Achilles threw his head back and moaned as he had on the morning of Patroclus’ murder and kidnapping by Hockenberry disguised as Athena. The captains stepped farther back from the dead woman and horse.

Thersites used his knife to cut away the straps on Penthesilea’s chest-plate armor and belt, slashing into the dead queen’s fair flesh in his hurry to gather his unearned spoils. The queen was all but naked now—only one dangling greave, her silver belt, and a single sandal remaining on her slashed and bruised but somehow still-perfect body. Peleus’ long lance still pinned her to the carcass of the horse and Peleus’ son made no move to retrieve the spear.

“Step away,” said Achilles. Most of the men obeyed at once.

Ugly Thersites—Penthesilea’s armor under one arm and the queen’s bloodied helmet under his other arm—laughed over his shoulder as he continued to strip her of her belt. “What a fool you are, son of Peleus, to weep so for this fallen bitch, standing there sobbing for her beauty. She’s a meal for worms now, worth no more than that.”

“Step away,” said Achilles in his terrible monotone. Tears continued to streak down his dusty face.

Emboldened by the mankiller’s show of womanly weakness, Thersites ignored the command and tugged the silver belt from around dead Penthesilea’s hips, raising her body slightly to free the priceless band and making the motion an obscenity by moving his own hips as if copulating with the corpse.

Achilles stepped forward and struck Thersites with his bare fist, smashing his jaw and cheekbone, knocking every one of the rat-man’s yellow teeth out of his mouth, and sending him flying over the horse and dead queen to lie in the dust, vomiting blood from both mouth and nose.

“No grave or barrow for you, you bastard,” said Achilles. “You once sneered at Odysseus, and Odysseus forgave you. You sneered at me just now, and I killed you. The son of Peleus will not be taunted without a reckoning. Go now, go on down to Hades and taunt the shadows there with your mocking wit.”

Thersites choked on his own blood and vomit and died.

Achilles pulled Peleus’ spear slowly—almost lovingly—from the dust, the horse’s corpse, and up and out through Penthesilea’s softly rocking corpse. All the Achaeans stepped farther back, not understanding the mankiller’s moans and weeping.

“Aurea cui postquam nudavit cassida frontem, vicit victorem candida forma virum,” whispered Hockenberry to himself. “After her gilded metal helmet was removed, her forehead exposed, her brilliant form conquered the man… Achilles… the victor.” He looked down at Mahnmut. “Propertius, Book Three poem Eleven of his Elegies.”

Mahnmut tugged at the scholic’s hand. “Someone’s going to be writing an elegy for us if we don’t get out of here. And I mean now.”

“Why?” said Hockenberry, blinking as he looked around.

Sirens were going off. The rockvec soldiers were moving among throngs of retreating Achaeans, urging them with alarms and amplified voices to get through the Hole at once. A huge retreat was under way, with chariots and running men pouring toward and through the Hole, but it wasn’t the moravec loudspeakers that were creating the retreat—Olympos was erupting.

The earth… well, the Mars earth … shook and vibrated. The air was filled with the stink of sulfur. Behind the retreating Achaean and Trojan armies, the distant summit of Olympos glowed red beneath its aegis and columns of flame were leaping miles into the air. Already, rivers of red lava could be seen on the upper reaches of Olympus Mons, the largest volcano in the solar system. The air was full of red dust and the stink of fear.

“What’s going on?” asked Hockenberry.

“The gods caused some sort of eruption up there and the Brane Hole is going to disappear any minute,” said Mahnmut, leading Hockenberry away from where Achilles had knelt next to the fallen Amazon queen. The other dead Amazons had also been stripped of all their armor, and except for the core of captain-heroes, most of the men were hurrying toward the Hole.

You need to get out of there, came Orphu of Io’s voice over the tight-beam to Mahnmut.

Yes, sent Mahnmut, we can see the eruption from here.

Worst than that, came Orphu’s voice on the tightbeam. The readings show the Calabi-Yau space there bending back toward a black hole and wormhole. String vibrations are totally unstable. Olympus Mons may or may not blow that part of Mars to bits, but you have minutes, at most, before the Brane Hole disappears. Get Hockenberry and Odysseus back to the ship here.

Looking between the moving armor and dusty thighs, Mahnmut caught sight of Odysseus standing speaking to Diomedes thirty paces away. Odysseus? he sent. Hockenberry hasn’t had time to talk to Odysseus, much less convince him to come with us. Do we really need Odysseus?

The Prime Integrator analysis says we do, sent Orphu. And by the way, you had your video on during that entire fight. That was one hell of a thing to see.

Why do we need Odysseus? sent Mahnmut. The ground rumbled and quaked. The placid sea to their north was no longer placid; great breakers rolled in against red rocks.

How am I supposed to know? rumbled Orphu of Io. Do I look like a prime integrator to you?

Any suggestions on how I’m going to persuade Odysseus to leave his friends and comrades and the war with the Trojans to come join us? sent Mahnmut. It looks like he and the other captains—except for Achilles—are going to get into their chariots and head back through the Hole in about one minute. The smell from the volcano and all the noise are driving the horses crazy—and the people, too. How am I going to get Odysseus’ attention at a time like this?

Use some initiative, sent Orphu. Isn’t that what Europan sub-drivers are famous for? Initiative?

Mahnmut shook his head and walked over to Centurion Leader Mep Ahoo where the rockvec stood using his loudspeaker to urge the Achaeans to return through the Brane Hole at once. Even his amplified voice was lost under the volcano rumble and the pounding of hooves and sandaled feet as the humans ran like hell to get away from Olympos.

Centurion Leader? sent Mahnmut, connecting directly via tactical channels.

The two-meter-tall black rockvec turned and snapped to attention. Yes, sir.

Technically, Mahnmut had no command rank in the moravec army, but in practical terms, the rockvecs understood that Mahnmut and Orphu were on the level of commanders such as the legendary Asteague/Che.

Go over to my hornet there and await further orders.

Yes, sir. Mep Ahoo left the evacuation shouts to one of the other rockvecs and jogged to the hornet.

“I have to get Odysseus over to the hornet,” Mahnmut shouted to Hockenberry. “Will you help?”

Hockenberry, who was looking from the convulsions high on the shoulder of Olympos back at the quivering Brane Hole, gave the little moravec a distracted look but nodded and walked with him toward the cluster of Achaean captains.

Mahnmut and Hockenberry strode briskly past the two Ajaxes, Idomeneus, Teucer, and Diomedes to where Odysseus stood frowning at Achilles. The tactician seemed lost in thought.

“Just get him to the hornet,” whispered Mahnmut.

“Son of Laertes,” said Hockenberry.

Odysseus’ head whipped around. “What is it, son of Duane?”

“We have word from your wife, sir.”

“What?” Odysseus scowled and put his hand on his sword hilt. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about your wife, Penelope, mother of Telemachus. She has sent a message to you through us, conveyed by moravec magic.”

“Fuck your moravec magic,” snarled Odysseus, scowling down at Mahnmut. “Go away, Hockenberry, and take that little abomination with you, before I open both of you from crotch to chin. Somehow… I don’t know how, but somehow… I’ve always sensed that these new misfortunes rode in with you and these cursed moravecs.”