He met Nathan's gaze—those cold, unyielding blue eyes staring back at him with merciless precision. Nathan held Teucer's decapitated head by its hair, his arm raised as he hurled it high into the sky. The severed head arced over the battlefield, visible to all with keen enough vision. Greek kings and commanders across the battlefield turned, witnessing the grim trophy as it spun through the air, blood raining down.
But Nathan's aim was clear. He wanted only one man to see it: Ajax.
In that moment, countless eyes turned skyward, watching the grisly spectacle of Teucer's head spinning through the air.
"It's Teucer!" someone gasped.
"Someone killed him!"
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The murmurs of shock spread rapidly among the Greek soldiers. Teucer, though not as mighty as his renowned brother Ajax, was still celebrated as the son of Telamon. His strength was respected among the Greeks, and his lineage alone commanded a certain reverence. Now, his head had been severed in one clean stroke by a mere mercenary fighting for Troy.
"Look, Ajax! It's your brother's head!" one of Ajax's own men jeered, followed by the chuckles of several others. For them, this was merely another brutal instance of war—a battlefield quip with little thought to Teucer's death. After all, Teucer had always been overshadowed by his brother, often regarded as little more than Ajax's jealous sibling. His passing stirred little sentiment from those who stood alongside the greater hero.
But Ajax himself stared at his half-brother's head as it plummeted to the earth. For a fleeting moment, his face hardened, a mix of irritation and obligation crossing his expression. He had never cared much for Teucer; to him, his brother was a lesser warrior, barely worth acknowledging. And yet, this public display of Teucer's severed head felt pointed, a challenge thrown squarely in Ajax's direction. Though he dismissed Teucer as a weakling, they shared blood, and blood demanded vengeance. Whoever had dared to humiliate the Greeks in such a manner—let alone target his family—had issued a silent call for retribution, and Ajax would answer it. It wasn't for Teucer's sake but for the honor of Salamis and the pride of its king.
Still, Ajax was far from the place where his brother had fallen, too distant to see the face of his killer. He resolved to seek answers among his men, but one thing was certain: whoever was responsible would soon face him in battle, and they would not live long.
Elsewhere on the battlefield, the other Greek kings had also noticed the spectacle. Some watched with mild interest, though most were unfazed. The Trojan forces boasted many formidable fighters—even aside from Hector—so seeing a Greek like Teucer fall wasn't altogether shocking to them.
But Odysseus, ever the shrewd strategist, studied the scene with narrowed eyes. From his position in the rear, he had been observing the battlefield closely, marking the movements of each key figure as he plotted his next steps. He knew the layout of both armies, noting each warrior's place every hour. He was certain Teucer had fallen near Hector's location, but a nagging thought crept into his mind.
This retreat signal had become a ritual over the past two months—a tacit agreement between both armies, marking the end of each day's brutal conflict. As the bell tolled, it was as if an unspoken truce descended upon them, the two sides slipping back to their camps to lick their wounds and gather their strength for the inevitable clashes to come.
Nathan, however, lingered a moment longer, his gaze drifting over the retreating Greek lines. Amid the fading figures, he caught sight of someone watching him—a lone figure whose gaze burned through the distance with unsettling intensity. Odysseus, the shrewd King of Ithaca.
Aphrodite had warned Nathan about him. Odysseus was no Achilles or Agamemnon, known for brute strength or bluster. He was different, a man of quiet cunning and unnervingly sharp intelligence. Athena's chosen, a strategist whose mind was a weapon as deadly as any blade. Odysseus held the Greeks together, mending their rifts and cooling their tempers. Even Achilles, the godlike warrior, respected and listened to Odysseus, treating him as an equal, a man with the rare skill to calm him.
"Coming, Heiron?" Hector's voice called him back to the present. He placed a steadying hand on Nathan's shoulder, guiding him away from the lingering thoughts of his enemy.
Nathan cast one last look upwards, almost as though he could glimpse the gazes of Hera and Athena watching from the heavens, each Goddess following the unfolding of the day's events with their own secret intentions. But he resisted the urge and turned back, following Hector's lead.
As the Trojans slipped behind their fortified walls, the Greeks began their solemn task of recovering their fallen, retrieving the bodies of their comrades in the solemn twilight. Once the Greeks retreated, the Trojans would return to the battlefield to reclaim their own, carrying them home to lay them to rest with honor and dignity.
Soon, night fell, blanketing the land in deep shadows.
As the Trojans filed through the gates in disciplined, winding lines, Hector took his place at the very front, leading his soldiers with quiet pride. He wore the marks of the day's brutal clashes—dust-streaked armor, faint lines of sweat, and a resolute, unyielding expression. It was a ritual by now, this triumphant return, designed to remind the people of Troy that their champion had returned alive, unbroken, from another fierce day of battle. It was as much a display for his warriors as for the citizens, a small but essential spark to keep their spirits high amidst the relentless cycle of war.
Nathan walked at Hector's side, his presence equally powerful and striking.
On either side of the path, crowds gathered, their voices swelling into cheers that rolled through the air like thunder. Young children gazed up in awe, their wide eyes following the soldiers with a mixture of admiration and excitement. For them, these warriors were heroes of legend, and each day's return from battle was a moment to celebrate, a reassurance of safety, and a reminder of Troy's strength. This wasn't a victory parade—no land had been won, and no decisive blow struck—but it had become a daily testament to resilience, a steady beat to fortify the hearts of the Trojans.
Nathan exchanged glances with the crowd, feeling their energy as it mixed with his own. He could see in their faces that this daily march, though simple, worked a quiet magic, lifting the spirits of all who watched. Soldiers, too, absorbed the atmosphere, the cheers infusing them with renewed strength to face the uncertainties of the next dawn.
As they made their way further into the city, Aeneas, who had been walking with the column, turned his head toward Heiron, a grin lighting up his face. "Hey, Heiron! Are you coming to the feast of tonight?"