Diomedes watched his opponent, Achilles, with a faint smile of satisfaction barely drawn across his face. He had achieved something that not even Hector himself had managed: bringing the invincible son of Peleus to the brink of death. For a moment, that idea burned in his chest with the intensity of a victory.
But the feeling did not last long.
His body began to tremble uncontrollably, as if the forces that sustained him had suddenly decided to abandon him. Every wound, every blow received during the battle, seemed to demand its price all at once. The pain spread through his muscles like a slow fire, reminding him that Achilles had also been a breath away from killing him.
"Di-Diomedes…!" exclaimed Calliope.
The muse, who had remained motionless in a trance of astonishment upon seeing the demigod on the edge of the abyss, jolted violently, as if waking from a dark dream. Her eyes, usually serene, now shone with divine panic.
"Death prowls like a hungry wolf around both of them!" she exclaimed, raising her hands. "Which of the two will it drag down to Hades?"
On the battlefield, the two heroes stared fixedly at each other. Their breaths were heavy and uneven, and the simple act of inhaling seemed to pierce their chests with invisible needles.
Diomedes' body was covered in open cuts, the work of Achilles' fury, and more than one bone creaked painfully every time he tried to move. Achilles, for his part, had his right eye slashed by a deep cut that had left his face covered in blood. With one hand he pressed his torn abdomen, trying to keep inside the entrails that threatened to spill out.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Finally, Diomedes advanced with difficulty, dragging his feet among the remains of the battle. His eyes found a spear embedded in the ground: one of the last weapons that still remained intact among all those Hephaestus had forged for that duel. He took it with trembling hands, pulled it from the earth, and raised the tip toward Achilles.
A tired but firm smile appeared on his face.
"It seems…" he said, letting the air escape with effort, "that this… is about to end."
Achilles did not respond immediately. He simply watched him intently, as if even on the brink of death the fire of his spirit refused to be extinguished.
Diomedes held his gaze and his smile widened slightly, almost amused, though exhaustion was evident in every one of his gestures.
"I hope… your mother and Patroclus can forgive me" he continued. "But… perhaps with this I will finally stop living under your shadow."
Achilles frowned, surprised by those words.
"What…?" he murmured, unable to hide his confusion.
Diomedes let out a brief laugh, rough with pain.
"When people speak of the war we fought in Troy" he explained slowly. "Everyone talks about you. They speak of Hector and his fall… of your fury after Patroclus' death. They speak of Helen, of the wooden horse, of Odysseus' cunning and his long and tortuous journey home."
He fell silent for a moment. His gaze drifted briefly to the bloodstained ground.
"But me… almost no one speaks of me. At least… not as much as they speak of you."
Achilles clenched his teeth.
"So that's why you're doing all this?" he asked, a note of irritation in his voice. "Out of envy?"
Diomedes' response was a low, sincere laugh.
"I do not envy you, Achilles" he said, gently shaking his head.
He lowered his gaze for a moment, and an unexpectedly warm expression appeared on his face. There was something like nostalgia in it.
"In fact… I am proud to have fought alongside a warrior as splendid as you."
Then he raised his gaze again and looked him straight in the eyes.
There was no resentment in his expression. Nor hatred. Not even rivalry in the most bitter sense of the word. The emotion shining in his eyes was closer to that of a man reunited with an old comrade after many years apart: respect, pride… and a melancholic familiarity.
"But…" he finally continued. "If I want my legend to grow…"
His fingers tightened around the shaft of the spear.
"I have to surpass yours!"
With a shout that seemed to gather the last of his strength, Diomedes lunged forward. The tip of the spear cut through the air in a direct thrust toward Achilles.
"Even with death stalking them both!" proclaimed Calliope, her voice vibrating with emotion. "The son of Tydeus has no intention of stopping!"
The muse leaned forward as she spoke, extending one arm toward the arena as if presenting a scene in a great tragedy. Her eyes shone intensely, and her gesture took on the theatricality of one narrating a moment destined to become legend.
"This is…" she continued, deliberately stretching the pause to heighten the tension. "The determination of the warriors who fought in Troy!"
In the stands where the ancient Achaean companions of both warriors were gathered, the tension was as palpable as in the arena itself. The heroes watched the combat with tense muscles and eyes fixed on the decisive moment that was about to occur.
"Forward, Diomedes!" shouted Agamemnon in a powerful voice, partially rising from his seat. "Finish off that arrogant brat once and for all!"
At his side, Patroclus turned his head sharply toward the king of Mycenae. His gaze burned with restrained fury, and for a moment he seemed on the verge of standing to confront him. However, before he could utter a single word, Menelaus reacted.
The red-haired king of Sparta delivered a sharp, precise elbow straight into his brother's ribs.
Agamemnon let the air out in a rush, bending slightly forward as he brought a hand to his side.
Menelaus looked at him with a frown, without the slightest trace of apology in his expression.
"Keep your "support" to yourself, brother" he said firmly. "This is not the time for your venomous tongue."
Agamemnon grumbled something under his breath as he caught his breath and settled back into his seat.
"As you wish…" he muttered at last, crossing his arms with evident displeasure.
Patroclus added nothing. His attention had already returned to the arena, where the fate of both heroes was being decided in a matter of seconds.
His eyes followed Diomedes' figure as he advanced with the spear toward Achilles, gathering the last of his strength for that final charge. Patroclus' heart pounded in his chest, and a growing unease began to tighten his throat.
"Come on, Achilles…" he whispered, almost without realizing it.
His hands slowly clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms as a mixture of anxiety, frustration, and helplessness built up inside him. For a moment, his voice was trapped in his chest… but then the whisper burst into a shout.
"Don't give up, Achilles!"
Achilles braced himself, ready to receive Diomedes' charge.