Chapter VIII: Achilles Heel
In the grand Turkish city of Troy were many temples to the gods, and one of these was dedicated to the Muses. Five statues of the goddesses of music, poetry, drama, and all the arts were positioned at the top of the temple, overlooking the city below.
And in a flash of Olympian magic, the five statues came to life. Brown-skinned, black-haired women with more sass than an alleyway of cats, the goddesses were all different shapes and sizes. One of them, the tallest with her hair held up by a headband, was named Calliope — the goddess of epic poetry. She sighed dramatically at the sight of frenzied chaos unfolding before them.
"Look at them, ladies," said Calliope, pointing to the scene below. "The Greeks have finally broken into the city. The tide of war has turned."
"But at what cost?" The largest Muse, who carried a drama mask, was Melpomene. She was the goddess of theatrical tragedies. "Achilles has lost his Patroclus."
"Dear Pat waits for him in the Underworld," said the Muse with bushy, flowing hair down to her waist, who was Euterpe, goddess of music. "But he won't have to wait long."
"Oh yes, Achy will meet his fate in Troy, but first, he has a war to win."
"You mean he has a choice to make: passion or reason."
"Will he side with Athena or with Ares?" asked the Muse with dreadlocks sticking up on her head. This was Clio, the goddess of history. "Anyone taking bets?"
"I'll put a hundred drachmas on Ares. That boy Achilles is pure rage." This pessimistic Muse was the tragic Melpomene.
"No way, sister! He'll side with Athena in the end." The optimist was the Muse with a ponytail and hips for days. She was Thalia, the goddess of comedic plays.
"You wanna make it interesting? Two hundred drachmas on Ares."
"I'll take that bet. Two hundred on Athena."
"Ladies, ladies, gambling is really more of Hermes's territory."
And so the five Muses watched and waited, witnesses to the terrible battle unfolding within the walls of Troy. The five goddesses — Calliope, Melpomene, Euterpe, Clio, and Thalia — turned back into stone statues, immobile, as the war raged on below them.
But as they returned to stone, you could hear them singing their fateful verse. "Oh sing, oh sing, oh sing the praise of that Achilles and his rage. Oh sing, oh sing, oh sing O' Muse, of that Achilles and the Blues." Their words echoed across the battlefield.
The Greeks were inside the walls of Troy. With Achilles, the real Achilles, on their side, the Greek army felt they too were invincible.
But even their hero had one point of vulnerability.
Achilles was armorless, but it didn't matter because no weapon could pierce his skin. He was mowing through Trojan soldiers like he was a scythe cutting wheat, slashing and hacking and screaming and raging through the enemy, a veritable wildfire.
In Achilles's mind, each Trojan was responsible for the death of Patroclus. The whole army was guilty of Hector's crime, and he would make them all pay.
"Take that! And that!" cried Achilles, swinging his sword and slicing his enemies open like they were made of butter. "I'll kill you all!"
Nothing could stop him when the rage had taken over. He was like a Fury, those hellish female torturers of the Underworld who flayed sinners, especially those who spilled family blood. Achilles didn't care how young or old his enemies were, he killed them all the same.
The Greek army was superbly motivated, now that they had the real Achilles on their side, a legitimate demigod. They had been disappointed to learn that the person in the golden armor had been Patroclus, not Achilles himself, but now all was right again. Achilles was where he belonged: on the frontline of the war, killing Trojans left and right.
"This is the day we take Troy!" shouted King Agamemnon, a brute in bloody red armor, raising his sword high in triumph. "This ten-year endeavor will finally be over!"
"And I shall take my wife back!" cried his brother, King Menelaus, husband of the captive Helen. He was not as good a fighter as his elder brother, but he could hold his own.
"Well, in case things don't go swimmingly," mused King Odysseus, somehow finding time to stroke his beard in the middle of battle, "I've been working on a backup plan."
"Enough of your schemes, Odysseus!" yelled Agamemnon. "The city will fall today!"
"Yes, yes, but should we fail, I have an excellent stratagem in mind."
Agamemnon had no time for pessimism, and he ignored Odysseus and refocused his efforts on the battle at hand. Together, the three kings fought their way into Troy, filling the city streets with terror and blood.
But no one fought as hard as Achilles. He was a monster, a wrathful god exacting his terrible vengeance on the people of Troy. He had lost himself to his worst nature.
And little did he know that he was playing right into Ares and Hades's hands, for each soldier he killed became another dead troop in the rebellious gods' zombie army. But Achilles didn't know what was going on up on Mount Olympus. His mind was on Troy, where his whole world had been shattered.
Achilles couldn't know that from the ramparts of the royal castle of Troy, Prince Paris was stringing his bow and readying his arrows. The vainglorious prince was muttering furiously to himself, saying, "Who says I haven't lifted a finger to help Troy? I'll take out a hundred Greek soldiers from up here. That will show Hector."
Paris looked down from the ramparts and was shocked to see Prince Hector's lifeless, decapitated body being carried by Trojan soldiers through the city streets. Clearly his no-good brother had been on the losing side of his enemy's blade. "Oh well, never liked the pompous blowhard anyways. He deserved what he got… but what's this?"
The prince had spied someone else in the crowd. Though he wasn't wearing his golden armor, only fighting in a leather battle skirt, he immediately knew this must be Achilles. Who else would be so invincible, swords shattering against his chest like they were made of ice, who else but Achilles? And if he were the one to take him out, Paris would be the hero of Troy.
Prince Paris finished stringing his bow. He took a poison-dipped arrow, notched it in his cypresswood bow, and pulled back with all his might. He took aim, waiting until Achilles had come into view… Paris had heard an interesting rumor that Achilles was invulnerable all over his body, except in the spot his mother had held him when she dipped him in the River Styx, turning him almost-immortal… Paris aimed at the exposed ankle of Achilles.
Good thing that Achilles had neglected to wear boots today.
Paris aimed, drew back, and let his arrow fly.
Zeus and his family of gods and goddesses had been enjoying a feast in the great dining hall of Mount Olympus. They had been eating ambrosia and drinking nectar, the food of the gods, nourishing the golden ichor that ran through their veins. Zeus's own orange aura was glowing strongly that night: he was in good health.
He was joined by his wife, Hera, a goddess radiating pink, and his favorite daughter, Athena, who had a blue glow about her. There were the twins, Artemis and Apollo, her a brown-skinned beauty with leaves in her hair and two small antlers on her head, him a blue-skinned hunk wearing fuschia and crimson with a golden plumed-helm. Dionysus was large and purple and perpetually drunk, and Poseidon was turquoise with a sea-blue robe, carrying his distinctive red trident. Finally, there was bulky Hephaestus, his skin a deep burgundy and his beard ruddy red, and slim Hermes, light blue-skinned with his signature winged helmet and feet, carrying his caduceus, a winged pole wrapped by intertwining snakes.
"Oh, my lord Zeus, you do know how to throw a party," said witty Hermes, flapping around in the air. "I think I'll have a little more wine — Dionysus, do you mind?"
The round Dionysus waved his hand, and Hermes's wine glass instantly refilled. "Thank you, thank you, you're a doll, dollface." Dionysus giggled and rolled over, drunk.
"By the seven seas, what's that sound?" asked Poseidon.
"I heard it, too," said Athena, whipping out her sword. "Something approaches."
"We're perfectly safe on Mount Olympus," Zeus said emphatically, rushing to calm the panic, "and I assure you, no one would dare attack while we're all together."
But in that moment, Zeus remembered the words of the three Fates — someone was planning treason, planning his overthrow, someone from his own council — and his forced calm died around him. Zeus rushed to the end of the dining hall, running between marble columns, to look over the edge of Mount Olympus.
The God of Storms was not prepared for the storm that came that day.
Zeus saw a hundred, no, a thousand, a hundred thousand of the living dead climbing up the side of their godly mountain. It was a legion of zombie soldiers, nothing but skeletons with rotting flesh clinging to their white and yellow bones, wearing rusty and decayed armor. There were dead Greeks and dead Trojans, and suddenly Zeus knew he was looking at the byproduct of the terrible Trojan War: an army of the dead for a rebellious god.
And Zeus knew exactly which god had been plotting his overthrow.
"Hades! I should have known it'd be you!" Zeus reached out a hand and a bolt of thunder from a dark-gray stormcloud zapped into his grasp. "How dare you?"
"How dare I?" shouted Hades, for the God of the Underworld had flown up to the top of Mount Olympus in his chariot driven by a team of winged death horses. "How dare you force me to live my life underground, condemned to the abyss?"
Zeus hurled his thunderbolt at his jealous brother, but Hades donned his Helm of Invisibility and he disappeared on the spot. Having lost his target, Zeus hurled lightning bolt after lightning bolt, but he didn't know where to aim.
Hades's voice echoed though the sky like claps of thunder. "You stuck me in the Underworld while you took the heavens to yourself!"
"We drew lots!" Zeus shouted back, ceasing his attack. "It was fair!"
"There was nothing fair about it! You rigged the drawing! You and Poseidon both!"
"Well, if you're going to drag me into this!" Suddenly their third brother, the fishy-haired God of the Sea, splashed up in a wave. Poseidon waved his trident and caused a flood to fly from the Mediterranean and attack Hades.
Where the wave landed, they could see the outline of the invisible chariot. "He's there!" Poseidon cried, pointing to the spot where Hades had been revealed.
Zeus was quick on the draw. He threw a mighty thunderbolt where Hades was, and this time he struck true. Hades was thrown from his horse-drawn chariot, but being a god, he could fly. In a smoky black cloud, Hades snarled and retreated.
"Attack, my minions! Take Olympus for yourselves!"
The zombie army had reached the top of the mountain. The dead soldiers ran through the white-marbled streets, overrunning the temples and chambers where the gods dwelled, smashing vases and tearing down columns. Hades raised his hands and caused a black fog to rise up through the streets of Olympus, disorienting the gods under attack.
"And Hades isn't alone!" This time a reddish-bronze chariot pulled up to Olympus, and in it was the power couple of the heavens, stout red Ares and beautiful pink-and-gold Aphrodite, arm-in-arm. "We'll be the new king and queen of Olympus!"
"Ares!" Zeus shouted in disgust. "My brat of a son, and his girlfriend!"
"Your reign has gone on long enough!" Ares yelled back, thrashing the Mares of Diomedes with his whip. They neighed, gnashing their sharp teeth, and galloped through the sky. "It's time for younger blood!"
Zeus hurled more lightning at his rebellious son and brother, but they dodged out of the way. Meanwhile, the zombies had finally made it to the citadel at the top of Mount Olympus, and they were giving the gods a worthy fight. Athena was slashing her way through the dead soldiers, and Hephaestus was swinging his smithing tools at them. Hera and Demeter and Persephone were hiding helplessly, for they were not fighters.
But Zeus noticed that his twin children, Artemis and Apollo, were not fighting the undead horde. Zeus snapped at them, "What are you doing? Fight for Olympus!"
"I think we'd prefer to fight for Troy," answered Artemis cooly. It was well-known that the divine twins were patrons of the Trojans, and right now, it seemed their alignment was with Ares and Aphrodite, the other favored gods of Troy.
The Golden Apple had divided the gods into two different camps, those for the Greeks and those for the Trojans. On the side of Greece were Athena, Hera, Hermes, Hephaestus, Demeter, and Poseidon, while on the side of Troy were Hades, Ares, Aphrodite, Artemis, and Apollo. The twins knew which side they would fight on.
"Treason!" Zeus shouted as he watched his son and daughter fly over to Hades and Ares's side, drawing back their bows and arrows and shooting at the Olympians on the side of the Greeks. "How dare you betray me?"
"Perhaps Ares is right, father," said Apollo, firing arrows at Athena, who raised her Aegis shield to protect herself. "It is time for newer blood to take charge."
"I will not forget this heresy!" Zeus yelled, throwing thunderbolt after thunderbolt, but there were too many enemies now, and he couldn't fight them all. Poseidon, Hephaestus, and Athena were helping him battle their opponents, but the conflict was not going well.
Zeus's eyes widened as he realized he was looking at the end of his reign on Olympus. He knew a world with Hades and Ares in charge would be unrecognizable, a bloodthirsty and death-filled world, and there was no one left to turn to. No god who could save them.
But maybe, Zeus thought, a demigod could.
He had only ever scraped his ankle before. That had been a small sting of pain, but the feeling of the arrow piercing his skin, cutting through his heel and embedding itself deep in his foot, was pain like he'd never felt in his life.
Achilles fell to the ground, he couldn't help himself — Oh, why did he choose to not wear armor today? Normally he wore boots and covered his ankle, but today, his weak spot was exposed — and he screamed in agony.
He could feel the poison creeping its way through his veins. Achilles knew the arrow must have been poisoned, for the shock his body was feeling could be nothing else. Brazenly, he looked all around for someone carrying a bow and arrow. He wanted to face his attacker.
But nobody in the vicinity was carrying an archer's weapons. Achilles then looked up, realizing that he might have been the target of someone hiding in the castle's ramparts. And sure enough, he recognized the superficial curly hair and smug expression of Prince Paris of Troy.
The one who had kidnapped Helen and started this whole bloody war. The one responsible, indirectly, for the death of Patroclus. The one who had shot his heel.
One last fury coursed through his body, one last feeling of primal rage. Achilles mustered all his demigod strength for one last kill, to be a warrior one last time. He grabbed a spear lying on the ground beside him, and shaking, he got to his feet.
Achilles aimed the spear, reared back, and let it fly.
He watched with great satisfaction as his spear hurled through the sky, up to the ramparts of Castle Troy, a perfect throw and a perfect hit. The spear went right through Pretty Boy Paris, skewering him like a shishkabob.
Paris's eyes bulged, his mouth dropped open stupidly, and he patted his chest where the spear had pierced him. Bloody was pouring down his shirt, and Achilles laughed as his enemy stumbled backwards and fell over the ramparts' edge.
Prince Paris fell hundreds of feet, smashing into the dirty ground with a great thud.
Achilles grinned at his deed, happy to have done his part to end the war. Now that Paris was dead, Troy would surely return Helen to the Greeks and the war would finally be over. It was just a shame he wouldn't live to see it.
Strangely, Achilles was okay with dying. It meant he would be reunited with his beloved Patroclus. If he could no longer hug him in this lifetime, he would embrace him in the afterlife.
Achilles fell to his knees, and in one motion, he ripped the poison arrow from his heel and tossed it to the ground. He gasped in pain, but it soon passed. His vision was getting blurry. The world was spinning, and he felt both blazing hot and freezing cold.
He thought about his father, who would hear of his son's death and mourn. He thought about his sea nymph mother, Thetis, whom he had never known. That was one of his few regrets. He just wished he could have gone home to Greece with Pat, but at least this way, they would be together forever.
"Patroclus…" Achilles muttered, "...I'm coming, my love."
The demigod collapsed to the ground, the ghost of a smile etched on his face.
Achilles blinked his eyes open, then covered them with his hand.
He hadn't expected the Underworld to be this bright, which was why he had to shield his eyes. A terrible whiteness was everywhere around him, and after a moment, his eyes adjusted to the light. He looked around and saw clouds floating below him, like he was in the sky.
No, that wasn't right. He wasn't in the sky. He was on a mountain.
"Where am I?" he mumbled, looking around for some clue. Achilles saw temples and citadels, pearly and golden and very Greek in their design. There were white columns and marble floors, lavender and lilac flowers bloomed everywhere, and there were rivers that ran off the edges of the clouds and poured out golden water into the sky.
Achilles knew that any place this fantastically beautiful could only be heaven. Or in this case, Mount Olympus, the home of the gods.
He got to his feet, surprised to find that his ankle didn't hurt at all — it was like he'd never been injured, or perhaps that was because he was in his celestial body, not his physical form — and he walked down the streets of Mount Olympus, looking for someone to explain what was going on.
As he walked farther, he began to hear a noise. The sounds of battle, swords and shields clashing, warriors screaming, and a dreadful cry that sounded like it came from the undead. At first, Achilles thought he was hearing the sounds of the Trojan War from the Earth below him, but soon he realized that this was another battle entirely.
When he turned the corner of a temple, he gasped. There was a horde of zombie soldiers, horrific and decaying and bearing rusty armor and weapons, that were attacking the gods of Olympus. He recognized the blue aura of Athena, with her distinctive Aegis shield bearing the image of Medusa's gorgon head. She was fighting Ares, whose aura was bloody red, and as he swung his war hammer she dodged out of the way, lashing out with her sword. The rival god and goddess seemed evenly matched.
"Ah, so you've finally arrived."
Achilles jumped, for the words had been spoken behind him. He turned around and immediately fell to his knees in respect. It wasn't everyday you came face to face with the Father of the Gods.
Zeus was majestic in his purple robe, muscular bronze skin, and white beard, the image of a king. Achilles suddenly felt shame for having never gone to his temples to pay respects. Perhaps that was why Zeus had appeared to him, to punish his insolence?
But Zeus was smiling, more solemn than friendly. He put a large orange hand on Achilles's shoulder. "It is not everyday that the gods need the help of a demigod."
"Lord Zeus?" Achilles asked, looking at his feet in embarrassment.
"Raise your eyes, proud warrior," Zeus said, patting his shoulder comfortingly. "Today I call you into my service. That is why you appeared in Olympus when you died, rather than the Underworld. I need you, Achilles."
"You need me? But you're the King of the Gods, surely — "
"And you're the greatest warrior in the mortal world. Right now, Olympus is in her darkest hour. We are under attack by Ares and Hades, the treacherous cowards."
Achilles realized that the zombie army he saw fighting the gods could only be the work of Hades. He gulped as it began to dawn on him what Zeus was asking.
"You want me to fight for you. I thought I'd be done fighting when I died."
"Consider this your last and greatest battle," Zeus said. Then he raised his eyebrow, for he could see the reluctance in Achilles's face. "You don't want to fight anymore, is that right?"
Achilles didn't answer, but truly, he had no intention of fighting for Zeus.
As if the king knew his thoughts, Zeus went on to say, "Perhaps I can provide some motivation. If you don't fight for me, you'll never be reunited with Patroclus."