Death of Achilles unveils a series of fate­ful events that reshape the course of the Tro­jan War, blend­ing val­or, grief, and prophe­cy into a trag­ic crescen­do. As Ulysses con­tem­plates the cause of the con­flict, Helen’s sor­row deep­ens. She remains a fig­ure of beau­ty, but that beau­ty is now laced with regret, know­ing how much destruc­tion fol­lowed in her name. The Greeks, wea­ried by years of bat­tle, pre­pare for a new threat as the Ama­zons approach. Penthe­silea, queen of these fear­some war­riors, leads twelve of her own to the gates of Troy, not just for glo­ry but to redeem her­self after a trag­ic mis­take. Her strength and grief inter­twine, shap­ing her mis­sion as both per­son­al and epic. The Tro­jans, seek­ing sal­va­tion, wel­come her with rev­er­ence, see­ing in her a final hope of resis­tance against the Greek siege.

Penthesilea’s pres­ence shifts the battlefield’s ener­gy. Her armor glints like starlight, her resolve unshak­en as she moves like a force of nature across ene­my lines. The Greeks are stunned by her pow­er and her maid­ens’ coordination—each Ama­zon fights as if guid­ed by divine hands. Loss­es mount for the Greeks as the Ama­zons cut through their ranks with cal­cu­lat­ed grace. This moment in the war feels dif­fer­ent, almost myth­i­cal, as if the gods them­selves had returned to test mor­tal strength. But even leg­ends fal­ter when faced with des­tiny. Achilles, drawn by both hon­or and chal­lenge, enters the fray along­side Aias, chang­ing the tide once more. In a clash of near-equals, Penthe­silea falls to Achilles, who, instead of cel­e­brat­ing, kneels beside her, filled with sor­row at her beau­ty and brav­ery extin­guished.

There is no mock­ery in the after­math, only rev­er­ence. The Greeks, often hard­ened by war, car­ry Penthesilea’s body and those of her war­riors back to Troy. This act of respect sig­nals a rare pause in cruelty—a shared moment of admi­ra­tion for courage beyond nations. Her funer­al becomes a sym­bol not only of loss but of the dig­ni­ty war­riors might still offer to one anoth­er. Yet peace is fleet­ing. From the south, anoth­er war­rior arrives: Mem­non, son of Eos, the dawn god­dess. The Ethiopi­ans enter the war with strength and pride, hop­ing to avenge Troy’s mount­ing loss­es. His pres­ence inspires awe and fear, espe­cial­ly as he fells Antilochus, beloved son of old Nestor, bring­ing fresh sor­row to the Greeks.

Achilles, enraged by Antilochus’ death, chal­lenges Mem­non. Their duel is fierce, bal­anced between fate and fury, until Achilles slays Mem­non and adds anoth­er name to his long list of vic­to­ries. But this final tri­umph comes at a cost. For in the shad­ows, Paris watch­es with bow in hand, remem­ber­ing Hector’s prophe­cy and the tales of Achilles’ sin­gu­lar weakness—his heel. As Achilles cel­e­brates, an arrow flies, guid­ed by Apollo’s unseen hand, and finds its mark. The great­est of the Greek cham­pi­ons falls, not to strength, but to a qui­et, fat­ed strike. Pan­ic rip­ples through the bat­tle­field as both sides surge toward his body, each hop­ing to con­trol the lega­cy left behind.

Achilles’ death is a wound to the Greeks deep­er than any loss before. Thetis, his sea-born moth­er, emerges to mourn, join­ing mor­tals in grief. A great funer­al pyre is pre­pared, and in its flames, not only a body but a chap­ter of war is burned to ash. To hon­or him, games are held, cel­e­brat­ing his unmatched skill and sac­ri­fice. Yet even in death, Achilles stirs con­flict. His divine armor must be passed on, but who deserves it? Aias claims it through strength; Ulysses through strat­e­gy. A pan­el of Tro­jan pris­on­ers, impar­tial by dis­tance, weighs the val­ue of mind over mus­cle and awards the prize to Ulysses.

For Aias, the judg­ment is unbear­able. His strength, so long his pride, now feels over­shad­owed by wit. Anguish over­takes him, his mind frac­tures, and he con­tem­plates the futil­i­ty of hon­or won through suf­fer­ing. His sto­ry, inter­twined with Achilles’, becomes anoth­er echo of the war’s cost—not just in lives, but in spir­it. The chap­ter clos­es not with cel­e­bra­tion, but with a heavy silence. The gods watch from above as mor­tals grap­ple with love, loss, and the lega­cy of those too great to live long. Through these deaths, the war turns—not through vic­to­ry, but through the painful weight of heroes gone too soon.