Lying there on his belly, the silly crossbow ahead of him, keeping his head down as a group of calibani calibani scuttled across the crater floor on all fours not a hundred yards below and in front of him, Daeman waited for strength to return to his cowardly arms and legs so he could get the hell out of this unholy cathedral. scuttled across the crater floor on all fours not a hundred yards below and in front of him, Daeman waited for strength to return to his cowardly arms and legs so he could get the hell out of this unholy cathedral.

I need to report back to Ardis, came the reasonable voice in his mind. came the reasonable voice in his mind. I've done all I can here. I've done all I can here.

No, you haven't, answered the honest part of Daeman's mind-the part that would get him killed someday. answered the honest part of Daeman's mind-the part that would get him killed someday. You have to see what those slick, gray egg shapes are. You have to see what those slick, gray egg shapes are.

The calibani calibani had stowed some of those gray pods in a steaming fumarole not a hundred yards from him, below and to the right of his low mezzanine. had stowed some of those gray pods in a steaming fumarole not a hundred yards from him, below and to the right of his low mezzanine.

I can't possibly climb down there. It's too far.

Liar. It's less than a hundred feet. You still have most of your rope and the spikes. And the ice hammers. Then it would just be a fast sprint out to look at the pod-shapes-grab one to bring back if you can-and then back to your balcony here and out.

That's crazy. I'd be exposed the whole time I was on the crater floor. Those calibani calibani were between me and that nest. If I'd been out there when they appeared, they would have grabbed me. Eaten me there or taken me to Setebos. were between me and that nest. If I'd been out there when they appeared, they would have grabbed me. Eaten me there or taken me to Setebos.

They're gone now. Now is your chance. Get down there now. now.

"No," said Daeman, realizing that he'd whispered the terrified syllable aloud.

But a minute later he was driving a spike into the blue-ice floor of his balcony, tying the rope securely around it, setting the crossbow over his shoulder next to his pack, and beginning the laborious process of lowering himself to the crater floor.

This is good. You're showing some courage for a change and...

Shut the fuck up, Daeman ordered that brave, totally stupid part of his mind. Daeman ordered that brave, totally stupid part of his mind.

His mind obeyed.

"Conceiveth all things will continue thus, and we shall have to live in fear of Him," came the hymn-chant-hiss of Caliban-not from the calibani, calibani, Daeman was sure, but from Caliban himself. The original monster must be somewhere here in the dome, perhaps on the other side of Setebos and the crater nest. Daeman was sure, but from Caliban himself. The original monster must be somewhere here in the dome, perhaps on the other side of Setebos and the crater nest.

"Thinketh this, that some strange day, Setebos, Lord, He who dances on dark nights, shall come to us like tongue to eye, like teeth to throat-or suppose, grow into it, as grub grow butterflies: else, here are we, and there is He, and nowhere help at all."

Daeman continued sliding down the slippery rope.

39.

The first thing Dr. Thomas Hockenberry, Ph.D., had to do after quantum teleporting into Ilium was find an alley he could puke in.

That wasn't hard, even in his inebriated state, since the ex-scholic had spent almost ten years in and around Troy and he'd QT'd back to a minor street off the square near Hector and Paris's apartments where he'd been a thousand times. Luckily, it was night in Ilium, the shops, market stalls, and little restaurants around the square were closed and shuttered, and no spearman or night guard noticed his silent arrival. Still, he needed an alley and found it fast, was sick until the dry heaves passed, and then he needed an even darker and less traveled alley. Luckily the lanes were many and narrow near the dead Paris's palace-now Helen's home and the temporary palace of Priam-and Hockenberry quickly sought out the darkest and narrowest lane, barely four feet across, where he curled up on some straw, wrapped the blanket he'd brought from his cubby on the Queen Mab Queen Mab around him, and slept heavily. around him, and slept heavily.

He awoke a little after dawn, aching, surly, profoundly hungover, and acutely aware of both the noise in the square near the palace and the fact that he'd brought the wrong clothes from the Queen Mab Queen Mab; he was dressed in a soft gray cotton jumpsuit and zero-g slippers, something the moravecs had thought suitable for a Twenty-first Century man. The outfit didn't blend in too well with the robes, leather greaves, sandals, tunics, togas, capes, furs, bronze armor, and rough homespun seen in Ilium.

When he did get to the public square-brushing off the worst of the alley filth even while noticing the real difference between the 1.28-g acceleration load he'd been living under and the single gravity of Earth, he felt bouncy and strong now despite his hangover-Hockenberry was surprised to see how few few people were in the square. Just after dawn was the busiest time in this market, but most of the stalls were attended only by their owners, tables at the outdoor eating establishments were all but empty, and the only people at the far side of the square, in front of Paris's, Helen's, and now Priam's palace, were the few guards by the doors and gates. people were in the square. Just after dawn was the busiest time in this market, but most of the stalls were attended only by their owners, tables at the outdoor eating establishments were all but empty, and the only people at the far side of the square, in front of Paris's, Helen's, and now Priam's palace, were the few guards by the doors and gates.

He decided that proper clothes should precede even breakfast, so he stepped into the shadows under the loggia and began bartering with a one-eyed, one-toothed ancient in a red-rag turban. This old man had the largest cart with the widest variety of goods-mostly discards or rags stolen from fresh corpses-but he haggled like a dragon loath to part with his gold. Hockenberry's pockets were empty, so all he had to bargain with were the ship clothes and the blanket he'd brought along, but these were exotic enough-he had to tell the old man that he'd come all the way from Persia-that he ended up with a toga, high-lace sandals, some unlucky commander's fine red wool cape, a regular tunic and skirt, and under linens-Hockenberry chose the cleanest ones in the bin, and when he couldn't manage clean, he settled for louse-free. He left the plaza with a broad leather belt that held a sword that had seen much action but was still sharp, and two knives, one that he'd carry tucked into the belt and the other that slipped into a specially sewn fold inside the red cape. He also received a handful of coins. One glance back at the old man's gaping, one-toothed grin let Hockenberry know that the geezer had made out well, that the unusual jumpsuit would probably trade for a horse or gold shield or better. Ah, well. Ah, well.

Hockenberry hadn't asked the old man or the few other drowsy merchants what was going on-why the mostly empty square, why the absence of soldiers and families, why the strange quiet over the city-but he knew he'd find out soon enough.

When he'd been changing clothes behind the seller's cart, the old man and two of his neighbors had offered him gold for his QT medallion, the fat man behind the fruit cart topping the bidding at 200 weight of gold and 500 silver Thracian coins, but Hockenberry had said no, glad that he'd taken possession of the sword and two daggers before stripping.

Now, after spending some of his new coins for a stand-up breakfast of fresh bread, dried fish, some cheese, and a hot-tea sort of substance infinitely less satisfying than coffee, he stepped back into the shadows and looked at Helen's palace across the way.

He could QT into her private chambers. He'd certainly done it before.

And if she's there, then what?

A fast thrust with his sword and then QT away again, the perfect invisible assassin? But who was to say that the guards wouldn't see him? For the ten thousandth time in the last nine months, Hockenberry mourned the loss of his morphing bracelet-the gods' essential basic for all of their scholics, allowing them to shift quantum probability to the point that Hockenberry, Nightenhelser, of any of the other ill-fated scholics could instantly displace any man or woman in or around Ilium, not only taking their form and clothing, but truly replacing them on the quantum level of things. This had allowed even the massive Nightenhelser to morph into a boy a third his weight without defying the rule that one of the scientific-oriented scholics years ago had described to Hockenberry as the conservation of mass.

Well, Hockenberry had no morphing capability now-the morphing bracelet had been left behind on Olympos along with his taser baton, shotgun microphone, and impact armor-but he still had the QT medallion.

Now he touched that gold circle against his chest and...hesitated. What would would he do when he faced Helen of Troy? Hockenberry had no idea. He'd never killed anyone-much less the most beautiful woman he'd ever made love to, the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, a rival to the immortal goddess Aphrodite-so he hesitated. he do when he faced Helen of Troy? Hockenberry had no idea. He'd never killed anyone-much less the most beautiful woman he'd ever made love to, the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, a rival to the immortal goddess Aphrodite-so he hesitated.

There was a commotion toward the Scaean Gate. He walked that way, nibbling on the last of his bread, a newly purchased goatskin of wine slung over his shoulder, thinking about the situation here in Ilium.

I've been gone more than two weeks. On the night I left-on the night Helen tried to kill me-it appeared that the Achaeans were going to overrun the city. Certainly Troy and its few allied gods and goddesses-Apollo, Ares, Aphrodite, lesser deities-didn't seem capable of defending the city against the determined attack by Agamemnon's armies supported by Athena, Hera, Poseidon, and the rest.

Hockenberry had seen enough of this war to know that nothing was certain. Of course, that had been Homer's vision-the events here in this real past, on this real Earth, in and around this real Troy, had usually paralleled, if not always directly followed, Homer's great tale. Now, with events diverging so dramatically in the past months-thanks, he knew, to the meddling of one Thomas Hockenberry-all bets were off. So he hurried to follow the tail end of crowds that obviously were headed straight toward the main city gates at first light.

He found her on the wall above the Scaean Gate, with the rest of the royal family and a bunch of dignitaries all crowded onto the wide reviewing platform where he'd watched her match faces to names during the gathering of the Achaean army for the Trojans ten years earlier. That day, she'd whispered the names of the various Greek heroes to Priam, Hecuba, Paris, Hector, and the others. Today Hecuba and Paris were dead-along with so many thousand others-but Helen still stood at Priam's right, along with Andromache. The old king had been standing for the review of the armies ten years ago, but now he was half-reclining in the throne-cum-litter in which he was carried these days. Priam looked a lot more than ten years older than the vital king Hockenberry had watched here a mere decade ago-the old man was a shrunken, wizened caricature of powerful Priam.

But today the mummy seemed happy enough.

"Until this day I had pitied me," cried Priam, addressing the dignitaries around him and a few hundred royal guardsmen on the stairs and plain below them. There was no army in sight-Thicket Ridge and the approaches to Ilium were clear of soldiers-but by straining and following Helen's gaze, Hockenberry could see a huge mob almost two miles away, where the Greek black ships were drawn up. It looked as if the Trojan army had surrounded the Achaeans, overrun their moat and horse-staked trenches, and reduced the miles of Achaean camps to a rough semicircle hardly more than a few hundred yards across. If this was so, the Greeks had their backs to the sea and were surrounded by a powerful Trojan force just waiting to pounce.

"I pitied me," repeated Priam, his cracked voice growing stronger, "and asked too many of you to pity me as well. Since my queen's death by the hands of the gods, I have been but a harrowed, broken old man marked for doom...worse than old, past the threshold of decrepitude...certain that Father Zeus had singled me out to be wasted by a terrible fate.

"In the last ten years, I had seen too many of my sons laid low and I was certain that Hector would join them in the halls of Hades even before his father's spirit traveled there. I was prepared to watch my daughters dragged away, my treasure vaults looted, the Paladion stolen from Athena's temple, and helpless babies hurled from our parapets to the red-blooded end of barbarous war.

"A month ago, friends and family, warriors and wives, I waited to watch my sons' wives be hauled off by the Argives' bloody hands, Helen struck down by murderous Menelaus, my daughter Cassandra raped, so that I would be willing-nay, eager-to greet the Argive dogs before my doors, urge them to eat me raw, after the spear of Achilles or Agamemnon or crafty Odysseus or unforgiving Ajax or terrible Menelaus or powerful Diomedes would bring me down. Splitting me with a spear, wrenching and tearing my old life out of my old body, feeding my guts to my own dogs-yes, those faithful hounds who guarded my gates and chamber door-letting these suddenly rabid friends lap their master's blood and eat their master's heart in front of everyone.

"Yes, this was my lament ten months ago, two weeks ago...but look at the world born anew this morning, my beloved Trojans. Zeus took away all the gods-those who wished to save us, those who wished to destroy us. The Father of the Gods struck down his own Hera in a blast of his thunder. Mighty Zeus has burned the Argives' black ships and ordered all immortals to return to Olympos to face his punishment for disobedience. With the gods no longer filling the days and nights with fire and noise, my son Hector led our troops to victory after victory. Without Achilles to stop the noble Hector, the Achaean pigs have been driven back to the burned hulls of their black ships, their southern camps shredded, their northern camps put to the torch. And now they are bound in tight from the west by Hector and our Ilium-born, by Aeneas and his Dardanians, by Antenor's two surviving sons, Acamas and Archelochus.

"To the south, they are shut off from retreat by the shining sons of Lycaon and our faithful allies from Zelea, under the foot of Ida where Zeus oft makes his throne.

"To the north, the Greeks are stymied by Adrestus and Amphius, trim in their linen corsets, leading the Apaesians and the Adestrians, marvelous in their new-acquired gold and bronze, wrenched from the dead Achaeans who fell in their panicked flight.

"Our beloved Hippothous and Pylaeus, who survived the ten years of carnage and were ready to die this month with us, with their Trojan friends and brothers, but instead, this day, who lead their dark-skinned Plasgian warriors alongside the captains of Abydos and gleaming Arisbe. Instead of ignoble death and defeat this day, our sons and allies are but hours away from seeing the head of our enemy, Agamemnon, lifted high on a spike, while our Thracians and Trojans and Pelasgians and Cicones and Paeonians and Paphlagonians and Halizonians have lived to watch the end of this long war at last, and soon will be raking up the gold of defeated Argives, soon will be sweeping up the well-earned armor of Agamemnon and his men. This day, unable to flee to their black ships, all the Greek kings who came to kill and loot will be killed and looted.

"This day, all the gods willing-and Zeus has already spoken it into being-let my friends and family-and our foes-witness our final victory. Let us see the end to this war. Let us prepare now-before this beginning day ends-to welcome home Hector and Deiphobus in a victory celebration that will last a week-no, a month!-a party of celebration and deliverance that will let your faithful servant Priam of Ilium die a happy man!"

So spake Priam, King of Ilium, Father of Hector, and Hockenberry couldn't believe his ears.

Helen slipped away from the side of Andromache and the other women, then descended the wide steps back down to the city, with only Andromache's warrior slave-woman, Hypsipyle, at her side. Hockenberry hid behind the broad back of an imperial spearman until Helen was out of sight on the steps, and then he followed.

The two women turned down a narrow alley almost in the shadow of the west wall, then east up an even more narrow lane, and Hockenberry knew where they were going. Months ago, during his jealous phase after Helen had quit seeing him, he'd trailed Andromache and her here, discovering their secret. This was where Hector's wife, Andromache, kept her secret apartment where Hypsipyle and another nurse watched over Andromache's son, Astyanax. Not even Hector knew that his son was alive, that the baby's murder by the hands of Aphrodite and Athena was a ruse by the few Trojan Women to end the war between the Argives and Trojans, turning Hector's wrath toward the gods themselves.

Well, Hockenberry thought now, staying back at the head of the smaller alley so the two women would not notice they were being followed, that ruse had worked wonderfully well. But now the war with the gods was over and it looked as if the Trojan War was in its final hour.

Hockenberry didn't want them to reach the apartment itself; there had been male Cicilian guards there as well. Now he bent and lifted a heavy, smooth, oval stone, just the size of his palm, and curled his fist around it.

Am I really going to kill Helen? He had no answer to that. Not yet. He had no answer to that. Not yet.

Helen and Hypsipyle were pausing at the gate that led into the courtyard to the secret house when Hockenberry moved up quietly behind them and tapped the big Lesbos slave-woman on her brawny shoulder.

Hypsipyle whirled.

Hockenberry hit her in the jaw with a roundhouse uppercut. Even with the heavy rock in his fist, the big woman's bony jaw almost broke his fingers. But Hypsipyle went backward like a toppled statue, her head striking the courtyard door on the way down. She stayed down, clearly unconscious, her big jaw looking broken.

Great, thought Hockenberry, thought Hockenberry, after ten years in the Trojan War, you finally joined the fighting-by suckerpunching a woman. after ten years in the Trojan War, you finally joined the fighting-by suckerpunching a woman.

Helen stepped back, the little hidden dagger that had once found Hockenberry's heart already sliding down from her sleeve into her right hand. Hockenberry moved fast, clutching Helen's wrist, forcing her hand and arm back against the rough-hewn door, and-his bleeding, bruised right hand barely working-pulling his own long knife from his belt and thrusting the point of it into the softness under her chin. She dropped her knife.

"Hock-en-bear-eeee," she said, her head back but his knife drawing blood already.

He hesitated. His right arm was shaking. If he was going to do this, he needed to do it quickly, before the bitch began to speak. She had betrayed him, stabbed him in the heart and left him for dead, but she had also been the most amazing lover he'd ever had.

"You are are a god," whispered Helen. Her eyes were wide, but she showed no fear. a god," whispered Helen. Her eyes were wide, but she showed no fear.

"Not a god," gritted Hockenberry. "Just a cat. You took one of my lives. I'd already been given one extra. I must have seven left."

Despite the knife point cutting into her underjaw, Helen laughed. "A cat having nine lives. I like that conceit. You always did have a way with words...for a foreigner."

Kill her or not, but decide now...this is absurd, thought Hockenberry. thought Hockenberry.

He pulled the point of the blade away from her throat, but before Helen of Troy could move or speak, he grabbed a fistful of her black hair in his left hand, held the dagger to her ribs, and pulled her down the alley with him, away from Andromache's apartment.

They'd come full circle-back to the abandoned tower overlooking the Scaean Gate wall where he'd discovered Menelaus and Helen hiding, where Helen had stabbed him after he'd QT'd her husband to Agamemnon's camp. Hockenberry shoved Helen up the narrow, winding staircase all the way to the top, to the mostly open level now atop the tower that had been shattered by the gods' bombing months ago.

He pushed her toward the open edge, but out of view of anyone on the wall below. "Strip," he said.

Helen brushed the hair out of her eyes. "Are you going to rape me before you throw me over the edge, Hock-en-bear-eeee?"

"Strip."

He stood back with his knife ready as Helen slipped out of her few layers of silky garments. This morning was warmer than the day on which he'd left-the wintry day when she'd stabbed him-but the breeze up this high was still cool enough to cause Helen's nipples to stand on end and to bring out goosebumps on her pale arms and belly. As she let each layer fall away, he told her to kick them over to him. Watching her carefully, he felt through the soft robes and silky under-shift. No other hidden daggers.

She stood there in the morning light, legs slightly apart, not covering her breasts or pubic region with her hands but just letting her arms hang naturally at her sides. Her head was high and there was the slightest line of blood visible under her chin. Her gaze seemed to mix calm defiance with a mild curiosity about what was going to happen next. Even now, filled with fury as he was, he saw how she could have set these hundreds of thousands of men to killing one another. And it was a revelation to him that he could be so angry-close-to-killing angry-and still feel sexual desire for a woman. After the seventeen days in the 1.28-Earth-gravity acceleration field, he felt strong here on Earth, muscular, powerful. He knew that he could lift this beautiful woman in one arm and carry her wherever he wanted to, do whatever he wanted for as long as he wanted.

Hockenberry threw her clothes back to her. "Get dressed."

She watched him warily as she picked up her soft garments. From the wall and Scaean Gate below came shouts, applause, and the banging of wooden spear shafts on bronze-and-leather shields as Priam ended his speech.

"Tell me what's happened in the seventeen days I've been gone," he said gruffly.

"That's all you've come back for, Hock-en-bear-eeee? To ask me about recent events?" She was securing the low bodice across her white breasts.

He gestured her to the fallen piece of stone and when she'd taken a seat, he found another slab for himself about six feet away. Even with a knife in his hand, Hockenberry did not want to get too close to her.

"Tell me about the last weeks since I left," he said again.

"Don't you want to know why I stabbed you?"

"I know," Hockenberry said tiredly. "You'd had me QT Menelaus out of the city but you decided not to follow him. If I was dead, and the Achaeans overran the city-which you were sure they were going to do-you could always tell Menelaus I refused to take you with me. Or something like that. But he would have killed you anyway, Helen. Men-even Menelaus, who's not the sharpest sword in the armory-can rationalize being betrayed once. Not twice."

"Yes, he would have killed me. But I hurt you, Hock-en-bear-eeee, so that I I would have no choice...so that I would have no choice...so that I had had to stay in Ilium." to stay in Ilium."

"Why?" This didn't make any sense to the former scholic. And his head hurt.

"When Menelaus found me that day, I realized that I was happy to go with him. Happy almost to be killed by him, if that had been his pleasure. My years here in Ilium as a harlot, as Paris's false wife, as the reason for all this death, had made me mean in every sense of the word. Base, brittle, empty inside-common."

You're many things, Helen of Troy, he was tempted to say, he was tempted to say, but common is not one of them. but common is not one of them.

"But with Paris dead," continued Helen, "I had no husband, no master, for the first time since I was a young girl. My first reaction of being glad to see Menelaus here in Ilium that day, I soon recognized as a slave's happiness at seeing his chains and shackles again. By the time you joined us here in this very tower that night, all I wanted to do was stay in Ilium, alone, not as Helen, wife of Menelaus, not as Helen, wife of Paris, but just as...Helen."

"That doesn't explain why you stabbed me," said Hockenberry. "You could have just told me you were staying after I delivered Menelaus to his brother's camp. Or you could have asked me to transport you anywhere in the world-I would have obeyed."

"That is the real reason I tried to kill you," Helen said softly.

Hockenberry could only frown at her.

"That day, I decided to wed my fate not to any man's, but to the city's...to Ilium," she said. "And I knew that as long as you were here and alive, I could make you use your magic to carry me anywhere...to safety...even as Agamemnon and Menelaus entered the city and put it to flames."

Hockenberry thought about this for a long minute. It made no sense. He knew it never would. He set it aside. "Tell me about the last couple of weeks and what has happened," he said for the third time.

"The days after I left you here for dead were dark ones for the city," said Helen. "Agamemnon's attack almost overwhelmed us that very night. Hector had been sulking in his apartments since before the Amazons went out to their doom. After the Hole had closed and it was certain that it wasn't opening again, Hector stayed in his apartment, his thoughts his own, closed even to Andromache-I know she considered telling him the secret that their son still lived, but held off, not knowing how to explain the deception in any way that would not cause her own life to be forfeit-and during the next days' battles, Agamemnon's armies and their supporting gods killed many Trojans. Only the city's Protector-Phoebus Apollo, Lord of the Silver Bow-firing his always unerring arrows into the Argive multitudes kept us from being overrun and destroyed on those dark days before Hector rejoined the fray.

"As it was, Hock-en-bear-eeee, the Argives, under Diomedes, did breach our walls at their lowest point-where the wild fig tree stands. Three times before in the ten years that did proceed our ill-fated war with the gods had the Argives tried that same spot, our weakness, perhaps revealed to them by some skilled prophet, but three times before, Hector, Paris, and our champions had beat them back-Great and Little Ajax in their attempts, then Atreus' sons, the third time Diomedes himself-but this time, four days after I tried to kill you and left your body here for the carrion birds, Diomedes led his warriors from Argos on the fourth assault on the point where the wild fig tree stands. Even while Agamemnon's ladders were rising to the western wall and battering rams the size of great trees were splintering the Scaean Gate in its huge hinges, Diomedes attacked the low point on our wall by stealth and strength, and by sunset that fourth day, the Argives were inside the wall.

"Only the courage of Deiphobus, Hector's brother, Priam's other son, the man who has been chosen by the royal family to be my next husband-only Deiphobus saved the city through his courage. Seeing the threat when others were despairing about Agamemnon's ladders and rams, Deiphobus swept up survivors of his old battalion, and Helenus', and the captain named Asisu, son of Hyrtacus, and a few hundred of Aeneas' fleeing men, and with the combat veteran Asteropaeus at his side, Deiphobus formed a counterattack through the overrun city streets, turning the nearby marketplace into a second line. In terrible battle with the winning Diomedes, Deiphobus fought godlike-parrying even Athena's spearcast, for the gods were battling here with as much violence as the men-more!

"At dawn that day, the Argive line was stopped temporarily-our wall by the wild fig tree breached, a dozen city blocks burned and occupied by the raging Argives, Agamemnon's hordes still trying to scale our western and northern walls, the great Scaean Gate hanging by splinters and holding only by its iron bands-and that was the morning that Hector announced to Priam and the other despairing royals that he would re-enter the battle."

"And did he?" asked Hockenberry.

Helen laughed. "Did he? Never has there been such a glorious he? Never has there been such a glorious aristeia, aristeia, Hock-en-bear-eeee. On the first day of his wrath, Hector-protected by Apollo and Aphrodite from Athena's and Hera's bolts-met Diomedes in a fair fight and killed him, casting his finest spear all the way through the son of Tydeus and sending his Argus' fighters fleeing. By sunset that day, the city was whole again and our masons were building up the wall by the old fig tree, making it as tall as the wall near the Scaean Gate." Hock-en-bear-eeee. On the first day of his wrath, Hector-protected by Apollo and Aphrodite from Athena's and Hera's bolts-met Diomedes in a fair fight and killed him, casting his finest spear all the way through the son of Tydeus and sending his Argus' fighters fleeing. By sunset that day, the city was whole again and our masons were building up the wall by the old fig tree, making it as tall as the wall near the Scaean Gate."

"Diomedes dead?" said Hockenberry. He was shocked. Ten years watching the fighting here and the scholic had begun to think that Diomedes was as invulnerable as Achilles or one of the gods. In Homer's Iliad, Iliad, Diomedes' exploits-his excursus, his glorious single-combat or Diomedes' exploits-his excursus, his glorious single-combat or aristeia aristeia-had filled Book 5 and the beginning of Book 6, second only in length and ferocity in Homer's tale to that of Achilles' unleashed wrath in Books 2022...a wrath that was never to be realized here now, thanks to Hockenberry's own tampering with events.