The Gates Of Troy (Adventures of Odysseus)

With that, the priest turned and slipped back out the way he had come. Eperitus waited for him to leave then returned to his seat, watched by Odysseus.

‘Who was that?’ the king asked. ‘Didn’t I see him in the crowd yesterday?’

‘I’ll tell you about it later,’ Eperitus replied. ‘This must be King Priam.’

At that moment, a large door to the side of the throne opened and two warriors in golden armour entered. They stood either side of the door and bowed their heads as a third man swept past them into the room. King Priam was tall – a head higher than his escorts – and dressed in a richly embroidered tunic and a crimson cloak that dragged along the floor behind him. His hair was a shiny black and his fringe had been carefully plaited in the same fashion as the younger Trojan men; but, though he must have been handsome in his youth, his quick brown eyes were now sunken with age and the skin of his long neck hung in folds beneath his chin. Even the thick layer of orange powder he wore could not hide the labyrinth of wrinkles that were etched across his face.

He was followed by his eldest son, Hector, whose dark, menacing eyes swept the room as he entered. He was nearly as tall as his father, but where Priam was lean, Hector was broad and powerfully built. Behind his thick black beard, his face was stern, hard and uncompromising, giving him an air of intimidating natural authority. This was accentuated by the simplicity of his clothing: a black, knee-length tunic and a woollen cloak, swept back over his shoulders to reveal a plain leather cuirass and a belt with a silver dagger.

Upon reaching the throne, Priam turned and raised his hands in an extravagant greeting, a broad and pleasant smile on his face. From the moment he had entered, the chamber had been filled with the scraping of heavy wooden chairs as the Trojans – regardless of age or rank – threw themselves to the flagstones to grovel like dogs before their master. Now, as Priam surveyed the large, bright chamber, only the four Greeks dared to look back at him. Though they had stood out of respect, their pride forbade them to prostrate themselves before any man, king or not.

‘Get down on your knees, you foreign swine,’ said the old herald who had called them in from the antechamber. He was kneeling beside them with his forehead to the floor, talking from the side of his mouth and desperately trying to swipe at Eperitus’s shins with his staff.

‘Peace, Idaeus,’ Priam commanded in his own language, his strong, clear voice ringing from the walls. ‘Our guests can’t be blamed if Antenor failed to instruct them in our ways. Besides, they no doubt believe themselves my equal – I’ve heard there’s no respect amongst Greeks, only pride and insolence. Now, my sons and friends, raise yourselves and let us hear what these people have to say. Antenor, please be so kind as to visit me in my personal quarters after this is over.’

The king lowered himself into his throne, while Hector sat on the stool at the foot of the dais, resting his chin on his fist and glaring at the assembly. As the rest of the Trojans lifted themselves from the floor and retook their seats, a bard ran his fingers skilfully across his lyre and began to sing. The sound of his voice was soft and clear, though unintelligible to the Greeks, and as he sang a crowd of slaves appeared with platters of food and cups of wine to replace those that had already been consumed. Priam rose again to pour the first libation to the gods, then lifted the shining golden goblet to his lips and took a mouthful.

‘That’s good!’ he said with a smack of his lips. ‘Idaeus, tell our friends to tuck in. If they’re here to talk, they might as well do it on full stomachs.’

‘King Priam says you should eat,’ Idaeus informed the Greeks curtly.

Odysseus, seeing the eyes of every Trojan upon them, stood and poured his own libation, before taking a large gulp of wine and following it with a handful of goats’ meat. Immediately the rest of the room began drinking and eating, and soon the smoky air was filled with the sound of voices and feasting.

Menelaus, however, continued to refuse all food and drink. As the cacophony continued – and Priam showed no sign of asking the names and lineage of his guests or the purpose of their visit – the Spartan king’s impatience grew. Eventually, annoyed by what he saw as Priam’s deliberate efforts to frustrate him, he slammed his great fist down on the table and stood up.

‘You!’ he said, pointing at Idaeus as the noise fell away and all eyes turned on him. ‘Tell your king that the time for feasting is over. If he won’t ask our names, as polite custom requires, then I’ll give them to him: I am King Menelaus of Sparta, son of Atreus. This is King Odysseus of Ithaca, son of Laertes. Our two companions are Palamedes and Eperitus. We have sailed for many days on a mission of vital importance to both our peoples – as, no doubt, you are fully aware – yet since our arrival, Priam has treated us with nothing less than contempt. Are we dogs, that we should be kept outside the citadel walls until the king has finished toying with his women? Or are we kings, to be treated with the respect that our rank commands? However he regards us is immaterial to me, but I warn him to listen to what I have to say, or the whole of Ilium will have to face the consequences.’

Idaeus took a moment to comprehend what Menelaus had told him, then turned and translated it to his king. An angry murmur broke out from the gathered nobles, but was silenced by a barked command from Hector.

‘Tell King Menelaus we are fully aware of who he and his companions are,’ the prince replied in a gravelly voice, leaning on his knees and staring directly at the Spartan. ‘And that, since Anchises and Antenor were sent to request the return of my father’s sister, Hesione, and were almost murdered for their efforts, we do not feel inclined to be lectured on matters of hospitality by Greeks. However, we respect the code of xenia and will gladly listen to the purpose of his mission, if he will share it with us.’

‘Menelaus!’ Odysseus hissed as they listened to Idaeus’s translation. ‘Curb your temper, man. Do you want Helen back or not?’

Menelaus glowered at his comrade, but took a deep breath and turned once more to face the royal dais.

‘Very well, then, we can dispense with the formalities. If Hector wants to pretend he doesn’t know the purpose of our visit, that’s up to him. But as this matter concerns his brother, I demand that Paris is brought before this council so that all the facts can be heard and properly debated.’

Menelaus watched as Priam and Hector exchanged looks and hushed words. It was Priam, this time, who answered.

‘Paris is not here,’ he said, a look of concern in his eyes. ‘I sent him to Greece to bargain for the return of Hesione, hoping my own son would succeed where all previous envoys have failed. Surely you’ve seen him?’

‘That’s a damned lie!’ Menelaus shouted. ‘I know he’s here, and my wife’s here with him!’

He gave a cry of rage and seized the edge of the table before him, tipping it over so that its contents spilled across the stone floor. The younger Trojans on either side sprang to their feet and made towards him, but were stopped by another bellowing command from Hector. Odysseus and Eperitus were up in an instant and had to use all their strength to drag Menelaus back to his chair.

‘Eperitus,’ Odysseus whispered, catching his friend’s eye and nodding towards the cup on Palamedes’s table. ‘Do it now. He’s been drinking like a horse all afternoon – building up his courage, I expect. If you’re quick, he won’t even notice.’

Menelaus flopped back onto his chair and sank his face into his hands. Odysseus immediately left him and took two steps towards the hearth, so that all eyes were focused on his squat, triangular form.

‘My friends,’ he said, holding up his hands and looking around at the assembly, their faces glowing angrily in the light from the fire. Idaeus translated from behind his left shoulder. ‘Honourable Trojans, I beg you to forgive my long-suffering comrade. If you knew what this man has been through these past few weeks, you’d understand his torment and look on him with pity, not the fury I see in your eyes now.’

Odysseus continued to stare from face to face, giving his words time to sink in and waiting for the angry murmurs of the Trojans to subside. Behind him, Eperitus pulled the small vial of powder from his pouch and held it in the palm of his hand, his eyes switching from Palamedes to Odysseus and back again.

‘What’s this all about, Odysseus?’ Hector said, unable to tolerate the silence any longer. ‘What does Menelaus want with my brother? Didn’t Paris visit him in Sparta? He had intended to go there first.’

‘My lord Hector, things haven’t started well between us. There’s been too much distrust on both sides, but if our peoples are to be saved from a great tragedy then we must agree to be open and honest with one another. Do you give me your word, as a warrior and a man of honour, that Paris is not in Troy, and that you haven’t seen him since he left for Greece?’

‘My brother hasn’t been seen or heard of for weeks, and may Zeus strike me down if I lie. Now tell me what you know of him, Odysseus.’

‘Is he dead?’ Priam interrupted, leaning forward slightly and curling his fingers anxiously over the armrest of his throne.

‘He lives, as far as I know, my lord,’ Odysseus answered, ‘unless the gods have avenged the dishonour he brought on your house. Because Paris did visit Sparta, and the last anybody saw of him he was fleeing the city with Menelaus’s wife as his captive.’

This time Hector and Priam did not pretend to wait for Idaeus’s translation.

‘What?’ Hector exclaimed in Greek, standing and staring at Odysseus through the haze thrown up by the hearth. ‘He wouldn’t dare!’

A moment later he was joined by the rest of the assembly, who after listening to Idaeus’s translation again left their seats and cried out as one in protest against the accusation.

‘No son of mine would do such a thing,’ said Priam, also in Greek, as he stepped down from the dais to stand next to Hector. ‘Kidnap a royal queen? He’s a prince and a warrior, and he is loyal to the will of his father. It’s just not possible!’

‘It’s true,’ said Menelaus, lifting his face from his hands and talking with deep despondency. ‘He was a guest in my home and swore a sacred oath of friendship to me, but the very night I went on a journey to Crete he stole Helen from me and took my lad, Pleisthenes, too.’

‘By all the sacred gods of Ilium!’ Priam exclaimed, leaning against Hector. ‘He can’t have!’

‘He has,’ Odysseus confirmed. ‘And throughout Greece the storm clouds are gathering. Unless Helen is returned, there will be war.’

This statement was greeted by more angry muttering from the Trojans, and in the buzz of voices Eperitus signalled to one of the slaves to bring wine. As the man began refilling his half-empty goblet, Eperitus moved to the seat beside Palamedes.

‘Fill this, too,’ he ordered, taking Palamedes’s goblet and passing it to the slave. Palamedes, who was growing more agitated as his eyes flicked between Odysseus and Priam, hardly seemed to notice Eperitus’s presence beside him.

‘Paris is not here,’ Priam said again, in a loud voice. ‘How do we know you’re telling us the truth until we speak to him? For all we know, Helen may have left willingly.’

Menelaus lifted his head sharply and there was anger in his eyes, but Odysseus spoke first.

‘We have taken you at your word, my lords, and accept that Paris has not yet returned to Troy; you must also take our word and believe that Menelaus’s wife was abducted by your son. I can understand why you might doubt me – a foreigner who comes to your city with the threat of war on his tongue – so instead I ask you to look at this man.’

Odysseus moved to stand behind Menelaus’s chair. His eyes rested briefly on Eperitus, who raised Palamedes’s goblet and poured the powder into it. Odysseus smiled and gave a subtle wink, before turning and placing his hands on the Spartan’s shoulders.

‘I’ve known this man for ten years,’ he told the assembled Trojans, ‘ever since the best of the Greeks gathered to pay court to the most beautiful woman in the world – Helen of Sparta. And of all the great men she could have chosen from – Diomedes, Ajax, Idomeneus and many more – she picked the greatest of us all, Menelaus. But look at him now, a ruin of his former self, destroyed by the loss of his wife. Could a man feign the rage and despair you yourselves have witnessed in him?’

He paused for Idaeus to translate his words, and as the Trojans discussed what Odysseus had said, Eperitus placed Palamedes’s goblet of wine on the table before him.

‘What do you think?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘Will they agree to return Helen?’

Palamedes’s eyelids were heavy with wine and his eyes unfocused. ‘Can’t be sure, but Hector’s certainly angry with Paris. He told Priam this is going to ruin everything he’s planned for.’

‘How could you know that?’ Eperitus asked, suddenly attentive. ‘Every word they’ve spoken to each other has been in their own language.’

‘My nursemaid was a Trojan slave, captured in a raid,’ Palamedes answered. ‘She taught me her language when I was a child, and I’ve been able to understand almost every word I’ve heard since arriving here.’

‘Then why didn’t you tell us that before?’ Eperitus snapped, feeling his temper rise at the sight of Palamedes’s smug grin.

But at that moment Odysseus held up his hands for silence. ‘Even if you don’t care for the suffering of this man,’ he continued, patting Menelaus’s shoulders, ‘even if your desire is to support Paris, regardless of whether Helen was taken from Sparta or left willingly, then think of the wider consequences. You’re all noblemen and many of you have royal blood in your veins. If you condone the abduction of a queen – Helen was not taken as a spoil of war like Hesione was, remember – you are saying that such acts are acceptable. Then where will you be? Moral standards will falter. The gods will abandon you. If in times of peace men are allowed to think that royal women are there to be plucked like apples from a tree, or women come to believe they are free to choose their lovers, how will you protect your own families? What’s more, how will you ever be sure that your children are truly yours? Do you want to raise the bastard sons of others as your own and let them inherit what is not theirs? If you do not give Helen back to Menelaus when Paris returns, then you will be responsible for the doom that follows!’

Odysseus’s final sentence rang ominously through the silent hall. Eperitus could see by the looks on the faces of the Trojans that his words had hit their mark, but in the moments of quiet that followed all he could think of was the warning given to him by Calchas. What if the priest was right and peace now would only open the way to a Trojan invasion of Greece? Were these the plans Palamedes had overheard Hector talking of? And if so, would they ultimately lead to the conquest of Ithaca and the destruction of everything Odysseus held most precious? He watched Priam and Hector leaning into each other and whispering urgently, and wondered whether the fearsome Trojan prince was thinking of how to keep the Greeks from attacking Ilium before his own plans could come to fruition.

‘Your king speaks well,’ Palamedes said, reaching for the drugged goblet. ‘Too well for the good of Greece.’

Eperitus watched the man’s fingers curl around the stem of the cup. He thought for a moment then hooked his foot around Palamedes’s chair and pulled it backwards. Palamedes grabbed the table in an attempt to regain his balance, knocking the cup to the floor with a clang. Odysseus turned to see the dark wine spreading over the flagstones, and the confident gleam in his eye wavered. A moment later Hector spoke.

‘My father and I have come to an agreement. In view of Menelaus’s anger with my brother we think it wise that he returns to Sparta as soon as practical. However, as we intend to give his wife back to him’ – Menelaus raised his head at these words, his eyes wide, almost disbelieving – ‘we invite you, Odysseus, to remain here until Paris returns so that you can escort her back to Greece. Regardless of why Helen is with Paris – and we do not yet accept she was taken against her will – we agree with Odysseus and don’t want to set a precedent. Is this agreeable?’

‘No,’ said Palamedes, rising unsteadily to his feet. ‘No it isn’t. My friend has spoken truly, for it’s a vile crime to steal a man’s wife, but there is also the matter of compensation.’

‘Sit down, you fool,’ Odysseus commanded, his voice stern. ‘Sit down before I knock you down.’

‘Yes, sit down Palamedes,’ Menelaus agreed.

‘I will not sit down! You may think, Hector, that Troy can escape its crime by returning Helen, but Agamemnon, Menelaus’s brother and the most powerful of all the Greeks, does not. He demands that Priam pay compensation.’

There was an ugly muttering from amongst the ranks of Trojan nobles. Priam’s face was like stone, and Hector’s expression was dark and menacing.

‘Go on,’ he said, slowly. ‘Name your demands.’

‘There are no demands,’ Odysseus insisted.

‘Agamemnon feels that, as Paris will almost certainly have violated Helen and made the atrocity more heinous, Menelaus’s suffering cannot be measured by financial compensation alone. He therefore demands an annual tribute in copper, timber, wool and slaves – the exact amounts to be negotiated – as well as the handing over of three Trojan cities: one for himself, one for Menelaus and the third for Odysseus . . .’

‘You lying dog!’ Odysseus shouted, springing towards Palamedes with his fists raised.

Eperitus quickly flung himself between the two men.

‘Fighting Palamedes won’t help!’ he hissed, placing the flats of his hands against the king’s chest as Palamedes retreated behind him.

‘So that was your intention all along, was it?’ Priam crowed, standing on the royal dais and shaking his fist at Odysseus. ‘A city of your own in payment for the return of Helen and the humbling of Troy. Do you think we would ever have agreed to such terms?’

A silver cup was thrown from amidst the mob of angry officials, hitting Odysseus on the back. Another glanced off his arm, followed by a torrent of abuse. Eperitus stepped in front of his king and looked quickly about the room as more cups, plates and pieces of food were thrown at them. An armed warrior stood at each exit, but the remainder were already closing in on the Greeks, their spear-points lowered threateningly. It would still be possible to rush the soldiers before they could bring their weapons to bear, Eperitus thought, but even if they overpowered them and took their spears and shields, it was unlikely that they could fight their way out of the city and back across the plain to their ship. Escape was impossible.

‘I say we should kill them,’ said a short man with a crooked nose and pointed beard. ‘If Paris has taken this man’s wife, then let’s do away with him now and at least then the Greeks will have no further claim on the woman!’

There was a murmur of agreement, but then a voice called out from the crowd.

‘Peace, my friends! Sit down! Don’t let Antimachus’s words add fuel to your anger. Remember these men are our guests and under the protection of Zeus himself. If you harm them, you defy the gods and bring judgement upon yourselves!’

It was Antenor. He had forced his way through the closing circle of Trojans to stand with his arms aloft between them and the outnumbered Greeks. His countrymen shouted at the old man and told him to stand aside, but advanced no further. Then Hector appeared, clearing a passage through the throng to stand face to face with Odysseus.

‘You insult us with your deceit, Odysseus. If I was free to do as I pleased, I’d tear you to pieces right now with my own hands. But Antenor is right: you remain guests here, and I’ll not bring the wrath of the gods down on Troy by killing you.’

Odysseus met the Trojan’s stormy gaze without flinching. ‘You’re a fool, Hector. We came to offer you the chance of righting the wrong Paris has done, but from the moment of our arrival you chose to treat us with hostility. Now, if you really respect the will of the gods, you’ll let us return to our ship unmolested.’

‘I’ll make sure you’re escorted back in safety,’ Hector replied, sternly. ‘Have no fear of that. But once you’ve left our waters, I advise you never to return. If you do, you’ll find us ready for you.’

Chapter Fifteen

THE GATHERING AT AULIS

They all knew they had been fortunate to escape from Troy alive. The hostility in Priam’s throne room was nothing compared with the anger that awaited them on the streets of the city. By the time they had rejoined Antiphus, Polites and Arceisius and marched out of the citadel gates, they found a large mob had already assembled beyond the walls, armed with rocks, lumps of wood and even a few spears. Only the escort of a hundred warriors enabled the Greeks to reach the Scaean Gate unharmed, and it was not until they felt the gentle motion of the Ithacan warship beneath their feet once more that they could finally relax.

The relief of being free of Troy gave each of them a sense of calm. Palamedes sat in the prow, his arms crossed over his knees and his chin resting on his forearm staring blankly ahead of himself. Menelaus joined the three guardsmen on the benches and took hold of one of the polished oars, pulling quietly in time with the rest of the crew as Eurybates steered the ship out of the harbour. What he was thinking as he looked over his shoulder at the high citadel no man could tell. Odysseus and Eperitus withdrew to the stern, from where they looked back in silence at the broad plain with its scattered farmsteads and flocks of sheep, its corralled horses and the city of tents by the mouth of the Simo¨eis. It all seemed so peaceful as they watched the walls of the citadel turn pink in the light of the lowering sun.

As the ship slipped back out to sea and Troy was lost behind the wooded headland, Antiphus brought Calchas to the king. He had arrived shortly before Odysseus’s return and surrendered himself to the crew, insisting he had information that would be of use to the Greeks.

‘What information?’ Odysseus asked the hooded priest, whom he had recognized immediately.

‘What I have to say is for all the kings of Greece together, or none at all.’

‘Why don’t you tell it to the fish, then,’ Odysseus responded, grabbing a fistful of Calchas’s robes and almost carrying him to the side of the ship. The man’s hood slipped back to reveal his bald head and pale, drawn features.

‘Wait!’ Eperitus shouted, rushing over and grabbing Calchas’s arm, fearing that in the mood he was in Odysseus would cast him overboard without a second thought. ‘If he says he has information then we should trust him. When he spoke to me in Priam’s palace he told me things about myself that only you and I know. He knew about the powder you gave me, Odysseus, and he even knows about the gathering at Aulis. He’s a seer like none I’ve ever come across, other than the Pythoness herself. Calchas,’ he added, turning to the cowering priest, ‘I don’t know what this other information you have is, but at least tell Odysseus what you told me in the throne room.’

Odysseus pinned Calchas against the side of the ship, where clouds of spray soaked his clothing and formed into watery beads that trickled off his hairless scalp.

‘Tell me what you know, Trojan, or you can swim to Greece instead.’

‘Hector has been preparing Troy for war against Greece,’ Calchas stuttered. ‘The galleys you saw in the bay, the army camped on the plain – they’re just the beginning.’

‘Then he knew we were gathering our forces for an attack, even before we arrived?’ asked Menelaus, who had overheard the conversation from the benches and come to stand behind Eperitus.

‘No, my lord, he had no idea you were coming. But he has dreamt of invading Greece for many years, waiting patiently while his father’s power waned and his own influence grew. Now, with peace on the northern borders, he feels his time is approaching.’

‘But why would Hector want to invade Greece?’ asked Odysseus.

‘For the same reason Agamemnon wants to conquer Troy,’ Calchas replied. ‘A stranglehold on the Aegean and all the trade that flows across it.’

‘My brother wants the return of Helen,’ Menelaus said, with slow menace in his voice.

‘Don’t delude yourself about what your brother wants, Menelaus,’ Calchas retorted, his face convulsing unconsciously under the glare of the Spartan king. ‘For years Mycenae has been spreading its trade routes like a web across the Aegean; and where merchants lead the way warriors eventually follow.’

‘Why tell us this, Calchas?’ Odysseus asked, releasing his grip on the man’s robes and helping him to stand as upright as his stooped form would allow. ‘You’re a Trojan, after all.’

‘Because Apollo has ordered it,’ Calchas said with a shrug. ‘And now, if you’re satisfied, I’d like a drink.’

Odysseus ordered a skin of wine to be brought for the strange priest, who sat facing the benches and staring at the sailors as he drank. His unflinching gaze made them uneasy, and even with their backs turned they could feel his eyes boring into them.

‘He’s an odd one,’ Odysseus commented later, as he sat with Eperitus in the stern and watched Calchas get progressively drunker.

‘But useful.’

Odysseus gave a sidelong glance at Menelaus, who lay snoring against the side of the ship.

‘What else did he say to you in the throne room, Eperitus?’

Eperitus felt a sudden sensation of guilt overwhelming him, as if Odysseus knew every detail of the conversation with Calchas and was aware that the captain of his guard had betrayed him. But Eperitus also knew from long experience that Odysseus often tried to give the impression of knowing more than he did – a trick by which he would draw his victims out and make them reveal all sorts of secrets to him. It was impossible that the king could know Calchas had asked Eperitus to foil his plans for the peaceful return of Helen, and that he had caused Palamedes to spill the drugged wine. Odysseus was clever, of course, and knew there must be a reason why the priest had spoken to Eperitus first, but Eperitus guessed he was simply casting a line and seeing whether he could get a bite.

‘He said there are two secrets about me that I don’t yet know. He didn’t tell me what they are – and I don’t think he fully knows – but he said one will make me want to avoid war, while the other would compel me to return to Troy.’

‘Hmm,’ Odysseus mused. ‘I can’t imagine anything that would make you want to miss out on a chance of glory, but if such a thing exists then at least we’ll both be working to the same goal – a quick and peaceful resolution to this mess.’

‘Then you still think war can be stopped, even after what has just happened?’

Odysseus leaned back against the rail and looked towards the western horizon. The sun had already slipped behind the outline of Lemnos and a pale moon was rising in the purple sky.

‘I’m only mortal, Eperitus. I don’t know what the Fates have in store for us, and as long as I remain ignorant of that then yes, I do believe this war can be averted. Things look dark right now, but opportunities will always present themselves. We just have to be ready for them.’

‘I don’t know where you get your optimism from,’ Eperitus rejoined, shaking his head. ‘What about the fleet in the harbour and the army on the plain? Calchas says that Hector will attack Greece sooner or later, and that eventually his armies will reach Ithaca too.’

Odysseus laughed heartily, as if he were sharing a joke with friends in the great hall back on Ithaca, not on a ship on the far side of the world. ‘I’d say Hector is the optimist if he expects to conquer Greece. If the different states can unite for the sake of a woman, however beautiful, then we can join together to repel a common enemy. But aren’t you forgetting the biggest problem of all?’

Eperitus raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

‘The oracle said I’d be twenty years away from home if I ever went to Troy,’ Odysseus continued with a wry smile. ‘Well, I’ve been to Troy now, so I’m doomed anyway. Unless,’ he added, raising a cautionary finger, ‘I can cheat destiny, like I had the chance to do ten years ago.’

‘Then we’ll both have to wait and see what happens,’ Eperitus concluded, looking at Odysseus’s smiling face and getting the distinct feeling there was something hollow about his bravado – as if, deep down, he knew he would not see his home for a very long time.

The remainder of the voyage to Greece was slow and tedious. As they retraced their route southward past Tenedos, Lesbos and Chios to Icaria, before turning west to find a passage through the Cyclades, they were beset by unseasonably rough weather. On three occasions they were unable to leave the different ports and coves where they had taken shelter the night before, not daring to risk the raging seas and blustering winds. Then, in the second week out of Troy, they made sacrifices to Poseidon and the storms eased away. Soon, a westerly wind was speeding them towards Euboea and the gathering of the Greek kings. On one occasion they were approached by pirates – who quickly turned and fled at the sight of a deck crammed with armed men – but the rest of the passage was smooth and unhindered.

Finally, three weeks after leaving Troy, they reached the island of Euboea and spent the night in the bay below Mount Ocha, where Zeus and Hera were said to have fallen in love. In the pre-dawn light of the next morning their oars were already gliding through the calm waters as the sailors took their craft out into the wide triangle of sea between Euboea and the western mainland. Before long they had picked up a mild breeze and Odysseus, leaning his weight on the twin rudders, steered them to the northern apex of the triangle, where the two opposing landmasses closed to a narrow point. By mid-morning, with the sun’s heat bearing down on them from the naked blue sky, they passed between the small islets that guarded the mouth of the straits and saw a handful of masts in the distance ahead of them, clustered near to the shore where the hills of the mainland sloped into the sea.

The sight of these ships caused an excited rush to the prow, upsetting the ship’s balance and forcing Odysseus to order his crew back to their places. For days, the conversation on the benches had been filled with speculation about which kings would answer the call to arms, and what force of men and ships they would bring with them. Now, with the first glimpse of Agamemnon’s assembly, the galley was suddenly a cacophony of competing voices. Even Odysseus could barely disguise his excitement.

‘How many can you see, Eperitus?’ he asked, squinting at the ships that were framed between the lines of the halyards and the billowing sail above.

‘Six?’

‘There’s a dozen at least,’ said Eurybates, whose sailor’s eyes were not as sharp as Eperitus’s but were more accustomed to counting ships at a distance.

‘There must be more than that!’ Menelaus exclaimed. ‘There have to be!’

‘There are,’ said Calchas, his bald pate gleaming in the sunlight as he remained sitting on the planks of the main deck. ‘Hundreds upon hundreds of them. I saw them in my dream last night.’

‘Pah!’ Menelaus sniffed. ‘You were drunk, as usual.’

But Menelaus’s distrust of Calchas – which had grown greater each time the Trojan drank himself senseless – proved to be unfounded. As they followed the curve of the coast around to the west they passed fleet after fleet, each one belonging to a different king. Some numbered just a handful, while others had as many as two or three dozen vessels; and opposite each mooring were large numbers of tents, where hundreds of soldiers stood watching the lone galley slip by. But even these were just the vanguard. Eventually, the straits closed to form a large bay where the mountainous flanks of Boetia and Euboea almost touched, their independence maintained by a narrow strip of water leading north. Here, finally, they saw the massed might of Greece.

This time even the combined voices of Odysseus and Eperitus could not drag the men back to their seats, as each warrior moved to the prow to gaze in stunned awe at the great armada before them. The whole bay was filled with warships, their black hulls anchored so closely together that a man could almost walk from one shoreline to the other.

‘Zeus’s beard,’ Menelaus whispered, his eyes filling with tears.

‘There must be hundreds of them,’ exclaimed Eurybates.

‘It’s just as I saw in my dream,’ Calchas added, standing with the others and surveying the forest of masts.

‘Look at the hillsides,’ Eperitus said. ‘All those tents. There must be thousands of soldiers up there.’

‘Tens of thousands,’ Odysseus corrected. ‘And look! There’re the dolphin sails of Ithaca. Bring in the sail!’

A great cheer greeted them as Odysseus steered the ship into a gap between the other eleven galleys of the Ithacan fleet. Men flooded out from the camp on the hillside, rushing down to the sandy beach where the beak of the ship slid to a halt. Suddenly men were leaping down from the sides of the galley and dashing through the knee-deep water to greet their comrades.

As Odysseus and Eperitus waded through the surf to the shore – their countrymen cheering them and slapping their shoulders as they passed – they saw Eurylochus waiting beneath the shade of a sycamore tree. He was pink with the heat of the late-spring day, and his fat jowls and forehead glistened with a film of sweat.

‘Thank the gods you’ve returned,’ he said, embracing his cousin and ignoring Eperitus. ‘It’s been five weeks since you left for Troy – we were beginning to fear the worst.’

‘It’s simply a long way,’ Odysseus answered, sitting down against the broad trunk of the tree and accepting a krater of wine from a soldier. ‘Has much happened in our absence?’

Eurylochus pointed to the ships in the bay. ‘Only the gathering of the greatest fleet of ships in history! We were almost the first – only King Nestor of Pylos was here before us – and there’s hardly been a day since that some contingent or other hasn’t swelled our numbers. And you should see the men who’ve come! More warriors than I’ve ever seen before, and all the great oath-takers are among them. Great Ajax is here, with Little Ajax and Teucer, of course. Diomedes arrived last week, bringing Sthenelaus and Euryalus the Argonaut with him. Idomeneus alone brought eighty ships from Crete! Then there’s Menestheus, Tlepolemos . . .’

‘What about Achilles?’ asked Palamedes, striding confidently up the beach with Menelaus. He had been a subdued presence during the voyage from Troy – even though Odysseus had made no mention of the events in Priam’s throne room, realizing that the Nauplian had been acting under Agamemnon’s orders – but seemed to be rapidly regaining his old arrogance and self-importance now that he was back on land.

‘Not yet,’ Eurylochus replied, giving Palamedes an equally haughty stare. ‘And nobody knows where he is. Some say he is in hiding, but others say he didn’t take the oath so isn’t under any obligation.’

‘They’re wrong on that point,’ said Menelaus. ‘His cousin Patroclus took the oath on his behalf.’

‘And if the rumours about him are true, he’d come whether he was bound to or not,’ Eperitus added. ‘One thing’s for certain: he won’t be hiding.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ Odysseus said, shutting his eyes and resting his head against the gnarled bark. ‘Is my tent ready, Eurylochus? And how about something to eat for Menelaus, Eperitus and myself – not forgetting Palamedes, of course?’

‘We’ve just sacrificed a goat. It’ll be cooked by the time you’ve washed the brine from your limbs and changed your clothes.’

‘We’ll refrain,’ Menelaus said, though the smell of meat roasting over a nearby fire brought the saliva flooding into his mouth. ‘I have to find my brother and let him know we’re back. Where’s his camp, Eurylochus?’

‘On the highest point overlooking the bay – you can see his banner on the hillside, up there.’

‘And don’t be long yourself, Odysseus,’ Menelaus called over his shoulder, as he and Palamedes headed towards a path that led up the wooded hillside beyond the beach. ‘He’ll want to speak to you, too, no doubt.’

Odysseus simply shut his eyes and thought of a plate of freshly roasted goats’ meat.

News of the return from Troy spread rapidly and soon the Ithacan camp was besieged by soldiers from every state in Greece, seeking information about the Trojans and their fabled city. As the different Greek armies had spent the previous weeks practising their drills and tactics alongside or against each other, many of the men were greeted as friends and encouraged to share the Ithacans’ food and wine. And thus the rumours grew of the unassailable walls of Troy, with its beetling towers and vast armies, and of the great riches that lay within for any who could raze it to the ground.

Before long, Agamemnon’s squire, Talthybius, arrived at the camp with a summons for Odysseus and Eperitus. They were to leave their weapons behind and come to a council of the Greek kings, where the news from Troy was to be discussed and decisions made on what action to take. Odysseus asked Calchas, who had remained with the Ithacans, to come with them.

The path up the hillside was a steep one, but by now it was late afternoon and the heat of the day could no longer be felt under the dense canopy of trees, where the air was cool and fresh with the smell of pine. This made for a pleasant walk, though Eperitus quickly found Calchas’s company irksome: he often fell behind, and when they waited for him to catch up he would mutter endlessly under his breath. Before long they could smell the smoke from numerous cooking fires, drifting down the hill from the main camp above, and almost taste the roast pork on their tongues. A hubbub of conversation followed it, growing steadily louder until the woodland gloom gave way to patches of slanted light and, suddenly, they were free of the trees and standing atop a high, rocky plateau with a marvellous view of the vast fleet below them to their right. Even Talthybius, who had seen the sight many times by now, had to stop and admire the black silhouettes of the ships floating like coals on a sea of fire. In the west the sky was a brilliant, unblemished sheet of copper, glowing fiercely in the light of the bloated, dying sun. Beneath it, stretching over the boulder-strewn hilltop, were hundreds upon hundreds of white tents, reminding Eperitus of the flocks of seabirds that would gather on the craggy cliff faces of Ithaca. They snapped and fluttered in the wind, as did the flags and pennants of the many different kings that streamed out above them.

‘This way, my lords,’ said Talthybius, leading them down an avenue that drove through the middle of the canvas city.

There were soldiers everywhere. Some wore armour, though most did not, and all carried weapons of some kind – spears over their shoulders or swords hanging from baldrics or tucked into their belts. The majority were cooking or eating, though some were busily burnishing their bronze armour to a high sheen, or drawing whetstones up and down blades to sharpen them to a deadly edge. Occasionally, the laughter or cry of a woman indicated that prostitutes were plying their trade amongst the army.

Talthybius, however, did not take them deeper into the camp as they had expected, but suddenly led them down another wide avenue that went back towards the straits. As they were passing a crescent of large tents, Eteoneus, the squire of Menelaus, emerged, followed by three others.

‘Odysseus?’ said one of the men. ‘Odysseus, is that you?’

Odysseus turned to see a tall man of thirty years or so, athletically built and dressed in a grey tunic and dark green cloak. His long, auburn hair was pulled back over his scalp and tied at the nape of his neck, revealing a handsome and intelligent face. Despite the fact that he wore no armour and did not carry any weapons, the brown scar across his clean-shaven cheek marked him as an experienced warrior.

‘Diomedes!’ Odysseus exclaimed, breaking into a broad smile. He seized the man’s hand and pulled him into a fierce embrace, which they held for a long time as they thumped each other’s backs and exchanged friendly greetings.

‘I hear you and Menelaus have been in Troy, talking peace and other such nonsense,’ said the king of the Argives. ‘Tell me you failed!’

‘You’ll hear my report when I give it to the council – you’re heading there, too, I assume. Have you been in this place long? What’s the hunting like?’

‘Good – plenty of woodland beyond the camp, full of deer. But stop trying to change the subject. Tell me about Troy – what’s it like? Will we take it at the first assault, or is Priam going to put up a fight?’

‘Forget Priam. It’s his son, Hector, we need to worry about. Anyway, you’ll have to wait until . . .’

‘And what about Helen?’ Diomedes continued, his voice assuming a more serious tone. ‘Did you see her?’

Diomedes had lost his heart to Helen when he first set eyes on her ten years before, and despite taking a wife since then it was clear he still loved her.

‘No, Diomedes, I didn’t see her. Now, will you stop heaping questions on me and introduce your companions?’

Diomedes gave an apologetic nod and stepped between the two men, placing a hand on each of their shoulders.

‘This is my friend, Sthenelaus, son of Capaneus,’ he began, indicating the man to his right. ‘We sacked the city of Thebes together in vengeance for our fathers, and now I’ve asked him to rule the Argive army in my place, if I should fall.’

Sthenelaus’s hair was a mass of black curls and his thick beard covered half of his hardened, bitter-looking face. He gave a curt nod in response to Odysseus’s smile.

‘And this is Euryalus the Argonaut, son of Mecisteus. He was also with us when we conquered Thebes.’

Euryalus was a small man, several years older than his companions, with long, white hair and a closely cropped beard. His red face broke into a pleasant smile as he shook Odysseus’s hand.

‘You remember Eperitus, captain of my royal guard,’ Odysseus said, turning back to Diomedes.

‘Glad you’re with us, Eperitus,’ Diomedes said, taking his hand. ‘And your other companion?’

‘I’m afraid that introduction will have to wait until the council,’ Odysseus said. ‘And we shouldn’t keep our royal comrades waiting any longer. Talthybius?’

The Mycenaean herald, who had been talking patiently to Eteoneus, gave a small bow before turning and leading the way through the field of flapping canvas. Diomedes walked beside Odysseus and threw a muscle-bound arm about his shoulders.

‘So, I hear you’re a king now. You look like it, too: majestic appearance, powerful bearing, grey hair . . .’

‘Thanks. I wish I could say the same for you, but you look as young and handsome as you did ten years ago.’

‘Listen, have you spoken to Agamemnon yet?’ Diomedes asked, lowering his voice confidentially.

‘I spoke to him the night before we left for Troy,’ Odysseus replied, surprised by the sudden change of direction. ‘But not since we arrived at Aulis. Is something wrong?’

‘I’m not sure. I’ve been his friend for a long time and I know him well, but since all this business started with Helen and Troy . . . well, he seems different.’

‘Concerned, perhaps?’ Odysseus suggested. ‘Or pressured? It’s understandable.’

‘Perhaps. But you’ll be able to judge for yourself soon.’

And with that he would say no more.

Chapter Sixteen

THE COUNCIL OF KINGS

They heard the clamour of voices long before they reached the edge of the camp. After they passed the last tent, Talthybius and Eteoneus led them through a belt of sycamore trees to a pair of tall, grim-looking standing stones, placed there by an ancient people long since forgotten. These formed the gateway to a large, natural amphitheatre that opened out to the east, giving a view over the crowded bay far below. They walked out into the midst of at least a hundred kings and other nobility, who were crammed on benches around the rocky slopes of the arena, talking noisily.

Odysseus, Diomedes and Eperitus recognized many of them from the courtship of Helen in Sparta. Most prominent was Great Ajax, the king of Salamis, whose vast bulk took up most of the bench he was sitting on. On his left – the antithesis of the giant warrior – was his half-brother, Teucer the archer, who sat twitching and blinking like an owl and constantly wiping his large nose on the back of his hand. To Ajax’s right was his namesake, Little Ajax, so called for his short stature and to distinguish him from his titanic friend. To Eperitus’s disdain, he saw that the man’s pet snake – a hideous brown serpent with a long, pink tongue that constantly darted from its scaly mouth – was coiled about his shoulders. Its master fixed Odysseus with a sneering look and spat into the dirt.

Odysseus, who had not forgotten their contest for the hand of Penelope, chose to ignore the Locrian king and looked about at the other familiar faces on the benches. Menestheus, king of Athens, was seated beside Idomeneus of Crete; both were handsome and richly dressed, with noble looks that befitted the great power each man wielded. King Elphenor was there, who ruled over the island of Euboea on the opposite side of the straits, as were Agapenor, king of Arcadia, Tlepolemos, king of Rhodes, Iolaus, king of Phylake, and many other renowned names. Among the lesser men were Palamedes, seated on the bench nearest Agamemnon, and Philoctetes of Malia, son of Poeas. The last time Odysseus and Eperitus had seen the latter, he was a young shepherd boy who had been awarded the magical bow and arrows of Heracles for agreeing to light the great hero’s funeral pyre; now he was a tall, lean young man with a chaotic mop of light brown hair and a wispy beard on his chin. But he was not the only one who had changed in the past decade. Some of the former suitors to Helen had aged visibly; others seemed to have grown in stature; still more had grown in other ways, allowing their bellies to expand through overindulgence and too little fighting.

At the far end of the basin were the Atreides brothers, Agamemnon and Menelaus, seated on high-backed wooden chairs. Unlike the rest of the council, they watched the newcomers in stony silence. Agamemnon, to Eperitus’s surprise, looked as if he had not slept for days: there were dark circles under his eyes, which were bloodshot and heavy-lidded, and his usually meticulous hair was unkempt. More shocking was the way his rich clothes seemed to hang about him. Agamemnon had always boasted a well-fed, athletic physique, similar to the other warriors gathered about the arena, but in the time they had been away on the mission to Troy the Mycenaean king had become drawn and thin.

Standing at Agamemnon’s shoulder was an old man wearing a purple cloak and a golden belt that glittered in the warm evening light. King Nestor of Pylos wore his grey hair short and kept his beard neatly trimmed; though not a tall man, he boasted a powerful physique and the hard-bitten aspect of a seasoned warrior. His nose had been broken in some battle or boxing match of the past, and the top of one of his large, disc-like ears had been sliced off many years before by an opponent’s sword. Like the Atreides brothers, he had his eyes fixed on the newcomers as they stood in the centre of the arena.

Though not one member of the council had been allowed to bring their weapons – a wise precaution in view of the arguments that often occurred between nobility – a dozen heavily armed soldiers stood behind the Atreides brothers, with one more by each of the standing stones, guarding the entrance to the meeting. They were clearly an elite, probably from Agamemnon’s personal guard, who were dressed in ceremonial armour of an antiquated style unfamiliar to Odysseus and Eperitus. Their highly polished bronze breastplates were supplemented by further bands around the stomach and waist, as well as shoulder-pieces and neckguards that rose above the chin. On their heads they wore domed leather helmets with cheekpieces tied beneath the chin. Horsehair plumes sprouted from the top and fell across the back of the neck, while rows of boars’ tusks covered the helmet to give both ornamentation and protection. They wore inlaid greaves over their shins and carried tall, ox-hide shields with an outer layer of polished bronze that gleamed fiercely in the light of the setting sun. Their spears, swords, axes and daggers stood as a reminder to the gathered kings that, though this was a council of equals, Agamemnon still held the greatest wealth and power.

Agamemnon nodded to Talthybius, who beat his stave three times on the ground.

‘My lords,’ the herald announced in a strong, clear voice that commanded silence from everyone gathered, ‘I present King Odysseus of Ithaca, son of Laertes, and King Diomedes of Argos, son of Tydeus.’

‘Please take your seats,’ said Agamemnon, pointing to an empty bench by one of the standing stones. ‘Talthybius – the wine, please.’

The herald nodded to a steward, who clapped his hands twice. Immediately a swarm of slaves appeared from the line of trees that topped the lip of the amphitheatre, bringing kraters of diluted wine to the members of the council. As soon as each man had been served, Agamemnon stood and raised his cup in both hands, tipping a small amount into the dirt at his feet.

‘Most glorious and mighty Zeus, Lord of High Heaven, father of the gods, grant us clear minds as we debate the future of Troy, and if this mighty fleet is to sail with vengeance to the shores of Ilium, give us the wisdom to choose a single leader, one who will unite the Greeks against our common enemy and lead them to certain and uncompromising victory. Now is the time for men to act, for better or worse, and I call upon you to witness the oaths that we take today and see that they are kept.’

Agamemnon drained the rest of the wine and handed the krater to his steward. The other members of the council stood as one and poured their own libations, offering silent prayers to whichever of the gods they honoured most. Eperitus, like Odysseus and Diomedes next to him, prayed to Athena, and after his few words asking the goddess to ensure there would be war against Troy sat back down.

He adjusted the thick cushion that had been handed to him by a slave and turned to look at Agamemnon. The king sat back in his chair and rested his chin on a fist, his golden breastplate reflecting the purple skies above and his red cloak turning scarlet in the dimming twilight. His tired blue eyes surveyed the faces of the men crowded on the rows of benches, dispassionately assessing whether they were for the war or against it. Agamemnon’s cold demeanour had not thawed in the ten years since Eperitus had first met him, and the shadow of exhaustion resting on him did not seem to have reduced his ability to disguise his feelings beneath a remote exterior.

‘Brother,’ Agamemnon said, turning to Menelaus. His voice was soft but clear, and the few conversations that continued quickly died away at the sound of it, leaving the amphitheatre hushed and expectant. ‘Brother, for the sake of those who don’t yet know, take the floor and recount for us what happened in Troy.’

‘With pleasure,’ Menelaus growled, walking out to the middle of the arena and facing the gathered Greeks with his fists firmly on his hips. ‘Palamedes, Odysseus and I have just returned from Troy. Against my better judgement, I allowed Odysseus to persuade me into seeking the return of my wife and son through diplomacy, even though I’ve been itching to wash my spear in Trojan blood ever since Paris stole my family from me.’ The Spartan king held his shaking fists out before him and received a murmur of approval from the benches. ‘But despite our peaceful intentions, they treated us like a pack of curs. Priam – this fornicating old lecher the Trojans call their king – made us wait a whole day before he’d see us. Us – kings and princes of Greece! We slept the night outside the walls of the citadel, in the home of a Trojan elder, and when Priam finally allowed us into his presence, he didn’t even ask our names or our business in Troy. I had to tell him the purpose of our mission myself, and then they nearly killed us!’

‘Foreign dogs!’ Ajax boomed, giving rise to a chorus of angry shouts from the other kings and nobles.

‘If I’d known how these Trojans treated their guests,’ Menelaus continued, raising his voice above the others, ‘I wouldn’t have listened to all this talk of diplomatic solutions. As far as I can see, the only diplomacy the Trojans understand is at the end of a bronze-tipped spear!’

There was a great roar of approval from the audience, a sound that brought a smile to Eperitus’s lips and made the blood pound through his veins. Powerful voices were shouting for the fleet to sail immediately and for Troy to be crushed, though as the Ithacan captain looked around at the many faces he saw some that were silent and thoughtful. Then Odysseus rose from the bench beside him and walked out to stand beside Menelaus, who, after revelling in the tumult for a few moments longer, eventually returned to his seat.

Odysseus waited patiently for the last cheer to die away, then held his hands up.

‘Well, friends,’ he began, ‘I think we can put any ideas of a peaceful solution behind us. I may have been the one who suggested a tactful approach, but let me say this – there are none among you keener for war than I am now!’

Eperitus looked at his king with surprise, wondering at his sudden and suspicious change of mind. All around him the benches erupted once more with belligerent glee, as great-voiced kings vied to outdo each other in their anti-Trojan fervour. Again Odysseus waited for silence to return before holding out the palms of his hands.

‘And why should a man of peace suddenly want war? Well, a peace mission can have more than a single purpose. Menelaus – our great friend who beat us all to the hand of Helen – may think I was wasting my time with all this talk of diplomacy, but can he deny that we now know the strength of Troy’s army? Or the number of her warships waiting in the great bay before the city walls? Or the size of that bay and its openness to attack? What about the breadth of the surrounding plain, and its capacity to support an invading army? Not to mention the ability of the walls, towers and gates of Troy to withstand a siege? Who of you would know the strengths and weaknesses of that city, and how best to attack it if we hadn’t been there already and sized the place up for you?’

Odysseus paused as the men before him murmured among themselves, some nodding in quiet approval of the Ithacan’s great foresight. Eperitus, of course, knew differently, and could only admire his king’s ability to turn a situation to his advantage.

‘And let me make it clear to you, Troy will not fall in a day, or a week, or maybe even a year. The city’s walls are strong, tall and in good repair – they won’t fall to anything less than the most determined of attacks. Those of you who think we’ll storm in like Heracles with his six ships are going to be disappointed. And the armies of Priam and his allies haven’t allowed their swords to rust or their bellies to expand as we have. While we Greeks have been enjoying the fruits of peace, the Trojans have been mustering their forces to attack us!’

Odysseus paused for a third time, waiting for the shock of his news to die away before continuing.

‘But let no man think these Trojans will prove easy opponents. They’ll be ready for us, and what’s more, they’ll be defending their homeland. If we attack too soon, without proper preparations, then we’ll pay the price. My advice is that we should treat them with respect and caution, and build up our forces slowly and professionally over a year or two . . .’

‘To Hades with caution!’ thundered Ajax, making Teucer jump beside him. ‘I say we launch at dawn and take bloody revenge to their walls! Look at the army we’ve gathered! Look at the fleet at anchor down there! What reason do we have to be cautious? Let’s slay the men and take their women and gold for ourselves. Nothing else matters!’

The ranks of warriors, who had fallen silent at the thought of long preparations, now gave a huge shout of enthusiasm, but before Odysseus could respond a man stood on one of the higher rows and wagged his finger accusingly at the gigantic warrior.

‘I’d heard you were a buffoon, Ajax, and now I know it’s true.’

Suddenly the arena fell silent and every face turned to look at the speaker. Last of all, Ajax turned his head and looked up with disbelieving eyes. But instead of finding himself opposed by a powerful king, he was greeted instead by the deformed features of a hunchback. One eye was lost in a tight squint, but the other bulged out in a ferocious stare that roamed from face to face.

‘In fact,’ the hunchback croaked, ‘judging by all the oafish cheering, I’d be surprised if there are enough brains in this arena to fill a helmet.’

‘Shut up!’ called a voice.

‘Sit down, Thersites!’ cried another.

But the hunchback was not to be deterred. ‘All this talk of war! If Agamemnon and Menelaus want to fight the Trojans, then let them! And they can take that great yob Ajax with them.’

Ajax stood, his face flushed and his bunched fists shaking with anger, but Agamemnon signalled for him to resume his seat.

‘What need do the rest of us have for war?’ Thersites continued, scratching the tufts of hair on his cone-shaped head as if confused. ‘What do we care for Troy? Don’t we have our own homes and families to protect?’ At this there was a rumble of agreement from some of the benches. ‘And what will our reward be if we go? Have you asked yourselves how the plunder will be shared? Then let me tell you – the richest pickings to the Atreides brothers, and the scraps for the rest of us!’

‘Silence, you deformed fool!’ Agamemnon shouted, jumping to his feet, his cool facade suddenly and shockingly broken. ‘This is a council of kings, not of commoners, and if you can’t hold your tongue in front of your superiors then I’ll have it cut out and fed to my dogs. Do you understand?’

Thersites’s whole body quaked before Agamemnon’s unexpected rage, and his vulture-like eye twitched in fear as he shrank back down among his Aetolian countrymen.

Agamemnon now waved Odysseus back to his chair and walked out into the middle of the arena. He had regained much of his usual composure, but Eperitus felt there was still a darkness about his face that hinted at his ruffled emotions.

‘Fellow Greeks!’ he said, his voice calm once more. ‘Have we not already heard from my brother how he was thrown out of Troy like a beggar, and from Odysseus of how the Trojans have been preparing to bring war to our shores – news even to my ears? Are we not here today because a Greek queen has been abducted from her bed by a Trojan prince? These things alone are enough to demand war, and yet there remain voices of dissent. I don’t talk of the protests of one ignorant man, but of the nods and the mumbled agreements that accompanied them. Why, then, should you leave your homes to fight a distant foe, beyond the reasons I have already stated? Let me tell you.

‘First, no Greek state has made war on another since the Epigoni laid waste to Thebes ten years ago. As a result, our industries thrive, our merchants sell Greek goods all over the known world, our people are well fed and peace reigns. But such peace brings its own problems, as I said it would when I first proposed a raid against Troy a decade ago. We pay our armies to do nothing, and they in turn are restless. They want war – what warrior doesn’t thirst for the very thing that defines him? And they want plunder, the true wages of a fighting man. So should we return to the old days of fighting each other – brother against brother, father against son?’

‘No!’ a chorus of voices shouted.

‘No, of course we shouldn’t. And then there’s the problem of resources. Every king here knows the pressures of running a state – the constant calls for more copper to make our bronze, more timber to build our homes and our ships, more wool for textiles, more this, that and everything else. But above all?’

‘More slaves!’ Diomedes called out, firmly.

‘After all,’ Agamemnon continued, ‘who spins the yarn, or turns the clay, or mines the silver, or tills the field, or mills the grain, or nurses the babies? Slaves, of course, the beating heart of our agriculture, our industry, even our domestic life. Slaves are the one true product of war. We can buy slaves from Asia, but the constant demand and the high cost are crippling. A war would solve that problem, for a few years at least. Mycenaean merchants tell me that Troy is a rich city – filled with gold, bronze, copper, wool, horses, livestock, timber, spices and, above all, people. If you make war with me against Troy, you and your armies can all have your fill of the plunder. And whatever that fool Thersites might say, I won’t deprive an army of their rights.’

A great cheer rose up from the benches and many stood and applauded the king of Mycenae, or shook their fists triumphantly above their heads as if the hulls of their ships had already been filled with the loot of a ransacked Troy.

‘But I said all this before – ten years ago in Sparta – and no one would listen. The riches of Troy were on offer to us then, but only a handful of you were prepared to leave the safety of your palaces for the promise of glory on foreign soil. Even you, Ajax, though your mighty voice calls for war now – even you said it was impossible to unite the Greeks and raid Ilium. So I come to my final reason why you should leave your families, your homes and your kingdoms to fight a bitter war in a distant place. Stand up, Menelaus.’

The Spartan king, who had been watching the faces of the council as they reacted to the rhetoric of Agamemnon, looked up in surprise. Slowly, he rose to his feet.

‘My brother’s wife has been taken from him,’ Agamemnon continued, walking to where Menelaus stood. ‘He trusted a foreign prince with the most beautiful woman in Greece – you’ve all seen her – while he went off to Crete. The kingdom of Sparta was only his because he married the daughter of its former king. Now that she’s been taken from under his very nose, he has allowed his own authority to be brought into question.’

As the last word left his lips, Agamemnon struck his brother across the face with the back of his hand. Menelaus reeled backwards, as much with shock as with the force of the blow, and stared at Agamemnon with surprise and a burning rage. His nostrils flared and his lips curled back from his teeth, but he said nothing. The crowded kings and nobles, staring down from the tiered benches, fell silent.

‘Fortunately for him,’ Agamemnon continued, turning to face the council, ‘a sacred oath was taken to protect Helen and her husband from any who would try to come between them. You took that oath! That’s why you’ve come here to Aulis, because not one of you would dare to offend the gods before whom you gave your word. So, as I very much doubt the honour of Greece, the threat of Troy and the prospect of plunder are enough to ensure your support for war, I call upon you to honour the oath you swore. Stand, damn it, and put your hands on your hearts if you mean to sail with us. Or if you haven’t the guts to fight but would rather face the persecution of the gods, then leave now – through those ancient stones that mark the sacred nature of this place – so that we can all look upon your shame as you go!’

The first to stand were Diomedes and Eperitus, followed more slowly by Odysseus. Ajax and his companions were next, and after them the entire assembly. Not one man – not even Thersites – left the spot where they were standing, and only Calchas, the Trojan renegade, remained seated, covering his face with his hood and looking down at his sandalled feet.

Suddenly, Ajax stepped forward and punched the air.

‘Death to Troy!’ he bellowed, and his voice carried out across the harbour so that the few sailors craned their necks towards the hilltops.

‘Death to Troy!’ echoed the combined voices of the council.

They were not exuberant, as if a great victory had been won and they stood over the piled corpses of their foes. Instead, they were hard and determined. As the ringing echoes of their war cry died away over the straits and between the stony hillsides, Nestor stepped forward and indicated for the grim-faced kings, including Agamemnon, to sit.

‘We are equals,’ he began, his voice strong and smooth despite his great age. ‘We are kings of Greece, not slaves like the vassals of Asia who stoop down before Priam. We go to war against Troy as free men, honouring our sacred duty. And yet all armies must have leaders.’

‘That’s clever,’ Odysseus whispered to Eperitus. ‘I could learn something from this old dog.’

‘An army without a leader is a disorganized rabble. A strong gust of wind could blow it away. But an army that chooses its own leader is greater than any. The different elements retain their freedom and individuality, without subjugating themselves to a tyrant. We must choose a leader, if we’re to attack Troy as a coherent force.’

‘You’re the best tactician amongst us, Nestor,’ called a voice from the benches. ‘You lead us.’

‘Aye, you lead us!’ echoed other voices.

‘Not me,’ the king of Pylos replied, shaking his head and smiling. ‘I’m too old.’

‘Agamemnon should lead us.’

Every eye turned to Odysseus.

‘Who has brought the greatest force of men and ships?’ he said, standing and turning once more to face the assembly. ‘Who first proposed war against Troy, when we were too busy worrying about our own palaces? Not one of us had the foresight to see that one day Troy would threaten us. Only Agamemnon did. I say he should lead us.’

Agamemnon watched from his high-backed chair and said nothing, but his expressionless eyes were fixed intently upon the king of Ithaca.

‘I agree,’ said Diomedes, rising to his feet. ‘Agamemnon to lead!’

‘Me, too,’ Menelaus said, his face still red where his brother had struck him.

‘And me,’ smiled Nestor. ‘Agamemnon should lead. Does anyone oppose?’

Thersites stood and raised another accusing finger, but was pulled back down before he could speak. One by one the other kings and leaders of the Greek armies nodded their consent, some with more enthusiasm than others.

‘So be it,’ Nestor announced, snapping his fingers at a slave who stood behind the chairs of the Atreides brothers. The slave ran over and handed the old man a tall item wrapped in purple cloth. ‘Agamemnon, you are elected king over the Greek army, for the duration of the war against Troy. Free men chose you, and their choice will be bound upon them by an oath. But first, stand and receive the symbol of your power.’

With a flourish, Nestor tore the cloth away to reveal a golden staff, beset with jewels that gleamed in the twilight and topped by a silver bird in flight. It was as tall as the old king and was a work of great skill, greater than anything most of the council had ever set their eyes upon, whether commoner, noble or king.

‘You know this sceptre well, Agamemnon,’ Nestor announced. ‘It was made by Hephaistos for Zeus, the king of the gods. He gave it to Hermes, who then gave it to your grandfather, Pelops. Pelops passed it down to your father, Atreus, and you would have seen it many times in his hand. As he was dying he entrusted it to your uncle, Thysetes. It was your father’s wish that this rod of empire be given to you when you had reached the heights of greatness you were destined for. Come, receive that which is yours.’

Agamemnon stood and crossed the arena to where Nestor was waiting. He stretched out his hand to take the sceptre, but Nestor withheld it from his grasping fingers.

‘This sceptre represents immense power, Agamemnon. You must use it with wisdom and humility; crush your enemies, but listen to counsel when it is given and never forget to honour the gods.’

He offered the golden staff to the Mycenaean king, now king of all the Greeks, who snatched it from his hand and stared at it with adoration and amazement. He turned it around and around, loving the way its jewels sparkled like the stars on a winter night, enjoying the feel of the cold metal in his palm and revelling in the sense of power that it gave him.

Nestor signalled to the waiting slaves, who rushed to refill the kraters of the kings.

‘Stand now and swear your loyalty to Agamemnon, whom the gods have guided you to choose as your leader,’ Nestor commanded, raising his own cup and pouring a libation. ‘Oh, Father Zeus, and all you Olympians, bear witness to this oath that we freely give, to submit to the leadership of Agamemnon until the lovely Helen is restored to her husband and her kidnap avenged in Trojan blood. If any here disobey the commands of the properly elected king of the Greeks, then punish their iniquity and bring dishonour on their name so that they will bear the shame for eternity.’

‘And let no man here return to his homeland until our mission is complete,’ Agamemnon added. ‘And as a symbol of his commitment, let each man vow not to cut his hair until Troy lies in ruins and my brother’s wife is back in his arms again. So be it!’

‘So be it!’

Agamemnon drained his cup and was followed by the members of the council, who then retook their seats.

‘So,’ said Little Ajax, looking crossly from Agamemnon to the rows of faces on either side of him. ‘When do we sail? When am I going to get a chance to kill some Trojans? That’s all I want to know.’

‘That isn’t a decision to be taken here and now,’ Agamemnon replied. ‘We need to consider the information Menelaus and Odysseus have brought back with them before settling on a course of action.’

‘We can’t tarry here much longer,’ said Menestheus, the Athenian king. ‘The men are getting restless. There’ve already been several raids on nearby islands, where this fleet or that have thought they’d found Ilium. Unless we’re careful they’ll be attacking each other before long.’

Eperitus suddenly rose to his feet, no longer able to hold back the question that had been nagging at him since he first arrived in the amphitheatre.

‘I may be speaking out of ignorance,’ he began as every eye turned upon him, ‘and I hope you’ll forgive me, my lords, as I only arrived back from Troy today, but how can this expedition think of setting off without Peleus’s son, Achilles? I’d heard the oath was binding on him, too, though Patroclus took it on his behalf, yet no one here has even mentioned his name. Isn’t it true his mother, Thetis, dipped him by his ankle in the River Styx to make him invulnerable? And that he can beat any man in battle, hunting, sport or debate? As I see it, we can’t afford to start for Troy without him.’

‘We have no choice, Eperitus,’ Diomedes responded. ‘There isn’t a man here who wouldn’t want to fight alongside a warrior of Achilles’s reputation, but he hasn’t responded to any of our summonses.’

‘The problem is that no one knows where he is,’ Nestor took up. ‘Thetis had a vision of his death at Troy, so I’ve heard, and has hidden him so he can’t be persuaded to join the expedition. But we can’t wait forever, and unless he turns up soon we will have to trust to our own strengths to defeat the Trojans.’

‘Without Achilles you will never defeat the armies of Troy.’

Calchas, who had remained silent and innocuous throughout the debate, threw back his hood to reveal his bald head and pale, sunken features.

‘Odysseus,’ said Agamemnon, ‘who is this skulking character you’ve smuggled in under the hem of your cloak? He has the appearance of a corpse, though there’s clearly breath in his lungs.’

‘His name is Calchas, son of Thestor, a priest of Apollo. We brought him back with us from Troy.’

The council burst into new life, animated by the news that a Trojan had been with them through the whole of their debate.

‘A prisoner, you mean?’ Agamemnon asked.

‘No, brother,’ said Menelaus. ‘He demanded to come back with us. Says he’s a seer and that he had some information for us from Apollo, who ordered him to help the Greeks.’

‘What rubbish,’ laughed Ajax. ‘He’s a damned spy. Let me wring his scrawny neck and be done with him.’

Agamemnon held up his hand and Ajax sat back down, looking disappointed. ‘Let’s hear what he has to say before we decide what to do with him. What’s this information you have for us, priest?’

‘A dream,’ Calchas replied.

‘Go on.’

‘I was asleep on the temple floor when Apollo woke me with a vision of Greek victory.’

‘That’s a good start,’ Agamemnon said, scrutinizing Calchas with his icy blue eyes. ‘Any more?’

Calchas stood and crossed to the centre of the arena. His stooping gait provoked a ripple of gentle laughter from the benches, but as soon as the priest’s eyes fell on Agamemnon the king’s own smile fell away as he felt his thoughts opened up and probed, as if by a skilled surgeon.

‘Don’t mock me, Agamemnon. You can listen to what I have to say and benefit from it, or you can cast me over the side of the cliff to the deep waters below, but do not dismiss me as a fool because I look like a ghost or walk like a cripple. Apollo showed me the sack of Troy – its fine houses burning, its men struck down in the streets by bloodthirsty Greeks, its women raped in the temples and its children thrown from the walls. He also showed me the end of Priam’s house – Hector brutally slain, Paris shot down, and the old man himself beheaded by a Greek sword in the temple of Zeus. All these things he showed me, and more, and they can come true if you listen to the prophecies of the gods.’

Agamemnon stepped back, his eyes wide as he clutched the golden sceptre in his sweating hands. Then Little Ajax hawked loudly and spat in the dust.

‘He’s a spy, all right. What better way to win favour than by telling us all about his great vision of the destruction of Troy and the death of Priam? Well, let me tell you something, priest – we’ve been dreaming about that for weeks!’

There was a howl of collective laughter from the tiered ranks of the Greeks. Calchas turned on them with anger, but they only laughed the more. It was Eperitus who came to his rescue.

‘Listen to the man!’ he shouted, angrily. ‘In Troy, he told me things about myself that only the gods could have known. I say we should give him a chance.’

‘Test him!’ called a voice.

‘Ask him how many sons I have,’ shouted another.

‘No, ask him what my wife’s favourite sexual position is,’ said Thersites, causing more hilarity on the benches.

‘I have a test for you, Calchas,’ said Nestor, facing the priest and studying him with his pale-grey eyes. ‘You say we can’t defeat the Trojans without Achilles. Then tell us where he is.’

Calchas, his face twitching with anger and nerves, focused his gaze on the old king. The noise on the benches died down as all eyes looked at the Trojan, waiting to see whether he could answer the question that had frustrated all the efforts of the Greek army. For a moment it looked as if he would pull the hood back over his face and lower his head in defeat. Then his whole body gave a fierce spasm that would have thrown him to the floor if Eperitus had not caught his elbow. Suddenly he looked at the Ithacan captain and dug his fingers into the hard flesh of his arms as a white film spread over his eyes.

‘Seven!’ he gasped.

‘Seven what?’ Eperitus asked him, clutching his elbow so that he did not slip to the floor.

‘Seven sons. The man has seven sons,’ Calchas said, pointing into the crowded flanks of the amphitheatre. ‘He believes he has eight, but one is a bastard. The other man – his wife prefers him to come at her from behind, so that she does not have to look at his repulsive face.’

‘Forget about those fools. What about Achilles?’

Calchas blinked and his body went limp, so that Eperitus was forced to take his whole weight in his arms.

‘Achilles is on Scyros, in the court of King Lycomedes.’

Chapter Seventeen

ACHILLES DISCOVERED

Odysseus, Eperitus and Nestor were the only members of the council who believed Calchas. Nevertheless, Agamemnon agreed to let them go to the island of Scyros in search of Achilles, and just before first light the following morning the three men were standing in the stern of Odysseus’s ship waiting for the crew to fit their oars into the freshly oiled leather loops. Then, as the anchor stone was hauled aboard, Eperitus was surprised to see Great Ajax come running out of the tree line behind the Ithacan camp, waving his muscle-bound arms and shouting that he was coming with them to Scyros. He and Achilles were cousins, he explained as they strained to haul his bulk onto the listing galley, and as they had never met he was prepared to test the verity of Calchas’s second sight for the chance of meeting the son of his uncle Peleus.

Once aboard, the king of Salamis was surprised to see three caskets in the prow, overflowing with brightly coloured dresses, necklaces, headdresses, mirrors, sashes, bracelets and a host of other trinkets that would please the vainest of women.

‘What’s all this, Odysseus?’ he rumbled, picking out a sky-blue chiton and holding it across his armoured chest. ‘Hoping to charm Achilles out of hiding?’

Nestor, who had noted the caskets in silence as he had boarded earlier, now followed Ajax to the prow and began casually picking through the various items of bronze and silver, studying each one briefly then replacing it and choosing another.

‘I’m interested, too,’ he said. ‘Is it some sort of gift? And if it is, what would a great warrior want with chests full of feminine baubles – unless you’re intending to offend him?’

The thirty crew members ceased their chattering and turned towards Odysseus. Eperitus was also keen to know why the Ithacan king had sent his men out the night before to barter for clothing and jewellery from the numerous prostitutes in the camp.

‘It is a gift, but not for Achilles,’ Odysseus replied, nonchalantly looking up at the sail with its dolphin motif as it caught the westerly wind. ‘The caskets are for Lycomedes’s daughters, of which he has many.’

‘Renowned for their beauty, or so I’ve heard,’ Nestor commented, stroking his grey beard. ‘But unless you’re hoping to recruit them to the army, I don’t see the point . . .’

‘If Achilles is hiding on Scyros, I’ve a feeling Lycomedes won’t tell us where he is, no matter what gifts we bring him. But maybe his daughters will. They’re sure to know everything that’s going on in the palace, and with a little persuasion,’ he added, picking up a pair of earrings from the pile and dangling them by his ears, ‘they’ll take us straight to him. Now, how about a bit of cold breakfast?’

Scyros lay less than a day’s voyage away on the other side of Euboea, and by sunset they were cruising into a wide bay crammed with fishing vessels and a few larger ships. Eperitus was leaning against the bow and looking up at the high, craggy hill that dominated the harbour. Halfway up was Lycomedes’s palace, shrouded in shadow as the sun sank behind the island. It faced east across the Aegean, and from its lofty seat visitors could be seen long before they pulled into the bay below. Indeed, by the time they had anchored and climbed up to the copper-plated gates of the citadel, the king was waiting to welcome them.

He was a tall man with a pinched nose and close-set eyes, and from the moment he saw the forced smile on his bearded lips Eperitus knew he could not be trusted. After giving his name and his lineage, Lycomedes invited each of the three kings to do the same; and though his eyebrows arched a little – especially as Nestor and Ajax declared themselves – he showed little surprise at receiving such renowned guests. He also politely asked the names of the men who accompanied them – Eperitus first, then Arceisius, Antiphus and Eurybates – before inviting the whole party to a feast in the great hall. First, though, he ordered his squire and an entourage of slaves to show the guests to a wing of the palace where rooms had been prepared for them, and where they could refresh themselves before the feast.

After they had bathed and changed their clothing they were taken to a small, dark chamber – which reminded Eperitus of Laertes’s hall in Ithaca as he had first seen it – where Lycomedes was waiting for them. Several nobles and courtesans were seated on either side of the hearth and a bard sang about the exploits of Heracles from beside the throne, while the guests were brought wine and newly sacrificed meat fresh from the spit.

‘Scyros rarely receives a visit from men of your rank or calibre,’ the king admitted as he tore the fat from a leg of lamb with his teeth, leaving his wiry beard glistening with the grease. His shrewd, light-green eyes came to rest on Nestor. ‘And we are greatly honoured, of course. But now that you’re bathed and fed, hopefully to your satisfaction, I’m intrigued to know the purpose of your journey here. An insignificant island like Scyros can offer little of military worth to the expedition against Troy. Besides, I wasn’t one of the oath-takers, being happily married with five daughters when the courtship of Helen took place, so there’s no obligation upon me . . .’

‘Nor me,’ Nestor responded. Being an old warrior with many notches on his spear, he could tell a coward when he met one and it made the taste of the meat and wine sour in his mouth. ‘I was at home in sandy Pylos with my wife and children when the oath was taken, though I have joined the expedition out of a belief in its wider cause – to avenge the dishonour done to Menelaus and to ensure that such outrages are not tolerated in the future. But we have not come to call upon your armies, Lycomedes. We are here to find Achilles, who is rumoured to be on Scyros, and invite him to join us against Troy.’

There was a pause as Lycomedes laid down his leg of lamb and looked at the kings, smiling calmly and patiently.

‘Unfortunately, my friends, Achilles has never been to Scyros,’ he informed them confidently. ‘Therefore I regret to say you have travelled in vain. But if you want to stay the night and search the palace in the morning, then you’re more than welcome.’

Eperitus sensed that Lycomedes was challenging them. He was lying of course, and was fully aware his guests knew it, but he was so sure they would never find Achilles that he hardly seemed to care.

‘We accept,’ Odysseus said, raising another krater of wine to his lips. ‘Who knows what we might find tomorrow? Besides, it’s too dark now to sail back to Aulis, so we should enjoy the chance to sleep in proper beds covered in sheepskins and furs. And with your permission, I will go to mine now.’

Odysseus stood and was followed by the others, who were keen to return with him to their quarters and discuss what they had seen and heard. But as Lycomedes stood with them, Eperitus could see that his gaze was focused entirely on Odysseus, perhaps sensing that the least of the three kings would prove the most troublesome.

They woke late the next morning and took their breakfast on the flat roof of the palace. From here, with the sun already hot in the sky above them, they could pick out the Ithacan sailors on the galley in the harbour below. Other vessels – fishermen and merchant ships – were visible further out on the white-capped waves of the Aegean.

Ajax leaned back in his chair, which strained to contain his huge torso.

‘What a waste of time,’ he said, the disappointment in his voice clear. ‘The fleet could be on its way to Troy by now.’

‘We won’t be ready to sail for three or four weeks yet,’ Eperitus said. ‘You’ve seen the levies most of the kings have brought – half-trained at best, and many have never held a shield and spear in their life. They’re farmers and fishermen, Ajax, not soldiers; they need to be trained if they’re to stand a chance of survival in Ilium.’

‘Ach, they’ll soon learn how to fight on the battlefield,’ Ajax sniffed. ‘Ares has a way of sorting the men from the girls, when the arrows are flying and the ground is thudding with approaching hooves. Besides, what’s the point of these levies anyway? We’re the ones who do the real fighting – the kings and nobles, and the trained warriors like your lads there.’

He nodded towards Arceisius, Antiphus and Eurybates, who forgot the joke they had been sharing and tried to look as serious and warlike as they could.

‘You’re too harsh, Ajax,’ said Odysseus. ‘Every man has to be given a chance to survive, or who will farm our fields when we get back home? There’s not much glory to be had in steering a team of oxen all day long, or tying up wheat sheaves at harvest time.’

‘Odysseus is right,’ Nestor added. ‘Besides, whatever you may think about our levies, Ajax, we can’t leave without sorting out the provisioning of the army. The walls of Troy won’t fall in a day, so we need to arrange supplies of food, wine, clothing, replacement armaments, horses, timber, canvas, and a thousand other things. War isn’t just about lopping men’s heads off and taking their armour: we need to assess the information Odysseus, Menelaus and Eperitus brought back with them; calculate the best way to attack; decide on our tactics if things go against us – all the mundane groundwork that will prevent the Trojans from routing us as soon as we land on their beaches. I remember my first fight against the Eleans after I stole their flocks and cattle. I was a teenager then, and when I saw their army ranged against us I thought it was going to be a glorious day’s killing. But they out-thought us and, for a while, they out-fought us, until I called on Ares and he stoked my blood up. I killed a fair few Eleans from my chariot after that, and I learned a few things about how to use my shield and spear, too. But that was nothing compared with what I learned about being prepared for a fight.’

‘Pah!’ Ajax replied with a wave of his hand. ‘You still won, didn’t you? And it doesn’t change the fact that we’ve had a wasted journey. Achilles isn’t here, and we might as well say our farewells to Lycomedes and get back to Aulis – the sooner we’re back, the sooner you two can waste time training those hopeless peasants you set so much store by.’

‘Surely we’re not giving up yet?’ asked Eperitus. ‘For one thing I think Calchas is right, and for another it’s obvious Lycomedes is lying. If you ask me, Achilles is right here under our noses, but in a place few would expect to find him.’

‘Of course he is,’ Odysseus agreed. ‘The very fact Lycomedes is desperate for us to search his palace proves it – after all, a man with nothing to hide wouldn’t need to prove his innocence, would he? And when we don’t find Achilles, Lycomedes thinks we’ll go back to Aulis and not trouble him again. But I think his overconfidence will be his undoing.’

‘Don’t underestimate him,’ said Nestor. ‘He can’t be trusted, that’s for certain. Rumour says he murdered Theseus a few years back, when he was a guest in his house. There was a dispute over some land Theseus had inherited on Scyros, so Lycomedes pushed him off a cliff.’

‘That’s one way of settling a dispute,’ said Ajax. ‘But do you mean to say you’re going to hunt through the palace looking for Achilles inside pithoi of grain and such nonsense? Well, spare us the bother and humiliation. When I came here I expected to find my cousin in Lycomedes’s care, somehow ignorant of this war that the rest of Greece is talking about. I’ve heard the tales about him, just like everyone else: taught by Chiron the centaur to kill lions and bears with his own hands and feed off their raw offal; to use his cunning and speed to catch stags; to ride, play the pipes, heal, sing and a hundred other things. So I was expecting him to leap at the chance of a fight and come with us to Troy. Instead, he’s nowhere to be seen, probably skulking away in some hole, too afraid to reveal himself and fulfil the oath Patroclus took on his behalf. If he is here – and Eperitus there seems convinced Calchas isn’t wrong – then why doesn’t he prove himself to be the man everyone says he is?’

‘Perhaps he doesn’t even know of our arrival,’ Nestor suggested. ‘Like you, Ajax, I can’t believe he’d refuse the opportunity to reap glory in Ilium and make a name that would last forever.’

‘Whether he knows or not, why do we need him anyway?’ Ajax responded, smashing his fist down on the arm of his chair. ‘We have the greatest army ever assembled in the history of warfare, and the fiercest warriors in the world at its head. And I’m the best fighter of the lot of us! I’d defer to Heracles if he were still alive, but he’s not and now there’s no one who can match me for sheer power, brutality or skill in combat! If you must know, I came here with you to see whether Achilles was all he was made out to be, to see whether he could rival me. But he’s had his chance to prove himself and failed. Now the rest of the Greeks will have to acknowledge that I am without equal. Troy will have to fall to my efforts alone.’

‘Be careful, Ajax,’ Odysseus warned him. ‘You may be the greatest fighter we have – no one is disputing that – but you shouldn’t forget the gods. Even if you smash down the gates of Troy single-handedly and skewer Hector and Paris on your spear while you’re at it, it won’t have been without the help of the immortals.’

‘That may be the case for you, Odysseus, but not for me. Any coward or clod-brained peasant can win glory with the help of the gods; Troy will be mine without them.’

Nestor drew a deep breath and looked at Odysseus, who arched his eyebrows in response. Antiphus, Eurybates and Arceisius looked into their cups, not daring to criticize a king, but Eperitus shook his head.

‘Only a fool thinks he can do without the gods, Ajax. It just angers them. If you want my advice, you’ll take those words back and promise a sacrifice to each of the Olympians.’

‘What’s said is said, Eperitus, and I’ll say it again to any man who asks me – or any god for that matter. As for Achilles, he’s clearly more of a little girl than a man. If you still want to lure him out of hiding, Odysseus, perhaps you should use those dresses and pretty trinkets you brought with you from Aulis.’

‘Zeus’s beard, Ajax,’ Odysseus said, sitting up sharply. ‘Perhaps that’s it!’

Ajax roared with laughter and slapped the arms of his chair, just as Lycomedes was climbing the steps that led to the broad roof of the palace.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt your joke,’ he said as he joined them, an oily smile on his lips. ‘But perhaps now that you’ve enjoyed a good night’s sleep and a filling breakfast, this would be a good time to conduct your search of the palace? After all, you said you were going to have a look around for Achilles before you went.’

‘Why should we?’ said Ajax, balancing his chair on its back legs and looking at the king of Scyros. ‘You should know whether a great warrior like Achilles was hiding in your own palace, shouldn’t you? Besides, we’ve got a war to prepare for and the sooner we return to Aulis the sooner the day will come when we can sail for Troy.’

‘Well, if you insist . . .’ Lycomedes began, feigning disappointment.

‘There is something I’d like to see before we leave, though.’

‘Yes, King Odysseus,’ said Lycomedes, his smile becoming suddenly forced. ‘Whatever you wish.’

‘So far our journey has proved fruitless,’ Odysseus said. ‘But I wouldn’t call it wasted if we could set eyes on your daughters. I’m told their beauty is unrivalled, so to have seen them would at least sweeten our return to Aulis.’

‘Most gracious of you to say so, but I’m afraid . . .’

‘Come now, Lycomedes,’ interrupted Nestor, who quickly sensed that Odysseus may have another motive. ‘Modesty isn’t becoming for a king and we won’t accept any excuses. As for myself, I’ve been eager to see these fabled maidens for some time, and if we can’t see them now then perhaps we can see them tomorrow. Or another day, if that isn’t convenient – after all, we’re in no particular hurry.’

‘And we’ve brought gifts,’ Odysseus added.

Lycomedes looked at his guests in turn, then gave a resigned shrug of his shoulders.

‘Of course. They’re in the gardens with my grandson Neoptolemus but I’ll have them brought here . . .’

‘Oh, don’t trouble them,’ said Odysseus, rising from his chair and turning to his squire. ‘Eurybates, take Antiphus and Arceisius and bring the gifts to the king’s gardens as quickly as you can. And . . .’

He walked over to Eurybates and whispered something in his ear, which only Eperitus with his supernatural hearing could pick up.

‘Yes, my lord,’ Eurybates replied, looking uncertain for a moment before dashing down the steps and back into the palace. Antiphus and Arceisius followed, their faces equally confused. Eperitus caught the familiar glimmer of a smile on Odysseus’s face – the look that always signalled a plan had come to him – but it was beyond him to understand the strange order he had just given to his squire.

Lycomedes was soon leading them across the palace courtyard to the gardens, wringing his hands anxiously as he marched several paces ahead. The sweet fragrance of blossoms filled their nostrils as they reached an arched gateway in a high wall, where Lycomedes threw back his robe from his arm and knocked three times.

There was a murmur of whispering from the other side, then a female voice said, ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s me, Deidameia, and I’ve brought guests. They want to see for themselves the famed beauty of my daughters, but I hope they’ll find you modestly covered.’

Another rustle of lowered voices followed, punctuated by a giggle before the door swung open. A girl of perhaps seventeen or eighteen years bowed her head as she gave way before them. She had long dark hair that was held up in plaits about her head, and though her face was veiled her dark eyes watched them carefully as they entered in single file.

Eperitus looked around at the walled garden, lined on each side by rows of blossoming trees. The lawn of coarse grass around each trunk was covered in fallen petals, though many more of the pink and white flowers remained on the thin, twisting branches above. Four cobbled paths stretched from the corners of the enclosure to the centre of the garden, where a circular pond was surrounded by flowers of every colour. Here, seated on stone benches or kneeling on the lawn, were a host of young women and girls. The eldest wore veils and all but one had dark hair and eyes. The exception was a tall, blonde girl standing at the back, whose blue eyes watched the newcomers closely. Sitting before them all, dangling his bare feet in the pond, was a young boy with light-coloured hair and a frown.

‘Look,’ boomed Ajax, pointing at the lad, ‘we’ve found the great Achilles!’

‘Unfortunately not,’ Lycomedes replied, smiling weakly. ‘This is Neoptolemus, Deidameia’s son.’

‘A handsome lad,’ Odysseus said, strolling down the path to stand opposite the boy. ‘He looks to have something of the gods about him. And his father?’

‘Gone away,’ said Deidameia, walking around the pond to pick up her child.

Odysseus looked at the girl, who could only have been twelve or thirteen when she became a mother. The thin gauze across her face did little to hide her beauty: her skin was fashionably pale, her nose pert and attractive, and her lips full and red. Her chiton was worn short, revealing long, shapely legs, and she had no cloak in the warm sunlight to hide the smooth flesh of her shoulders and arms. Some of her sisters were similarly dressed, though others were more modest in their appearance, wearing their dresses long and hiding their naked limbs beneath thick shawls or cloaks. Odysseus held his arms out and Deidameia brought her son to him.

The child looked sternly at Odysseus for a moment, then slapped his breastplate with the palms of his hands.

‘I will be a warrior when I’m older,’ he announced.

Odysseus smiled back.

‘That’s good, son. But who will train you to fight? All I see is a host of aunts – have you no uncles?’

‘No, sir.’

‘What about your father?’ Odysseus asked, running his thick fingers through the boy’s hair. He saw the eyes of the fair-headed maiden flash towards Deidameia, who quickly stepped forward and lifted Neoptolemus from Odysseus’s arms.

‘I told you, my lord, his father has gone away.’

‘And is his father blond, also?’ Odysseus asked. ‘It’s uncommon among Greeks.’

‘He is, my lord, and a more handsome man you will never set eyes upon. Neoptolemus’s father has immortal blood in his veins, though he himself is only a man, and as for all this talk of warriors – if you were to ever see my husband’s anger the blood would run from your face and leave you pale, though your skin is as brown as leather.’

‘Ah!’ Odysseus smiled back. ‘He must be a great warrior indeed, then. What’s his name, and where might we find him? He would be a welcome recruit to our cause.’

From the corner of his eye he saw a movement among Deidameia’s sisters, and at the same time Lycomedes stepped forward.

‘The whereabouts of my daughter’s husband are unknown, King Odysseus,’ he insisted, his brow furrowed with barely concealed anger. ‘Now, I hope you’ve found my daughters pleasing, but as they usually bathe at this time of the day I don’t think we should keep them from their normal pleasures.’

‘Of course, King Lycomedes, though I would ask them to wait a short while longer. You forget the gifts I promised.’

‘Gifts?’ said one of the younger girls. ‘Oh, father, can’t we wait a little longer?’

‘Yes, father!’ came a chorus of voices.

‘Here they are now,’ Eperitus announced, seeing Antiphus and Eurybates struggle through the arched gateway with a casket between them.

They were followed by Polites, whose size and strength allowed him to carry another casket unaided. Two more Ithacan sailors appeared with the last casket, which was dumped without ceremony on the lawn next to the other two. All the trunks were open, their heaped contents plain to see, but sitting on top of the dresses and pretty ornaments in the third – to the surprise of all but Odysseus and Eperitus – were a long spear and an ox-hide shield.

‘Help yourselves to whatever you desire,’ Odysseus announced as his men stepped back from the caskets.

Lycomedes’s daughters surged forward to lay their hands on the mass of brightly coloured chitons and the sparkling collection of feminine baubles. As they squabbled with each other for this necklace or that sash, only Deidameia and the blonde maiden hung back. Eventually, Deidameia stepped forward and picked up an orange dress that had been tossed aside in the rush for gifts.

‘Here, Pyrrha,’ she said, handing it to her sister. ‘We’re the oldest and shouldn’t be left without gifts, after all.’

Pyrrha snatched the garment and reluctantly held it against herself, in the same manner that some of her younger sisters were doing with the other dresses. As she did so she caught Odysseus’s eyes watching her. The Ithacan king smiled and nodded at the shield and spear, which remained untouched. Pyrrha looked at the armaments, then stared back at Odysseus with disdain in her blue eyes. A moment later she tossed aside the orange dress and instead picked up a sky-blue chiton – the same one Ajax had mockingly pulled from the caskets the day before – and made a show of admiring its quality and beauty.

‘Come here, Eurybates,’ Odysseus ordered, then whispered something in his ear that even Eperitus could not hear over the clamour of Lycomedes’s daughters. ‘Now, take the men back to the ship and make ready to leave.’

Eurybates, with a bemused look on his face, led the sailors from the garden. Meanwhile, Neoptolemus had left his place by the pond and was attempting to pick up the spear, which was far too heavy for him. Odysseus laughed.

‘Those are my gifts for you, lad. They may be big now, but you’ll grow into them.’

Suddenly, a long horn-blast tore through the warm afternoon air, rising then falling away to silence. Another followed it, deep and lonely, causing everyone to look about themselves in surprise and shock. An instant later they heard the unmistakable clash of bronze against bronze and the shouts of men locked in combat. Antiphus came running in through the gateway, his sword drawn and his eyes wide with fear.

‘We’re being attacked!’ he shouted, falling to his knees in front of Odysseus. ‘Trojans have landed in the harbour – they’re killing everyone.’

Eperitus instinctively fumbled for his sword, before recalling he had left it in the guest quarters.

‘Where’s the guard house?’ Ajax demanded, seizing Lycomedes by the shoulders and staring at him with fierce eyes. ‘Where do you keep your arms, man?’

‘Damn it all!’

They turned to see the blonde maiden, Pyrrha, throwing off her cloak and chiton to reveal a naked and splendidly muscled body – the body of a man! He tore his veil aside and leapt to where Neoptolemus was still trying to lift the spear.

‘Give me that, lad,’ he ordered, gently easing the weapon out of the boy’s hands. A moment later he had lifted the shield onto his other arm and was dashing out to the courtyard.

‘Follow him, quickly!’ Odysseus shouted to Eperitus and Antiphus. ‘Stop him before he kills somebody.’

They ran out of the garden, followed by Nestor, Ajax and Lycomedes. Achilles – for there was no longer any doubt about Pyrrha’s true identity – was running towards a knot of warriors by the gates. They were armed with swords and shields and were methodically attacking each other with slow, deliberate moves. As they saw the naked warrior running swiftly towards them they cast down their weapons and backed away, their arms held over their heads in submission.

‘Achilles!’ Odysseus shouted, his great voice carrying across the courtyard.

The warrior skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust.

‘Achilles! Throw down your armaments. There are no Trojans, and Scyros is not under attack.’

Achilles turned to face the Ithacan king. His golden hair flashed in the sunlight and his rage-filled eyes were terrible to look at, even for seasoned warriors.

‘I’m sorry, my friend,’ Odysseus continued, holding his arms wide to emphasize his apology. ‘I suspected Lycomedes had hidden you among his daughters – the last place anyone would look – and I had to find a way to make you throw off your disguise. And what better way is there of discovering a warrior than a call to arms?’

Achilles tossed the shield aside, but gripped the spear more fiercely as he walked towards Odysseus. Eperitus moved two paces forward, placing himself to the front of his king’s right shoulder, ready to take any blow the warrior might deliver. Though Achilles did not have the bulk of Odysseus or Ajax, Eperitus had never seen such definition in a man’s muscles. The skin was so tightly drawn over his limbs and chest that each small movement of the tissue beneath was visible. The heavy ash spear with its socketed bronze point, which Neoptolemus had struggled even to lift, was carried easily, as if its weight was trifling in the man’s hand. And the intense look in his eyes as he approached was like a lightning bolt from Zeus, awe-inspiring and fearsome to look at. Nevertheless, Odysseus did not flinch as he waited for the younger warrior to come within a spear’s length of him, where he stopped.

Achilles looked for a long moment at the king of Ithaca, and then at Eperitus who stood before him, unarmed but with his fists clenched. Then Achilles’s severe expression was melted by a smile and his face became even more strikingly handsome. He offered Odysseus his hand.

‘Your reputation for cunning is well deserved, Odysseus, son of Laertes,’ he said. ‘I am Achilles, prince of Phthia, son of Peleus, and perhaps you will oblige me with how you knew to find me here on Scyros. But first you can tell me the name of your friend, who thinks his fists can stop the point of my spear.’

‘I can speak for myself. My name is Eperitus, captain of King Odysseus’s guard.’

‘It’s strange that a man should name himself but not his father,’ Achilles replied. ‘But if it doesn’t matter to you, then it doesn’t matter to me either. I only hope Odysseus appreciates the loyalty of a man who is prepared to step between his king and the wrath of Achilles, which is to invite certain death.’

‘Don’t be so certain of that,’ Eperitus said, offering his hand. Achilles took it with a smile.

‘And by your grey hair and many scars of battle,’ Achilles continued, looking at Odysseus’s other companions, ‘I guess you can only be King Nestor of Pylos, son of Neleus. I’d heard you had dusted off your armour one last time to help the expedition against Troy.’

‘Then you must also know why we’re here,’ Nestor responded, accepting Achilles’s hand.

‘I’m not ignorant, old friend. Nor am I an idiot.’

‘A coward then, perhaps?’ said Ajax.

Achilles met the king of Salamis’s angry gaze and held it.

‘And this great brute must be my cousin Ajax. Even in sleepy Scyros they speak about you with fear in their voices. Some even say you’re the greatest warrior in Greece, though not within my hearing.’

‘Then I shall speak clearly, so that you can be sure to hear me: I am the greatest warrior in Greece.’

A sly smile crossed Achilles’s lips as he locked eyes with Ajax, their gazes struggling against each other like equally matched wrestlers.

‘I have my own claim to that title,’ he said. ‘Perhaps, cousin, we should compare the number of Trojans we slay. That will tell us who is truly the greatest.’

‘That’s a contest I would enjoy,’ Ajax replied, unable to prevent a grin spreading across his bearded face. ‘But first I’d like to know why you were hiding away in a girl’s dress when you were oath-bound to come to Aulis.’

‘I have a wife whose beauty can drive a man insane with lust, and a young son who needs his father to preserve him from the ways of a houseful of women,’ Achilles said, looking across to where Deidameia and Neoptolemus stood beneath the arched entrance to the garden. ‘And even Odysseus wasn’t beyond a bit of trickery to get out of this war for the sake of his family, or so the rumour goes.’

Odysseus shrugged. ‘We can console each other on the shores of Ilium. But do you really expect us to believe a warrior of your reputation would let such things keep you from the temptation of glory, not to mention break the oath that was taken in your name?’

‘No,’ Achilles answered. ‘But I am bound by older oaths than that. Thetis, my mother, foresaw my doom on the day she brought me forth from her womb: that I could live out a long and peaceful life at home in Phthia, or seek death and everlasting glory on the fields before Troy. A year before Helen was married she made me swear never to seek Troy, though she did not tell me why in those days. And now I feel I have honoured my word to her: I have not looked for Troy, but Troy has found me. Now I am bound by the later oath that Patroclus took on my behalf, and though it will mean my death I will come to Troy with you. I choose the path of glory.’

He looked over at the archway again, but this time his family were gone and the gates were shut against him.

Chapter Eighteen

THE WHITE HART

A few days later Eperitus stood with Peisandros, the Myrmidon spearman who had helped save him from execution in Sparta ten years before. They were at the edge of a clearing in the wood that overlooked the Greek camp. At its centre stood a lone plane tree, and welling up from between its roots was a spring of clear water. It was said Artemis would stop there and drink by the light of the full moon while she hunted her prey, and aware of its sacred associations Agamemnon had ordered a circle of twelve marble altars – one for each of the principal gods – to be built around the spring. It was on these white plinths that the kings and princes, along with their priests and attendants, were performing the final sacrifices to the gods before the voyage to Troy.

As the fleet made its preparations in the straits below, ready to sail at first light the next morning, the warm, torpid air of the wood was filled with the sounds of prayer and slaughter. Animal after animal was butchered, flayed and jointed. The stench of blood from the gore-splattered altars mingled with the smell of charred flesh from the fires around the clearing, where the priests were burning the fat-wrapped thighs of the beasts in offering to the mighty Olympians. A thick pall of smoke hung over the treetops like a grey ceiling, blotting out the blue skies above, while in the shadow of the wood hundreds more dull-minded beasts tugged at their leashes or snorted impatiently as they awaited their turn to be sacrificed.

Agamemnon led the relentless procession of death, dressed in a lion’s pelt that hung down to his ankles. The upper jaw of the once mighty animal was worn like a cap, and beneath the shadow of its sharp teeth the king’s face looked pale and hard. In his bloody fist he clutched a silver dagger with which he mechanically sliced open the throats of the animals that were set before him, his lips moving in an unceasing prayer to Zeus. The familiar golden cuirass he had worn since becoming king of Mycenae was gone, replaced by a new breastplate sent by King Cinyras of Cyprus as a gift to the King of Men, as Agamemnon had now taken to calling himself. It was exquisitely worked with numerous bands of gold, blue enamel and tin; three snakes slithered upwards on either side to the neck, their outlines glittering in the light of the sacrificial fires. The other leaders were clustered around the remaining altars, where they were assisted in the various stages of sacrifice by an army of priests and slaves.

‘There’s going to be some feast tonight,’ Peisandros said, grinning as he watched Achilles joint a goat he had slain only moments earlier in dedication to Ares. ‘Just the thing we need to see us off to war.’

Peisandros was a thickset man with a large stomach and a wiry black beard, shot through with grey. Despite his fierce eyes and bushy black eyebrows, he had a carefree cheerfulness that had appealed to Eperitus from their very first meeting a decade ago. Their friendship had been renewed at the gathering of the Myrmidon army in Phthia, shortly after Achilles had sailed from Scyros with Odysseus, Nestor and Ajax, and since then they had spent much time together, training and retraining the troops under their command until they could teach them nothing more.

‘Make the most of it, Peisandros,’ Eperitus replied. ‘It’s a long voyage to Ilium and we’ll be lucky to get anything more than bread and a few smoked fish on the way.’

‘Ah, but when we’ve sacked Troy,’ Peisandros said, wagging his finger, ‘we can eat our fill in the ruins of Priam’s palace. That’s a thought that can tide over any man, even one with an appetite like mine.’

‘Be careful you don’t starve to death then, if that’s what you’re waiting for.’

‘Come now, Eperitus, you need to be more optimistic. There’s a fine army in the camp down there – a match for anything Ilium can produce. Besides, you haven’t seen Achilles fight yet.’

‘And you haven’t seen the walls of Troy,’ Eperitus responded, leaning against the bole of a tree and watching Odysseus sacrifice a lamb to Athena.

‘It’ll take more than stone to stop us Myrmidons,’ Peisandros insisted, thumping his armoured chest proudly. Then his ardent expression faded and he cast a sidelong glance at the gathered kings. ‘Still, there is one thing that could rob us of victory.’

‘Agamemnon?’ Eperitus asked. Peisandros had never hidden his low opinion of the king of Mycenae.

‘Who else?’ Peisandros confirmed with a sigh. ‘The more I see of him, the more I’m convinced he’s losing his grip. For one thing, he’s becoming a ghost of his former self: pasty-faced, sunken-eyed, thinner; and if it’s because he’s losing sleep or his appetite, what does that say about his state of mind?’

‘Perhaps he’s working too hard. Making preparations for an army this big has to make its demands,’ Eperitus said unconvincingly, watching as Agamemnon signalled for his priests to bring him a white heifer.

Peisandros dismissed Eperitus’s argument with a flick of his hand. ‘That doesn’t explain his change of attitude though, does it?’ he contended, his naturally booming voice uncomfortably loud amidst the muttered prayers and the whimpering of animals. ‘I know he’s always been more pompous than most, even for a noble, but look at him now! Who does he think he is with that lion’s skin hanging off his back – Heracles? And I don’t like this new title he’s awarded himself, “King of Men”. The Trojans might enjoy grovelling before their kings like gods, but we’re Greeks, Eperitus. We’re free men!’

‘Odysseus says it’s a fitting title for the elected leader of the Greek nations,’ Eperitus said, though without enthusiasm. He felt as uncomfortable as Peisandros did about Agamemnon’s new title, but if it was good enough for Odysseus then it was good enough for him, too.

‘Odysseus is just being clever,’ Peisandros said. ‘He knows the best way to influence Agamemnon is to make a show of his loyalty – the voice heard clearest is the voice that’s nearest, as we say back home. I just hope for all our sakes that he can keep his strange moods in check. You told me yourself how he hit his own brother in front of the whole assembly of kings.’

‘Well, I’ll be happier if he loses his altar-stone coldness altogether,’ Eperitus responded. ‘I can’t read a man who doesn’t show his emotions.’

‘Nevertheless, it makes me feel uneasy,’ Peisandros growled. ‘Normally I’m like you – I’d rather have a man yell at me, punch me, or even throw his arms about my neck and kiss me. Achilles is like that: as proud and moody as a little child, but passionate and generous, too. But when I see what’s going on inside Agamemnon, it tells me something’s wrong. I’d have trusted the old him, but not this one.’

As they watched, the King of Men seized the white heifer by its gold-covered horns, pulled its head back and held his bloody dagger to its neck.

‘Father Zeus,’ he called aloft, his voice dry and cracking from the inhaled smoke of the fires. ‘God of gods, I offer you the life of this unblemished beast and ask that you send us a sign of your support for us. Give us encouragement – let us know that victory will be ours.’

Calchas hobbled forward and scattered the sacrificial grain. Agamemnon had not allowed the priest to leave his side since he had been proven right about the whereabouts of Achilles, and even insisted on his presence at the nightly councils of war. The king’s own seer had been sent back to Mycenae and all his privileges given to the Trojan instead, whom Agamemnon plagued with questions about Troy, Priam, Hector and Paris. The fact that Calchas would not reveal more than Apollo had already allowed him to know only increased his credibility in the eyes of the king.

The heifer gave an impulsive nod of its head, which Agamemnon read as a good sign and immediately slit its throat. The strength left the animal’s legs and it fell heavily to the ground, its dark blood gushing over the trampled grass. Suddenly a loud hissing shivered through the groans and prayers. Calchas turned and gave a shout of fear as he stumbled away from the altar of Zeus. The other priests also fell back in shock, whilst Agamemnon stared at the base of the plinth with wide, disbelieving eyes. Within moments, all the kings and princes had fallen quiet, their exhortations dying on their lips as they turned to look at the altar to the king of the gods, where a huge serpent had coiled itself several times around the gore-splashed marble.

It raised its triangular head and hissed at the mass of men, before unwinding its long, blue and red body from around the plinth. Eperitus looked at it and gave an instinctive shudder, his phobia of snakes gripping him even though the vile creature was some way off. Then, as the snake began slithering through the grass towards the plane tree, Diomedes drew his sword and moved towards it.

‘Don’t touch it!’ Calchas screamed, rushing forward with his palms held out. ‘Not unless you want to bring the wrath of Zeus down on you. Can’t you see the beast has been sent by the gods?’

As he spoke the serpent coiled about the bole of the tree and moved up towards the topmost branches where, though barely noticed before in the noise of the sacrifices, every man could now see a nest of sparrows. The helpless chicks were calling loudly for their mother, unaware of the death that was creeping ever closer from below. Then the broad, flat head of the monster rose slowly over the edge of the nest, waving slightly from left to right as it eyed the unfortunate birds. A moment later it struck, snatching one of the screeching brood and devouring it whole so that the struggling shape was briefly visible as it slid down the neck of the snake. The kings and princes below left their sacrificing and formed a circle about the tree, watching awestruck as one by one the chicks were eaten, until the last one remained, chirping fearfully in its loneliness. In that moment its mother arrived, squawking with panic as she saw the violation of her family, but the snake lashed out and took her by the wing as she hovered above the nest, swallowing her whole as it had done the others. Finally, it closed its jaws over the head of the last remaining bird and plucked it from its moss-filled bed, silencing its cries with a single gulp.

Its divinely appointed task performed, the snake now began to return down the trunk of the plane, hissing at the crowd of men. The sight of its pink, forked tongue flickering out at them in warning was enough to make each man take an instinctive backward step, but as the circle widened something happened that rooted them to the ground where they stood.

‘How can it be?’ said Menelaus in a low voice.

‘Calchas! Calchas, tell us what it means.’

Agamemnon turned to the seer and pointed at the bole of the tree, where the serpent now stared at them with dull, lifeless eyes.

Calchas stepped forward and looked up at the dead snake, whose soft flesh had turned to rigid stone before the eyes of the watching men.

‘I . . . I don’t know,’ he stuttered. ‘It’s beyond me.’

As he spoke his whole body was seized by a strong convulsion that arched his spine and threw his head back, causing the hood to fall away and reveal his bald scalp. His arms shot out from his sides and his hands began to shake. Odysseus moved towards him, but Agamemnon waved him back. Then, as they watched, a silver light suffused the seer’s dark eyes and the look of terror on his upturned face was transformed by a smile that seemed to mock the heavens above. Slowly the trembling stopped and Calchas, still smiling, let his head fall forward so that his chin was resting on his chest. Streaks of spittle covered his lips and cheeks, and as he turned his eyes on the watching crowd few could tolerate the look that was in them.

‘This sign comes from Zeus himself,’ he said, his voice suddenly rich and smooth. ‘For each of the eight chicks, you will spend a year besieging Troy. The mother represents a ninth. But in the tenth year, if the prophecies that will be given are fulfilled, victory over Priam’s city will be granted to you.’

The words reverberated around the clearing, dousing the confidence that had filled the hearts of the Greeks and replacing it with gloom. Menelaus thought of his wife, held in the lofty towers of Troy for ten long years, where her affections would inevitably turn to Paris. Agamemnon, who had made the commanders swear not to return home until the siege was over, now realized his boy, Orestes, would be left under the twisted influence of Clytaemnestra until he became a man. Odysseus and Eperitus both pondered the oracle that had condemned the king of Ithaca to be away from his home for twenty years, rather than the ten stated by Calchas. But of all the kings who now considered the long war they had committed to, only Achilles, whose death had been prophesied by his mother, took heart; whereas he had expected to live but a few months longer, he now had the prospect of enjoying life for years to come – a life spent in war, reaping souls and the glory that came with them.

For a while, Calchas turned his shining eyes on each of them, whether great or lowly. Then the brightness faded and a moment later he collapsed to the ground. The spell broken, Odysseus and Philoctetes, the archer, rushed to help the priest of Apollo as he lay panting in the grass, while all about them scores of voices rushed to discuss the prophecy that had been uttered.

‘Come on,’ said Eperitus, slapping Peisandros on the arm.

Together they ran to where Calchas was sitting, rubbing his head and drinking from a cup that Philoctetes had given him. But as they knelt down beside him, a new voice was added to the cacophony about them.

‘My lord! My lord Agamemnon!’

‘What is it, Talthybius?’ Agamemnon snapped, shaking off the stupor brought on by Calchas’s words.

The Mycenaean herald burst through the crowd of royalty, his breathing heavy and his face red from running in the hot weather.

‘My lord, it’s been seen again. Here in the woods. The white hart.’

Many of the voices stopped immediately, and the remainder soon followed.

‘The white hart?’ Menelaus repeated.

‘Yes, my lord. One of the herdsmen saw it just now. I thought you’d want to know.’

‘Is this the creature that was seen while I was away in Phthia?’ Ajax asked, turning to the other kings. ‘Then, by Ares’s sword, what are we waiting for? Let’s hunt it down before it disappears again. Teucer! Teucer, where are you, damn it! Bring me my spear, and don’t forget your bow and arrows.’

Suddenly there was uproar as the kings and princes rushed this way and that, hollering the names of their squires or calling aloud for their various weapons.

‘Peisandros!’ said a tall, sinewy man with a long, pointed nose. His voice was high and pinched, which suited his arrogant face. ‘Fetch my hunting hounds at once. They’re tethered on the southern side of the wood.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the Myrmidon replied, and after a farewell nod to Eperitus ran off through the trees.

The arrogant-looking man remained for a moment, staring down his nose at the three men kneeling beside Calchas, then with a curt nod to Odysseus turned on his heel and walked away.

‘What’s up, Patroclus?’ Philoctetes called after the commander of the Myrmidon army. ‘Think you’re too important to acknowledge your fellow commoners? Or does sharing Achilles’s bed again make you somehow high-born?’

Patroclus wheeled about in an instant and drew his sword, but Odysseus was already on his feet and walking towards him. Seizing the Myrmidon gently but firmly by the wrists, Odysseus leaned forward and spoke quietly in his ear. After a moment, Patroclus shot Philoctetes an ugly glance, then turned and marched over to where Achilles was throwing a quiver of arrows over his shoulder.

‘That was foolish,’ Eperitus said, turning to the young archer with an angry look in his eye. ‘Whether the rumour’s true or not, if Achilles had heard you you’d be a dead man now.’

‘I’m not afraid of Patroclus or Achilles,’ Philoctetes hissed back. ‘These arrows of mine would kill them both before they could so much as raise a spear against me.’

‘Your weapons won’t make you great, even though Heracles himself gave them to you – they’re just a continuation of his greatness. If you want my advice, Philoctetes, prove your own worth before you think you can challenge a warrior like Achilles.’

‘Looks like it’s each man for himself,’ said Odysseus, returning with a smile on his face as if nothing had happened.

Philoctetes paused to lift Calchas’s hood back over his head, before helping the priest back to his feet. ‘Then don’t be too slow if you want a chance at the beast,’ he warned, mirroring the Ithacan’s cheerfulness. ‘I’ve seen it myself and it’s magnificent – pure white with antlers of gold – but as soon as I fire one of my arrows at it it’s running days’ll be over.’

He patted the quiver at his side, and with a last glance at Eperitus bounded off into the rapidly dispersing crowd.

‘Take my spear, Odysseus,’ Eperitus said. ‘Yours are still down by the boats, and we’d better hurry if we’re going to hunt this animal.’

Odysseus shook his head. ‘Let the others run about as much as they like – only Talthybius knows where the animal was spotted, and he’s over with the Atreides brothers. If we want a throw at this fabled hart, all we need to do is follow Agamemnon.’

Eperitus looked over his shoulder and saw the King of Men slip the lion’s pelt from his back as he picked up a horn bow and a leather quiver full of arrows. Menelaus stood beside him with two spears in his hand, looking about surreptitiously to note the different directions in which the leaders were disappearing. He only saw Odysseus and Eperitus running towards him at the last moment.

‘You do realize,’ Odysseus called, ‘that this white hart may belong to one of the gods. It could cost us dear if we kill it; all your carefully staged sacrifices could be wasted, Agamemnon.’

‘Nonsense,’ Agamemnon sniffed, throwing the quiver over his back and tightening the golden buckle. He circled his shoulders to test the fit. ‘If it belongs to a god, then they shouldn’t let their pets loose around so many skilled hunters. Besides, once you see the animal, Odysseus, you’ll know why everyone’s leaving in such a hurry.’

‘Then we’ll accompany you, if you have no objections,’ Odysseus said, taking the spear Eperitus held towards him and moving into the undergrowth before the Atreides brothers could have a chance to refuse him. ‘Lead the way, Talthybius.’

They set off at a rapid pace through the humid wood, leaping over fallen branches and crashing through knee-high forests of fern, all the time looking left and right through the columns of dusty light that penetrated the canopy of leaves above. Eperitus, whose supernatural senses far outstripped those of his fellow hunters, sniffed the languorous air, sifting out the different smells of damp earth, distant blossom and the sharp odour of human sweat until he could detect – though still faintly – the powerful musk of male deer.

‘It was seen not far from here, in a glade to the east,’ Talthybius informed them.

‘No. It’s moving north,’ Eperitus announced, after a moment’s consideration. ‘That way.’

Agamemnon looked doubtful. ‘Are you sure? This might be the only chance we get – we can’t afford to follow whims.’

‘He’s sure,’ Odysseus assured him. ‘I’d trust Eperitus’s senses above my own hunting dog’s.’

Without any further hesitation, the five men set off in a northeasterly direction. The ground began to slope away before them and the trees grew denser, stifling the gauzy yellow light that had managed to penetrate the thinner woodland they were leaving behind.

‘Look!’ Eperitus said after they had been running for a while.

He pointed to a branch hanging from a tree. The shards of the broken stem were still fresh and white, indicating it was recently broken. There was no sound or sign of the other hunters, and with a flush of excitement they realized it could only have been snapped by a tall animal passing that way a short while before.

They increased their pace, moving deeper into the wood until they reached a narrow stream. They splashed across and followed its winding course for a while before Eperitus veered suddenly to the left. They followed in his wake, crashing on into the dense heart of the wood until Talthybius could hold the pace no longer and began to slow, gasping for breath.

‘Shhh!’ Eperitus hissed, suddenly slowing to a crouching walk and pressing his finger to his lips. ‘It’s close.’

Menelaus and Odysseus instinctively raised their spears, holding the shafts lightly in their cupped palms. Agamemnon slipped an arrow from the quiver and fitted it to his bow, drawing it to half-readiness as his eyes scanned the gloom. Eperitus sniffed the thick air, his eyes narrowing as he judged the different smells captured in his nostrils.

‘It’s here,’ he whispered.

The hunters halted and slowly lowered themselves into the cover of the crowded ferns, so that their eyes were just above the curling fronds. For a breathless moment they heard nothing, not even a bird in the closely packed branches above, then a twig snapped and they turned to see a magnificent, pure-white deer trot into a small clearing ahead of them. It stood beside the upturned roots of a fallen tree, bathed in a single shaft of golden light that penetrated a gap in the canopy above. It looked about itself, completely unaware of the men only a stone’s throw away, then bowed its antlered head to chew at the rich undergrowth.

‘He’s mine,’ Agamemnon whispered, drawing the bowstring back to his cheek and preparing to stand.

But before he could move, his brother stood and launched the long spear from his hand. It spun through the air, its imperfect shaft twirling behind the bronze tip as it flew towards its target. A moment later it skimmed the shoulders of the hart and buried its point in the mud-caked roots of the tree.

The hart raised its head, saw Menelaus and bolted in the opposite direction. Odysseus stood and cast his own spear, aiming at the flashing white of the animal’s hindquarters as they disappeared through the undergrowth. It fell short.

Agamemnon also stood, but unlike the two spearmen knew he had a few moments more to take aim and release his shot. Closing his left eye, he squinted down the shaft of the arrow and focused on the triple-barbed point, aiming it slightly ahead of the fleeing deer. Snatching a half-breath and holding it so that the movement of his lungs would not disturb his aim, he released the shaft.

The bow hummed and Agamemnon leaned his head to the left, hoping to see the white form stumble and fall, but the animal had already disappeared among the trees.

‘Missed it,’ Menelaus announced, almost gleefully.

‘Thanks to you, you buffoon. I told you to leave it for me.’

‘What? And let you take all the glory, as usual, King of Men?’

‘Quiet,’ Eperitus ordered, momentarily forgetting he was talking to the two most powerful men in Greece. ‘I can’t hear its footfalls any more. It’s stopped running.’

‘No man could hear that well,’ said Talthybius.

‘Come on,’ Odysseus said. ‘Let’s see if you’ve hit your mark, Agamemnon.’

They dashed into the undergrowth; twigs snapped loudly beneath their sandals and brittle stems whipped against their shins. They ran past the spears of Menelaus and Odysseus and forged on to the place where they had last seen the hart’s white flanks. The trees were thinner here, allowing more sunlight to illuminate the woodland floor, but they could see nothing.

‘You were wrong, Eperitus,’ Agamemnon said, with clear disappointment in his voice. He stopped and looked about himself. ‘It’s gone. The glory will go to no man now.’

But Eperitus merely shook his head.

‘No, my lord, I’d still be able to hear its feet beating the ground now. And I can smell fresh blood.’

Odysseus, who had continued following the course of the deer, suddenly called for them to join him. He stood near to the edge of the wood, where the trees filtered out into open fields and the light was almost unbearable to look at. As they ran to join him they saw the carcass of the white hart at his feet, shining like silver through the screen of ferns. Agamemnon’s arrow still protruded from its neck.

Eperitus knelt and ran his hands over the soft, warm fur, feeling the ridges of the ribcage beneath his fingertips. This close, the animal was as magnificent in death as it had been when he had seen it in the small clearing, bathed in golden sunlight. He looked up and saw Agamemnon standing above him. The face of the sun glittered in the intertwined branches behind his head, and with the richly decorated breastplate he wore he looked like a god.

‘A magnificent shot, my lord,’ Eperitus said, reaching to stroke the still-warm flank of the hart.

Agamemnon laughed, a triumphant look gleaming in his sunken eyes as he smiled down at his prey. ‘Artemis herself could not have done better!’

And as the words left his lips the sunlight about them seemed to flare out brightly for a moment, then shrink back again. Though they could not yet see it, grey clouds were massing rapidly on the eastern horizon. Before long they were rolling across the skies like a conquering army, swirling and twisting in their tortured agony as they crossed the blue expanse. By the time the men emerged from the wood with the dead hart over Agamemnon’s shoulders, the first grey outriders of the approaching storm had blotted out the sun altogether. The hunters looked up in fear and the hills echoed with a boom of thunder.

book

THREE

Chapter Nineteen

THE STORM

The rain lashed furiously against the forest of tents, drenching the flaxen sheets until they hung heavily upon the wooden poles beneath. Inside, men shivered against the unseasonable cold and pulled their woollen cloaks tighter about their shoulders, longing for the day when the unending storm would lift and allow them to sail for Troy. But if any man opened the flap of his tent, all he could see was grey clouds from horizon to horizon, pressing down on the camp like the belly of a great monster as the rain fell and the wind howled.

It had been this way for three weeks. Night flowed into day and day back into night, so that the only change was from Stygian blackness into melancholy gloom and back again. The only real light any man saw was the glitter of lightning inside the ever-shifting mantle of cloud, or the occasional bolt stalking across distant horizons. And all the time their ears were assailed by the monotonous groaning of the wind as it passed between the avenues of tents, tearing at pennants and tugging at guy ropes, a constant worry to the men inside. Many a shelter was blown away in the storm, and most others were made unbearable by the wind that whistled through the gaps in the walls. Once inside, it would drive out any warmth until the flesh of every soldier was chilled to the bone and each man was ready to give up the expedition and return home. But with their ships wind-bound in the straits below, they had no choice but to sit tight and pass the time grumbling against the gods and, above all, their leaders.

There were few who did not blame the slaying of the white hart for their present troubles. Agamemnon had shot a creature precious to one of the immortals, and now this unidentified god was making all their lives a misery because of their leader’s sacrilege. The King of Men, keen to set sail, was the most frustrated of them all. He had offered repeated sacrifices to all the gods, but to no avail. On every occasion, as he had stared up into the rain with fresh blood streaming down the dagger in his right hand, his desperate prayers were met with deep rumbles of displeasure from the skies above. And as the fleet remained holed up between the mainland and Euboea, the pressure on its leader grew.

He sat on a heavy wooden chair with a high back. It was covered in a thin layer of tin and had been draped over with furs, which were soft beneath the naked skin of his thighs and calves. His new breastplate felt stiff and awkward, pressing into the flesh beneath his armpits and at the tops of his legs, but he refused to remove it because of his constant fear of assassination. The double cloak over his shoulders was warm and light.

Agamemnon drummed the fingers of his right hand repeatedly on the table before him, trying to drown out the constant pattering of the rain on the high roof of his tent. The thumb and forefinger of his other hand were busily massaging his aching temples as he studied the map Odysseus had placed on the table. It depicted a rough representation of Ilium and its surrounding islands.

‘If this distance is correct,’ said King Nestor, leaning across and tapping the point between the walls of Troy and the line of beach between the Scamander and Simo¨eis, ‘then it’s too risky to make the landing so close to the city.’

‘Nonsense,’ Menelaus said. ‘If we land the ships here we can cross the plain in no time. The Trojans will be taken completely by surprise, and before they know it our army will be streaming through the city.’

The two men were among a handful that had joined Agamemnon in his tent after the nightly feast, a time when the leaders of the expedition would sacrifice to the gods and share food together. Tonight, though, the atmosphere was more affected than usual by the sombre weather. Achilles had departed with the Ajaxes and Teucer, all of them intent on brightening their mood with wine. Many others had returned to the familiarity of their own camps, hoping to wake the next morning and find clear skies. Only Idomeneus, Diomedes and Odysseus had joined Nestor and the Atreides brothers to discuss a strategy for the attack on Troy, and were now poring over the rough map that the Ithacan king had made from memory.

‘Your eagerness to rescue your wife is blinding you to the realities of war, Menelaus,’ Nestor countered. ‘If the Trojans are prepared for us, they can meet us on the beaches and massacre us as we leap down from our ships. If they are not prepared but are able to meet us in force on the plain, they could check our advance and throw us back into the sea before we have time to organize a proper defence. And if we don’t take the city in the first attack and have to lay siege to it, any determined attack they make could reach our camp with ease.’

‘Do you doubt our army’s ability to beat the Trojans?’ Agamemnon asked, cocking an eyebrow towards his trusted adviser.

‘No, but just as many battles are decided by the gods as they are by feats of arms. If the prophecy of the snake and the sparrows was interpreted correctly, then we can be sure the gods won’t give us Troy in the first attack. And I’ve seen too many battles on open ground to want to risk our ships on that beach. If it’s my advice you want, Agamemnon – and that was the reason you asked me to join this expedition – then you won’t gamble everything we have in such a place.’

‘Nestor’s right,’ Odysseus agreed. ‘The plain is too exposed. If we attack there the war won’t last ten days, let alone ten years.’

‘Then where do we attack?’ asked Idomeneus.

‘Right here,’ Nestor answered, tapping a point on the mainland north of Tenedos. It was one of the large bays Odysseus’s ship had passed on its mission to Troy. ‘It’s wide and sandy, ideal for beaching a large number of ships, and it can’t be seen from Troy because of the distance and this ridge. That means we can land unopposed and form up our armies before marching on Troy. Then, if the gods are against us and we are forced back, we can use the ridge as a line of defence.’

‘That places the Scamander between us and Troy,’ said Diomedes, running his finger over the line of the river. ‘Even if there’s a ford, it’ll be easier for the Trojans to defend it against . . .’

He left the sentence unfinished as all seven men turned to look at the soldier who had just entered. His cloak was soaked through and his polished armour streamed with rivulets of rain that dripped onto the furs beneath his sandals.

‘Sorry, my lords, but it’s the Trojan priest. He wants to see the King of Men – says it can’t wait.’

‘Another one of his wine-induced dreams, no doubt,’ Menelaus sniffed. ‘Send him away, Ixion.’

‘No,’ said Agamemnon, shooting a glance at his brother. ‘Bring him in. It might be important.’

The soldier disappeared and a moment later Calchas came hurtling in through the same elaborately embroidered flap of cotton, to land in a damp heap on the piled furs and fleeces. His customary hooded cloak was absent, and his white priest’s robes were soaked through, revealing his nakedness beneath. He raised himself up on his hands and looked at the gathering of kings, swaying slightly and reeking of wine. His staring eyes were red-rimmed and filled with fear.

‘What is it, my friend?’ Agamemnon asked, forcing a smile to his lips. ‘Do you have a word for us from the gods?’

‘Yes, King of Men!’ Calchas replied, raising himself to his knees and shuffling forwards with his hands clasped together like a suppliant. Then he looked around at the other kings, as if he was seeing them for the first time, and pulled back with an angry look on his face. ‘No! I have nothing for these, only you. You must send them away.’

‘Show some respect or I’ll send you to Hades, you wretch,’ Diomedes warned, putting a hand to the hilt of his silver-studded sword.

‘Don’t be offended, Tydeides,’ said Agamemnon, using the familiar form of address for the son of Tydeus. ‘He’s half out of his mind at most times of the day, but even more so when he’s had one of his visions.’

Odysseus looked up.

‘Have there been others we haven’t heard of?’

‘Nothing of importance,’ Agamemnon responded, meeting Odysseus’s intelligent eyes. ‘And nothing that has upset him as much as whatever’s on his mind now.’

‘In the name of Apollo, send them away!’ Calchas implored, tears of anguish and frustration rolling down his cheeks. ‘Lord Agamemnon, I must speak to you alone.’

Idomeneus thumped the table in frustration, the annoyance clear on his handsome features.

‘Calchas may bring word from the gods themselves, but what we’re discussing could decide the fate of the whole expedition. Send him to the guard tent, Agamemnon, and call him in when we’re done.’

Diomedes and Menelaus voiced their agreement with the Cretan king, while Odysseus and Nestor both looked at Agamemnon in a way that left him in no doubt of their feelings on the matter.

Calchas turned on them in disgust. ‘What good are your strategies and tactics if the fleet is stuck at Aulis? I’m the only one who knows how to lift the storm, and unless you listen to me your ships will remain here until their timbers rot and their crews die of old age.’

‘Come now, my lad,’ said Nestor, leaning down and patting the distressed priest’s shoulder. ‘If you know how to appease the god we’ve offended, then tell us so that we can do whatever we must.’

‘Whatever, King Nestor?’ Calchas replied with a mocking smile. ‘Whatever? Even a brave man like you would pale at what needs to be done. And that’s why I can only tell the King of Men. He must decide whether to pay the terrible price that is demanded of him, or abandon his dreams of conquest and go back home.’

‘You’d like that wouldn’t you, you Trojan dog?’

‘Enough, Menelaus,’ said Agamemnon, though his eyes did not leave Calchas. ‘If this vision is for me alone, and if it’ll show me how to send these winds back to where they came from, then I must ask you to return to your tents. We can carry on our discussion at noon tomorrow.’

The kings paused and looked at Agamemnon for a moment, then Odysseus went to the table by the entrance and picked up his purple cloak, throwing it about his shoulders and fastening it together with the golden brooch Penelope had given him. The others followed, gathering up their cloaks and helmets before leaving without a word. Odysseus was the last to go, but before he lowered the embroidered flap of the tent behind him, he looked back to see Calchas with his arms around Agamemnon’s knees, crying like a child.

While storms raged over the Euboean straits, the skies above the island of Tenedos were peaceful and clear. Countless stars winked and shivered as if blown by a celestial wind, and a new moon hung low over the black silhouette of the hills. Helen lay on her back in the deep grass with her hand held above her face, the tip of her forefinger tracing the shapes of the heroes and monsters of old in the myriad lights before her. Her nurse, Myrine, had taught them to her from the window of her bedroom when she was a small child, telling her their names and the stories that had earned them their place in the heavenly firmament.

There’s Cepheus, the king of Ethiopia,’ she told Paris, who lay beside her. ‘And that’s Cassiopeia, his wife. Poseidon set their images in the stars after Perseus had turned them to stone with the head of Medusa. Their daughter, Andromeda, is below them. And there’s Perseus, reaching for her hand.’

‘Hmm,’ Paris replied uncertainly. He pressed his naked flank against hers, enjoying the warmth of her body as they lay beneath his double cloak. ‘That’s not what we Trojans call them.’

‘Then how about that bright star a little further to the west? That’s Capella, the she goat who suckled Zeus when he was an infant. Can you see the four bright stars about her? Athena put them there to commemorate Erichthonius, whose lower body was that of a snake. He invented the chariot, so they say, and that’s why we call that constellation the Holder of the Reins.’

‘The Holder of the Reins,’ Paris repeated with mocking slowness. ‘Well, I’ve never heard it called that before. When I was a shepherd on Mount Ida we used to name that the Crooked Stick, though I never knew why. And those two you call Perseus and Andromeda, they’re Marduk and Istar in our reckoning.’

‘Then Trojans must be stupid,’ Helen replied.

Paris rolled on top of her and pinned her wrists to the ground. Helen struggled against him, smiling through the concentration as she wrapped her legs about his waist and tried to throw his heavy bulk to one side. But her efforts were in vain and she quickly lay still beneath him, looking up at his scarred face and into his dark eyes.

‘You won’t say that when you see my father’s city tomorrow. Troy makes Sparta look like a pig farm.’

‘I’m looking forward to seeing your home at last,’ she replied. ‘Though it scares me at the same time.’

‘There won’t be a person there who won’t take you to their heart,’ Paris promised her. ‘The whole of Troy will love you. And if anyone doesn’t, then my father will command them to.’

‘You can’t command someone to love a person.’

‘The king can. In Greece, kings are merely respected and their word obeyed grudgingly; in Ilium, the king is worshipped like a god. When the king speaks, his wishes are carried out with love and fear. Your life depends on it.’

‘Can no one question his authority?’

‘Absolutely no one. He has his council of advisers, and a few of his sons can try to sway his decisions, but when Priam has given a command only a reckless man would dare speak against him. I know of only one who has.’

‘Who?’

‘Apheidas, of course,’ Paris said. ‘He’s Trojan by birth, but he spent too many years in Greece and his foreign breeding has given him a rebellious nature. Fortunately for him, we’ve learned to tolerate his wilfulness because of his skill as a fighter. You’re very similar to him, you know; you have a strong spirit, and perhaps that’s why I love you.’

Helen placed a hand on his bearded cheek and smiled up at him.

‘And one day your father’s power might be yours,’ she said, not sure whether the thought excited or terrified her.

‘When the king dies Hector will inherit the throne,’ Paris corrected, a hint of embarrassment in his voice at having to admit the fact to Helen. ‘And then, when he eventually takes time away from war and politics to find himself a wife, he’ll have children who will precede me in the royal line. Eventually I will become of no importance and fade away.’

The sound of reed pipes and a lyre floated up to them from the palace at the foot of the hill. Further out, in the bay where their ship was anchored, they could hear the sea washing over the shoreline, back and forth, back and forth, like a nurse shushing her infant charge to sleep. They had been guests of King Tenes for several days, and as a client king of the Trojan empire he was obliged to offer Trojan royalty the best he could provide. Somewhere in the modest collection of buildings below, where the yellow lights flickered from the windows, Apheidas, Aeneas and the rest of the crew would be enjoying the pleasures of food, wine and music, happy that their prince was in the arms of the woman he loved. Little Pleisthenes had been left in the care of a young nurse from the town, much as he had been left in the care of others ever since the flight from Sparta.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Paris continued. ‘Power is of no interest to me. All I care about now is you. When we get home we’ll be married, and then one of my younger brothers can have my shield and spears. I’ll be giving up fighting for good.’

‘You promise?’ Helen asked, surprised by the unexpected admission.

‘Of course! What interest will war hold for me if it keeps me away from you? The northern borders will just have to find a way to exist without me.’

He looked at Helen, whose skin had a ghostly pallor from the faint light of the moon, then lowered his face to hers and kissed her. She responded, folding her slender arms about his neck and pulling him closer.

‘Never leave me,’ she whispered, planting a kiss on his earlobe.

He kissed her again and ran his hand over her ribs, cupping her breast. She crossed her calves over his buttocks, kicking the cloak away so that their bodies were cooled by the night air, then pulled him into her.

The relentless, soul-destroying rain had stopped, though the ceiling of turbulent cloud remained. It pressed down on the camp, keeping out the morning light so that the world seemed to be made of ash; the tents were but colourless shadows, their occupants spiritless wraiths. The only thing in this upper-Hades that told Menelaus it was day was the lonely trilling of a blackbird from the branches of a nearby oak, and the sense that, somewhere far above, the sun was creeping through an invisible blue sky.

Instinct had woken him at dawn, and since then he had been busy finding things to do, trying to ignore the urge to visit his brother and extract from him whatever it was Calchas had been so desperate to reveal. Eventually his resistance folded and he walked the short distance to Agamemnon’s tent, stepping over the guy ropes and beneath the lines of clothing that had been hung out to dry during the reprieve from the rain. The heavily armoured guards bowed their heads at his approach, before stepping aside and letting him pass.

He found his brother alone, seated exactly as he had left him the night before – his elbows resting on the arms of his chair, his fingers laced together in his lap and both sandalled feet planted firmly on the fur-covered floor. His head was bowed and he did not seem to notice Menelaus enter.

‘Agamemnon?’

The king remained still. His great chest, encased by its magnificent cuirass, did not stir, and immediately Menelaus felt panic claw at his throat. His flesh prickled and went cold.

‘Agamemnon?’

‘I hear you, brother.’

Agamemnon’s voice seemed to come from a distance, as if he had indeed died and his soul was speaking from the Underworld.

‘Ag . . . Agamemnon, what’s wrong?’

The king of Mycenae lifted his head and faced his brother. Menelaus’s nostrils flared briefly, the only sign of his shock at the sight before him.

‘Brother, what’s happened? You look – ill.’

If the preceding weeks had seen Agamemnon transformed from a healthy, vigorous and determined ruler into an exhausted shadow of his former self, the man who sat before Menelaus now was changed almost beyond recognition. His once smooth skin was lined with anguish and his dark-rimmed eyes had lost their shine, leaving only a glimmer of the tormented soul within. The hair above his ears had turned grey overnight.

‘Calchas told me how to lift the storm, Menelaus. He told me what we must do if we want to sail against Troy.’

He let his gaze fall to the floor again. Menelaus rushed across to kneel before his brother, taking his hands in his own and looking up into his troubled face. Tears were rolling down Agamemnon’s cheeks – something even Menelaus had never seen before – causing the Spartan king to shiver. He squeezed his brother’s hands gently.

‘What is it? What must we do? Zeus’s beard, man, won’t you tell me?’

Agamemnon shut his eyes tightly. When they opened again, the window into his emotions had been closed. Instead, there was a dark, hard glint, like the reflection of light from a piece of obsidian. He turned to Menelaus, his features drawn with a tense determination that made the edges of his nostrils tremble.

‘I’ll tell you, Menelaus, but first you must answer me this: are you determined to have Helen back?’

He seized his brother’s wrists in a fierce grip and looked deeply into his eyes, as if the answer could be seen in the reflection from his eyeballs. Menelaus yanked his hands free and stood.

‘You know I am,’ he answered sharply, turning his back on Agamemnon and walking to the centre of the tent. Then something struck him about the way the question had been asked, and he turned and pointed his finger at the man who had been elected to lead the expedition. ‘I want Helen as much as you want Troy!’

Agamemnon’s shoulders sloped, as if the last taste of hope had left him. ‘Then we must send for Iphigenia.’

‘Iphigenia?’ Menelaus asked, perplexed. ‘Your daughter?’

It was then that Agamemnon told him what was to be done.

Menelaus sat on one of the other chairs and stared at his brother in silence. After a while he reached for a silver goblet on the table beside him, only to find it empty.

‘And you’ll go through with this?’

Agamemnon did not respond, but the grim look on his face showed his resolve.

‘Well, I don’t trust Calchas,’ Menelaus stated, his voice seething with anger. ‘He’s a Trojan, after all, and a traitor to his people, which is even worse. He’s always getting drunk and then having these supposed dreams from Apollo – how can you be sure he’s right with this one?’

‘You saw him when the snake turned to stone. It was a clear sign from Zeus, and he was the only one who could interpret it.’

‘But you don’t know he’s right, yet.’

‘He’s been right about plenty of other things,’ Agamemnon said. ‘He’s told me things that no other man could know. And I believe him with this, too.’

‘Clytaemnestra will never allow it.’

‘Do you think I’m stupid enough to tell her?’ Agamemnon spat. ‘I’ll send Talthybius to fetch the girl on some other pretence. I’ll say . . . I’ll say I’m going to wed her to Achilles. Even Clytaemnestra won’t prevent her precious daughter from marrying the best warrior in Greece.’

‘Don’t be too sure of it,’ Menelaus responded, standing again. He began pacing the floor, trying to make the horror of what they were planning to do settle in his mind. But it was too awful, and as he spoke it seemed as if he was preparing some cold military strategy. ‘She’s a stubborn woman and she loves that girl more than her own life. We need to send somebody who can persuade her to let Iphigenia come to Aulis. Perhaps you should go.’

‘No!’ Agamemnon snapped. ‘Never! Do you think she wouldn’t be able to read it in my eyes? If I go, she’ll sense something’s wrong.’

‘Send Odysseus then. Even if he can’t convince Clytaemnestra to send the girl, he’ll be able to devise some trick or other.’

A smile crossed Agamemnon’s face, making Menelaus flinch with revulsion.

‘Yes. Send Odysseus, then, with Talthybius as a guide. And make sure Eperitus accompanies him.’

‘Eperitus?’ Menelaus asked.

‘Why not? My wife always spoke highly of him, and I’ve a gut feeling he’ll be able to appeal to her now. We’ll send for them immediately – they’ll have to journey overland because of the storm, so we can’t afford to waste any more time.’

Agamemnon stood and shouted for the guard and his body slave. His drive and energy were rapidly returning and he began to strip off his armour and clothing, eager to bathe and start the day.

Menelaus left his brother to his machinations. The price for releasing the fleet and sailing to the conquest of Troy had almost been too much for the King of Men to bear, but somehow – at a terrible cost – he had brought himself to accept it. The cost was another piece of his humanity fed to the cold fires of his ambition; but the thought that his preparations for war could continue seemed to console him and lend him new energy.

For a moment, as Menelaus filled his lungs with the cool, damp air outside the tent, he wondered whether it was right that his passion for Helen – and his desire for vengeance on Paris – should demand so much sacrifice from others. But he immediately knew that if he entertained such questions they would defeat him. He had to be determined to see the war through at all costs, to himself or anyone else. No, he had not asked Paris to offend his hospitality and steal his beloved wife. If there was a cause for the coming war, the blame lay firmly in the Trojan’s lap, not his.

Chapter Twenty

GALATEA

Eperitus was woken the next morning by Arceisius, kneeling beside his straw mattress and shaking him gently by the shoulder.

‘Is it time?’ he said, his voice creaking with tiredness. The air beyond his thick woollen blanket was cold and damp, and he could sense the sun had not yet risen.

‘Yes, sir,’ Arceisius replied, standing and pulling away the blanket. ‘Talthybius is outside with the ponies and King Odysseus is dressing in his tent. The gods have sent a thick mist to cover our departure, but it’ll lift once the sun rises.’

Eperitus stood and pulled on his tunic. ‘What about the others?’

‘Still sleeping. I’ll wake Eurylochus and Polites, sir, if you’ll see to Antiphus.’

Eperitus dressed quickly and followed Arceisius outside, where Talthybius greeted them with a silent nod. Behind him, half hidden in the fog, were the dark shapes of eight ponies – one for each of the party and another for their supplies. Their handlers stood nearby, rubbing their hands against the cold and talking in low voices.

As Arceisius disappeared into the white mist, Eperitus walked up to one of the ponies and ran a hand over its neck. The animal raised its head, snorted and twitched its tall ears.

‘Hello, boy. Ready for a long journey?’

‘His name’s Sophanax, sir,’ said one of the handlers, breaking off from his conversation. ‘He might not be quick, but he’ll take you wherever you need to go.’

Eperitus had spent his youth with horses and knew at a glance that the pony was well fed, well treated and strong. He nodded at the handler.

‘Keep this one for Polites. He doesn’t know a horse’s head from its arse and he’ll need something strong to take his weight. Do you have a quicker animal for me?’

‘Little Melite’s fast on her feet, but she’s spirited,’ the man said, pointing to a small grey mare whose head was bent to the ground, busily tearing at the coarse grass.

‘She’ll do,’ Eperitus replied, then went to wake Antiphus.

They started slowly. Though Eperitus, Odysseus and Talthybius were good horsemen, the others had lived their entire lives on a small, rocky island – with the exception of Polites – and were not used to anything larger or quicker than a mule. They struggled to control their mounts as they negotiated their way out of the camp, and even before the sun had nudged above the hills of Euboea behind them there were complaints of soreness, most notably from Eurylochus. But as soon as they reached the small town of Aulis they were able to pick up the road that led west towards the Peloponnese, and from there the going became easier.

Talthybius, who had travelled the route several times before, confidently informed them they would reach Mycenae by the fourth day. Eperitus did not share his faith in the abilities of their travelling companions, but as they crossed the lowlands of Boetia their progress improved and by afternoon they were passing the ruins of Thebes. Diomedes had laid waste to it in his youth, slaying or scattering its population with such ruthlessness that the proud city was still unoccupied over ten years later. Only bands of brigands and other outlaws lived amidst its broken walls and charred houses now, presenting a danger to all who passed by. Eperitus’s sharp eyesight picked out their faces among the shadows, eyeing them greedily as they trotted past, but he knew they would not dare to challenge a party of seven armed warriors.

By evening they reached a line of low mountains, anchored at its western end by the broad peak of Mount Cytheron. Already the persistent rain and squally winds of Aulis had given way to clear skies and a gentle breeze that came down from the foothills, lifting their spirits as they made camp. Antiphus took his bow and went hunting, and by the time the chariot of the sun had disappeared beneath the peaks to the west they were eating roast goat and exchanging stories around a blazing fire. A ceiling of stars sparkled overhead and the miserable weather of the past few weeks was quickly forgotten.

It took them the whole of the following day to find their way across the mountains. The road that had made their journey easy up to this point now became a rough and poorly maintained track, often requiring them to dismount and lead their ponies along narrow escarpments or past perilous drops. The sun blazed down from a naked sky, slowing their progress even further as they toiled and sweated over and around the undulating contours of the hills. But Talthybius remained cheerful and undaunted, and eventually they saw the port of Eleusis below them, with the Saronic Sea glittering like gold beyond it. They reached the town by last light, and though it was small and unimpressive they were able to find an inn where they feasted on skewered fish and barley cakes, washed down with kraters of good wine. That night they slept under a solid roof for the first time in many days.

By dawn of the next morning they were mounted again and riding in single file along the coastal road that would take them to Megara and, ultimately, the city of Corinth in the north of Agamemnon’s realm. The island of Salamis, where Great Ajax was king, lay on their left. As Eperitus watched the new sun rising over its low hills, his mind drifted back to the words Calchas had spoken to him in Priam’s throne room. He had thought of little else since he and Odysseus had been summoned before Agamemnon three days before, when the King of Men had ordered them to fetch his eldest daughter from Mycenae to be married to Achilles. The fact she was only nine years old, and the Phthian prince was already married to King Lycomedes’s daughter, Deidameia, should have warned him that all was not as it seemed. But Eperitus could only think that, against all his expectations, he would soon be in Mycenae. Here he would seek out the one Calchas had spoken of, a person who could reveal to him the secret that would make him reject the coming war. What could Calchas have meant? What could make him turn his back on battle and the chance for glory? Who would reveal this mystery to him, and how would he find him? And what was the second secret the priest had mentioned, that would compel him to return to Troy whether there was a war or not?

The answers were beyond Eperitus’s capacity to think. In his frustration he was tempted again and again to share these things with Odysseus, whose thoughts were much clearer and deeper than his own. But Calchas’s words seemed too private even for their friendship, and so he was forced to wait in lonely silence, anxiously chewing the mystery over and over again in his mind.

He heard hooves quickening over the stone road behind him and turned to see Odysseus coming alongside. The king gave one of his reassuring smiles.

‘You’ve been very quiet since we left the camp, Eperitus,’ he began, keeping his voice low so that the others could not hear him. ‘What’s troubling you?’

‘This mission,’ Eperitus lied, after pausing to consider his reply. ‘I don’t understand why Agamemnon has suddenly decided to marry his daughter to Achilles. She won’t have reached puberty yet and he’s already married, so why do we have to trudge halfway across Greece to fetch the poor girl?’

‘Eurylochus asks that question with every step his pony takes,’ Odysseus responded, looking back at his cousin’s strained face. ‘But you’re right. There’s something strange about this – something we haven’t been told. And why wasn’t Achilles allowed to know?’

‘Would you be pleased if you were told you were going to marry a nine-year-old?’

‘No, and I think they’re afraid he would have stopped us from going if he’d known the purpose of our journey. The problem is, he’s under no obligation to accept the marriage anyway and can just as easily say no to the girl when we bring her back as he could have done before we set off. So why would Agamemnon send for his daughter, only to have her sent home again if Achilles refuses to marry her? I can only think the important thing isn’t the marriage: either he’s looking for an excuse to get us out of the way – which wouldn’t make sense – or he wants Iphigenia to be brought to Aulis for some other reason.’

‘Such as what?’

Odysseus threw another glance over his shoulder, this time to ensure they would not be overheard. ‘Insurance. He knows Clytaemnestra has no love for him, and I don’t think he trusts her not to try to take the kingdom for herself while he’s away. But she does love Iphigenia, so as long as he holds her he knows Clytaemnestra won’t dare do anything foolish.’

Eperitus was impressed, though not surprised, by his friend’s analysis of the situation. But he also wondered whether Agamemnon’s sending them to Mycenae had anything to do with the secret Calchas said would be revealed to him there. He had a gut feeling that it did.

‘Whatever the reason, though,’ Odysseus continued after they had ridden in silence for a while, ‘I’m glad to be away from Aulis. And it isn’t just those unnatural storms – all that waiting around and doing nothing was slowly robbing me of my sanity.’

Eperitus nodded. ‘Yes, it is good to be travelling again. The last long journey we took by road was when we went to Sparta, all those years ago. And we didn’t have ponies then.’

‘No, we didn’t,’ Odysseus laughed. ‘But do you remember those pack animals? I’ve seen more flesh on a sparrow.’

‘I remember trying to get the damned things across that river,’ Eperitus said. ‘But I remember the fights best. Do you think we’ll have as much fun at Troy?’

‘I hope we’ll never get there,’ Odysseus replied, as if to remind his friend he had not yet accepted the inevitability of war. ‘But if a warrior can’t enjoy a good scrap, then what can he enjoy? There are a lot of good men whose spirits will go down to Hades’s halls before it’s all over, though, Achilles among them.’

‘It’s hard to imagine there’s a man alive who could kill him,’ Eperitus said. ‘You’ve seen his mock fights with the Ajaxes – they’re both excellent warriors, but he’s twice as quick as they are. If they were his enemies rather than his friends he’d have killed them both a hundred times over. And he can wrestle, box and run, too, better than anyone else I’ve seen.’

‘And yet his own mother has predicted he’ll die at Troy,’ Odysseus said. He spat contemptuously on the road. ‘There are too many prophecies about this war. Soon a man won’t dare to lift his spear in anger for fear of bringing about his own death – or being doomed not to see his homeland for twenty years.’

Eperitus sensed his friend’s pain as he thought of his family. If Penelope had been his wife and Telemachus his son, he wondered whether any oath would be able to separate him from them. But he also knew that Odysseus had the courage and endurance to do his duty if the war came, and go to Troy and fight until he was the last man alive if the gods demanded it.

At that point, Odysseus leaned forward and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. ‘What do you think’s got into Polites?’ he asked.

He pointed to where the giant warrior – the foremost in their party – had stopped his pony and was staring ahead of himself, also holding up a hand against the bright sunlight. The next instant, he jumped from his pony and ran towards a crumpled shape at the side of the road. Eperitus and Odysseus spurred their own ponies into a gallop, covering the distance in a few moments. They dismounted and ran to where Polites was scooping something large and heavy from among the rocks.

‘What is it?’ Odysseus demanded.

‘Not it, my lord,’ the Thessalian replied in his deep, slow voice. He stood and turned to face them. ‘She.’

Draped between his muscular arms was a girl. Her eyes were shut and her head hung limply across the crook of his elbow, a cascade of black hair flowing almost to the ground. Her young cheeks were smeared with blood and dirt, as were her long, suntanned limbs. One of her sandals was missing and her white cotton dress had been torn open to expose her pale breasts.

Polites’s broad, flat face stared down at her with tender pity, and for a moment Eperitus thought she was dead. Then he saw a faint movement of her ribs and knew there was still breath within her.

‘She’s alive!’ he exclaimed, reaching for the skin of water that hung over his shoulder and pulling out the stopper. ‘Bring her here, Polites.’

He tipped some of the lukewarm liquid into the palm of his hand, then poured it over her forehead and rubbed away the dirt and blood with his thumb. Her skin was warm and soft, which gave him hope she was still far from death. He did the same to each cheek, then lifted the mouth of the water skin to her lips and, after pulling them open to reveal her bottom teeth and her tongue, allowed some of the liquid to flow into her mouth. At once, the girl choked and brought her head forward, coughing until the water ran back out over her chin and neck.

Her eyes fluttered open and she blinked up at Eperitus. A moment later she flung her arm across her face and turned her head away.

‘Why don’t you leave me alone!’ she cried. ‘You’ve taken all I have. What more do you want?’

‘Don’t be afraid,’ Eperitus said. ‘We’re not going to harm you.’

‘We found you by the road,’ Polites added. ‘You’ll be safe with us.’

The girl was no more than twenty years old, and with the dried blood and streaked grime washed from her face her natural beauty was clear to see. She looked up at Polites with her grey eyes and smiled.

‘Thank you. Who are you?’

‘We’re going to Mycenae,’ Odysseus said, stepping forward and pulling the torn halves of the girl’s dress across her breasts. ‘King Agamemnon has sent us.’

The girl watched the other four members of the troop trot up behind him and dismount.

‘Then you must have come from the army at Aulis,’ she said, letting her eyes roam over Odysseus’s bearded face and broad chest. ‘And you must be one of the kings, judging by your looks.’

‘Don’t concern yourself about me,’ Odysseus said, his hands on his hips. ‘Tell us who you are and what has happened to you.’

‘You can put me down now,’ the girl instructed Polites. There was authority in her voice, though her simple dress and her suntanned skin indicated she was no more than a peasant girl or a slave.

Polites let her slip gently to the ground, and as she stood they could see she was almost as tall as the colossal warrior. She turned to Odysseus. ‘My lord, whoever you are, my name is Galatea. I serve the goddess Artemis in her temple on the other side of that wood, and live with my widowed mother in a house nearby. Until recently I led a simple but happy life, tending to my mistress’s shrine and offering her prayers and pleasing sacrifices. But, ever since the kings left for Aulis and took their armies with them, these lands have become a dangerous place. There are so many brigands roaming the countryside now, no one dares to venture far from their towns or villages. Then, last night . . .’

A pained look filled her eyes and for a moment the strength left her. Polites caught her as she fell, supporting her in his arms as if she weighed no more than a child.

‘Here,’ said Eperitus, handing her his water. ‘Take as much as you need.’

She thanked him and lifted the skin to her lips, taking several mouthfuls.

‘Then last night they came to the temple. There were four of them, standing in the shadows by the entrance, but I could see the torchlight gleaming on their bronze swords. I told them to leave – ordered them to in the name of Artemis – but they just laughed. Then one slapped me across the face and tore my dress. Another stripped me bare – me, a virgin servant of Artemis!’

‘They weren’t afraid to violate the sanctity of the gods?’ Odysseus asked, frowning.

‘Or the sanctity of their servants,’ Galatea said, tears suddenly filling her eyes. ‘When they were finished they beat me and left me on the temple floor, where I think I just drifted into a sort of dream. Eventually I was woken by the dawn light spreading across the temple floor, gleaming red, warming me as it touched my skin. And then I remembered my mother.’

She stopped, unable to go on through her broken-hearted sobs.

‘Why don’t you sit down?’ Eperitus said. He removed his cloak and laid it over a low boulder with a flat top.

‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, wiping the tears from her face and allowing Polites to help her to the seat. Polites, not to be outdone by Eperitus, removed his own cloak and threw it about her shoulders. Galatea continued her story. ‘I returned to our house, where the door lay thrown from its hinges and in splinters, and I began to fear the worst. The brigands were nowhere to be seen, so I stepped through the doorway and looked about at what remained of our home. They had broken every pot we own – no doubt searching for anything of value – and the shards lay all over the floor. Our few bits of furniture had been smashed to smithereens, the floor had been dug up to find buried goods, and they had even shredded our mattresses. It was under one of those I found my mother.’

‘Alive?’ asked Odysseus, who was now seated cross-legged on the road to hear Galatea’s tale, leaning across his knees towards her.

‘Yes, thanks to the merciful gods. I patched up the mattresses and laid her down on them, with a leg of lamb I’d saved from yesterday’s sacrifice. But it’s the last of our food and we’ve nothing left to cook in or eat out of. They found the few precious things we had.’ She gave an ironic laugh. ‘And now I can’t even bring back the leftovers from the sacrificial offerings.’

‘Why not?’ Eurylochus asked.

‘Why?’ Galatea repeated, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. ‘Because only virgins are allowed to serve the goddess. Now I’ll have to leave the temple and our little hut and wander the countryside, scratching about for scraps of food.’

‘But when the winter comes you’ll starve!’ said Polites.

‘Life is often hard, especially on unmarried women,’ Galatea replied, struggling to her feet. ‘And I can always turn to prostitution. But I thank you for your help, sirs, and bid you a safe journey to Mycenae. Maybe you’ll see those brigands on the way, and if you do you can teach them not to disrespect the sanctity of the gods.’

‘It won’t be a quick death if I catch the swine,’ Eperitus said. His anger had grown as each layer of Galatea’s story had been unfolded, and he was silently praying to Athena that she would let him find the men who had committed such a violation.

Polites stood and went to his pony, returning a few moments later with a leather bag in his fist, which he pressed into Galatea’s hand.

‘I’ll not see you forced into prostitution yet. It’s only some dried meat and a bit of bread, but it’ll keep you for a few days, if you’re careful.’

The girl smiled at him, but returned the bag to his huge hand.

‘Thank you, friend, but you might as well keep it. My mother and I will starve sooner or later, unless some man takes pity on us. But who’d take a pair of destitute women under their roof? Few men around here can afford to keep themselves, let alone a violated priestess and her mother.’

‘Keep Polites’s food,’ Odysseus commanded, dipping into the pouch that hung from his belt and producing two bangles of pure gold (he always carried items of value for bartering with). They flashed in the morning sunlight and drew all eyes to them. ‘A man will accept a dowry for a wife, regardless of her misfortunes. These should satisfy most men.’

He held Galatea’s hand and placed the bangles in her open palm. Then he took Polites’s leather bag and hung it from her wrist by its strap. The priestess looked at the gifts for a long time.

‘Here,’ said Eperitus, handing her his own food bag.

Talthybius and Antiphus followed with handfuls of bread and dried meat, which spilled from the girl’s hands, forcing her to kneel and pick them up. Arceisius also gave what little he had, and finally even Eurylochus parted with a half-eaten leg of mutton; Eperitus, who had always known Eurylochus to be closely attached to his food, was surprised, but nonetheless gave him a look that forced him to part with some cakes of bread, too, before withdrawing from sight behind his pony.

‘We must go,’ Odysseus announced, checking the position of the sun then turning to his pony and taking the reins.

Galatea placed her hand on his shoulder. ‘But how can I thank you?’

Odysseus smiled at her. ‘Just return to your mother and bring some joy back to her heart.’

The men returned to their ponies. Eperitus was last, taking his cloak from the rock and throwing it over his shoulders before mounting. Galatea started to unfasten Polites’s cloak, but he told her to keep it as he had a spare. Then he turned his pony and spurred it forward with a jab of his heel to its ribs.

‘Wait!’ Galatea suddenly cried. ‘There is something I can do for you. I can place your weapons on Artemis’s altar and ask her to bless them. I know I can’t serve her in the role of priestess any more, but she’ll remember the years I dedicated to her and answer my prayers, I’m certain of it. And maybe she will return your kindness to me by giving special qualities to your weapons. All I need is one item from each of you, just to show my gratitude. I remember a hunter who asked for his bow to be dedicated at the altar, and he later claimed he never missed a shot.’

The men halted and looked at her in silence as they pondered her words. It was difficult for any warrior to part with his arms, but somehow the prospect of having them blessed seemed appealing. Then Antiphus lifted his treasured bow from his back and handed it to her.

‘You’ll be quick?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ she replied with a smile, kissing his maimed hand where the fore and middle fingers had been docked.

Talthybius and Eurylochus were next, handing her their swords in their scabbards, which she threw over her shoulder with the bow. Polites placed his oversized helmet on her head and was followed by Arceisius, who handed her his spear.

‘You’re overloaded as it is,’ said Odysseus, passing her his dagger.

‘But I’m tall and strong,’ Galatea replied.

Finally, she turned to Eperitus.

‘And you, sir? What about that dagger in your belt – I can ask Artemis to make the blade sharp enough to cut through bronze.’

Eperitus laid a protective hand on the hilt of his cherished dagger. It had been given to him by Odysseus when they had first met, and he treasured it above all else, with the exception of his grandfather’s shield. But Galatea came close to him and placed a long-fingered hand on his arm.

‘Please, sir, let me repay your kindness.’

‘Give her the dagger, Eperitus,’ Talthybius urged him.

Eperitus reluctantly removed the prized gift from his belt and handed it to her. She tucked it into the sash about her waist, alongside Odysseus’s blade.

‘I’ll have to ask you to wait here for me, as men aren’t permitted in the temple,’ she said, bowing to them as she backed away. ‘It’s just on the other side of the wood, so I’ll be back soon. I’ll bring my mother, too, if she has regained her strength yet. She’ll want to thank you herself.’

The warriors dismounted again and watched the priestess disappear into the wood, Polites’s dark green cloak blending easily with the undergrowth and quickly disguising her even from Eperitus’s sharp eyes. He sat on the rock from which Galatea had told her story and took a swallow from his water skin. Already he could feel the absence of the dagger, the handle of which normally pressed against the hard muscles of his stomach. He watched Odysseus haul a sack of grain down from the back of the baggage pony and order Arceisius to feed the animals, before walking over and sitting on the rock beside him.

‘Unless Troy falls quickly,’ the king said, ‘I’m beginning to worry that we won’t have any homes to come back to. The rule of law is already crumbling and we haven’t even set sail yet.’

‘Ithaca’s safe,’ Eperitus replied, taking a mouthful of water and handing the skin to his friend. ‘Mentor and Halitherses will take good care of the place, and they’ve enough good soldiers under their charge to fight off any raiders.’

Odysseus wiped the sweat from his brow and squinted up at the sun. ‘It may be safe for now, whilst Mentor is seen to be acting under my authority. But the longer I’m away, the weaker my authority will become and the less people will listen to Mentor’s commands. Penelope is a good queen and the people love her, but she can’t impose her will at the point of a spear. And Telemachus is only a baby.’

‘And perhaps all the oracles and prophecies are wrong and we’ll be back on Ithaca within a year, glorious conquerors of Troy, our names to be sung forever in the tales of the bards.’

‘That would make me happy,’ Odysseus nodded, looking at the others sitting under the shade of their ponies with the warm blue of the Saronic Sea behind them. ‘And perhaps it would slake your thirst for adventure and renown, at least for a few more years.’

Perhaps, Eperitus thought, and with an unexpected pang of homesickness he found himself thinking of how nice it would be to be back on Ithaca with Odysseus and Penelope, safe from the threat of war and busy playing his own role in the upbringing of Telemachus. It occurred to him then that he was more like Odysseus than he had ever thought, or at least that his friend’s love of home had rubbed off on him over their years together. But as pleasing as these thoughts might be, he also realized that happiness of that kind could not be attained until he had first answered his own questions about himself. He had always thought of it as a personal quest for glory, a name that would endure beyond his own death, but in truth it was simply a desire to find out who he really was. Odysseus, he felt sure, had no such need – though Troy might yet reveal parts of his character that he did not know about – and Eperitus envied him his contentment.

He glanced over his shoulder at the woods where Galatea had taken their weapons, but there was no sign yet of her returning through the trees. When he looked back it was to find Eurylochus’s small eyes boring into him. He was quick to turn his head away, but the look served to remind him that Eurylochus’s animosity had not gone away, and he had not forgotten their argument on Samos.

‘Shouldn’t she be back by now?’ asked Talthybius after a while, craning his neck towards the wood. ‘I know prayers can be a complicated business, but all the same . . .’

He trailed off as if reluctant to follow his question to its natural conclusion. Odysseus, however, sucked on his teeth for a moment then rose to his feet.

‘I’m starting to believe that a mere girl may have tricked us out of our goods and weapons,’ he began. There was a chorus of protest, which he stilled with raised palms. ‘It’s true: where a band of armed brigands would have failed, it seems a pair of plump white tits with some audacity behind them have succeeded.’

The looks on the faces of the others revealed their growing anxiety about the whereabouts of the priestess, but they were unwilling – or too embarrassed – to accept Odysseus’s deduction. Polites, in particular, was adamant that Galatea had been telling the truth, and in the end it was agreed that Antiphus and Eurylochus should be sent to the temple to find her.

They returned quicker than expected, the hooves of their ponies kicking up a cloud of dust as they sped back across the fields from the wood.

‘There isn’t even a wooden hut, let alone a temple!’ Antiphus cried.

‘Odysseus is right, she’s fooled us all,’ Eurylochus added, panting as he pulled his pony to a halt.

‘And I’ve lost the bow I had since I was a boy. If I ever see that girl, I’ll . . .’

‘Silence, Antiphus,’ Odysseus commanded. ‘We have a mission to fulfil, so we might as well forget our losses and move on. Mount up, all of you.’

Eperitus pulled himself lightly onto Melite’s back, and as he turned her about saw Polites standing by his pony, looking wistfully at the wood.

‘That old helmet of yours is long gone by now, Polites,’ he said.

‘I don’t mind,’ he replied, his voice deep and slow. ‘She can barter it for some food. At least she won’t have to offer her body. I couldn’t abide the thought of that.’

‘But she was . . .’ Eperitus began, then thought better of it and spurred Melite forward with a jab of his heel.

Chapter Twenty-one

GOLDEN MYCENAE

Eperitus had not seen Clytaemnestra for ten years, ever since they had made love in the hills overlooking Sparta. She had given herself to him out of her spite for Agamemnon, and though there had never been any love between the young warrior and the Mycenaean queen, Eperitus had always remembered their brief time together with affection. Yet, as they came ever nearer to Mycenae, he began to feel nervous at the thought of meeting her again. He was also concerned about what else he would find within the walls of golden Mycenae. At first he had been keen to find the person who Calchas had said knew the first of the compelling secrets that had the potential to change his life, but as they crept closer to Agamemnon’s city a sense of caution grew in him – perhaps inspired by the disquiet he felt concerning their mission – and soured his enthusiasm.

‘See those watchtowers?’ Talthybius called back over his shoulder, pointing up at the high peaks on either side of the road where two wooden structures kept a silent vigil. ‘They mark the northern border of Mycenae. A richer and happier land you’ll never see, even if you live to be as old as King Nestor.’

Talthybius’s pride seemed justified. It was late afternoon as they crossed the border, but while the sun remained in the sky their eyes were able to feast on a fat and bountiful country. Their tired ponies trudged through valleys covered with crops of wheat, rye and barley, in the midst of which lay numerous stone farm-steads, their white walls gleaming in the sunshine. Children chased each other through the fields, enjoying the relative freedom of life before the coming harvest, when they would be busy gleaning the fields in the wake of the reapers and sheaf-binders. At one point they passed a herd of straight-horned cattle, standing up to their hocks in a gabbling stream and feeding among the rushes that nodded and swayed on either bank. Each fertile valley they passed through was flanked with hillsides where great numbers of sheep and goats seemed to cascade down the scree-covered slopes, searching for patches of vegetation whilst their shepherds looked on, talking peacefully between themselves as they leaned on staffs or spears.

The broad, winding road also took them through numerous villages, where grubby children and their mothers would gather in packs to wave or stare at the party of warriors as they passed. Many offered food or drink at inflated prices, which Odysseus occasionally felt obliged to purchase for his men with the last of his trinkets. He explained to Eperitus that he felt guilty for letting them give the last of their own food to Galatea, when he should have realized they were being tricked.

Soon the road took them closer to the low mountains. A fiery sunset left a brief legacy of purple skies, promising another warm day to follow, but as Talthybius assured them his home city was close they gave no thought to stopping for the night. For some time now the road had been paved – another sign of the wealth of Mycenae – and the hooves of their ponies sounded sharp and hollow in the evening air as the stars opened out above them. Occasionally they crossed bridges over deep ravines, where far below, lost in the twilight, they could hear mountain streams that had been dried to a trickle by the summer sun. Eventually they saw the lights of a city emerge from the darkness to the southeast. They had reached Mycenae.