And I think of Helen sitting up in bed just these few nights ago, her loose and lustrous hair hanging over her shoulders, her pale breasts white in the starlight.

It’s hard to pay attention to Achilles, even though this speech is as wonderful and surprising as Homer reported. In this short talk, Achilles undermines the very heroic code that makes him a superhero, the code of conduct that makes him a god in the eyes of his men and equals.

Achilles says that he has no ambition to battle glorious Hector—neither will to kill him nor will to die by his hand.

Achilles says that he is taking his men and sailing at dawn, leaving the Achaeans to their fates—leaving them to Hector’s mercy when the Trojan and his hordes cross the ditch and rampart tomorrow.

Achilles says that Agamemnon is a dog armored in shamelessness and that he wouldn’t marry one of the old king’s daughters even if she somehow ended up with Aphrodite’s looks and Athena’s crafts.

Then Achilles says something truly amazing—he confesses that his mother, the goddess Thetis, told him that two fates would bear him on to his day of death: one where he stays here, lays siege to Troy, kills Hector, but then dies himself within a few days. In that direction, his mother told him, lies eternal glory in the memories of men and gods alike. His other fate lies in flight—sailing home, losing his pride and glory, but living a long, happy life. The fates are his to choose, his mother told him years ago.

And, Achilles tells us now, he chooses life. Here this . . . this . . . hero, this mass of muscle and testosterone, this living-legend demigod . . . he chooses life over glory. It’s enough to make Odysseus squint in disbelief and Ajax gape.

“So Odysseus, Ajax, brothers both,” he says, “go back to the great commanders of Achaea. Report my answer. Let them figure out how to save the hollow ships and save the men who will be pressed back to these very ships’ burning hulls at this time tomorrow. As for silent Phoenix, here . . .”

I jump three inches off the red cushion when he turns toward me. I’ve been so lost in preparing what I have to say and the moral implications of it that I’ve forgotten that we’re in a discussion here.

“Phoenix,” says Achilles, smiling indulgently, “while Odysseus and Ajax here must report back to their master, you are free to spend the night here with Patroclus and me, and voyage home with us come the dawn. But only if Phoenix wishes . . . I would never force any man to go.”

This is my chance to speak. Ignoring Odysseus’ scowl, I look around, stand awkwardly, clear my throat to begin Phoenix’ long speech. How does it start? All those years of teaching and studying it, of learning the nuance of every Greek word, and now my mind is a blank.

Ajax stands. “While that old fool tries to decide whether to run away with you or not, Achilles, I’ll tell you that you’re as much of a fool as old Phoenix!”

Achilles, the man-killer who will brook no insult to his person, the hero who will let all of his Achaean friends be murdered rather than suffer indignities over a slave girl from Agamemnon, merely smiles and cocks an eyebrow at Ajax’s direct insult.

“Giving up glory and twenty beautiful women for one woman you can’t even have . . . bah!” cries Ajax and turns away. “Come, Odysseus, this golden boy has never drunk from the teat of human friendship. Let’s leave him to his wrath and deliver our dark message to the waiting Achaeans. Tomorrow’s sunrise is coming fast enough, and I for one need some sleep before the fight. If I’m going to die tomorrow, I don’t want to die sleepy.”

Odysseus nods, stands, nods again in the direction of Achilles, and follows Big Ajax out of the tent.

I’m still standing with my mouth agape, ready to deliver Phoenix’s long, three-part speech—that clever speech!—with my own clever amendments and hidden agendas.

Patroclus and Achilles stand, stretch, and exchange glances. Obviously they’ve been expecting this embassy and both men knew Achilles’ shocking answer in advance.

“Phoenix, old father, loved by the gods,” Achilles says warmly, “I don’t know what really brought you here this stormy night, but well I remember when I was a lad and you’d lift me and carry me off to bed after lessons. Stay here this night, Phoenix. Patroclus and Automedon will prepare a soft bed for you. In the morning, we’ll sail for home and you can come . . . or not.”

He gestures and goes into his sleeping quarters in the back of the tent and I stand here like the fool I am, speechless in every sense, stunned at this wild veering away from the plotline of the Iliad.

Achilles has to be persuaded to stay, even if he doesn’t join in the fighting, so the Iliad works itself out this way—the Trojans winning again and the Greeks in full retreat with all of their great commanders wounded—Odysseus, Agamemnon, Menelaus, Diomedes, all of them—then, feeling sympathy for his friends while knowing that Achilles will never join the fight, Patroclus will put on Achilles’ golden armor and rout the Trojans back until, in single combat with Hector, Patroclus is killed, his body violated and desecrated. That will bring Achilles out of his tent, filled with killing wrath, thus sealing the fate of Hector and Ilium and Andromache and Helen and all the rest of us.

He’s really leaving? I can’t quite grasp this. Not only didn’t I find the fulcrum and change things, now the entire Iliad has run off the rails. More than nine years I’ve been a scholic here, watching and observing and reporting to the muse and never once has there been a deep rift between the events in this war and Homer’s reporting in the poem. Now . . . this. If Achilles leaves, which he shows every indication of doing come the dawn, the Achaeans will be defeated, their ships burned, Ilium saved, and Hector, not Achilles, will be the great hero of the epic. It seems unlikely that Odysseus’ Odyssey will ever happen . . . and certainly not the way it’s sung now. Everything has changed. Just because the real Phoenix wasn’t here to give his real speech? Or have the gods been tampering with this fulcrum before I had a chance to? I’ll never know. My chance to persuade Achilles and Odysseus in council, my clever plan, is lost forever.

“Come, old Phoenix,” Patroclus says, taking my arm as if I’m a child, leading me to a side room in the great tent where my cushions and coverlets are laid out. “It’s time to go to bed. Tomorrow’s another day.”

“What is it?” asked Harman. He and Daeman were standing in the shadow of the Western Wall in Jerusalem, just a few steps behind Savi, and all three were staring up at the solid beam of blue light that stabbed vertically into the darkening sky.

“I think it’s my friends,” said the old woman. “All nine thousand one hundred and thirteen of my friends—all the old-styles that were swept up in the final fax.”

Daeman looked at Harman and realized that they were both doubtful about Savi’s mental condition.

“Your friends?” said Daeman. “That’s a blue light.”

Savi tore her gaze away from the beam—it was illuminating the top of the ancient buildings and walls around them now, bathing everything in blue glow as the daylight faded further—and she looked at them with what might have been a rueful smile. “Yes. That beam of blue light. My friends.” She gestured for them to follow and began leading them away from the courtyard, away from the wall back the way they came, away from the base of the shaft of blue light.

“The posts told us that the final fax was a way of storing us while they cleaned up the world,” continued Savi, her voice soft but still echoing in the narrow alleyways here. “The plan was, they explained, to reduce our codes—we were all fax codes to the post-humans, even then, my friends—reduce our codes and put us in a continuous neutrino loop for ten thousand years while they tidied up the planet.”