While the exchange of weapons between the two greatest Achaeans was taking place, their former companions watched them.
In the front rows of the stands of the divine coliseum, where the columns seemed carved from celestial marble and the air vibrated with the energy of the gods, sat the ancient heroes of the Trojan War. Their gazes, hardened by a thousand battles, were fixed on the arena where two of their greatest companions crossed steel as if fate itself were at stake.
Suddenly, a powerful and proud laugh broke the solemnity of the moment.
—Those are my boys! —thundered Agamemnon, king of Mycenae and former leader of the Achaean army—. Forward! Show before gods and mortals the power of the heroes who conquered the glorious city of Troy!
At his side, a man with reddish hair raised an eyebrow with a half-smile.
—You're too excited, don't you think, brother? —commented Menelaus, king of Sparta and husband of Helen.
Agamemnon crossed his arms, puffing out his chest with almost theatrical pride.
—How could I not be? Today the entire world witnesses the greatness of the warriors who fought under my command.
A broad smile, filled with vanity, spread across his face.
—And, of course, the grand king who led them to victory.
Menelaus sighed, bringing a hand to his face.
—You never change… you never change.
A little farther away, a colossal figure remained silent. So tall and robust that even the red-haired Menelaus seemed small beside him. His arms were crossed, his muscles tense like the strings of a bow, and his expression was as hard as bronze.
—I should be down there —he finally declared.
It was Ajax the Great, the bastion of the Achaeans, whose strength and size were comparable to that of the Nemean lion that Heracles himself had slain. In his eyes burned the wounded pride of a warrior who never accepted being left aside.
Menelaus glanced at him from the corner of his eye.
—I wouldn't mind wielding a sword once more either —he admitted—. But let's be honest… none of us could match what those two are doing.
The giant snorted with disdain.
—You know he's right —another voice intervened, light and sharp as steel. A man was idly playing with a pair of daggers, spinning them between his fingers with unsettling skill—. If you stepped into the arena, you'd end up dead before raising your shield.
The one speaking was Ajax the Lesser, also called Aiante, swift, bloodthirsty, and feared even among allies.
The tension grew between the two Ajaxes like a spark about to ignite a dry field.
—Another dispute between us is unnecessary —an elderly and serene voice intervened then.
Nestor, the wise man of Pylos, leaning on his staff, watched the arena with eyes heavy with centuries.
—The gods chose the combatants. It was neither chance nor glory that decided this… but fate. And fate did not call us.
His words, slow but firm, dispelled the dense air that had formed.
—This reminds me of that time, when on the plains of Ilion…
A chorus of groans ran through the group.
—Oh, no… —murmured Menelaus.
Agamemnon let his shoulders slump.
—Here we go again…
Ignoring them with Olympic dignity, Nestor began his anecdote while the battle continued roaring in the arena.
It was Aiante who changed the subject.
—Tell me, Agamemnon… which of the two do you intend to support?
The Atreid placed a hand on his chest with exaggerated drama.
—You ask me to choose between two heroes who fought under my banner? Between one friend and another? What cruelty!
—You support Diomedes —Menelaus declared, cutting the scene short.
Agamemnon's eyes shone intensely.
—Of course! —the king exclaimed, striking the stone railing—. That arrogant Achilles always needed someone to put him in his place!
Menelaus gave him a sharp elbow to the stomach.
—Brother… —he whispered through clenched teeth.
Then he subtly tilted his head toward a young man standing a few steps away, apart from the commotion.
There stood Patroclus. His gaze did not leave the fight. He followed every movement with an almost painful intensity. His hands were tense, and on his face was a mixture of anxiety and hope.
—Hey, Patroclus! —Menelaus called with a softer voice.
The young man gave a slight start, as if he had been pulled from a trance.
—Come join us. You look too tense.
Patroclus approached, trying to compose a calm expression.
—I'm sorry… it's just that… —he took a deep breath—. I'm nervous.
Nestor placed a hand on his shoulder.
—Boy, you more than anyone know that there is no force in this world capable of defeating Achilles.
A shy smile lit Patroclus's face, though the unease did not disappear completely.
—Well —said Ajax the Great, looking around—. Now we are all here.
—Not exactly —Aiante corrected, putting away his daggers—. Odysseus is missing.
Agamemnon frowned.
—That's true… Where did that cunning trickster get to?
At the question, Patroclus reacted. He searched in a bag he carried with him and pulled out a small rolled parchment.
—Achilles' mother gave it to me —he explained while offering it to the king—. It's the official list of the combatants.
Agamemnon took the parchment with curiosity and unrolled it so everyone could see it.
The murmur ceased. The faces of the Achaeans tensed.
The pride, the confidence, even the arrogance… vanished in an instant.
—It… can't be… —the Atreid finally whispered, the color draining from his face.