Athena sighed with relief and radioed back to the ship that the Director could be awakened. Things were well in hand.
And so they were—until a few days later when Apollo and Hera, waiting until the Director had gone to bed early with a hangover from the night before, induced Hector to make a night attack. The fighting went on all night, and at dawn Patroclos ran into Achilles' tent.
"Terrible news!" he cried. "The Trojans have breached the walls around our ships and are burning them! Diomedes, Agamemnon, and Odysseus are wounded. If you do not lead your men against Hector, all is lost!"
"Too bad," said Achilles. But the blood drained from his face.
"Don't be so hardhearted!" shouted Patroclos. "If you won't fight, at least allow me to lead the Myrmidons against the enemy. Perhaps we can save the ships and drive Hector off!"
Achilles shouted back, "Very well! You know I give you, my best friend, anything you want. But I will not for all the gold in the world serve under a king who robs me of prizes I took with my own sword. However, I will give you my armor, and my men will march behind you!"
Then, sobbing with rage and frustration, he helped Patroclos dress in his armor.
"Do you see this little lever in the back of the shield?" he said. "When an enemy strikes at you, flick it this way. The air in front of you will become hard, and your foe's weapon will bounce off the air. Then, before he recovers from his confusion, flick the lever the other way. The air will soften and allow your spear to pass. And the spearpoint will shear through his armor as if it were cheese left in the hot sun. It is made of some substance harder than the hardest bronze made by the hand of man."
"So this is the magic armor your divine mother, Thetis, gave you," said Patroclos. "No wonder—"