PENTHESILEA AND ACHILLES

Hektor, Hektor of the Shining Helm, Breaker of Horses, defender of the city of Troy, was dead. Before the gates of Sacred Ilium he'd stood and fought with great Achilles, most feared of the Achean warriors. In the end Achilles had opened his throat and his life had spilled out on the Trojan plains. Even though the Trojans still had in their stable a great champion in Aeneas, and even though the Greeks had yet to succeed in breaching the massive walls of the city, a dark cloud of gloom had settled around Troy.

But Priam, king of the Trojans, had an answer: another champion, one perhaps even greater than Achilles, and one who would bring a formidable army to the battle. Years before, he'd been asked to give ritual purification to a young Amazon princess, a girl named Penthesilea, who'd accidentally killed her captain. He'd done so; and now that princess was Queen of the Amazons. It was said that Penthesilea was herself a demigoddess, like Achilles and Aeneas, that her father was none other than the God of War himself, great Aries. To these Amazons, Priam had sent an urgent message, and the reply he'd received had lifted his spirits higher than they'd been since the death of his son, Hektor. She would come, she'd said; she would come and she would bring her Amazons with her, reinforcements to help the Trojans turn back the tide of the war. No sooner had he gotten the message, no sooner had be begun to rejoice, when Cassandra, priestess of Apollo, had come to him with prophecy that any new reinforcements he obtained would have no effect on the outcome of the war, and that disaster waited for whoever might come. He listened, politely, and then--as always--promptly dismissed her concerns.

The Amazons arrived a week later--none too soon for the beleaguered Trojans. Without pause, they immediately struck at the Greek lines, engaging Menelaus' Spartans and breaking up their battle formation in a matter of less than an hour. From the first moment, the whole character of the battle changed when the Amazons joined the fray. Practically every one of them was a beautiful woman in her own right, and, relying on speed and agility rather than the traditional Greek and Trojan armor and shields, they wore next to nothing in battle. They came in astride their horses, eschewing the use of the chariot, which gave them even more speed and mobility. Against such foes the Greeks were confused; not a few of the men stood staring at their opponents until it was too late to react--and such men usually lost their lives to the fierce female fighters.

Others, though--those fortunate enough to win their fights against the Amazons--found something different. Priam wasn't unaware of this as he stood on the high walls of Troy and watched the now- scattered battles among the Spartans and the Amazons. There was one he noticed in particular, a combat taking place out of sight of most of the other soldiers, in a glade down near the river.

There, a young auburn-haired Amazon, finding her horse unable to navigate among the thick trees, had dismounted and was rushing toward an equally young Spartan fighter. For a moment he was paralyzed, he could only stare at her; rarely had he seen any woman so beautiful as this one. Like her sisters she was dressed only in a brief loincloth and sandals, her high firm breasts and long shapely legs fully exposed. Her green eyes were large, her face broad, her nose small and her lips generous; she was smiling as she came toward him.

But she was also running at him with sword raised, and he suddenly realized that he'd lose his head to it if he didn't take action quickly. At the last possible moment he raised his shield; her sword clanged against it with amazing force. He swung his own in answer, but she danced away from it and he struck only air. He saw her laugh as his swing took him slightly off-balance; a free and open laugh, not a derisive one. Grinning back at her he took another swing at her and she at him, but he connected with nothing and she struck only the hard metal of his shield. She laughed again, twirled around, and swung back at him from the other side. Having no time to bring his shield around, he struck at her sword with his own. He caught it; the two weapons clanged together near the hilts, with such ringing force that both weapons went flying from nerveless fingers.

The girl laughed again and went scurrying for her sword. Understanding that he had a momentary advantage, the Spartan lunged at her, crashing into her with his shield and knocking her to the ground. Then, casting the shield aside, he pounced on her, pinning her small body down. Their faces were only inches apart; he stared into her green eyes, and at the same time became aware that his thighs were pressed against hers and that her hard little breasts were pushing into his chest.

He also became aware that he had a raging, rock-hard erection.

Letting go of one of her shoulders, he grabbed her loincloth and tore it away, leaving her nude. Just as roughly, he tore open his own chiton; then he grabbed her shoulders again and forced his thighs down in between hers. It took him a moment to get the head of his cock into her sex, and he was expecting to have to force his way in--but, to his surprise, she was as wet as he was hard. As he slipped into her he realized she was both smiling up at him and cooperating fully. He let go of her shoulders; she wrapped her arms around his back and bucked her hips against him.

Then, while he was totally involved in having sex with her, she suddenly laughed and reached for the dagger he wore at his belt.

She did manage to get it free, but before she could do anything with it, he'd caught her wrist with his hand. She struggled with him, trying to free her hand, and even as she did she continued to laugh. He slammed his cock deep inside her and twisted her arm, bringing the knife's point around until it rested against her body just below her ribs. He shook his head at her threateningly; she giggled, bounced her eyebrows, and tried again to jerk her hand free. In response, he let his weight rest on the butt of the dagger. She gasped and her eyes flew wide open; her reaction excited him more, and he leaned on down on the knife, feeling the blade slide softly and smoothly down into her body.

She arched backwards and pressed her hips hard up against his; he raised his body and looked down at the knife piercing her flat smooth belly. Looking up at his face, she stopped struggling and again, amazingly, grinned. "A warrior's death," she told him, "A death in battle, means much to the Amazon..."

"And to the Spartans, too," he told her. He grabbed the hilt of the knife and yanked it out of her; her blood sprayed up against his chest. After thrusting with his hips twice more, he slammed the knife back down, driving it through the lower edge of her breast, between her ribs, and deeply into her chest. She threw her arms out to the sides, pounded her small fists on the ground, and gave a warbling cry. Blood bubbled up around her lips. His orgasm began to wash over him; as he sprayed his seed into her he stabbed her in the breast again, this time with such violence that his blade shattered one of her ribs with an audible crunching sound. He was unable to easily extract it, so he contented himself with lifting her whole body by the hilt of the knife and slamming it back down, several times.

After his orgasm was done, he collapsed on her body for a moment, almost losing consciousness. Realizing that doing that, on the field of battle, could easily be fatal, he pulled himself up. The young Amazon was quite dead, her blood spattering the ground all around them. Putting his foot on her chest, he dragged his dagger out of her chest, wiped it off, retrieved his sword and shield, took the few jewels and ornaments she was wearing, and went looking for more enemies.

He didn't find one, not right away--not one he could fight, anyway. Instead, in another small grove of trees along the river, he encountered a group of six Phrygians who had managed, somehow, to capture one of the Amazon warriors alive and unhurt. He stood and watched; the wildly struggling dark-haired girl was younger and physically quite a bit smaller than the woman he'd just killed, but she was just as attractive.

Dragging her into a clearing, the laughing Phrygians ripped off her loincloth and stripped her of her sandals and her jewelry, leaving her utterly naked. They too had found fighting these lovely women exciting; they pushed her to the ground on her back, forced her legs apart, and began raping her, one after another. The Amazon seemed as excited as they; she did not really resist them; in fact she bucked her hips vigorously whenever one of the Phrygians pushed a hard cock inside her, and she readily took a cock offered to her lips into her mouth. But as soon as they'd finished she unsuccessfully tried to make a break for freedom.

The Phrygians weren't having any of that. They pulled her up to her feet and, forcing her arms down behind her back, tied her wrists tightly with rough twine. Then they tied another, much longer piece, around her slender throat and fastened the other end of it to a tree, tethering her to it; her legs were free but, with her hands tied, she could not get loose from the rope. Laughing still, the Phrygians backed away about twenty feet and began talking among themselves. Taking coins from their purses, they laid them in a pile on the ground; that done, they unlimbered their bows and fitted arrows to the strings.

"What is the bet?" the young Amazon cried, getting as close to the Phrygians as her tether would allow. "Tell me! What is the wager? Who can hit me first, or who can send me down to Hades' dark land?"

The Phrygian warriors looked up. "Why does it matter to you, Amazon?" one asked.

She stamped her foot. "Just tell me! I have a right to know!"

The Greek shrugged. "The wager is whose arrow can take you to the ground, Amazon."

She nodded. "I see. I would have a part of this wager, Phrygians!"

"A part? What is your part?"

She grinned. "I will stand still," she told them. "Over there, by those trees. I will stand fast, as if I were one of those planted trees, and take your arrows, Phrygian. My part of the wager is that you set me free if I take one arrows from each of your bows and remain standing!"

The Phrygian warrior stroked his chin speculatively. "A good wager," he agreed. "But those trees are far. A sudden breeze could make a difference between a wound that would force you to your knees and a clean miss."

"Half that," one of the other warriors proposed. "Half that and I will take her down with certainty!"

"Half that, then, Amazon," the spokesman told her. "Half that and you have your part in this wager."

She looked out across the clearing, judging the distance for herself; it wasn't more than fifty yards, at that range she couldn't expect all six shots to be misses. Still, she didn't have much choice. "I accept," she said haughtily. With that she strode to the agreed-upon position and, turning to face the warriors, again adopted a braced stance, her body erect and her feet planted widely.

The Phrygian who'd acted as the spokesman used the tip of his sword to draw a line in the dirt. Then, sheathing his sword and unshouldering his bow, he fitted an arrow to the string as he stepped up with his toes on the line. He drew it slowly, taking careful aim; the Amazon warrior, true to her bargain, stood perfectly still, watching him.

Finally, he released the string. The arrow flew through the air with a soft hissing sound before slamming into the girl's right breast with a solid "thunk!", catching her just above her nipple. The arrow didn't pierce her chest deeply, it struck and lodged against one of her ribs. She closed her eyes for an instant and staggered back a step, but then, getting herself under control, she stood up straight and resumed her previous position. A small trickle of blood ran from around the arrow's shaft.

"I stand still, Phrygians!" she called.

The archer threw his bow down in disgust. Then, picking it up again, he changed places with one of his comrades. This man did the same thing, taking careful aim--and missed the girl completely. The onlookers laughed uproariously, and even the wounded Amazon managed a giggle.

A third man moved to the line. He bent his bow, he let his arrow fly, and it struck the motionless Amazon in her upper thigh. Her mouth tightened as the arrowhead buried itself in her leg, but she did not cry out and she did not fall. She even managed a little smile as the man who'd just fired turned away in frustration. The fourth man missed her completely as well, and both she and the other men laughed at him.

Then the fifth man stepped up to the line. Taller than the others, he gestured toward her with a salute, and she responded with a nod. Holding herself quite straight and standing perfectly still, she watched him draw his bow and aim his arrow at her. He released the string, the arrow sizzled through the air, and it struck her defenseless body just above her navel, sinking deep inside her, tearing into her entrails. Her breath went out with a loud "whoosh" and she bent slightly forward, her eyes wide open and staring. The Phrygians yelled in triumph; this was a fatal shot; they knew it and so did she.

"You have won, Greeks," she sighed, unable to speak loudly. "You have won..." Slowly, she sank to her knees. The sixth man argued about never having gotten a shot at her; the tall man ignored him and went to collect his winnings. After a brief discussion the others agreed to give the sixth man the honor of dispatching the girl, and he started to draw his sword as they began walking back toward her.

They didn't get far. "Hola!" cried a loud voice from the edge of the forest.

As one man the six Phrygians looked up. A huge black stallion stood among the trees, a golden faceplate over its eyes and a golden tassels hanging from its mane. Astride it was a magnificent woman; easily the most lovely of all these beautiful Amazons. Dressed like the others except for a peaked gold tiara bearing a crescent moon emblem, she was not especially tall nor muscular; but even astride the horse she carried herself with an unmistakable majesty. Her eyes were very dark, and she had a huge cascade of shining hair as black as the stallion she rode.

"Penthesilea," one of the men whispered. "Penthesilea, the Queen!"

As they pronounced her name she kicked her horse smartly. The stallion exploded to a gallop, and as it came toward them she whipped two golden-headed arrows from the quiver at her back. Holding one in her teeth, she fired the first; the second followed almost instantly. The Phrygians were trying to scramble for the weapons and shields, but even so one, then another, went down groaning, pierced almost through by her arrows--and both pierced through their hearts. As she came closer she eschewed the use of her bow, slinging it carelessly over her shoulder and pulling a casting lance from her saddle. It sang; another of the Phrygian warriors found himself pinned through the center of his chest to a nearby tree. He coughed, groaned, and squirmed as blood gushed from his mouth, then he hung limply, his hands and feet twitching.

The other three Phrygians, their courage melting, tried to flee for the trees. Drawing out her long bronze sword, Penthesilea drove her horse toward the nearest one, the tall man who'd won the shooting contest. As the stallion drew alongside him, she swung the blade almost casually. The tall Phrygian's head flew into the air in a bloody shower while his body, not yet understanding that it had been killed, kept right on running for surprisingly many steps. The Amazon did not even look back. She bore down on another of the fleeing men, this time leaning up over her horse's head to swing her sword. As before, his head flew away; the horse ran his body down, leaving it a crumpled heap lying in a pile of gore.

"Cease your flight, Phrygian," the Queen called to the last man. "Cease for you can see it will avail you nothing." He did not stop; Penthesilea slowed her horse to a canter. "Cease now, warrior," she called again. "Cease or I will put the bronze head of a casting-lance in among your entrails and leave you here to die slowly and painfully."

Hearing this--and unable to doubt that she both could and would do as she said--the Phrygian survivor slowed and stopped. Slowing her horse further, Penthesilea came up beside him. With abject and undisguised terror in his eyes, the survivor--who was the sixth man, the man who'd not gotten a chance to shoot--looked up at her.

"I stand at your mercy, O Queen of the Amazon," he said, his voice quavering.

She smiled; it looked like a warm and friendly smile. "Yes, you do, warrior. You stand ready to do as I bid you?"

He nodded, perhaps overly vigorously. "Yes, O Queen."

She pointed back to the figure of the young Amazon, who remained kneeling on the ground. "Go there, then, warrior. Release my subject from the bonds that hold her wrists, she should not be bound so. Then take your sharp sword from the scabbard at your waist and give to her the warrior's death in battle she deserves to have."

The Phrygian looked back at the young Amazon. "I will do as you bid, O Queen," he agreed. "In truth her wounds would not allow her to live much longer."

"It is so," Penthesilea agreed. "Bring the sword belonging to one of your dead companions." He found one, picked it up. As he walked back to the where the young Amazon lay fighting for breath, she followed on her horse; when they arrived she dismounted.

"My Queen," the dark-haired girl gasped.

"You have fought well, daughter, you showed courage," Penthesilea told her as the Phrygian cut the bonds holding her arms. "But alas! you are soon to go down to Hades' dark land, and I have no power to stop your flight. I have power only to give you the death you deserve, free and in combat, and you relieve you the suffering of a long and slow death. Come now to your feet, take up the sword this Phrygian warrior offers you."

The Phrygian did not have to be further instructed; after the girl slowly and painfully forced herself up to her feet, he offered her his fallen companion's weapon. She took it, although she was so weak she could hardly hold it. Even so, she managed to take a step toward him and swing it ineffectually at him.

He ducked her swing easily. Then, drawing his arm back, he drove the point of his own sword into her chest, squarely between her breasts. The breaking of her breastbone was clearly audible over her wavering moan as the thick bronze blade sank deep into the center of her chest. Her face a mask of agony, she flung her arms out, dropping the sword she'd just been handed. A great spray of blood came from her mouth. Her heart destroyed, she sank backwards onto the ground, one hand groping awkwardly at the blade piercing her.

Putting his foot on her still-quivering stomach, the Phrygian drew his blade out of her. The blood just oozed; she was already dead, she had no heart left to pump it. Keeping his sword in his hands, he closed his eyes for an instant; there was a look of utter hopelessness on his face, he seemed certain that, now that he'd done the Queen's bidding, that she would certainly kill him.

But she surprised him. "Well done, Phrygian," Penthesilea said, her voice calm. "Well done. For this I shall give you your life. Go back to your people, warrior; go back and tell them what has happened this day, be sure that great Achilles knows what has happened this day." Not fully believing his good fortune, he stood still while she stripped the bodies of the five Greeks she'd killed and tied their ankles to a rope which she then fixed to her saddle. After loading the body of the fallen Amazon on behind her saddle, she remounted her horse. In a cloud of dust, the five corpses bouncing along behind her stallion, she disappeared among the trees. For several seconds the Phrygian did not move; but, finally convinced that she was indeed gone, he raced off himself, headed back toward Achilles' camp.

Achilles was already in a bad mood; it was as if a cloud had been hanging over him. His pleasure at his defeat of the great Trojan champion Hektor, the gratification his revenge for the death of Patroclus brought him, had only lasted for a brief time--and a visit from Menelaus, king of the Spartans, hadn't helped his mood any. He could not forget that it was because of Agamemnon, Menelaus' brother, because of Agamemnon's claim to the slave-girl Briseis, that he'd withdrawn from the battle. Or that his withdrawal had--or at least so he believed--caused the death of his dear Patroclus. He stared glumly at the ground before him as the two warriors, one Phrygian and the other a Spartan, told him of the day's battle north of the walls of Troy. Told him of how Penthesilea and her Amazon legions had appeared to support the defenders, told him how they'd set the Greeks to flight, told him how many Greeks the warrior women had already slaughtered.

"The tides of war again turn to the favor of the Trojans and their allies," Menelaus said. "You must take action, Achilles! You yourself must--"

"Many times now," Achilles rumbled, "you have told me what I must do. I am aware of my obligations, Menelaus. I do not need to be reminded of them by you." He glared at the short dark Spartan. "I have not forgotten anything that has passed between us, Menelaus. I have not forgotten the sacrifice of Iphigenia by her father, your brother, Agamemnon. I have not forgotten that she was lured to sacrifice by a promise of marriage to me, a matter I knew nothing of, an unjust use of my name and my reputation."

"Achilles, I had nothing to do with--"

"Agamemnon is your brother," Achilles said with a dismissive wave of his hand. He looked away.

"Yes. But it is you who must take the field against Penthesilea, you who must bring her ravages of our legions to a halt." He smirked. "If you can bring yourself to lift your sword against a woman. They seem to be your weakness, Achilles..."

Achilles slowly turned his head back. "So," he said, his voice low, "you believe this, Menelaus? You believe these words that have escaped the barrier of your teeth?"

Menelaus frowned. "I--"

Achilles turned back to the two warriors, who stood waiting for dismissal. "You!" he said, jabbing a finger at the Spartan. "Tell me! Have your legions brought back any slaves for Menelaus this day? Any women? Any Amazon captives?"

The man gulped and nodded. "Yes, my Lord," he replied. "Only four, daughters and kinswomen of a Trojan merchant we found trying to take his leave from beleaguered Troy. None of the Amazon were taken alive."

"Are they here, in my camp?"

"Yes, my Lord. Our soldiers guard them even now..."

"Good." He rose abruptly. "Have them brought to me, before the pyre where the funeral rites for the Myrmidons we lost this day has been built."

While the Spartan soldier looked in confusion from one king to the other, Menelaus scowled darkly. "Achilles, these are my--"

"And this is my camp," Achilles said coldly. "Tomorrow you may take your slaves. I would not presume to stop you."

Menelaus, apparently satisfied, nodded. He gestured to the soldier, who hurried off to obey the command he'd been given. Achilles left his tent, followed closely by Menelaus and the Spartan and Myrmidon soldiers who attended them.

The pyre had been built near the sea, not far from where Achilles' ship was tied up. It wasn't as large as many of them had been; only two Myrmidons had been lost in the day's skirmishes with the Trojan forces. Just as Achilles and Menelaus arrived, the Spartans with the four captured women in tow appeared.

Achilles looked them over. All four were quite attractive; he suspected that any women in the little party the Spartans had overwhelmed who were less so had been dispatched on the spot, along with the men. They ranged in age from a girl of eighteen or so to a woman of about thirty. They were all somewhat similar in appearance, all had dark eyes, dusky skin, and long black hair. All were clothed in simple white shifts and sandals, the only property that had been left to them. Their eyes followed the powerful figure of Achilles as he strode back and forth in front of the pyre. Taking a Myrmidon captain by the arm, he ordered the erection of four stakes at a safe distance from the pyre. Menelaus, unsure of what he was doing, watched in silence while this was done. Once the stakes were up, Achilles commanded that each of the women be tied to a stake.

"Achilles, what are you doing?" Menelaus demanded. "Again, I remind you, these are my slaves!"

Achilles grinned wolfishly at him. "I have not forgotten, Menelaus. As I have guaranteed, you may take them with you tomorrow morning." He turned back to his captain. "These slaves should not be clothed!" he cried. "Tear away those shifts!"

Again Menelaus looked as if he were about to protest, but a glance from Achilles was enough to silence him. The women protested too, but the Myrmidon captain obeyed his orders, and within minutes the captive women were left nude in their bonds.

While the other Myrmidons prepared to commit the bodies of their dead to the pyre, Achilles stalked back and forth in front of the women. They stared at him with terror in their eyes; he looked angry, and the results of his furies were well-known on the plains of Ilium. He glared at them all, evidently impervious to their exposed charms, and finally stopped in front of one. She was perhaps the second-youngest, she looked to be about twenty-one.

"Choose a companion, Trojan," he said, gazing at her eyes.

"A companion?" she asked in a tremulous voice.

"Yes. One of these other women."

"I don't understand..."

"Choose!"

She jumped in her bonds. "Yes... yes, my Lord," she stammered. "I will choose my sister Deinaria, she is the one tied at my left..."

He glanced at Deinaria; she was by age rank the next-oldest. The relationship between the two was apparent, both had the same full breasts, the same long legs, the same small waists. They would bring excellent prices if Menelaus were to offer them for sale.

"Good." He looked around for his captain. "Place the bodies of our fallen soldiers on the pyre," he ordered. "But do not light it, not yet." The captain nodded and barked commands himself. The two bodies, shrouded, were laid on the pyre.

Once this was done, Achilles stepped up close to the girl he'd been talking to. Her breast heaving with her fear, she stared up at him; and her terror was hardly alleviated when he drew a shining dagger from a sheath at his waist.

She opened her mouth as if to speak, but he didn't give her a chance. With a firm stroke, he buried the dagger deep in her lower belly, just above the ridge of her public bone. Her eyes flew wide open and she started a scream, but Achilles ripped upwards with the knife, laying her open to her breastbone, and her scream turned into a choked gurgle as her entrails spilled out, falling onto the ground at her feet. He stepped back; she bounced in her restraints, gagging and grunting.

Leaving her to die at her own speed, Achilles turned to her sister, who'd watched in stunned silence. It was common knowledge that the leader of the Myrmidons had beheaded twelve noble sons of the Trojans and burned their bodies on Patroclus' funeral pyre, but everyone understood that the loss of his friend had maddened Achilles; and even then he had not slaughtered slave-girls.

Deinaria found her voice. "Achilles, my Lord, greatest of the Achean warriors, son of lovely Thetis, this is not worthy of you! We are women, we would be helpless before you even if we were not tied naked to these accursed posts! My Lord, I-- Uhhh--!" Her speech was cut off as his dagger, already reddened with her sister's blood, sank deeply into her lower belly.

He leaned close to her ear. "Menelaus," he said in a crooning voice, "the king of the Spartans, does not believe I can kill women," he explained. "I have to show him he's wrong. You do understand, don't you?" He giggled and jerked the knife upwards two inches, releasing a torrent of blood from her abdomen. "Don't you?"

Deinaria couldn't speak, but her expression left little doubt that she did, indeed, understand--as did Menelaus, as did Briseis, who was watching from a short distance away, her hands held against her mouth. The strain of his existence--the death of Patroclus, the oft-repeated prediction by his own mother that he would not survive the Trojan War, that he was not fated to live long after Hektor, now several days dead, had died--had taken their toll on him. Great Achilles, never very stable, had gone mad.

There was nothing any of them could do, however. With a long slow stroke of his knife, Achilles finished disemboweling the helpless Deinaria; her intestines fell from her open belly. She squirmed and twitched in agony, her mouth opening and closing rhythmically. Her sister, meanwhile, had sagged to the point where she was hanging from her bonds. She was not dead, though; occasionally she voiced a harsh moan and turned her head from side to side. Stepping back to Menelaus' side, Achilles watched the mortally wounded pair dispassionately.

"You guaranteed me," Menelaus snarled, "that I'd be able to take them to my camp tomorrow."

"Oh, you may," Achilles said airily. "I have no use for dead bodies here!"

"Nor do I," Menelaus retorted.

Achilles looked around at him. "You do not want them?"

"Of course not!"

"Very well, then." He called to his captain and gave an order to remove the dying women from the stake. Once that was done, he commanded that they be laid atop the pyre along with the corpses. Neither of the girls was as yet dead; Deinaria, at least, was conscious enough to realize what was happening, and she waved an arm frantically, asking mutely to at least be allowed to finish her dying.

Achilles did not appear to notice. He gave the command to light the fire; his captain hesitated, and he had to give the order again. This time the captain, with obvious reluctance, obeyed. Moments later, the flames were leaping high into the night. From inside them came a pitiful cry from one of the girls, followed by silence.

"You see?" Achilles asked Menelaus. He laughed.

Then he looked back at the two remaining women.

As if to escape his notice, they were looking away from him. But it was useless, and he walked up to the older of the two. A sob escaped her throat as he drew close to her, towering over her, a terrifying figure in the harsh firelight.

"You," he told her, "will have an easier death than your kinswomen. If you do as I bid you."

She hung her head and sobbed. "As you so will it, my Lord," she answered.

He slipped the dagger back into its sheath and drew his sword. "Raise your chin, then."

With her eyes closed, she wept but she obeyed, pressing her head against the post she was tied to. Achilles regarded her for a moment, then turned to the side and began a spinning stroke. It struck her neck perfectly, with such force that the edge sank two inches into the wood of the stake. Her head literally popped up into the air, then fell back to the sand. While her body shook and jerked and blood geysered from the stump of her neck, Achilles picked up her severed head by the hair. Her eyes were wide open; he looked into them and she blinked. With a loud laugh, he spun the head around his own twice, then hurled it into the roaring fire. It vanished among the flames, but they all saw the hair ignite as it went.

He then turned to regard the only remaining girl, the youngest of the four. She wept and struggled in her bonds as he approached her, sheathing his sword as he came. "And now there is only you, little one," he said, apparently amicably. "What are you called, Trojan?"

She caught her lower lip with bright teeth, tried to control herself. "I am called Aetalia, my Lord," she quavered.

"Aetalia," he repeated. He leaned against the post she was tied to and let his gaze roam up and down her body. She was slender, almost slight, with small but perfect breasts and very long legs. Her jet-black hair fell past her waist. "Tell me your thoughts, Aetalia," he said conversationally. "Do you think I have sufficiently demonstrated to warlike Menelaus that I have no difficulty slaying women?"

She nodded vigorously. "Yes, my Lord!" she said emphatically. "Yes, anyone who was present in this camp tonight would know that now!"

He touched her chin and turned her face toward his own. Her eyes were enormous, gleaming brightly in the raw firelight. "And so what should I do with you, then, Aetalia of the Lovely Tresses? Return you to Menelaus, to whom you fall in a proper division of spoil? Or send you to join your kinswomen in the pyre built for our dead Myrmidons?"

She bit her lip again. "That is not for me to say, my Lord," she answered, casting her eyes down. "My day of freedom ended when Menelaus' Spartans attacked my family's party on the road north to Scythia."

"Indeed it did," he agreed. "As the day of freedom for all the Trojan women will end, very soon." He grinned boyishly. "But that does not mean you do not have a preference, Aetalia. Tell me your preference, girl. I could send you back with Menelaus when Dawn casts her light over the beach, or I could send you to be with your kinswomen now. Or I could release you among my Myrmidons, so that you might be their pleasure for the evening. What is your choice, Aetalia?" She said nothing, and his eyes suddenly flared with rage. "I would hear your choice, girl! If I do not, I shall cast you into the fire bound and alive!"

She looked up at him and suddenly flared with defiance. "If I must choose, then send me to be with my kinswomen, whom you have so cruelly slaughtered! Take out your sword, great Achilles, strike off my head!" She lifted his chin and stared at him, her eyes full of fury.

Large as he was, he seemed to wilt under her gaze. "No..." he murmured. "No." He covered his eyes. "I cannot... it has been foretold, I will not survive to go home, I shall never see my homeland again. Here I will die, on the plains before fabled Ilium." He drew his knife; the girl trembled, expecting a lethal stroke, but instead he cut her bonds, freeing her from the stake.

Then he flipped the dagger over in his hands and offered it to her. "Tonight," he told her, "at the hands of a wronged slave girl, is as good a way and a time to die as any. Kill me, girl. Take this dagger and avenge your slain kinswomen." Looking dumbfounded, she didn't move; he grabbed her wrist, pressed the hilt of the dagger into her small palm, and closed her fingers over it. Then he turned on his heel and started walking away slowly.

Aetalia remained still for a moment. But then, coming back to her senses, she looked around at the headless corpse that was still hanging on one of the posts. Her face set in determination, she ran at Achilles with the dagger raised over her head, a slim naked figure streaking with surprising speed through the semi-darkness, her hair streaming out behind her and her shadow running ahead of her. Everyone watching held his or her breath, wondering if this young girl truly was going to make an end of the greatest of the Achean warriors. They could all see that Achilles did not even seem aware of her rush, he was not looking back.

Except Menelaus. That experienced warrior narrowed his eyes when he saw where Achilles was looking: at the ground, at her onrushing shadow.

As she drew close, Achilles, with perfect timing, whipped out his sword and turned to meet her. With one quick hard thrust he drove it her solar plexus. Her own momentum carried her further onto the blade; after severing her spine it emerged, gory, from her back. She came to a halt, her eyes and mouth wide open in shock. Her fingers opened, and Achilles' dagger fell to the ground.

Effortlessly, with only one arm, he lifted the sword with her body still dangling from the blade. Her arms and legs twitched; he raised it high and she began a slow slide down it. Her blood was pouring down the blade, soaking his hand and arm.

"You should have waited for a better opportunity, Aetalia of the lovely tresses," he told her as her face came close to his. He reached up and touched her breast, quite gently. "If you had used your charms, if you had offered yourself to me as if in gratitude, perhaps you would have had a true moment for your vengeance." He kept holding her up, kept looking into her eyes, until he saw them begin to glaze, until he saw her life leaving her.

Then he lowered her to the ground and used a foot to push her corpse off his sword. She fell in a crumpled, awkward, heap.

"Be sure you do take that one with you tomorrow," he told Menelaus. "If you don't want her, give her to Agamemnon. As a gift from me!" Picking up his knife he turned away, headed for his tent. Impatiently he gestured to Briseis to follow him.

The next morning dawned cool and overcast. By the time Achilles emerged from his tent, his Myrmidons were already drawn up in ranks, ready for a new assault on the Trojans and their allies. His chariot stood waiting for him; he hopped up in it as Briseis, looking sad and tired, peeked out of the tent. The bodies of the dead women had been discreetly removed. The captain told him that Menelaus had long ago left, headed back to his Spartans and planning another foray against the walls of Troy.

"Perhaps we will see him there," Achilles said lightly. Standing tall in his chariot, he made a forward gesture, and the army moved out.

They encountered the enemy near the gates of the city. The Trojan forces were already out, with Aeneas at the head of the column. Achilles, knowing by now that he was under his mother Aphrodite's divine protection and would be spirited away from any combat he was likely to lose, resisted the urge to go after him directly. Instead, he directed his Myrmidons into the northern flank of the Trojan army, leaving the head--where Aeneas was--for Menelaus, Agamemnon, or Odysseus--whoever encountered them first.

The Trojans offered stout resistance to the Myrmidon charge, but they could not resist Achilles himself. Knowing of the prophecy that he would fall in battle not long after Hektor, any number of Trojan fighters came to confront him, and, rampaging through them, he left a trail of their corpses across the field. He was just in the process of making his fifth kill of the morning when he heard a loud--and high-pitched--cry from behind the Myrmidon forces.

He looked around. Penthesilea and her Amazons were striking into the Myrmidons from the rear, sandwiching their forces between themselves and the Trojans. Achilles caught a glance of her, sitting astride her black stallion. At the moment she remained behind the front lines, along with a dozen of her captains merely directing her fighters. He told his charioteer to wheel toward her, and as the horse and chariot made its way through the footmen, he shaded his eyes for a better look at her.

She was more than impressive. The only true clothing she was wearing was the loincloth and sandals that all her warriors favored, but there was a golden tiara on her head, heavy serpentine gauntlets around her wrists, and a slender girdle--a new version, evidently, of the girdle the Amazons had lost to Heracles--just below her waist. There were gauntlets around her trim ankles, too, and a woven gold band midway up her right thigh.

She was also, Achilles realized, probably the most spectacularly beautiful women he'd ever seen-- only Polyxena, princess of Troy, came close to rivaling her.

Keeping his eyes fixed on her, he waited patiently while his charioteer worked him up to the front of the lines. For the most part, he saw instantly, the Amazons were defeating his Myrmidons; at least four of his warriors lay dead on the ground already and another dozen, wounded, were making their way out of the battle. Not one of the Amazons had been killed yet, and he saw only two who were withdrawing because of wounds.

It didn't take long before he, gleaming in the armor Hephaestus had made him, caught the Amazons' notice and became their target. Astride a bay horse, a light-haired Amazon warrior came at him, her lance leveled to spear him through. With a swipe of his sword he cut the lance off. The woman's eyes widened in surprise, then widened even more when he drove the point of his sword in between her breasts. Blood gushing, she fell to the ground. Another, a pretty teenage girl, was coming at him from his right; he swiveled, snatched up a casting-lance, and put it squarely through her belly with such force that more of it protruded from her back than remained in front of her. Choking back a cry of agony, she clutched at her horse's reins, trying desperately to stay on. One of the Myrmidons managed to strike her a glancing blow with the flat of his sword and that was too much for her; she toppled off her mount. The Myrmidon was on her instantly, repeatedly plunging his dagger into her exposed side. She groaned, squirmed, and died, but she was avenged seconds later when one of her companions put a casting-spear into her killer's back.

Another one came for Achilles, and this one--a slightly older girl of perhaps twenty-five, a slim auburn-haired beauty who probably had some battle experience--was ready and waiting for his spear- cast and ducked it, letting it fly by harmlessly. Riding on in at a full gallop, she started to swing her sword as if aiming for Achilles, but at the last moment changed her swing and struck his charioteer instead. The man's head flew off, disappearing into the dust of battle, and the chariot surged out of control as his headless body yanked wildly at the reins. Knocking it aside, Achilles dropped his sword to the floor of the chariot and grabbed the reins himself.

The Amazon was waiting for that. While he was occupied with getting the horses under control, she came up beside him and, with deadly aim, struck his side with the edge of her sword, exactly where the sections of his armor joined. The blow was hard enough, and accurate enough, and her sword sharp enough, that it would've nearly cut the average man in half.

But Achilles merely grunted. When the Amazon drew her blade back, no blood appeared. Riding close alongside the chariot, letting her horse do what it was trained to do, she stared, first at him and then at her own sword, dumbfounded. The strike should have killed him, and she knew that quite well.

Achilles laughed. Taking advantage of her amazement, he reached out and grabbed her right arm, dragging her off her horse and into the chariot with him. Still grinning, holding the reins with one hand, he squeezed her wrist until she dropped her sword. "Did you not know," he asked her conversationally, "that I wear armor forged by Hephaestus himself? Foolish women. You sought to slay me, Achilles, and like so many others have found only your own death instead."

"You plan to slay me with words, great Achilles?" she answered challengingly. She started to struggle, trying to break free from his grip. Automatically, he responded by pressing her body against the side of the chariot.

He laughed uproariously. "No, Amazon," he said. "I do not." Letting go of the reins, he whipped out his dagger and drove it into her lower belly, just above her loincloth, angling it downward so that it was buried in her bladder and bowels. In doing so he cut the thin chain supporting the loincloth, and it fell away, leaving her naked. Leaving the dagger standing in her body, he grabbed up the reins again. The whole action had taken merely a fraction of a second.

The Amazon gasped, wide-eyed, and stared down for a moment at the dagger piercing her. Her left arm was free; she seized the dagger, and, with her mouth set tight in determination, yanked it out of herself. Raising it high, she tried to strike at his head with it. But she was slowed, her injuries had already begun to take their toll. Letting go of her, he caught her arm and twisted it backward as she struck, forcing the knife right back in to her exposed belly. Seizing her by the throat, he again pressed her against the side of the chariot and moved close to her. Catching the butt of the dagger against his own armor, he worked it vigorously back and forth inside her. Blood gushed and she faded; he let her go, snatched out his dagger, and let her dying form slide off the rear of the chariot's deck. Within seconds one of the Myrmidons was on her, spearing her through her chest and stripping the few items of jewelry she was wearing off her body.

Penthesilea and her captains could see what was happening. The Amazons were more than a match for the Myrmidons, but not for Achilles. At the Queen's command, one of the captains blew a high clear note on a ram's horn, and instantly the Amazon forces began to fall back, disengaging from the Myrmidons, half of them fleeing in one direction and half in the other. The Acheans gave a shout of triumph, but it quickly died down when Penthesilea herself, her dozen captains forming a phalanx around her, came charging toward them. The other Amazon fighters wheeled their horses around as they met the Queen and her guard, extending the phalanx on both sides and, as they returned, curving it around into a set of pincers that threatened to engulf the Myrmidons. At the same time, perhaps fifty of the Amazons dropped back slightly behind the lines across its length and began launching arrows over the charging line, into the massed Myrmidons. Men began screaming as their bodies were pierced; just to Achilles' left a man fell, squirming and shrieking in terrible agony, an Amazon arrow having struck him through the eye.

And, at the center of it all, Penthesilea and a dozen of the Amazons' finest fighters rushed straight at Achilles, who was without a chariot driver. Watching them come, he pulled the horses to a stop. It wouldn't have mattered; the Amazon archers knew he was the real threat, and they were targeting him with their arrows. Those that struck him grazed off the glittering armor he wore, but it was only a matter of seconds before both of his horses had been hit and were on the ground.

The chariot was now a liability, not an asset, and Achilles, holding his sword in one hand and a handful of casting-spears in the other, jumped from the back of it. Staying close to it, using it and the dying horses to block attacks from his right, he waited for Penthesilea and her captains, who were bearing down on him at full speed even as some of his own Myrmidons started to gather around him. As they arrived, the rain of arrows ceased and the archers slung their bows and drew their swords.

The part of the phalanx that was on Penthesilea's left hit them first. Achilles watched a light-haired Amazon, her wristbands and pendant marking her as an officer, swing lightly at one of his fighters and take the man's head right off his shoulders, seemingly without effort. She turned bright blue eyes on Achilles and smiled at him; but those blue eyes went wide when he suddenly threw one of his casting- spears at her. It went through her right breast and emerged, gory, from her back. Her sword fell from her hand, she tried to grab at it, but her strength left her and she toppled from her speeding horse, rolling over in the dust and breaking the shaft off the lance. Two of the Myrmidons pounced on her, plunging their swords into her helpless form. As she coughed up blood and died, they quickly stripped her body, leaving it lying absolutely naked on the ground. As was to be expected, a group of lower- ranking Amazons roared in to try to recover the corpse, but the Myrmidons, outnumbering them, were turning them back.

Another woman, dark-haired and lovely, swept in at Achilles from his left. She had a strong athletic body, her legs very long; around her lean thighs were the gauntlets denoting her high rank, and she wore a small golden headdress as well, partly covering her raven hair. Fixing him with dark eyes and leaning over from her galloping mount, she swung her sword at his head. He raised his own, catching hers and deflecting it. Then, once the immediate danger had passed, he swung back with a savage backhand, reaching high so he'd hit her instead of her mount. He succeeded; her frantic attempt to use her shield were too slow, and his blade struck her back at her waistline and sliced right through her naked body, emerging from her belly, cutting through a third of her width. As she rode on past him her intestines fell out of her, draping down across the shoulder of her horse.

She did not fall; instead, she pulled her horse to a halt before a group of four Myrmidons and, before her strength failed her, jumped off. Her legs did not hold her when she hit the ground, but she managed to get to into position before the Myrmidon could react. She was kneeling, her knees far apart, and she drew a tiny four-inch dagger from a sheath at her side. Throwing her crescent shield aside and threatening the oncoming Myrmidons with this ridiculously small weapon, she raised her head high, invitingly exposing her long graceful neck.

Grinning at her--and receiving a pained smile of acknowledgment in return--one of the Myrmidons drew his sword back and swung it at her neck. It sliced right through, and her head fell to the ground as her neck spouted blood. Her body, twitching and jerking, followed it an instant later.

As they began stripping the insignia of her office from her corpse--and as other Amazons swept in to try to recover the body--Achilles' attention was called back to the fight when another Amazon captain, a tall reddish-haired woman, swept in and struck the side of his helmet with her sword. His head rang. He swung his sword at her as she roared past, but missed utterly.

Then he felt the head of a lance strike the center of his breastplate. Knocked from his feet, he fell heavily and awkwardly on his rear end. Looking up, he saw Penthesilea herself, astride her huge black stallion, withdrawing her lance.

"Well struck," he told her, getting to his feet. She didn't try to follow up her advantage.

She grinned engagingly. "Thank you, great Achilles," she replied in a musical voice. Glancing at the mangled blade of her lance, she laughed and tossed it aside. "Would that it could have been better!" From somewhere behind him, one of the Myrmidon soldiers threw a casting-spear at her; she caught it almost casually with her crescent shield, and it fell harmlessly to the ground.

He stared at her, almost speechless. Never had he seen a woman like this one. He let his gaze roam over her face and body. She was almost impossibly appealing, her eyes huge, her gaze frank. Her body was not less perfect, from her proud high breasts down to her golden-sandaled feet. He was especially drawn to her legs, the way the muscles played under her silky skin.

She was studying him no less openly, even as fighting raged around them. "A pity," she said after a moment. "A pity." She wheeled her horse away abruptly. "Be warned, great Achilles, O slayer of Hektor of the Shining Helm! I will not leave you until your corpse lies bloody on the field!"

He stared, confused; then a group of his Myrmidons, enough of them to overwhelm her and drag her down, swept past him. With a laugh, she pushed her horse ahead of them, then spun around to confront them. The stallion plowed into them; her sword flashed on both sides of the animal, and at least six of the Myrmidons were left writhing in the dust, mortally wounded, when she'd passed. Several of them had aimed strokes at the horse, and she'd even managed to get it though unscathed. She seemed to be trying to get turned to come back at him, but the surge of bodies and the momentum of the combat carried her away.

"Beautifully done," Achilles whispered as he lost sight of her in the clouds of dust. "Just beautiful..." In his mind, for a moment, he could see the two of them riding and fighting together, side by side.

But he shook his head; that could not be. She was allied with the Trojans, with the enemy, and she and her forces were threatening to turn the tide of battle against the Acheans. One way or another, he had to take her out of the fight. He would not, he was certain, have to try to chase her down; her allies could not win while he lived, and, with Hektor dead and Aeneas constantly being jerked from battle by Aphrodite, she and her captains were the best hope the Trojans had of neutralizing him.

He wasn't wrong. The opposite side of the Amazon captains' phalanx was swinging around toward him, and three of them were bearing down on his even as Penthesilea was singlehandedly routing the group of Myrmidons that had sought to surround her.

With the speed and accuracy he was famous for, he threw two casting-spears at them in quick succession. One of the women managed to deflect his cast--barely--with her crescent shield, but the other took the spear right through the center of her lower belly. Badly wounded but still able to ride, she wheeled her horse away and left the battlefield, leaving behind her a heavy trail of blood. The other two came on, determined. First to reach him was a strong-looking brown-haired woman who appeared to be in her late twenties, a seasoned warrior with battle-tested skills. She slashed at Achilles with her sword, but he caught the blow on his shield. Having no chance to swing at her, he instead slashed at her horse's hips, and connected. The animal neighed loudly as its legs buckled momentarily, and the brown-haired woman was thrown to the ground.

Scrambling to her feet, she tried to whirl around to face him, but she was too late--she only managed to get half-turned before the edge of his sword sliced into the side of her chest, cutting her breast open and breaking several of her ribs. She reeled back, her face a mask of agony and her lung plainly visible through the terrible rent in her side. One of the Myrmidons raced up and stuck his spear into the middle of her chest, between her breasts, and bore her to the ground on its point. She grabbed the shaft and tried to resist, but she had no strength remaining, and the spear sank slowly but deeply into her body. Coughing blood, she writhed on the ground for a moment, then died--and the usual fight over her corpse began.

The fate of her two companions in no way affected the actions of the remaining captain, she pursued her attack with unrelenting vigor. She was younger than the two he'd already felled, a pretty freckle-faced girl with small perky breasts and sandy hair, quite young for her rank. She showed the reason for it with her attack. Managing to parry his swing, she struck him a glancing blow on the shoulder, and wheeled on past him without injury to herself or her horse. Racing around his immobilized chariot, she swept in for another strike, with similar results.

After the third such feint, her tactics became clear; she wasn't trying to engage him directly, not yet. She was simply keeping him occupied while three more of the captains--along with the tall red- haired woman who'd attacked him just before he'd seen Penthesilea--came rushing up to reinforce her. Sweeping around him, they slaughtered the Myrmidons in the immediate vicinity, then called in a force of lower-ranking Amazons to keep the area clear. When these women had arrived, the five captains dismounted and arrayed themselves in a semi-circle, pinning Achilles against his chariot and coming at him from five different directions. From alternating sides they began to strike at him, and it was all he could do to parry their blows--in truth some he did not parry, but such blows as they were able to land were turned by the armor he wore. They'd noticed that blows to his head seemed to have the most effect on him, and they began to concentrate there. Soon enough his head was ringing again and his vision was growing blurry from the beating he was taking.

Finally angered, he roared at them and rushed forward toward the nearest one, who was another slim dark-haired and dark-eyed woman, another beauty, a physical type common among them. Startled at the fury of his attack, her eyes flew wide open. He drew his sword back for a thrust, and, to his amazement, she didn't make any effort whatever to evade it. Instead, she threw her sword and shield down and pushed forward to meet him, a look of determination on her face.

The point of his sword struck her body near her navel and went right through her. To his further amazement she pushed herself further onto it, and, reaching out, grabbed the fingerguards with her hands. Blood was gushing out of her, but she held on with grim resolve. He yanked the sword back but merely pulled her along with it.

While she remained skewered on his sword, the other four Amazon captains pounced on him. One of them, the tall red-haired woman, chopped at his legs until he toppled over backwards, ending up on the ground with the dying Amazon atop him. Once he was down, two of the others seized his helmet, trying frantically to get it off his head. Only then did he realize that this had been planned.

Knowing that his sword was at least temporarily useless, he let go of it, leaving it standing in the dark-haired Amazon's body, and pushed her off him. She rolled over in the dust, groaning and clutching at the sword piercing her, her mission--and her life--over. Reaching up with one hand, the grabbed one of the women trying to remove his helm by her wrist, and at the same time he jerked his dagger free from its sheath with the other. Yanking the woman toward him and stabbing at her with the dagger at the same time, he struck her through her armpit, burying the blade deep. She screamed with the sudden pain; he whipped the knife out, threw her aside, and reached for the other woman. About that time the big red-haired woman slammed her sword down on his neck, trying to find the gap between his helmet and the rest of his armor but failing. He lashed out at her with his leg, knocking her off-balance and sending her crashing to the ground. A backwards slap temporarily delayed the other Amazon who was tugging at his helmet, and, knife in hand, he tried to get to his feet.

He didn't make it. The young freckle-faced captain had, like her companion, thrown her sword and shield aside, and now she pounced on him open-armed, wrapping her body around him like a lover. He stared at her face and she grinned at him charmingly.

Then he plunged his knife into her side, just below her waist.

She's expected it; she rolled herself toward it, forcing it deeper into herself, trying to prevent him from pulling it out of her. At the same time she kept staring at his face, her own showing little sign of her pain. While he struggled to get his knife free, the red-haired captain smashed her sword down on his head, causing his vision to swim. The other, another slender girl with short dark hair, jammed the point of her blade into his groin, searching for a gap in his armor. Awkwardly, reaching past the young captain who was still clinging to him, he managed to grab the red-haired woman's arm and swing her around. The dark-haired girl was just then beginning a hard stroke at his lower body and she couldn't stop it; her sword plunged into the redhead's back and went all the way through her, erupting from her breast in a shower of blood. She too cried out in pain; Achilles knocked her aside, and she fell heavily in the dust, her heart ruptured. With an expression of frustrated fury on her face, the dark-haired girl jerked her sword free. He kicked at her but she jumped back gracefully, avoiding it.

Still, it gave him a moment's respite. With the freckle-faced girl still clinging to him, Achilles forced himself up to a sitting position. The red-haired woman and the woman who'd skewered herself on his sword lay dead on the ground nearby; the one he'd stabbed in the armpit wasn't dead but she was helpless. She knelt on the ground fighting for breath and coughing up blood while more blood streamed down her side.

His time to get his bearings only lasted for an instant, though; the dark-haired Amazon captain seemed determined to insure that the sacrifice the younger girl was making not be in vain. Swinging her sword around her head, she came back at them, and she managed to slam the blade against Achilles' head without even touching the younger girl. Relentlessly she pressed her attack, jabbing the point at him in various places, looking for a seam in the armor, a weak spot, a joint. She didn't find one, but at the moment Achilles couldn't stop her. With dogged determination the young girl kept holding him, her arms and legs wrapped tightly around him, her body trapping his knife. Stabbed she might have been, and perhaps even mortally, but she was not losing her strength very fast--and the dark-haired girl was keeping him too busy for him to try to tear her off of him.

Struggling back to his feet at last, he staggered back against his chariot, his arms flailing as blow after blow from the dark-haired girl's sword rained down on his armor. Realizing he was against the chariot, he reached over the side, and he felt gratified when his fingers closed around the shaft of one of his casting-spears. Not letting the Amazon attacking him see it, he merely held it until she came around to his right and started to drive her sword against his armor once more, using her legs to increase the force of her thrust.

Then he whipped it out of the chariot and, using it as a thrusting weapon, drove it deep into her belly, just above her groin, angling it downward. She stopped short, her eyes and mouth open in surprise. He shoved the spear a little deeper, felt the point jam against her pelvis, and let it go. She staggered back with it standing in her body.

Then, at last, he was able to turn his attention back to the girl who was clinging to him.

"Your plan," he told her, looking into her large gray eyes, "has failed." He forced his hand between their bodies and wrapped his fingers around his dagger's hilt. He didn't rush things, he took a few seconds, in spite of the fact that he could be attacked again at any time, to savor this moment. The young Amazon captain was, like her sisters, very attractive, very sensual. She was certainly having an effect on him as she clung, almost nude, tightly to him--especially since his dagger was buried in her side and her life's blood was still flowing out of her. He wished he had time to do a little more than simply dispatch her--and the others--but he did not. He thought briefly about Briseis, waiting for him back at his camp--poor Briseis, exhausted from last night when the sacrifice of the merchant's daughters and kinswomen had set his passions flaming. She would, he mused, have another tiring night this evening. Probably even more tiring.

"Yes," the young Amazon agreed, nodding her head. "It has. You are a most expert fighter, great Achilles."

"And you are most courageous, little Amazon. I will tell tales of your bravery, yours and the girl who hid my sword in her body, back at my camp this eve."

She managed a little smile, and relaxed her hold with her legs. She kept them wrapped around him, though, and the effect she was having on him strengthened. "Remember our names then, great Achilles. I am called Chloe, and my dead sister was named Kallista."

"Chloe and Kallista. Remember those names I will." He put his arm around her back and ripped upward four inches with his dagger. "Die now, Chloe. Tell dark Hades to prepare his realm for me, I will be there soon!"

She gasped and threw her head back as he tore her belly open. "I... will tell... him..." she said, her voice strained. Her words were cut off as he withdrew the knife and plunged it deep again, nearer the middle of her body. He dragged the dagger to the side, slicing her open again, and her entrails burst from her, falling lower than her knees. Her grip on his neck suddenly relaxed; he let her go and she fell backwards, squirming in the dust, her death rattle audible.

Turning away from her, he looked back at the other two. The dark-haired girl was now sitting on the ground in a pool of blood, her hands holding the shaft of the casting-spear tightly, her head down. The one he'd stabbed in the armpit was also still alive, still kneeling, still trying to regain enough strength to get up and get back to her waiting horse.

He went to her first, taking time only to extract his sword from the body of the dead woman. Looking up at him, she made a final effort to get up, but she failed. Acknowledging it, she adopted a formal pose, her knees spread wide, and threatened him with a sword she could by now hardly lift. Standing beside her, he swung his sword lightly; her head rolled on the ground a few feet away while her body spasmed for a moment and spouted blood.

He then turned on the other woman, who remained as she was, holding onto the spear that had destroyed her lower belly. As he came to her she too looked up at him. When he reached for the casting-spear, she let it go. He wrapped his hand around it, gazed at her wide brown eyes for a moment, then pulled it out of her. She let out a groaning gasp and bent far forward as blood and watery fluids gushed from her. Wasting no more time--he didn't know how long it might be before the other Amazons, who were mostly still occupied turning away assaults by his Myrmidons, renewed their attack--he grabbed her hair, pulled her head up, and used his knife to slit her throat. Blood pouring out; she bounced in his grip for a few seconds, then sagged. Starting with her, he began stripping the badges of office off the bodies--the tiaras, the garters, the wrist gauntlets, even the little gold-edged loincloths and the thin chain belts they used to hold them in place. When he'd finished all five bodies lay totally naked on the ground, and all the booty had been piled into his chariot.

Looking around himself, peering the dust of battle raised by the Amazons and Myrmidons, he found some of his men and, in a great voice, called out to them. Disengaging from their fight, they came to him, and he chose one to replace his dead chariot-driver and assigned others to find him horses--he did not specify where. Soon he was back in it, racing across the plain; this time, having seen what he'd done to the phalanx of Amazon captains, those women, brave as they were, fell back before his charge. As it had been on the day of tall Hektor's death, the Trojans and their allies began to fall back toward the walls of the city. It began as an orderly retreat, with much fighting on the way; but as Achilles and his Myrmidons pressed them harder and harder, it soon turned into a headlong rout. For a time the Acheans followed hard on their heels, but soon enough a cloud of arrows coming from the battlements of the city slowed their pursuit, and the Trojans began streaming in through the huge gates, which stood open to receive them.

Up ahead, though, Achilles could see several figures perched tall on their horses, figures who were not fleeing. He ordered his chariot-driver to take him up close to them as the hail of arrows ceased; the man did not need a command to stop when he drew close, though.

Penthesilea, magnificent astride her stallion, sat gazing at him, her remaining three captains behind her and the gates of Troy, invitingly open, behind them. "Great Achilles you truly are," she said mildly. "You took on five of my finest fighters at once, and you defeated them all. I would not have believed this possible."

He didn't speak for a moment; he actually felt a little tongue-tied in her presence, she was so stunning, so imposing. Finally he found his voice. "In truth, Queen of the Amazon, I can only say that I defeated three of them at once. Their battle-plan caused two of them to throw themselves on my weapons."

"Still."

There was another pause. In spite of the harm she and her forces had done to the Acheans, in many ways he did not want to kill her. At last, he gestured at her with his lance. "Stand aside, then, Queen," he cried. "For the gates to storied Troy stand open, and my armies and I--"

"I will not stand aside," she interrupted. "If you would go through those gates this day, you will have to leave my body lying dead in the dust here on this plain before you do."

He lowered his brows. "You cannot win a fight with me, Penthesilea. I--"

"This you cannot say," she said, cutting him off again. "You are fated to die here, great Achilles, on the plains before fabled Ilium. And you cannot say that your death will not come at my hands!"

There was no arguing with that. "No," he agreed. "Such I cannot say."

She pushed her horse forward a little, then glanced back at the hoards of Trojans and Amazons rushing through the gate and at the Acheans who were again, shields in place against a possible new rain of arrows, beginning to advance. "Tell your companions to stand down, then," she told him. "We shall test ourselves, one against the other. And if you should win, then my remaining three captains will offer their breasts to your sword, freely. The Amazon force, leaderless, would then depart from the field of battle."

Achilles looked back at the Acheans. He could see Agamemnon, Menelaus, and Odysseus, all leading their forces forward, eager for the chance to breach the gates of Troy and end the long siege with a victory. Ahead of him, at the gates, he could see Aeneas and Alexandros, he who was also known as Paris, he who had taken fair-haired Helen from Sparta and in so doing had launched the Achean armada. Penthesilea, he knew, was delaying him; delaying him until the hard-pressed Trojans could get their forces to safety inside.

For him, there was no choice--even though a refusal to wave the Acheans back might result in an end to the war. He did signal them to stop, and he stepped out of his chariot, several of his casting- spears in hand. With a nod, Penthesilea dismounted her horse and gave it to the care of her captains. In her hand was her bow. Slowly, the two moved toward each other.

Achilles struck first, launching a spear at her. She ducked it easily, and as if by magic an arrow was on her bowstring. It came sizzling at him, edging past his shield and striking his chest-plate high, near the collarbones, where there would normally be a gap. It glanced away harmlessly, but even before he could prepare another spear he saw another arrow flying at him. He turned his head and it ricocheted off his helm. If he had not turned, he realized, it very likely would have passed through his visor into his eyes.

This, it dawned on him, was not good. At this distance--perhaps fifty paces--she had a clear and definite advantage. And hadn't his mother, Thetis, predicted that he'd be laid low by the shining shaft of an arrow? With a loud war-cry and a lance at the ready, he lowered his head, held out his shield, and charged toward her. She answered with a volley of arrows; he felt them glance off the top of his helm, and he felt at least two drive deep into the shield itself. Raising his head, he launched the spear, hoping he was too close for her to duck.

He wasn't, she merely leaned to the side and let it go by; it passed close, though, parting for a moment her wild mane of black hair. But he was almost upon her by then and she cast her bow aside and drew her sword. He threw his last spear at her and, to his amazement, she cut it in half with her sword before it could reach her body--just as he himself had done previously. Raising his head, no longer fearing her arrows, he drew his own sword and immediately took a mighty swing at her.

He struck only air. She'd ducked to her left; smiling, she struck back, going over his shield and, as her captains had done, striking his helmet. He feinted, then cut low at her bare legs, but missed again. She did not miss with her answering thrust; he was driven backward as the point of her sword skimmed past the edge of his shield and slammed into his midsection.

But again, the divine armor he wore protected him from mortal harm.

Mustering all the speed he could, he slashed at her with the sword yet again, and as before she wasn't there. His head spun as her sword clanged against his helmet; like some fury she hacked at him at least five more times before he could recover his equilibrium, hitting both of his sides, jabbing the point at his throat, slashing at the backs of his knees. Always, the armor held, she could not find a seam. While she was in close he struck back, and she was obliged to catch his stroke with her crescent shield. She did catch it, but the sheer force of the blow staggered her. In spite of that the point of her sword probed once more at his neck, but again she failed to get past the armor. He smashed at her again and again, and while she caught the blows on her shield she was soon reeling backwards.

Achilles had no illusions. She was better than he, and better by far. Without the divine armor his mother had had Hephaestus make for him, he'd be dead a dozen times over. Perhaps what was said of her, that her father was warlike Aries himself, was true.

But--even though she was striking him three times for every blow he landed on her shield--she was tiring, and that was slowing her down. At last he succeeded in landing a very heavy blow against her shield, and her fingers went numb. She dropped it, and she was obliged to catch his next blow with her sword. Her mouth set with determination, she spun away from his next thrust and hacked at his legs, trying to bring him down, trying to give herself a moment of respite. He was now ready for such blows and he didn't go down, but her sword, sliding down the backs of his calves, found a seam between the leggings and the boots and cut sharply into his heel. He yelled in pain as his blood flowed, and he heard the Amazon captains exult. Penthesilea had drawn first blood.

Their joy was short-lived. In battle rage he turned on her, and immediately he grunted as the point of her sword again struck his midsection. Here his armor held, though, and, eschewing any effort at defense and relying on the armor to protect him, he began hacking at her repeatedly. As before, she caught his blows with her sword and turned them away, but, at the end, her hand could no longer take the punishment. Her sword spun free and she stood before him defenseless. Reaching out, he grabbed the hair at the side of her head and pulled her to him. The point of his sword was resting against her bare abdomen, just at the base of her navel.

But, gazing at her face, he did what he would not have done for any man on the field--he stayed his hand. "Surrender," he hissed. "Surrender yourself to me, Queen of the Amazon. You are done."

"Done I am," she replied. "And you have won. But I will not surrender to you, great Achilles. The Amazon do not surrender; I would, by far, prefer to die than to live as your slave."

He looked up and down her body. She was so perfect... perfect legs, perfect breasts, a perfectly lovely face... and her combat skills had left him awestruck. "The loss of your day of freedom," he told her, "would not be a cause for weeping, Penthesilea. Not in my house. Honor would be yours, and--"

"I will not surrender," she interrupted. She smiled, brilliantly, and it was like the sun coming out after a storm. "Thrust with your sword, great Achilles, pierce me with it, let me feel it in my body, let me die here, now, as an Amazon should die."

He did not, but he tightened the sword up, pressing it firmly into her belly. Her expression did not change at all. Staring into her eyes, he felt he was falling in love with her. He forgot about Troy, forgot about the Acheans, even forgot about Patroclus and Briseis and his glorious victory over Hektor of the Shining Helm. "Penthesilea, Queen, Daughter of warlike Aries, I entreat you to surrender yourself to me. What purpose can your death serve?"

"I have said," she repeated calmly, "that the Amazon do not surrender to their enemies, even when they are defeated." Her feet firmly planted, she actually pushed her body against his blade a little. "You have defeated me, great Achilles. It is your right to plunge a bitter blade into my body and set my blood spilling on this ground, to send me crashing down to Hades' dark land. I will make no effort to stay your hand, Achilles. But I will not surrender to you." She kept smiling at him; in a way he found the smile infuriating, but it only added to her charm, to the incredible sensuality of the moment.

Holding her face close to his, he tightened up the sword even more, and he felt her skin give way, felt her belly opening to receive his blade. She blinked and her mouth tightened, but otherwise she gave no sign of it, even when blood began to trickle down her leg and collect in her sandal. Gazing steadily into her eyes, he slipped the blade gently on into her, a little deeper, before again entreating her to surrender herself to him.

She raised her hands, which until then had hung limply by her sides, and laid them on his broad shoulders. "Great Achilles, already your sword has found a sheath in my belly, already the clouds of my death are beginning to gather round me." She puckered her lips, then smiled at him again. "Kill me, Achilles, slip your sword on into me. Kill me and have done with this."

He glanced down at the blade and saw that some two inches of it were already inside her. He knew she had to be feeling great pain, but she remained stoic, she refused to cry out--as so many of the Trojans and Acheans had done at the moment when death took them. None had shown him anything like the courage of this magnificent woman, who stood before him accepting his blade peacefully.

Caught up in the sensuality of it all, he let go of her hair and, putting his arm around her, pulled her closer to him. Watching her eyes, he slid the sword on in a little deeper, knowing that by now it was cutting its way through her entrails. Blood began gurgling out around the blade, streaming down her legs and pooling around their feet. Her eyes widened and she could not restrain a little grunt, but she maintained eye contact with him and did not utter any cries as the thick heavy blade sank slowly and agonizingly into her. He glanced down, saw the gushing blood, and understood that, even if he were to stop now, she would live only for a few minutes.

But he kept on, slipping the blade further and further into her.

At last, her body began to tremble and he saw her clutching at his shoulders with her fingers, trying not to fall. Her breasts were pressed against his armor; her nipples, he noticed, were rigidly erect. He himself could not restrain a moan of passion, and he could not stop himself from speeding up the blade's progress a little. Finally, it burst through her back, and fresh blood washed down the backs of her thighs. He didn't stop even then, he kept on until as much of the blade was behind her as remained before her, until her body was perfectly transfixed on his sword.

While her three captains gave voice to a mournful cry, Penthesilea sagged in Achilles' grip. The broad blade had allowed huge amounts of her blood to flow free, and her consciousness was slipping away, just ahead--by minutes--of her life.

Achilles stared at her face for a moment, and her glazing eyes; then he reached down and ripped away the chain holding her golden loincloth. Still unaware of those watching him, he lowered her to the ground and, flipping the latches holding his chiton closed in front, shocked those observers by taking out an already rock-hard erection. Pushing Penthesilea's legs apart, he pushed it into her vagina. The Queen's eyes may have been glazing, but even so there was a glimmer of surprise there--and, he thought, perhaps even a hint of pleasure.

"I could have loved you," he moaned. "I did love you, why did you force me to kill you?" His hips thrust violently. "Why? Why?" Excited beyond anything he'd known before, he climaxed quickly. Rising, he looked down at her exquisite corpse; his semen ran back out onto the dirt, unimpeded by the now-slack muscles in her groin.

He looked up. The three captains, as she'd said they would, had adopted the formal pose, kneeling and holding a purely symbolic weapon in an outstretched hand. They were already naked, having stripped themselves and passed their valuables to a warrior who was even then making haste back to the safety of the city. He gestured to three of his Myrmidon captains, and each man went to one of the waiting Amazons, poising his sword at her breast. The women, waiting, looked up, each at her own killer. Achilles gave a signal and the three blades sank in, almost simultaneously. As the women collapsed, writhing in their death throes, he stripped Penthesilea's body and put all her finery in his chariot. Then he gently lifted her bloodied body, holding her under her shoulders and under her knees, and, as if she were a valued ally, carefully placed the body in the chariot as well.

He was in a daze. "Take her," he told the charioteer, "back to my camp, back to the hollow ships. Tell my slave-women her body is to be cleaned, and oiled, and treated with all possible honor. And let it be laid out to await my return..." He started to step into the chariot, but a voice calling to him stopped him. The chariot-driver, believing he'd been ordered to go back immediately, moved the vehicle away; Achilles didn't even notice.

"Great Achilles!" the voice jeered. He looked around to see Thersites, one of the Achean heroes, walking toward the chariot. "Great Achilles, in love with a dead Amazon! Tell me, Achilles, can you not find pleasure with a live woman? I suppose you must have one who will not complain!"

He stared at the man blankly for several seconds while the insults sunk in. Then he screamed something unintelligible and, drawing the sword that was soaked with Penthesilea's blood, rushed at his Greek ally. Thersites, looking amazed, took one step back; he did not get a chance to take another. The point of Achilles' sword found his throat, and he fell heavily in the dust, gurgling and squirming, his life pouring out of him. Sword still in hand, Achilles looked over the shocked Greeks, challenging any man to further insult him. No one did, although hatred could be seen in the eyes of Diomedes, Thersites' kinsman.

Feeling tired and drained, Achilles sheathed his sword and, turning away from the gates of Troy, just now closing behind an Amazon warrior who'd brought in the horses belonging to Penthesilea and her captains, started walking on foot back toward his camp.

From high up on the walls of Ilium, Alexandros watched him go. The young man took careful note of the bloody footprints Achilles was leaving as he walked; he could see the seam in the divine armor, in the back where the leg guards and boots met, right at the heel. In his hands he held an arrow; its bronze point was thickly encrusted with a deadly poison.

He would, he told himself, have his chance. Not today, but soon. If only Phoebus Apollo would consent to guide his arrow true...