The god is old, old as the first melting of ice from the mountains, and he is wily. Scamander catches every blow with his mighty staff, forcing him to be faster and then faster still. Achilles’ sword flashes faster than thought, but he cannot touch the god. The waters do not seem to drag at him as they might at another man. He uses his staff like a hammer wide arcs of spray leap from where it smashes against the river’s surface. His swings force Achilles backwards over the debris lining the river. The sword’s point passes harmlessly, as it has never done before. Easily, almost casually, the god twists away. He gains his feet and strikes, whipping towards the god’s unprotected chest. Achilles ducks and then rolls forward over the returning whistle of a second swing. With hands as large as a man’s torso, the river god swings his staff. Achilles steps into the river and lifts his sword. He does not need a blade one strike with this would break bones, snap a neck. “You will not keep me from him.” The river god Scamander lifts a thick staff, large as a small tree-trunk. Most pious of all is Hector, prince of Troy. In summer, they pour wine for him as a sacrifice, and drop garlands to float upon his waters. He is taller than the tallest mortal, and swollen with strength like creeks in spring. Filthy water sluices off the muscles of his shoulders, pours from his black beard. A figure rises from the river to bar his way. He gains the other shore Achilles leaps to follow.

Hector lunges into the waves and swims, arms cutting The waters are not golden now, but a muddied, churning red, choked with corpses and armor. Its water glints a creamy gold, dyed by the stones in its riverbed, the yellow rock for which Troy is known. Chest heaving, Hector races towards Troy’s wide river, the Scamander. The men stare as the two pass: it looks, almost, as if Achilles is chasing himself. He is wearing Achilles’ own armor, the unmistakable phoenix breastplate taken from beside my corpse. Yet Hector eludes him, weaving through the chariots and men with the luck of the gods. The grass, thinned from ten years of warfare, drinks the rich blood of princes and kings. He is gone before their bodies hit the ground. “Hector!” He tears through the advancing Trojan ranks, shattering chests and faces, marking them with the meteor of his fury. He runs up the beach, past the Greeks who have come out to see. HE DOES NOT WAIT for the Myrmidons, or Automedon. She watches him arm and does not try to speak to him. At dawn, his mother returns with a shield and sword and breastplate, newly minted from still-warm bronze. He holds me all night long, pressing my cold hands to his mouth. My corpse sags it is warm in the tent, and the smell will come soon. “Do you think I do not hope the same?” he asks. “I hope that Hector kills you.” The breath rasps in his throat.

You care only for yourself!” Achilles’ gaze lifts to meet hers. Because he could not bear to see you suffer!” Achilles buries his face in his hands. “He fought to save you, and your darling reputation. “You are the one who made him go.” Briseis steps towards him.

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