Athena turned as somebody jostled against her and was surprised, though not displeased, to come face-to-face with Achilles. Behind the mask, her eyes sharpened with interest.
He was one of hers, of course. Achilles, most fearsome of the Myrmidons, sacker of cities, slayer of Hector, his rage a sword for Athena's hand (for who else had stopped the Trojan prince in his flight, who else had delivered the killing spear to Achilles' hand and thus sealed Troy's doom?).
For a time, the warrior's name – or at least his nom de plume – had shone brightly again, and it seemed the rage of Achilles had found a new and less destructive outlet, not in waging war but in re-staging it for the masses. But there had been no word of any new Adrianus Leventis projects for a while now. Athena still liked to keep tabs on her heroes.
"Lion-hearted Achilles," she smiled graciously. It was not his most common epithet, but she imagined he might bristle at swift-footed Achilles just now; his uneven gait was hard to miss. "It is a pleasure to see you here."