Leading the Greek army, flanked by hundreds of his fellow soldiers and the three kings of the Greek city-states, Agamemnon, Menelaus, and Odysseus, there was one warrior in distinctive golden armor. Hector had seen that armor before.

"So Achilles had returned to the fight," mused Hector.

The prince donned his helmet and lifted his sword. He grinned at the opportunity that presented itself — the last time they had fought, Achilles had defeated Hector. He was due for some payback. "Just watch, Paris. I'll show you how a real prince fights."

And without another word, Hector marched out of his brother's bed chambers and descended the castle, making for the battlefield, where a rematch was long overdue.

The golden armor of Achilles flashed in the sunlight, reflecting radiance to the eyes of the Greek army. The soldiers all let out a "Hurrah!" upon seeing their hero Achilles once again on the battlefield. "I thought he quit the army?" said one soldier. "Well, he's back now!" said another. Their cheers were invigorating. "We have a demigod on our side!"

Little did the Greek warriors know that the true Achilles was currently sitting in his tent, stripped of his armor, wearing a plain white robe around his built brown body. Little did they know that the man in the armor of their great hero was not the hero himself.

"I can do this," Patroclus muttered to himself, raising his shield and sword in triumph as the Greek soldiers cheered. "I can do this," he whispered again, making sure to turn his head away from the army so they could not see his face behind his helmet. His hair was hidden, fortunately, for his brown locks were a dead give-away, since Achilles was golden-haired.

As long as he didn't say anything, they wouldn't know he lacked Achilles's voice. And as long as he didn't reveal his face, they wouldn't know his true identity. The important thing was that the warriors, who had been so dejected upon learning Achilles had quit, were once again motivated to fight against the damnable Trojans.

So Patroclus, in his borrowed armor, led the charge that fateful day. The Greek army hurrahed and hooped and hollered, running behind him as they moved once more to attempt to take the city of Troy.

Patroclus saw the warlord king Agamemnon, a burly giant of a man in his blood-red armor to match his red hair and beard, and his younger and lankier brother Menaleaus. He even saw the wily Fox of Ithaca himself, the smug and sarcastic Odysseus, going into battle that day. The three kings of Greece had gathered on the battlefield, each leading the warriors from their respective city-state behind them, charging headfirst into the war.

They met the oncoming Trojans with much gusto and force. The two armies clashed, the sounds of metal banging against metal filling the air, followed by the war cries of both sides. The Greeks yelled the names of their city-states — "For Athens!" some said. "For Sparta!" said others. "For Ithaca!" yelled a few, followed by "Mycenae!" and "Corinth!" and "Thebes!" which showed just how many Greek warriors there were — whereas the Trojans were all coming from the same city, united in their cause, defending their beloved Troy.

Patroclus had once been a weak boy only good for the healing arts, but not anymore. Now he was a true warrior, older and muscular and capable of holding his own in battle.

"For Phthia!" Patroclus shouted, hoping none of his fellow soldiers recognized his voice. He could not help himself. The euphoria of battle was absolutely intoxicating.

Pat swung his sword and brandished his shield, taking on one Trojan fighter after another, and he was doing quite well. He felt he could keep fighting all day, perhaps even into the night, and take out a good number of enemy forces. Pat was not expecting one soldier in particular to single him out, spit at his feet, and challenge him to a duel.

"Achilles," yelled Prince Hector, arriving on the battlefield. "Last time you defeated me. Let me now return the favor. I challenge you to single combat."

Patroclus gulped. This looked like a seasoned warrior, and when the soldiers around them heard the challenge laid at his feet, they all stopped fighting and formed a circle around the two enemies. "Fight! Fight! Fight!" yelled the onlookers, as if this were a petty street fight between teenagers. This wasn't petty — this was life or death.

But what could Patroclus do? If he refused to fight, then the Greeks would know that he wasn't really Achilles, and their confidence would falter. And besides, Patroclus was no coward, and he feared that if he ran away from Hector, the gods would punish him when he died for being yellow-bellied. He heard that cowards were sent to Tartarus, the pits of eternal torment.

Pat's only option was to stand his ground and try to defeat Hector.

Saying nothing, Patroclus raised his sword and shield to signal he accepted the challenge. That put a grin on his enemy's face, who also lifted his weapons. The two warriors circled each other for a moment, like alley cats hissing and baring their claws and fangs.

Then Hector let out a mighty cry and charged at his rival, striking the first blow. His sword struck Patroclus's shield, letting out a terrible clang, but Pat was able to withstand it and stay on his feet. The next blow was Pat's, as he lunged at Hector and struck below his shield, slashing at the exposed skin between his leather skirt and his greaves. His attack drew blood, and Hector yelled in pain and momentarily fell to his knees, covering his wound.

Pat seized his chance and tried to attack his enemy again, going for his upper body this time, but Hector was able to raise his sword and intercept the second attack. The force of the interception sent Patroclus back a few paces, and once again Hector was on his feet.

Then they charged at each other once more, yelling their battle cries. They slashed and crashed, banged and clanged, terrible in their fury and fever. The surrounding Greeks and Trojans each cheered on their champion, some yelling out Hector's name, some shouting for Achilles. But then Hector landed an attack and cut Patroclus on the shoulder.

Blood poured out from his wound, and the Greeks in the crowd muttered.

"I thought Achilles was invulnerable?" said one soldier.

"He is," someone answered. "He can't be injured."

Patroclus was beginning to panic, afraid that his ruse was finally at an end. But he could not afford to be distracted. He had to put his all into the fight, and that's what he did. Brushing off his shoulder wound, Pat charged at Hector and their swords sung once again.

But he did get distracted, because someone in the crowd called his name. His true name.

"Patroclus! What are you doing?"

Pat gaped in horror. He knew that voice, and it meant his charade was over.

The real Achilles was standing in the crowd, not wearing any armor, only a plain cotton shirt and pants, bearing a simple shield and sword. It appeared Achilles had changed his mind about not participating in the battle.

"Achy, I can explain," Pat said, looking his lover in the eyes.

It was the distraction that cost him everything.

Hector was faster than lightning, running straight at Patroclus, yelling like a wild beast. Then he swung his sword and made contact with Pat's exposed neck.

Patroclus hovered for a moment, eyes bulging, choking back blood.

He stumbled. Hector kicked him while he was down.

And Achilles watched his lover fall to the ground, never to get up.

"Patroclus!" Achilles cried in horror, running for his beloved. He fell to his knees and cradled Pat's head in his arms, trying hopelessly to stop the flow of blood spouting from his neck. "Pat, stay with me! You stay with me! Oh gods!"

"Achy…" Patroclus whispered. His sword fell from his hands.

"No, no, Pat, why did you — Oh my gods, why did you take my armor?" Achilles was fighting back tears, but it was a useless fight. They poured down his cheeks as he cradled his dearest friend in the world. "Keep talking, Pat, focus on me, don't close your eyes."

"Achy…" Pat said again, and a ghost of a smile flashed on his face. "It's okay."

"No, don't say that, nothing is okay! Stay with me, Patroclus!"

"Golden boy… golden boy…" Pat whispered, reaching up a hand to stroke Achilles's golden hair. "Don't you know… I love you…"

"Patroclus! No, no, Patroclus, don't say that! Don't give up!"

"Golden boy… golden boy…" His hand quivered and fell to the ground. "Promise me… you'll be true… Promise me… Promise…"

Achilles closed his eyes, weeping great tears of grief. His mouth trembled, and softly he sang, "Sing about summertime… sing about apple trees in spring." He held Pat's face in his hands, rocking him back and forth. "When we finally go home… just you and me and… everything." Achilles kissed his lover one last time.

When their lips parted, Pat whispered, "Golden boy… golden boy…"

He closed his eyes and didn't move again.

A hush fell over the crowd of soldiers who had stopped fighting to watch the tender tragedy unfold. They watched in silence, overwhelmed with the realization that their hero in golden armor had not been Achilles after all, saddened by the loss of their army healer who had been loved and valued by all. A temporary ceasefire broke out.

But one soldier did not respect the ceasefire.

Achilles shuddered, clenched his teeth, balled up his hands, shaking with simmering rage. "No…" he muttered, eyes shut tight, his hands grasping his discarded sword. "Nooooooo!" Achilles's eyes suddenly burst open, red with bloodshot veins as he screamed and charged.

Hector barely had time to react before Achilles was on him. The demigod wasn't wearing any armor, he didn't need any, his skin was invulnerable after all. The same was not true of Hector. The prince of Troy didn't even move, his eyes bulging, and then it was over.

Achilles had screamed in a primal fury, finally giving into his untapped rage. He swung his sword in one fateful blow. Hector's head came clean off, falling to the ground and rolling like a sports ball. His decapitated body slumped over pitifully.

Revenge was sweet, but Achilles took no pleasure in it. He was all anger, and his fury did not stop with Hector's death. Achilles raised his bloody sword high, screaming loud enough to wake the dead, and charged against the Trojans.

The Greek soldiers rallied behind him, the ceasefire completely abandoned, and the war resumed in one fell motion. Achilles led the charge, cutting through Trojan after Trojan, slicing and cutting and stabbing and swinging and wounding and beheading without care.

The battle was terrible to behold. Achilles raged and wept and killed many Trojans on that fateful day. For hours the battle went on, and surely, steadily, the Greeks began to gain the upper hand. The tide of battle had finally turned.

"Follow me, Greeks!" Achilles shouted over the crowd, who all yelled and brandished their weapons and ran behind their demigod hero.

Achilles did not care about rescuing Helen. His only motivation was to kill as many Trojans as possible, to exact his terrible revenge on the city that had taken his lover from him. His rage did not stop after killing Hector; it only boiled and bubbled and overflowed inside him, spilling out of his chest in the form of furious shouting.

The Greeks were gaining ground. The Trojans seemed powerless against them, as weak as children, falling one by one and leaving the ground littered with corpses. The cost of war was truly terrible, so many lives lost to the fateful Trojan War.

And at last, it seemed the war was coming to an end. The Greeks overpowered the soldiers guarding the city gates. Once the city's protectors had been dispatched, the Greek army broke through the gate and flooded into the city of Troy. They had finally made progress.

They had broken into the city. They were closer to taking Troy.

The tide of war had truly turned.

The Underworld was a dark and damp place, full of caverns and caves and stalactites and stalagmites rising from the ground and falling from the ceiling. At the entrance to the great realm of darkness, there was a river — the River Styx, the same river that Achilles's mother, the sea nymph Thetis, had dipped him in as a baby, turning him mortal save for his ankle — and a skeletal ferryman named Charon stood in his boat, ready to take souls to the Land of the Dead.

When one crossed the River Styx on Charon's boat, the next obstacle was the mighty three-headed dog who guarded the gates of Hades, a monstrous beast named Cerberus. He attacked anyone who would dare trespass into the Underworld, but he could be appeased by throwing him three large steaks, one for each head.

Then you got to the gates of hell itself. A carving in a stone archway over the gates read, as Dante recalled in his expedition into Hades, the warning: "Abandon all hope ye who enter here." But that wouldn't stop Dante and his ghostly guide Virgil from entering in search of his beloved Beatrice. That wouldn't happen until after Roman times, however.

There were many souls in the Underworld, many more than usual. This happened whenever a war raged in the surface world, of course, and the Trojan War was bigger and more deadly than any other war in the world. With every dead Greek or Trojan, the ranks of Hades grew in number. Soon Hades had a veritable army.

"Oh, I love to see it, I love to see it," mused the dreadful King of the Underworld himself, the mighty Hades. His skin was a bluish-gray, his hair was a bright blue flame atop his head, and he wore smoky black robes that trailed behind him, pinned with an ornamental skull. "Ares, my dear nephew, I do believe we are… ready… to… rumble!"

Hades was not alone in that bleak cave. He was joined by a stout, pot-bellied soldier all in red, his skin and hair red, his armor a blood-red Olympian bronze, forged by Hephaestus himself. The blacksmith of the gods was reluctant to give his craftsmanship to his wife's not-so-secret lover, of course, but Ares had compensated him well, and a job was a job.

"Indeed, Uncle Hades," chuckled Ares, picking up his ruddy bronze helmet, followed by his sword and his favorite weapon, his war hammer. He had bet this very hammer against Athena's iconic Aegis shield, but Ares was thinking he was likely to win that bet.

"Foolish little Achilles has finally given into his rage," laughed the war god, who had summoned a vision of the world above. In his vision, he watched Achilles fighting off Trojan after Trojan as they invaded the city of Troy. "Who knew losing his dear Patroclus was the way to get him to finally snap?"

"And with every Trojan he kills," cackled Hades, "another dead soldier joins my zombie army. Look at them! Aren't my children beautiful?"

Hades's children, as he called them, were zombified warriors still wearing their armor and carrying their swords and shields, but many of them had lost their flesh and were mere skeletons decked in armor. But they could still lift a sword.

"The time is right, my minions!" flaming-haired Hades announced, standing in a cave overlooking his army of the dead. "We are strong enough to take Olympus! No longer will we be forced to dwell in darkness! Soon we will rule the heavens above!"

Hades recalled with bitterness how he had come to rule the Underworld. It all started when he and his brothers and sisters had fought and won the Titanomachy, a terrible war between the Olympian gods and their Titan predecessors, led by their wicked father Kronos.

After winning the war with the Titans, the gods had divided up the realms over which they would rule. The brothers Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades had drawn lots to determine their respective realms, but Hades had always suspected it had all been a set-up.

After all, Zeus had won the cozy position of King of the Heavens, and their fishy brother Poseidon had won control of the seven seas, but Hades? He drew the worst lot. He was forced to rule the Underworld, a grim position that none of the other gods wanted.

Well, Hades's time in the shadows was over. After this rebellion, he would switch their positions — he would be King of Olympus and he'd force Zeus to live in the Underworld — and then no one, god or mortal, would ever underestimate Hades ever again.

"Ready, Nephew Ares?" called Hades as he hitched his terrifying, winged black horses to his gray chariot, ready to ride. He wore his Helm of Darkness, which granted him invisibility.

"Ready, Uncle Hades!" responded Ares, riding beside him in a blood-red chariot pulled by the Mares of Diomedes, a troop of horrific man-eating horses.

The two chariots raced each other out of the Underworld, leading their army of dead soldiers. It did not matter now if they were Greek or Trojan. They had all ended up in the same position, serving the god of the dead and the god of war.

The army burst out of the Underworld, spilling out of a cave and flooding into the world of mortals. Human farmers and shepherds screamed and fled in terror at the sight of zombie soldiers marching on their fields and meadows. They were making for Mount Olympus.

And there was nothing Zeus could do to stop them.