The light of Olympus was fading into soft golden tones when a humid breeze, improper for the celestial heights, drifted through the palace gardens. The air began to smell of salt and foam… and from within a thin curtain of water emerged a figure wrapped in a pearlescent mantle.
It was Thetis, the most illustrious of the Nereids. Her bare feet barely touched the marble as she walked forward, as if she were still walking upon the floor of the sea.
At the end of the path stood Hera waiting for her, upright, majestic, with her arms crossed and her face as impassive as a statue.
—It has been a long time —said the queen of the gods, without warmth or hostility, as if stating an irrelevant fact.
Thetis lowered her head respectfully… but her hands trembled slightly.
—My lady…
The word came out as little more than a whisper.
Hera's eyes narrowed slightly. She did not correct the term.
—You did not come just to greet me —she replied.
Thetis took a deep breath, as if gathering courage cost her more than facing a storm.
—I heard about the tournament… about the Heromachy.
Silence.
—I know I have no right to ask you for anything —she continued with a broken voice—. You raised me, you protected me… you gave me a place when I was nothing more than a nymph among thousands. I cannot demand anything from you.
She took a step forward. Her eyes shone with a moisture different from that of the sea.
—But I beg you… if there is any possibility… choose my son.
For the first time, Hera's mask showed an almost imperceptible crack.
—This would be… the only chance to see him again.
The wind stopped. Even the divine birds seemed to fall silent.
—He died far from me —Thetis whispered—. Without me being able to save him. Without me being able to say goodbye.
Her voice broke completely.
—I only want to see him… even if it is just one more time.
Hera watched her in silence for long seconds. In her gaze there was something hard, yes… but also an ancient memory, that of a sea child she had once cared for.
When she spoke, her tone returned to being as cold as marble.
—I have already chosen my champion.
The words fell like a door closing.
Thetis lowered her head, as if she had expected exactly that answer… and yet it still hurt.
Hera turned on her heels, ready to leave.
—Thank you for listening to me —murmured the Nereid with an empty voice.
The queen of Olympus took one step… then another… And she stopped. Then she spoke without turning around:
—The Olympians decided to allow other gods to participate. We need more combatants.
Thetis looked up, confused.
—If you wish to see him… —Hera continued, still with her back turned— then do not ask it of me.
A slight turn of her head, enough for her golden eye to be visible.
—Choose him yourself.
The silence that followed was different. Not heavy, but fragile… like something about to break or to heal.
Thetis brought both hands to her chest, unable to speak.
When she finally managed to do so, her voice was barely a thread:
—Thank you… my lady.
But Hera was already walking again, her figure moving away with the relentless dignity of a queen who would never admit to having shown compassion.
Only when she was completely alone did Thetis let the tears fall.
They were not gentle like human tears. They fell heavy, luminous, turning into small pearls when they touched the ground of Olympus.
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The preparations were finally concluded. Instead of a single arena, it was decided that each combat of the Heromachy would take place in different settings, worthy of the feats of the heroes who would tread upon them. The spectators, gods and souls who once shared life with the combatants, would gather in a vast hall resembling an ancient Athenian theater, from where they would witness the battles through divine projections.
But this fight was different. It was the inauguration of the tournament, the first clash of the battle between heroes. Only for this occasion, and for the grand final, Hephaestus had forged a coliseum in Olympus itself, a work worthy of the immortals.
When the spectators took their seats, when the Olympians settled expectantly upon their thrones and Zeus gave the order, the lights went out. A soft and solemn melody began to rise, wrapping the hall in an almost sacred anticipation.
Then, the divine coliseum burst into light and music.
From above descended the presenter, spinning upon herself as if dancing to the rhythm of a song only she could hear. The muse of epic poetry, Calliope, raised her arms with a radiant smile, and her voice—clear, vibrant, impossible to ignore—resounded in every corner of the arena.
—Ladies, gentlemen, gods of Olympus and spirits of the underworld! —exclaimed the radiant Calliope, spinning upon herself with an overflowing smile—. Prepare yourselves to witness a clash that will shake the very foundations of myth! Welcome to the first battle of the great Heromachy!
The crowd roars. Calliope lets the clamor grow… and then cuts it off with a dramatic gesture.
—Prepare yourselves to behold the very incarnation of war…
The air seemed to grow heavy. The light turned golden, almost sacred.
—For TEN YEARS, the plains of Troy witnessed his fury… and for TEN YEARS, not a single blade, not a spear, not a sword managed even to graze his skin.
The gates opened slowly, as if even the metal hesitated to face him.
A warrior of overwhelming presence emerged, his armor shining as though the sun itself were reflected upon it, his gaze cold, distant, almost divine.
—Enemies fell by the hundreds… heroes, princes, champions… all alike. Not a scratch! Not a scar! Nothing!
The muse placed a hand upon her chest, as if even she could not contain the emotion.
—There were those who whispered that he was not a man… that he was a god walking among mortals… that he was INVULNERABLE.
Her voice exploded with absolute force.
—THE SCOURGE OF TROY!!! THE SON OF THE GODDESS THETIS!!! THE WARRIOR WHOSE WRATH MADE THE WORLD TREMBLE!!! AAAACHIIILLEEEES!!!
The name falls like lightning. The stadium answers with a deafening thunder. The legendary Achilles advanced without haste, without looking at the crowd, as if everything around him were irrelevant. As if victory were already written.
Calliope advances a few steps, eyes shining, smile defiant.
—But tell me… if there is a pinnacle, should there not be someone capable of reaching it? If there is an absolute champion… should there not be a rival worthy of challenging him?
She leans forward, conspiratorial, as if sharing a secret with the entire universe.
—Because today… there is.
Her voice rises again, more burning, more fierce.
She extended an arm toward one of the colossal gates of the arena. With a dramatic and theatrical tone she said.
—The only mortal who can boast of something not even the titans achieved! The man who wounded the untouchable, who made the eternal bleed, who raised his spear against the very gods… and lived to tell the tale!
The air seems to tighten.
—With the blessing of wisdom and the courage of a cornered lion, the hero who turned the impossible into history… the scourge of immortals… Diomedes!
Calliope extends both arms toward opposite sides of the arena, voice at its peak, overflowing with pure euphoria.
—The invincible against the one who defeated the gods! Martial perfection against indomitable will! Let the heavens hold their breath… because the Heromachy begins!