The Gates Of Troy (Adventures of Odysseus)

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.

The road angled down a little towards the plain, where it intersected another that ran from east to west. At the crossroads, they turned left and headed eastward up the slope towards the city. As the moon sailed out above the black hills, its light painted the wide circuit of the walls and the high-sided buildings beyond them a ghostly white. Nestled on the rocky hill at the centre of the city was the royal palace, where dozens of lights gleamed from its many windows and lines of blue-grey smoke trailed up from vents in its rooftops. Behind the city were two cone-shaped peaks, one to the north-west and another to the southeast. The northernmost peak supported another watchtower, the top of which was framed by the underbelly of the moon. The armour of its occupants glinted in the silvery light as they stared out over the plain. Beside the watchtower was a mound of stacked wood, ready to act as a beacon in times of need.

Not that Agamemnon’s city would ever find itself in desperate need of help. As their ponies approached the citadel, plodding slowly between the spread of shanties that surrounded it, Eperitus looked up in awe at the colossal walls ahead of them. Even though Troy’s imposing defences were built by Poseidon and Apollo, with well-fitted stone and a much wider circuit than Mycenae’s, the walls here surpassed them for brute strength and invulnerability. The blocks were crude but massive – surely beyond the capacity of men alone to lift and fit into place – and in places they were easily as tall as three or four men. Even the handful of bronze-clad troops that peered down at them from the ramparts would be able to hold the city against a besieging army for a very long time; Heracles and Achilles together could not have sacked such a place.

Soon they were under the shadow of the city wall, where the high battlements eclipsed the moon and left them in darkness. Despite this, Eperitus’s sharp eyes noted a gateway up ahead, lost in the deeper gloom between the city wall on the left and another, shorter rampart to the right. The overlapping wall at first seemed pointless to Eperitus. Then, as it loomed up beside him and he instinctively imagined what it would be like to be in a press of attackers storming the gate, he realized that defenders on the shorter wall would be able to fire or throw missiles at him from his unshielded right side. Clever, he thought, and deadly.

Talthybius dismounted and signalled for the Ithacans to do the same. They led their ponies up to the tall oak doors of the gateway to the city and stopped. The gates were over twice the height of a man and flanked by two stone pillars of immense size, which had been built into the walls for added strength. Resting above them was a stone lintel, on top of which was the magnificent relief Eperitus had seen in his dream, depicting a pair of lions standing either side of a short column. Their forepaws were planted firmly on its low plinth and their snarling faces looked out over the approach to the gate, a fearsome and majestic reminder that Mycenae was the greatest city in Greece, and its ruler, Agamemnon, was the greatest king. Though the lions were only faintly visible in the darkness, Eperitus could see the dull gleam of gold in their eyes, a final reminder of the wealth of the city they protected.

Talthybius took his herald’s staff and beat it three times against the doors. The wood was so thick, the sound of each knock boomed as if it came from the ground beneath their feet.

‘Who’s on the door tonight?’ he called. ‘Is it you, Ochesios? Open up quickly and let us in.’

A voice called down to them from the ramparts above. ‘Talthybius? What are you doing back here? Is something wrong?’

‘Open this damned door, Ochesios, will you? I’m tired, hungry and saddle sore from riding this beast for four days.’

There was a brief delay and then the doors swung slowly inwards, revealing the moonlit innards of the city beyond. They walked through quickly, the sounds of the ponies’ hooves echoing beneath the solid walls, and soon stood on a raised roadway overlooking the lowest level of the city. A group of guards nodded to Talthybius, but eyed his companions with caution. To the left was another high wall, perhaps a form of inner defence, and ahead of them a ramp climbed up to the next level. Of more immediate interest to the Ithacans, though, was the large circular arena slightly to their right, where a collection of upright slabs cast long shadows across the floor. It was cordoned off by an outer circuit of slabs, each standing to the height of a man’s chest, and was entered through a single gate. Talthybius smiled as he saw his companions’ undisguised interest.

‘The royal burial ground,’ he explained. ‘Atreus is entombed there with his queen, Aerope. And one day King Agamemnon will be interred there, too, alongside his forebears. If we had arrived before sunset it would’ve been proper to make a sacrifice here before going up to the palace, but perhaps we can show our respects tomorrow.’

Beyond the arena was a collection of well-built houses that filled the remainder of the lower level. They reminded Eperitus of the buildings that skirted the walls of Pergamos in Troy, which housed the numerous officials who served Priam’s household. Their Mycenaean counterparts were less elaborate in their architecture, but that was not a reflection of Troy’s superior wealth – it merely highlighted the different mindsets of the two opposing cultures. Though he had been impressed by the grandeur of Troy, Eperitus felt much more at home with the functional, honest architecture of Mycenae.

After his rustic guests had spent long enough gazing down at the royal cemetery, Talthybius led them up the ramp to the next level of the city. Here they could see the palace buildings looming ahead of them, their layered walls faced with silver by the moonlight. These were built on the third and highest level of the city and before long Talthybius had led them around to the left and up some steps to a double portico. In the narrow courtyard beyond they found more guards, chatting quietly among themselves as they drank wine and played dice on the flagstones. They rose at the sound of the ponies’ hooves and the clank of bronze armour, and immediately levelled their spear-points at the approach of the newcomers.

‘Talthybius,’ said one of the guards, the surprise evident in his voice. ‘The watchtowers sent word we would have visitors before long, but we weren’t expecting you. Shouldn’t you be in Troy by now?’

‘I wish we were, Perithous,’ Talthybius replied. ‘But we’re storm-bound at Aulis.’

‘In the height of summer?’ Perithous exclaimed. ‘It can only be the will of the gods. But if Helen truly is the daughter of Zeus, he won’t allow the fleet to be held up for too long. The good news for you is that the queen made preparations for your arrival as soon as she heard a group of warriors were approaching – a hot bath for every man, followed by a feast in the great hall. Who shall I tell her to expect?’

‘King Odysseus of Ithaca, son of Laertes,’ Odysseus answered, ‘with five of his men.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Perithous, though he appeared unimpressed by the name or rank of the stocky warrior before him, gave a low bow before departing through a tall and richly decorated doorway. Shortly afterwards a dozen slaves appeared and took the ponies away to be fed and rested. As he stripped the last of his belongings from Melite’s back, Eperitus looked out across the Argive plain stretching away towards the Gulf of Argos. The moonlight revealed a network of paved roads spreading out across the hilly plateau for as far as his sharp eyes could see. Farmsteads and villages were strung along the roads like beads on a webbed necklace; the hardworking populace would be up long before dawn, so not a single light could be seen burning anywhere on the landscape of silver and blue.

As soon as the tired travellers had gathered their effects, Talthybius led them into the palace. They entered a short, echoing corridor that opened onto a square courtyard, brightly lit by the moon now soaring in the sable skies above. Opposite was the pillared threshold of the great hall, overshadowed by the conical hump of one of the peaks flanking the city. In contrast to Priam’s great home, the seat of Agamemnon’s power appeared modest and almost homely to Eperitus. It had the disadvantage of being built on a steep hill and hence the architect had been forced to constrain his designs, but even the decorative reliefs on the walls – of rosettes or spirals set between fanned palm leaves – were simple and constrained in comparison with Troy. Four warriors in expensive armour stood guard at the entrance to the throne room, eyeing the newcomers with curiosity and suspicion.

An elderly slave emerged from a doorway to their right. He stretched out his arm, indicating that they should enter. From the open door a wisp of steam curled out and the smell of hot water and perfumed oil greeted their nostrils.

‘After you,’ said Talthybius, bowing to Odysseus.

‘Mycenaean manners are justifiably famous,’ the king replied with a smile, before leading the way to the waiting baths. He was already stripping the heavy armour from his shoulders as he disappeared through the door.

After being bathed and rubbed down with oil by slaves, the men put on the fresh clothes that had been laid out for them and stepped out into the courtyard. The four guards stood aside at Talthybius’s command, allowing the warriors to pass between the twin pillars of the threshold and into the antechamber beyond. Here they found a single soldier, who took a torch from the wall behind him and – after satisfying himself that they were unarmed – opened the twin doors and allowed the men through.

They entered a square, dimly lit room with high ceilings and a wide, circular hearth at its centre. The air was stiflingly warm and tasted of roast meat, while the red light of the fire pulsated against the four wooden pillars and the heavily muralled walls. Eperitus looked about himself and felt disappointed. This room was the beating heart of the most powerful state in Greece, and yet it was a pale shadow of the great halls of Troy and Sparta, and lacked even the fresh vitality of Odysseus’s throne room on Ithaca. The once-colourful murals on the walls of the modest chamber were fading, and in places had begun to peel away. A scene depicting Perseus lopping off the snake-covered head of Medusa was so faint and stained by smoke that it was difficult to see in the red light from the fire. Perhaps there was little the greatest king in Greece could do to increase the dimensions of the hall, but to restore the murals would have been an easy thing for a wealthy ruler.

Unless that ruler was waiting to replace the murals altogether, Eperitus thought – maybe with depictions of his own glorious conquest of Troy? Eperitus smiled to himself and turned his eyes to the tables of food laid out around the hearth. The smell of the freshly roasted meat filled his nostrils, making his stomach rumble and his mouth salivate. To his left he could see a slave in the shadows, washing the blood of a recently sacrificed animal from a wooden altar. The altar stood before an alcove containing a glazed terracotta image of a goddess – Hera, the wife of Zeus, judging by the pomegranate in the palm of her hand. But the pomegranate was also associated with Persephone, the dark goddess of the underworld.

‘Be seated, my lords,’ said a voice.

The newcomers turned as one towards a large granite throne positioned against the right-hand wall of the great hall. A woman stood beside it, scrutinizing them carefully as she leaned with her elbow on the back of the chair. She had dark red hair that was tied back behind her neck, with a fringe of ringlets and a tumbling curl before each of her protruding ears. She had her fair share of the beauty that her sister, Helen, possessed in such abundance, but Helen’s face was fair and pleasant, whereas hers was dark and hardened with bitter experience. As if to emphasize this, she wore a black chiton over her tall, bony figure, against which the pale skin of her face and arms stood out starkly.

‘Please,’ Clytaemnestra said, stepping into the glow of the fire and indicating the seven chairs that circled the hearth, ‘sit and eat. I may only be ruling in my husband’s stead, but I won’t have it said that I don’t treat my guests according to the customs of xenia.’

Odysseus and Talthybius sat, followed by the others. Eperitus was last, eyeing Clytaemnestra as he walked around the hearth to the only remaining chair. She did not return his gaze, but sat on a high-backed wooden chair opposite Odysseus.

‘Xenia exists to protect travellers and allow alliances between men of power,’ Odysseus said, taking a knife from the table beside him and carving a slice of mutton. He folded it into a piece of bread but did not eat. ‘What use is it to a woman?’

‘I’m not a woman, Odysseus. I am a queen. And while Agamemnon fights his wars abroad and his son Orestes is still only a boy, Mycenae is under my rule. Now, you and your comrades will have travelled far and must be hungry; I have provided food and wine; please, satisfy yourselves and then we can talk.’

She leaned across the arm of her chair and poured herself a cup of wine. The others, who were famished, immediately began to help themselves to the modest meal. Eperitus’s appetite, however, had diminished and he satisfied himself with a barley cake and a swallow of the cool wine. Had Clytaemnestra forgotten him, he wondered? They had been lovers, and though some treated physical intimacy lightly, he could not believe she had allowed the evening they had spent together to die in her mind. And yet she ate and drank and smiled at the other men as if he were not there.

‘It’s been a long time, Clytaemnestra,’ Odysseus said, after washing down a mouthful of food.

‘Ten years,’ Clytaemnestra replied. ‘In which time I hear you’ve become the king of Ithaca, and fathered a son.’

‘Telemachus,’ Odysseus nodded proudly. ‘A fine lad, but born at the wrong time. I only hope the war will be short so I can go home and watch him grow up.’

‘It’s a cruel fate that separates a parent and a child. They uphold our memory and make sure we are not forgotten – our only real hope of immortality.’

‘A warrior’s memory is upheld by his spear,’ Eperitus contested, tired of being ignored. ‘A child may pass his name on from generation to generation, until he becomes nothing more than another name in a list of names learned by rote. But if his achievements in battle are great enough, his name will be remembered forever, just like Heracles, or Perseus on that wall up there.’

Clytaemnestra looked into her krater of wine. ‘Who am I to deny that a warrior can make his name on the battlefield or in the pile of bodies he leaves behind him? But corpses are cold and lifeless, and the stories they tell are full of blood and horror. A child, Eperitus, is warm and loving, and will carry on a man’s legacy through the blood that is in their veins, not the blood that is spilled in the dirt of a distant country.’

Their eyes met at last, and instead of the confidence she had demonstrated before Odysseus, or the strength and power that befitted a queen of Mycenae, he saw only her weakness and longing. He was suddenly aware of her frail beauty and wanted to hold her slender body again, as he had done by the fire in the Taygetus Mountains so long ago. Then her staring eyes faltered and blinked, and she turned back to face Odysseus.

‘I’m unfamiliar with practising the custom of xenia, King Odysseus, but once a guest’s needs are met is it not time for the host to ask the purpose of his visit? I already know the fleet is wind-bound at Aulis, but perhaps you will tell me why you have left your duties to visit a lonely queen, four days’ ride away by pony. Have you come all this way, only to feast your eyes on golden Mycenae?’

‘No, though I’m glad to have seen this famous city,’ the king responded. ‘But I have not left my duties to come here, as you suggest; rather, I am carrying out the command your husband and his brother gave me, to come to speak with you in person about a matter of great importance and honour.’

Clytaemnestra shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

‘And what does the great Agamemnon want you to say that he cannot say himself?’

‘The king is busy marshalling the fleet and preparing for the attack.’

‘Nonsense, Odysseus. The king knows the storm will not abate until the gods permit it. He could have come himself.’

‘It isn’t for me to know the mind of Agamemnon,’ Odysseus countered, unfazed by the queen’s shrewd questioning. ‘But here I am, and the news I bring should warm a mother’s heart. Especially one who talks with such pride of the immortality her children will bring her.’

‘That all depends on what a warrior believes will warm a mother’s heart, does it not? Perhaps my husband intends to give command of half the fleet to eight-year-old Orestes, and has asked you to take him back with you to Aulis?’

Odysseus smiled and shook his head.

‘Shame,’ Clytaemnestra sighed. ‘The boy despises living among women, and me most especially. He needs a father’s discipline. So what is it, Odysseus? I know Agamemnon has always valued your powers of persuasion and trickery, so whatever he’s sent you for must be something I won’t be willing to give easily.’

‘We’ve come for Iphigenia,’ Talthybius interposed, staring disdainfully at Clytaemnestra, who he knew did everything in her power to make his master’s life insufferable. ‘She’s to be married to Achilles at Aulis, before the fleet sails for Troy.’

The queen’s eyes narrowed quizzically and she turned to Eperitus.

‘Is this true, Eperitus? At least I know I can trust you.’

Eperitus nodded.

‘But she’s nine,’ Clytaemnestra protested through gritted teeth, turning her dark eyes back to Odysseus. ‘And Achilles is already married with a child of his own.’

The king shrugged sympathetically.

‘Achilles and Deidameia were never married in the official sense, before a priest and with all the appropriate sacrifices. And as for Iphigenia’s age, what can I say? It’ll be a political marriage, of course, so that Agamemnon can be assured of Achilles’s support for the campaign against Troy. Nothing else matters as far as your husband is concerned. But don’t be too hasty to condemn it,’ Odysseus added, holding up his large hands and smiling amicably at the queen. ‘I know it doesn’t sound like the sort of arrangement a loving mother would want for her daughter, but if you see it the way I do then it will be nothing more than a minor inconvenience.’

‘That depends on what you regard as a minor inconvenience?’ Clytaemnestra said, eyeing Odysseus with suspicion.

‘Most importantly, Achilles may be prepared to marry Iphigenia to show political goodwill to Agamemnon, but he won’t have any interest in consummating his marriage to a nine-year-old. The word in the camp is that he and Patroclus share a bed, but I’m certain his sexual tastes don’t extend to little girls. Then, after the wedding ceremony is over the fleet will sail to Troy and Iphigenia will return home to Mycenae, married but with her child’s innocence intact. And while she’s safe with you, Achilles will meet his doom before the walls of Troy – his own mother has predicted that much – so Iphigenia will become a widow and everyone will be happy.’

‘Except Achilles, of course,’ Clytaemnestra replied, wryly. ‘The truth is, Odysseus, I don’t trust Agamemnon where my daughter is concerned – he has never paid her any mind before and it seems strange that he should do so now. Your argument has its merits, though, and if there is nothing beneath what you say then I will give urgent attention to my husband’s request. But it’s late and we’re all tired; I need to think this over and consult the gods. Until then, you and your men are welcome to enjoy Mycenae and all its pleasures.’

As she spoke her eyes touched on Eperitus. Odysseus noticed the glance.

‘How soon will you let us know your decision, Clytaemnestra?’ he asked firmly. ‘You know Agamemnon doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’

‘Before the week is out,’ she promised, rising from her chair. ‘And you’re to say nothing to Iphigenia, or anybody else, about this marriage until I say so. Goodnight, my lords.’

The queen turned and crossed the room to a side entrance, her black chiton blending with the shadows as she moved.

Chapter Twenty-two

HELEN OF TROY

A dozen guards stood by the Scaean Gate and a dozen more on the battlements above, their armour gleaming like silver in the moonlight. Helen gripped the chariot’s handrail and put an arm around Pleisthenes’s shoulders as Paris spurred the black horses on towards the city, eager to see his home again after so long. Beside them Apheidas and Aeneas urged their mounts to keep up with the prince.

‘They’ve doubled the guard,’ Apheidas shouted as the wind tore at his hair and threw his cloak out behind him.

Paris laughed and lashed his whip harder across the backs of the horses. ‘It’s a guard of honour for my return. They must have got news that we were on our way.’

‘Then why are they forming a defensive line?’ Aeneas yelled from the opposite side of the chariot. ‘Slow down, Paris. There are archers on the walls and if they don’t recognize us they’ll fire.’

Helen looked in alarm at the line of men by the gates, their tall, rectangular shields planted firmly in the soil and their long spears levelled at the chests of the approaching horses. A dozen more soldiers were rushing out from the gates and making a second line behind them.

‘Paris,’ she hissed, placing her hand on his arm. ‘Slow down, my love. You’ll be home soon enough.’

Paris looked at the concern in her eyes and nodded. ‘Whoaaa!’ he yelled, pulling back the ox-hide reins. ‘Whoaaa, there. Slow down, girls. Slow down.’

The gold-covered chariot slowed to a trundle and the two riders on either side reined in their mounts to fall in beside it. Helen and Pleisthenes relaxed their grip on the handrail and looked at the wall of soldiers, whose spears were still levelled at them. The Spartan queen – or former queen, as she now regarded herself – looked in awe at the high ramparts with the spike-filled ditch below and the imposing guard towers that overlooked the plain all around. Paris had not exaggerated when he had said they would be safe inside his father’s city. Even if Menelaus should be supported by his brother and come after her with the combined armies of Sparta and Mycenae, they would never prise her out of Troy. For the first time in weeks, she began to feel safe in her new life. Soon, she and Paris would be married and would live in the house he had promised to build for them.

‘Is this our new home?’ asked Pleisthenes, his tired eyes wide as he looked at the splendid battlements and the rows of exotically armed warriors. The limestone walls shone white and smoke trails rose from the city into the star-littered sky. ‘Are we really going to live here?’

‘Yes, son,’ Paris answered, scruffing his hair with his large hand. ‘This is Troy, city of the gods, and from now on we must all speak the language of the Trojans. You and your mother have been good pupils, but now’s the time to test your learning. You’ll find very few people who speak Greek here.’

‘Who’s that?’ called a voice from the rank of soldiers. ‘Name yourself and your purpose.’

‘Don’t you know me yet, Deiphobus?’ Paris replied. ‘After all, we share the same father and mother.’

‘Paris? By the gods of Mount Ida, it is you!’

A short youth with long black hair left the line of soldiers he had been commanding and ran towards the chariot, holding his hands towards the team of horses.

‘You’ve been gone an age,’ he said, peering up at Paris from between the heads of the black mares, as if to be sure it really was his older brother. ‘There’ve been all sorts of rumours about you and . . .’

At that moment, Deiphobus’s eyes fell upon Helen and his words faltered.

‘This is Helen, formerly of Sparta, now of Troy,’ Paris announced. ‘She’s to be my wife.’

Helen smiled at the lad, pleased her beauty was as powerful a weapon against Trojan men as it had been against Greeks. She sensed she would need it in the coming days, if the people of Paris’s city were to welcome her.

‘Then the stories are true,’ Deiphobus said, as if to himself. ‘Welcome to Troy, my lady. I’m pleased we are to become brother and sister; to be able to look at such beauty every day is more than any man could hope for.’

‘Thank you, Deiphobus. If all Trojans welcome me thus, I will find happiness here,’ Helen replied haltingly, the harsh-sounding words strange but satisfying as she heard herself speak them. She had never known any language other than Greek and it excited her to pluck the correct Trojan words from her memory and arrange them in her mind before conveying them to her lips. In time, she expected that both she and Pleisthenes would think and speak fluently in their new language.

Deiphobus bowed low before her, revealing the back of his suntanned neck. This amused Helen, who was not used to seeing such gestures of subordination from the obstinate Greeks.

‘See, Helen,’ said Apheidas, ‘the gates of Troy have already fallen to you. Now we must see what waits inside.’

He trotted towards the line of spearmen and ordered them to one side; each man’s eyes were upon the woman in Paris’s chariot as it rolled past. Helen, who was used to the stares of men, ignored the attention and looked through the approaching gateway at the upward-sloping street and its closely packed houses. The gateway walls echoed as they passed between them and out into the cool night air again.

So this was Troy, she thought to herself. Large, impressive and asleep. The streets that branched off the main route were all empty and few lights burned in the windows. Part of her wished they had arrived in the daylight, when the whole city would be able to rejoice at Paris’s return and marvel at the beauty of the woman he had brought back with him. Commoners and slaves were easily won over by her looks, she had always found, and if she had been able to gain the approval of the rabble Priam may have felt unable to rebuff his son’s choice of wife. That had become her greatest fear, to be rejected and forced to return to Sparta. Paris had assured her no such thing could happen, and if it did he would sooner turn his back on Troy forever and live with her on an obscure island, far beyond the reach of Menelaus. But Helen knew the ways of politics better than he did: Menelaus may have already visited Troy and persuaded, bribed or cajoled Priam into returning his wife to him. Something in Deiphobus’s words at the gate, along with the strong guard there, made her suspect that her arrival would come as no surprise to the old king.

And yet she was glad they had not hurried to Troy. Instead of sailing into the large bay before the city, they had landed on the beach opposite Tenedos, intending to make their way overland so that Helen could get a taste of the rich and beautiful country she hoped would become her home. After disembarking the chariot and finding a team of horses, Paris ordered the crew to wait a day before sailing home – so that news of their arrival would not precede them – before setting off at a leisurely pace with Apheidas and Aeneas for company. Under cloudless skies they drove between wide fields of corn and barley, the chariot bumping and jogging over the pitted cart tracks. Little Pleisthenes constantly called his mother’s attention to each new sight he saw, from the herds of wild horses that roamed the plains to the unfamiliar flowers that dotted the roadsides. After a while they reached a town where the market square was too crowded for them to pass through. Dismounting, they had forged their way through crowds of spectators to a cleared area where hundreds of youths were dancing together to the music of a lyre. The girls had on their finest dresses with garlands woven into their hair, and the young men wore close-fitting tunics and had rubbed oil into their brown skin. They stepped lightly around each other, the maidens resting their hands on their partners’ wrists as they circled smoothly and kept time with the music. The soft shuffle of their dancing feet was too much for Helen, and taking Paris’s hand she joined the lines of simple peasants and felt again the wonder of being young. And as she danced the crowds looked on in awe, believing a goddess had graced them with her presence. But her smile and her flowing black hair also filled them with joy as she danced late into the evening, Paris always at her side, until Apheidas had reminded them of the need to press on.

Another wall rose in front of them as they climbed the road through the city, pierced by another gateway. Beside it, a pale tower loomed upwards into the night sky, crowned by the white moon. They passed the strange idols that stood in a line at its base and continued through the gate to Pergamos, Apheidas and Aeneas lowering their heads to clear the low archway as the hooves of their mounts echoed around them. On the other side Helen stared in wonder at the richly decorated buildings, which cried aloud the wealth and self-importance of the city. It all looked so alien and exotic, making her feel both afraid and excited at the same time. More than ever she realized there could be no return to her old life now; she had cut all but one of her anchor stones, and only Pleisthenes was left to remind her of the woman she had once been. Paris, noticing her wide eyes, placed his hand on her wrist and smiled at her.

‘Won’t be long now. You’ll like the old man, and I know he’ll like you. He’ll be angry at first, of course, but that’ll be at me, not you. He’ll curse me for failing to bring his sister back, and then when he learns I’ve brought a Greek queen with me he’ll probably threaten to cut my head off and send it to Menelaus. But he’ll forgive me sooner or later, if only for the sake of your beauty. Which reminds me, you should lower your veil.’

Helen had always hated veils and thought them demeaning. They also took away her greatest weapon. But this was a foreign land and she trusted Paris’s judgement, so she unhooked the thin material from her hair and pulled it over her face, leaving only a faint impression of her perfect features visible through the gauze.

They reached the ramp to the final level of the city, where the marble columns of Priam’s palace could be seen shining in the moonlight. Apheidas had ridden ahead and informed the guards of Paris’s approach, so they were unhindered as the prince spurred his horses up the slope to the terrace above. Here the chariot slowed to a halt and Paris threw the reins to Aeneas before jumping down.

Helen looked at the ornately decorated walls and the many alcoves with their painted figurines of different gods, but her appreciation was cut short by voices coming from the threshold of the palace. She turned to see an old man crossing the terrace towards them. He was tall with long black hair and a handsome, but ageing, face; his pace was unhurried, but his long legs brought him towards them at speed, his purple gown flowing behind him. Hurrying at his side was an equally old woman, her short, plump body covered by a thin dress of what might have been a light green hue, though Helen found it impossible to tell the colour in the achromatic moonlight. She was wagging her finger at the old man and speaking with a fluidity that Helen’s understanding could not follow, only stopping as they reached the chariot.

‘Father,’ Paris said, stepping forward and embracing the old man. ‘How did you know I was here?’

‘I’m the king,’ Priam answered, placing his hands on his son’s shoulders and staring into his eyes. ‘Even the birds of the sky are required to tell me what is going on in my realm. But if you must know, King Tenes informed me over a week ago that you were under his roof, and this morning he sent another message to let me know you had landed on the bay opposite his island and were travelling overland by chariot.’

Paris leaned across and kissed his mother on both cheeks, which were wet with tears at the sight of her son.

‘We’ve missed you, my dear,’ she smiled. ‘Or I have missed you, at least. Your father has done nothing but curse your name, ever since he heard you’d abandoned the mission he sent you on and brought back a foreigner.’

Paris turned to his father. ‘Then Tenes told you about Helen also?’

‘I heard long before he informed me,’ Priam answered, looking up at the tall woman standing aloof and motionless in the golden chariot. ‘Tenes only confirmed what I had already been told, though previously I had struggled to believe the news that had been brought to me.’

‘Brought by whom, my lord?’ asked Apheidas, bowing low before the king. Both he and Aeneas had handed their horses to slaves and now stood at Paris’s shoulder.

‘Ah, Apheidas. It is a comfort to have you back at Troy. Your prowess in battle may be called upon before long. But in answer to your question, a Greek embassy arrived several weeks back claiming you, Paris, had taken the queen of Sparta against her will.’

‘That’s a lie!’

‘Silence!’ Priam shouted, clenching his fists by his side. A moment later he was calm again. ‘This is not a debating chamber, Paris, and you will not interrupt me until I have finished. The king of Sparta himself sat in my hall, along with Odysseus of Ithaca and Palamedes the Nauplian, threatening war if this woman’ – Priam nodded towards Helen – ‘was not returned immediately. Unfortunately for Menelaus, you had not yet returned and I knew nothing of your antics in Greece; as their tone grew more bullying I’m afraid I lost my patience with them and had them returned to their ship. Since then, however, my blood has cooled and I have had time to think. Though a Greek, King Odysseus spoke wisely and reminded us that it is an offence against the gods to steal a man’s wife. So the matter now lies with you, my child.’

The king looked at Helen and offered her his hand. She took it and stepped down from the chariot.

‘I do not know you, Helen, queen of Sparta, and my heart wishes you had never come to Troy. But here you are, and now our fate rests in your hands. It is in my power to send you back to your husband and prevent this war. If I do I may break my son’s heart, but I will save many lives, both Trojan and Greek. But I will ask you one question, and if your answer satisfies my sense of honour and justice, then you can remain here and the walls of Troy – and the blood of her sons – will have to bear the consequences. Tell me, did Paris take you from Sparta by force, or did you come of your own free will?’

Paris had said he would tell her to remove the veil when the time was right. But Helen did not need to be told that the time had come, and lifting the veil from her face she looked Priam in the eye.

‘Sir, I came here by choice. I was forced to leave three children behind in Sparta, because their father had taken them with him to Crete. But I was prepared to sacrifice them because of my love for your son.’

Priam stared at the incomparable face and his heart melted.

‘That is the answer I was dreading, daughter. But now that I look on you, I know that I could never have sent you back to Menelaus, whatever your reply had been.’ He leaned forward and embraced her with warmth and respect for her beauty. ‘Now you must go with my wife, Hecabe. She will show you to your quarters. You are to come with me, Paris. It may be late, but Hector and I want to discuss the consequences of what you have done. You too, Apheidas.’

‘And me, my lord?’ asked Aeneas, as Priam turned with Paris and Apheidas at his shoulders.

‘No, not you,’ Priam answered without looking back.

Helen saw the young man scowl at the departing king, then turn and kick a stone halfway across the terrace.

‘Will you bring Pleisthenes, Aeneas?’ Helen asked, as Hecabe walked over and hooked an arm through her elbow. ‘Please?’

Aeneas gave a surly nod and lifted the sleeping child from the gleaming chariot, before following the two women as they crossed the courtyard at a diagonal to the king.

‘Poor lad,’ said Hecabe without looking at Aeneas. ‘Priam treats him like one of the dogs that lick up the scraps from beneath his table.’

‘But isn’t he the son of a king?’

‘Yes: his father is Anchises, king of the Dardanians. Aeneas is kept here to ensure Anchises’s loyalty, though the lad still has the freedom to come and go as he pleases.’

‘Then why is he treated so badly?’

‘Most think it’s because Priam disdains any royalty that is not purely Trojan,’ Hecabe said. ‘But I know it has nothing to do with that. The old man’s simply jealous because Aeneas’s father slept with Aphrodite. Priam has always prided himself on the number and beauty of his lovers, you see, but he’s never had the pleasure of the goddess.’

Helen was shocked at Hecabe’s indifference on the matter.

‘Doesn’t it bother you?’ she asked. ‘That your husband has had so many lovers, I mean.’

‘Not at all,’ the old woman responded, pushing open a side door to the palace. ‘He’s the king, and the king does as he pleases. The more wives he has, the more sons there are – fifty at the last count – and the more sons there are, the stronger his base of power. He also uses marriage to secure ties beyond the walls of Troy.’

They entered a torch-lit corridor with a flight of stone steps to one side. Two women were sitting on a wooden bench and rose to their feet as Hecabe and Helen appeared, with Aeneas behind them.

‘Take Leothoë here,’ Hecabe continued, indicating the shorter of the two women. ‘She is the daughter of King Altes of the Leleges. Her father married her to Priam to seal an alliance between our two states. Now, if the Greeks are foolish enough to come after you, King Altes will be obliged to bring his army to our aid.’

Leothoë stepped forward and bowed. She was no older than Helen and had a face and body that would be the envy of most women.

‘Welcome, Helen,’ she said, her voice light and leaving almost no impression. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been brought so far from your home. It must be difficult for you.’

‘I came freely,’ Helen replied.

‘Such beauty,’ said the other woman, reaching out and touching Helen’s cheek as if to assure herself she was real. ‘You must have the blood of a god in your veins. I am Andromache, daughter of King Eëtion of the Cilicians. My brother is a friend of Hector and brought me here to see the marvels of Troy.’

‘Then this is your first time here, too?’ Helen asked, looking at the tall, black-haired woman before her. Her face was beautiful and intelligent, though tinged with sadness.

‘Yes. My home is Thebe, beneath the wooded slopes of Mount Placus. It’s a lovely city, but very plain compared with Troy.’

‘I’ve asked Leothoë and Andromache to help you get used to the palace,’ Hecabe said. ‘They’ll show you to your rooms and make you feel at home. They’ll also teach you our customs and help you learn our language, although Paris already seems to have taught you much.’

Helen took Pleisthenes from Aeneas’s arms and wished him and Hecabe a goodnight, before following Leothoë and Andromache up the steps.

‘Thank you both,’ she said. ‘I hope we can be good friends.’

‘I hope so too,’ said Andromache. ‘Though I fear that great suffering will follow in your wake, for all Trojan women.’

Chapter Twenty-three

IPHIGENIA

‘Do you think she’ll agree to the wedding?’ Eperitus asked.

He stood in the middle of the courtyard, looking up at the humped shape of the mountain behind the great hall. The early morning sun was still hidden behind its black bulk, but the sky above glowed like heated bronze. A few purple clouds scudded through the fiery skies, their bellies transformed to gold by the hidden dawn.

‘I think I’ve convinced her there’s nothing to be lost by allowing the marriage,’ Odysseus replied, biting into the barley cake he had brought with him from the breakfast table. ‘The problem is whether she believes that’s the real reason why Agamemnon wants his daughter to go to Aulis.’

‘But if the marriage is just an excuse, do you think Clytaemnestra knows what Agamemnon really wants Iphigenia for?’

‘Shhh,’ Odysseus said, nodding towards the sentries at the threshold of the great hall and giving his friend a wink. ‘Come with me.’

He walked to the low, rectangular building that blocked off the southern edge of the courtyard, between the great hall and the guest house in which they had slept. Inside was a stone staircase that led them down to a garden of broad lawns, edged with fruit trees and flowering bushes. At its centre was a circular pond filled with white and yellow lilies and with a long, semicircular wooden bench on its southern side. A high wall enclosed the garden, and the only entrance from the city was an arched gateway in its western corner.

‘I don’t think Clytaemnestra knows what Agamemnon really wants with Iphigenia, any more than we do,’ Odysseus continued. ‘But if she wants to know, she has powers that can tell her. You remember all those rumours about her being a witch?’

‘I remember them,’ Eperitus replied, avoiding Odysseus’s eye.

‘Well, it wouldn’t surprise me if she’s . . .’

‘Are you Eperitus?’ asked a voice behind them.

They turned to see a girl with black hair and a stern, demanding look on her pretty face. She was staring at Odysseus and had her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

‘You mean Eperitus the Great, Sacker of Cities and Slayer of Thousands?’ Odysseus smiled, crouching down to face the youngster.

The girl narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips disapprovingly. ‘I mean Eperitus of Alybas. And if that’s you, sir, and you’ve really sacked cities and slain thousands, then I would like you to tell me about it.’

Odysseus shrugged his shoulders apologetically.

‘Sorry, little princess. I am only Odysseus, the king of lowly Ithaca.’

‘I’ve heard of you,’ the girl nodded. ‘But it’s Eperitus I’m looking for.’

Odysseus flicked his eyes towards his companion and took a step back.

‘I’m Eperitus. What do you want, child?’

Eperitus, who had always found young children irrelevant and irritating, looked down at the girl, and as their eyes met he felt a curious sense of recognition.

‘I wanted to see what you looked like, sir,’ she replied. ‘My mother has told me lots of things about you. She says you are a strong warrior with a stout heart, and that you and she were friends long ago.’

‘You’re Iphigenia,’ Eperitus said. The girl had Clytaemnestra’s tall, thin frame and large ears, though there was also a shadow of Agamemnon in her authoritative mannerisms. But there was something else familiar about her, too, something elusive that he could not define.

‘You don’t look as I had imagined,’ Iphigenia said, after pausing to scrutinize the man before her. ‘But now I look at you, I think you are better than I imagined.’

‘Forgive my daughter, my lords,’ said Clytaemnestra, emerging from the doorway at the bottom of the staircase and striding confidently towards them. She had an elegant femininity as she crossed the lawns barefoot, dressed in a yellow gown that gleamed with the early morning light. ‘She’s naturally drawn to warriors. She’s convinced she’ll be one herself, one day.’

‘I will,’ Iphigenia protested, frowning at her mother’s fun-making. ‘Just like Eperitus. I want to roam Greece doing good – killing outlaws and slaying serpents and rescuing cities from tyrants.’

She made slashing motions with an imaginary sword as she spoke, while Odysseus laughed aloud and slapped Eperitus on the back.

‘I had no idea you were so talented, old friend. Or so famous.’

Eperitus looked questioningly at Clytaemnestra, who replied with a sheepish smile.

‘I apologize for Jenny’s imagination. I’ve told her all about the great men at Sparta, but she seems to have a special liking for you, my lord. She also enjoys hearing about your exploits, of course, Odysseus.’

‘Oh, yes – she tells me she’s heard of me.’

‘Naturally,’ Iphigenia nodded, though her eyes did not leave Eperitus for a moment. ‘Eperitus saved your life after you were caught in the women’s quarters at Sparta.’

Odysseus arched his eyebrows. ‘Well, there was more to it than just that. You see, what actually happened was . . .’

‘Come now, Odysseus,’ Clytaemnestra interrupted. ‘You and I have more serious matters to discuss. I’ve been thinking about your proposal of last night, and perhaps you could answer a few questions to help my decision.’

‘Certainly, if I can,’ Odysseus replied.

Clytaemnestra hooked her arm through his elbow and steered his bulky, triangular form back towards the stairs. ‘Perhaps you will keep Jenny entertained for me, Eperitus?’ she said over her shoulder.

‘Actually I was intending to go . . .’

‘Don’t be afraid,’ Odysseus called back as they crossed the lawn. ‘She’s only a girl, after all, and you’re a famous slayer of serpents and rescuer of cities.’

Odysseus and Clytaemnestra disappeared through the doorway. Eperitus turned and looked down at Iphigenia, who was still staring at him.

‘Well,’ he said, after a long pause. ‘What do children do to keep themselves entertained nowadays?’

Iphigenia’s face broke into a smile. She reached across and slipped her hand into his, her little fingers cold as they gripped his rough skin.

‘I’d like to hear about your adventures. My mother tells me as much as she knows, but she’s no bard and when I ask her questions about the names of the men you killed and how they died, and things like that, she doesn’t know. And in return I will show you around the city and let you meet some of my friends. There’s Thoosa, the goldsmith’s daughter, and Tecton, who helps his father carve ivory trinkets, then there’s . . .’

‘Is that the way to the city?’ Eperitus said, pointing at the west-facing gateway. He was already dreading the thought of being forced into the company of other children.

‘You mean you’re really going to let me show you around?’ Iphigenia said, her eyes wide as she gripped his wrist with both hands and stared up at him. ‘That’s great! An adult all to myself, for the whole day!’

‘I didn’t say for a . . .’

‘None of my friends will have an adult, and even if they did he wouldn’t be a warrior like you. You’re even better than mother says you are. You have to tell me about the serpent in the temple of Athena first. What colour was it? Did it have one head or many?’

She pulled him towards the gate, still chattering as Eperitus walked stiffly at her side, already imagining the humiliation of being seen in the care of a child. At first he tried to correct her about the fight with the serpent. It had happened in Athena’s temple at Messene, but both he and Odysseus had been defeated by the giant creature and had to be saved from death by the timely arrival of Mentor. Iphigenia, however, was dismissive of Mentor’s contribution, stating that the creature must already have been brought to the edge of destruction by Eperitus before anyone else could claim its life. As she was not far from the truth, Eperitus did not press the point.

They spent the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon together. As they walked the streets, he was forced to recount the various adventures of ten years before, which Iphigenia already knew for the most part. What she did not know she had guessed or made up, but she was keen to ask questions and prise out different details from him as each story progressed – what sort of shield did this man carry, or at which point was that man’s leg severed, and so on. She would frequently interrupt to point out different features of the town, from smithies and lamp-makers’ shops to the different places where a child could climb a wall or hide from pursuing adults. But she would immediately return to the part of the story where the interruption had occurred and either press for more detail or simply listen to what her warrior friend could remember.

After a while, Eperitus began to find the attention pleasantly flattering. He had never possessed any talent as a storyteller, but Iphigenia seemed to hang on his every word and her enthusiasm even made him forget his own natural modesty. Before long he found himself adding small embellishments to the tales of his past battles, perhaps recreating a sword thrust to an enemy’s stomach or demonstrating how he would use his grandfather’s shield to parry a life-threatening blow. People would look at them as they walked by, but he found he no longer cared about their stares: to his surprise, he had quickly warmed to the feisty girl and was more concerned about what she thought than the thoughts of the townsfolk around them. He had never before enjoyed the company of children, but in the simplest way being with Iphigenia took away his concerns about the past and the future and allowed him to feel complete once again, something he had not experienced since his own childhood.

The streets were crowded and full of the activity of buying and selling. Women weaved through the crowds with heavy amphoras on their shoulders, filled with precious oil or wine; others haggled for lengths of cloth or bags of grain. Young boys forced their way through the throng with trays of freshly baked bread or cakes on their heads, the shouts of those they had barged aside following behind them. As the sun cleared the top of the eastern mountain, though, the streets eventually became too hot for large crowds and Eperitus found it easier to keep up with the young girl whose hand had barely left his own for a moment.

She took him to the circle of graves by the city gate, where she said he should make an offering to honour the royal dead. Eperitus thought it would be most appropriate to buy a garland of flowers from a nearby seller, and together they draped it over the stone marking the grave of Atreus’s wife, Aerope. At Iphigenia’s request, Eperitus cut a lock of hair from her head, which she placed at the foot of the stone. Then they went and bought cakes, as they were both hungry.

At some point, when the stories of his adventures were finally exhausted – picked to the bone by Iphigenia’s energetic questioning – they found a group of children crowded under the shade of a high stone wall. They were playing a game that involved throwing stones into a circle drawn in the dust, which Eperitus vaguely recalled from his own childhood in Alybas. The game stopped as they approached and suddenly he was surrounded by curious children, all of them looking up at him and asking Iphigenia a gabble of questions. She answered as many as she could, her tone proud but aloof, whilst Eperitus felt like a giant who had been captured by a tribe of pygmies.

Among the children was Tecton, who dragged them off to his father’s house. Here they found a man with a long nose and small, close-set eyes, bent almost double over a dust-covered bench as he scratched away at pieces of ivory. He looked up as they arrived, though it was clear he could barely see much beyond an arm’s length from his face, and greeted Iphigenia and Tecton warmly. Then he offered to fetch wine and barley cakes for Eperitus, and the afternoon was spent with Iphigenia telling the old man and his son all about Eperitus’s various exploits. The warrior found himself deeply embarrassed, at first, but soon allowed himself a sense of satisfaction at their joy in listening to the girl. Before they left, Tecton’s father gave Iphigenia a carved warrior. She immediately named it Eperitus and held it close to her chest all the way back to the palace.

After the evening’s feast, again in the company of the queen of Mycenae, Eperitus found himself unable to sleep, and eventually he threw off his furs and dressed. Eurylochus and Polites were snoring in the darkness as he stepped over them, one exhaling as the other drew breath so that they sounded like a pair of giant grasshoppers. Outside the full moon was lost behind cloud, but emerged slowly as he reached the threshold of the palace.

A group of guards were playing dice by the double portico through which the Ithacans had led their ponies the evening before. They nodded to Eperitus, but when he made no sign of joining them they returned to their game, leaving him to lean against the low wall and look out at the moonlit plain of Argos. As before, there were no lights shining from the farmsteads or villages that dotted the plain, where a silvery mist lurked in the dells and straggled across the fields between the blue hills. Directly below him, the walls and houses of Mycenae gleamed like bones in the night. Then the moon was swallowed once more by cloud and the city turned to darkness.

Eperitus fell to thinking about Iphigenia and the day they had spent together, then about her mother in the yellow dress – he had never seen her before in anything other than dark and sombre clothing – and finally the words of Calchas, until a flicker of light in the corner of his eye caught his attention. He turned to his left, where a spur of the eastern mountain lay black against the star-peppered sky. As he looked, his sharp eyes discerning the shapes of rocks and trees, he saw it again: a burst of red light, arcing above the brow of the ridge. It disappeared quickly, though the impression of the fierce light lingered against the back of his retina for a moment longer. Then a second arc of light followed. This was green and flowed like a banner in the wind before fading. More lights scored the night sky, some high and clear, others low and dim or seen only as a reflection in the treetops.

After a while Eperitus walked over to the guards, whose eyes remained fixed on the flagstones as he approached, their game of dice almost forgotten. He recognized one of them from the previous night.

Those lights, Perithous. Where do they come from?’

‘What lights, my lord?’

The lights over the brow of that hill. Red and green, mostly; like nothing I’ve ever seen before.’

‘I didn’t see them, sir. How about you, lads?’

The others shook their heads and began rolling the dice again. Eperitus turned and went back inside the palace.

‘Where did you go to last night?’ Eurylochus asked as they ate breakfast the next morning. He was unable to conceal the sneer on his lips at having to talk to Eperitus, but his curiosity had got the better of him.

‘I thought you were asleep,’ Eperitus replied, with equal disdain. ‘Your snores were loud enough to wake the Titans.’

‘There’s little escapes my notice,’ Eurylochus boasted, dipping a piece of bread into the pot of honey between them and cramming it into his mouth. ‘I saw your outline in the doorway as you went.’

‘I couldn’t sleep, if you must know,’ Eperitus replied, irritated. ‘Though it isn’t any of your business what I do at night.’

He pushed the wooden plate away and swallowed the last of his water before standing and walking out into the bright morning air. Odysseus and Arceisius were practising their swordplay, moving back and forth across the courtyard to the sound of bronze ringing against bronze. The king held up his hand as Eperitus emerged, then handed his sword and scabbard to Arceisius. The young squire took the weapons back inside the building where the Ithacans were being housed.

‘Another beautiful morning, Eperitus. Sleep well?’

‘I slept enough. Do you think Clytaemnestra will make a decision today?’

‘Possibly,’ Odysseus answered, indicating the doorway to the stairs.

He followed Eperitus down the broad steps to the garden, where a brief sprinkle of rain had freshened the aroma of the flowers. The branches on the trees and bushes nodded with the weight of the water, and let fall a cascade of droplets if brushed against.

‘She certainly seemed full of cheer yesterday,’ he continued. ‘Do you remember seeing her in anything other than black before?’

‘No – that was odd. Perhaps she’ll let us take the girl today and we can get back to the fleet. The storm might have lifted by now.’

‘I’d rather stay here until it does,’ Odysseus said, sitting on the semicircular bench and looking down at his reflection in the pond. ‘At least the sun is shining in Mycenae. How was your time with Iphigenia yesterday?’

Eperitus gave a shrug, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. ‘It was bearable. She’s amiable enough considering she’s a child, and a girl at that. I’d wanted to supervise Arceisius at spear practice, though. He needs to improve his aim before we sail for Troy. Perhaps I’ll get the chance today.’

‘Perhaps,’ Odysseus replied, with a knowing smile.

They remained in the garden until the sun crept over the mountain, discussing the various training needs of their warriors and how they were likely to fare in the coming war. It was an abiding topic that was never far from their thoughts as war loomed. One day soon they would find themselves on the plain before Troy, when their survival would depend on the effectiveness of the men under their command. Eventually, Clytaemnestra appeared again at the foot of the stair, though her jovial appearance of the day before had disappeared. Now her hair was worn loose and the yellow dress had been replaced by her familiar black garb. Her face was bloodless and her eyes red-rimmed as she walked towards them. The two warriors looked at her in silent surprise.

‘My lords,’ she said, greeting them with a small bow. ‘You slept well, I hope.’

‘Perfectly well, my lady,’ Odysseus replied. ‘And you? Did you consult the gods, as you promised me?’

‘Still keen for your answer I see, Odysseus. Yes, I consulted my gods and . . . and they have consented that Iphigenia must go. Does that please you?’

‘It makes no difference to me, but I am pleased for Iphigenia. To boast Achilles as a husband will earn her great honour, if shortlived.’

Clytaemnestra looked at him for a long moment, searching his expression. Odysseus met her gaze without wavering, until the queen gave up the struggle and lowered her eyes to the pond.

‘If that’s what you believe, then so be it. But I will not release my daughter immediately. Preparations need to be made – such a wedding cannot be left to men alone. And I must get myself ready, if I’m to come with you.’

Odysseus nodded. ‘Of course. How long?’

‘My husband is as impatient as ever, no doubt, but I would need at least two weeks.’

Odysseus clicked his tongue and narrowed his eyes. ‘Any more than a week and he’ll be arriving here himself, my lady, and I wouldn’t want to be accused of failing in my task. If I disappoint Agamemnon once, he may never value me again.’

‘A week then, Odysseus. But you must lend me your intelligence and help me with the preparations if I’m to have Jenny ready by then. And I want her to remain ignorant of this wedding until we reach Aulis. I was hoping you would watch over her for the next few days, Eperitus. She needs to be kept away from the rumours and gossip that are certain to spread through the city, and she so enjoyed your company yesterday. Her nurse tells me it was almost impossible to get her to sleep.’

‘I was intending to give one of the men some additional training, my lady,’ Eperitus answered looking down at the pool, where Clytaemnestra caught his eye in the reflection. ‘With the war approaching, he needs all the advice and instruction he can get.’

‘Of course he will,’ Clytaemnestra sighed. ‘No matter. I saw Eurylochus talking to Iphigenia as I came down the stairs. I’m sure he will look after her.’

‘He can’t take care of himself, let alone an independent and energetic girl like Iphigenia,’ Eperitus protested. ‘Arceisius’s training can wait; I’ll look after her.’

Clytaemnestra’s pallid face warmed slightly as she gave Eperitus a smile.

Eperitus stood at the threshold of the palace, resting his forearms on the wet, cold stone of the wall and looking up at the moon. The guards were playing dice and drinking wine under the portico, the only place where the flagstones were still dry after the early evening rain. They had become used to Eperitus’s nightly appearances by now, and were content to leave him to his thoughts.

Before arriving in Mycenae he had forgotten what it was like to be a child. He had regarded them as nothing more than ill-disciplined nuisances living beyond the fringes of society – irresponsible, loud and driven by impish desires. The four days he had spent with Iphigenia had proved him right. And yet he had enjoyed their time together more than any other since he and Odysseus had fought the bandits on Samos. He had seen life through her eyes, and it was a thing of excitement and adventure. Mycenae and the surrounding country were her entire world, but it was a world full of new experiences. At first he had been cautious, his nature hardened by years of military discipline and the need to preserve the veneer of respectability that his position required. But by the third day he was climbing trees with Iphigenia and joining forces with her as they fought mock battles against Tecton and Thoosa, laughing and shouting as freely as the rest of them. They had roamed the hills and roads of Mycenae together, seeking adventure and swapping stories about outwitting adults or meeting goddesses in disguise. Then, as they sat under the arch of a stone bridge earlier that afternoon, avoiding another squall of rain, Iphigenia had told the others about Eperitus’s visit to the Pythoness at Mount Parnassus. All his life he had hungered after glory, and yet had never gained a sense of what he had achieved; here, in the light and cheerful voice of Iphigenia, he began to see himself from another’s perspective. Her world began and ended in Mycenae, but in him she saw a world beyond that, where fear and danger were met with courage, sweat and hard bronze. In this nine-year-old girl’s eyes he meant something.

Later, as they had returned to the city along roads that smoked with evaporating rain, they were accosted by a young boy with auburn hair and a handsome but serious face. He stepped out from behind the wall of a sheep enclosure and puffed his chest up at them, resting his fists importantly on his hips.

‘Are you Eperitus?’ he demanded.

‘I am,’ Eperitus responded.

‘He’s not so big,’ the boy said, looking at Iphigenia. ‘But you always exaggerate things, anyway.’

‘Go away, Orestes,’ Iphigenia responded, eyeing her younger brother with disdain. ‘Find another corner to cry in until Pa comes home.’

‘You’d better shut up, Jenny, or I’ll give you a thump,’ he snapped back.

‘Calm yourself, lad,’ Eperitus warned, ‘or I’ll tan that backside of yours and take you back to your mother over my shoulder.’

Thoosa giggled into her hand, but a sharp look from Orestes silenced her.

‘Iphigenia may think you’re someone special,’ he sneered, giving Eperitus a dark look. ‘But my father could kill you easily.’

There was a menace in the boy’s tone that echoed Agamemnon’s self-confidence and power. Eperitus looked at him and shook his head.

‘Nobody can kill me easily, boy, including King Agamemnon. Now, get out of my sight before I strangle you and throw your body down a ravine.’

He took two steps towards the boy, who turned and ran back to the city, not stopping until he had passed from their sight. Eperitus felt Iphigenia’s eyes on him and knew his reputation had risen higher still.

‘I hope Jenny hasn’t bored you these past few days,’ said a voice, waking Eperitus from his thoughts.

He turned to see Clytaemnestra standing behind him, her white face given a blue tinge by the moonlight. She had tied her hair up behind her head again, leaving a spiralling strand to fall down by each ear.

‘No,’ he replied, containing his surprise. ‘I’ve enjoyed our time together – I couldn’t have wanted a better guide to the city.’

Clytaemnestra’s sad face was lifted by a smile. ‘I’m glad you like her. She adores you.’

‘Thanks to you. You must have told her everything I’ve ever done.’

‘Only what you shared with me that night . . .’

Clytaemnestra turned away in embarrassment, looking across at the guards and then up at the moon.

‘You’ve changed a lot since then,’ she continued. ‘You’re more experienced, more sure of who you are. I don’t sense so much of that urgency to prove yourself any more, though you still lack fulfilment. You’re still chasing after something.’

‘Who isn’t?’ Eperitus said, squinting across at the Plain of Argos. ‘It seems to me the only people who stand a chance of happiness are children. They have some freedom, at least, until they grow up.’

‘Have you ever wanted children of your own, Eperitus? Perhaps that’s what you’re looking for, a child to leave your mark in this world.’

Eperitus was surprised by Clytaemnestra’s boldness, but kept his eyes fixed on the plain below the city.

‘When I saw Telemachus – Odysseus’s child – in Penelope’s arms, I felt envious. I knew the boy would carry on his bloodline and preserve his memory, whereas if I perished I would leave no one behind. Then the jealousy went. After all, I’m a warrior and I can win immortality through glory, whatever you may think on the matter, Clytaemnestra.’

‘Sometimes you remind me of Agamemnon,’ she said, suddenly cold. ‘As hard as bronze and desperate to bathe in the blood of your enemies.’

‘How can you compare me to him?’ Eperitus responded. ‘Your husband lusts after power, not glory.’

Clytaemnestra’s gaze fell to the wet flagstones. ‘I’m sorry, you’re nothing like Agamemnon. At least you have a heart.’

Eperitus reached out and touched her shoulder. ‘Besides, the king of Mycenae is losing his sanity.’

‘Hush!’ Clytaemnestra whispered, placing a finger to his lips and glancing over at the guards. She caught two of them watching her, but they were quick to look away again. ‘It’s not wise to criticize the king. Even when he’s away he has spies everywhere, reporting everything that goes on. But you’re right. Follow me, I know somewhere more private we can talk.’

She led him into the palace, passing the exit to the courtyard and on up a steep flight of stairs to the second floor. They continued past a series of closed doors until they reached an arched doorway where a maid slept on a bench outside. Clytaemnestra opened the door and walked through into the room beyond, beckoning Eperitus to join her. Reluctantly, he followed.

‘This is my room,’ she said, closing the door. ‘We can talk safely here.’

‘Safely?’ he replied. ‘If I’m caught here and Agamemnon hears about it . . .’

‘Don’t concern yourself about him. He stopped suspecting me many years ago. As far as he knows, I’ve never slept with anyone other than him and my first husband.’

Eperitus looked about at the richly decorated bedroom. The muralled walls and painted furniture were visible in the moonlight that poured in through the single window, and in the centre was a low bed covered in thick furs. A heady perfume in the air eased the tension from his muscles and at the same time stirred something deep inside him. He relaxed and slumped into a cushioned chair.

‘How can you be sure he isn’t having you watched? You told me long ago that he loved you jealously.’

‘Agamemnon doesn’t understand what love is,’ Clytaemnestra answered sternly. She let the heavy black cloak fall from her shoulders and walked over to stand before Eperitus, the folds of her chiton stirring gently in a breeze from the window. ‘When he killed my first husband, he simply wanted to possess me and was driven to distraction by the fact I would not give myself to him. That all changed after the children were born, especially Orestes. Perhaps he thinks he owns part of me through the boy, I don’t know, but he’s long since lost any passion for me.’

Clytaemnestra kicked off her sandals and sat down on the sheepskin rug at Eperitus’s feet. She folded her arms about her shins and rested her chin on her knees, looking towards the window. After a few moments she began to talk again, almost as if to herself, explaining how Agamemnon had turned Orestes against her. By using their son, the king had repaid her for her coldness towards him over the years. Her only pleasure in life now was Iphigenia, and as she spoke of her daughter her whole being seemed to lift. She raised her face towards Eperitus and he could see the same happy light he had first glimpsed when they became lovers ten years before. The sadness that made her unreachable fell away and suddenly Eperitus felt the urge to stretch out his hand and touch her. The thought of who she was – the queen of Mycenae and the wife of another man – held him back, but at the same time his eyes were drawn to the pale flesh of her bare arms and feet, and the shape of her long legs and small breasts through the thin dress. His mind was filled with the memory of her naked body from so long ago, and as he stared into her eyes he knew she was no longer thinking of her daughter. He took a deep breath, filling his senses with the heady perfume, and looked away – part of him still trying to resist – but his gaze fell at once on the bed and only strengthened the desires that were coursing through him.

‘Even if Agamemnon knew you were here,’ Clytaemnestra said, placing a hand tentatively on his knee, ‘I doubt he would care any more. Ever since Helen was taken, or chose to leave, he has been obsessed with war on the Trojans. And I think you’re right, Eperitus: it has turned his mind. If he was ruthless in seeking power before, he will stop at nothing to achieve it now. He will have this war at any cost.’

Eperitus looked at her, sensing something in her tone. ‘What do you mean?’

Suddenly, Clytaemnestra rose up on her knees and kissed him. Eperitus lifted his hands to the sides of her head, running his fingers into her thick red hair as her tongue forced its way into his mouth. She came closer, forcing his knees apart with her body until he could feel the softness of her breasts against his lower ribs, all the time pressing her mouth against his with a passion that was fierce and needy. Then she pulled away and stood up, taking his hands and pulling him from the chair. Quickly, clumsily, she unfastened his cloak and pulled his tunic over his head, revealing the hard, deeply etched muscles of his body to the moonlight. A moment later her dress lay in a dark pool about her ankles and she was pressing her naked body against his.

Eperitus’s hands instinctively sought her thin waist, feeling the shape of her smooth flesh as she pressed her lips to his shoulders. He closed his eyes and felt the tip of her tongue moving gently up his neck to his jaw, then her mouth was on his again as she pulled him blindly towards the bed. Her ankles caught against the mattress and she fell backwards into the dense layers of fur, pulling him on top of her. As they lay there, their limbs locked eagerly about each other again, he stared into her smiling face and felt for a moment as if nothing else mattered. Her rich, shining hair spilled back across the bed and her dark eyes gleamed up at him with pleasure, momentarily freed from the concerns of her life. Then she folded her calves across his buttocks and held his body against hers, while he pressed his lips roughly to hers once more, eager to enjoy the welcoming sensation of her body.

Chapter Twenty-four

THE SECRET REVEALED

Eperitus opened his eyes to the dawn light and the sound of birds in the gardens below. It took him a few moments to realize where he was, but Clytaemnestra’s arm across his chest and her hot inner thigh resting on his leg quickly brought back memories of the night before. Her head lay on his upper arm with her face half-hidden by the mess of red hair, making him reluctant to move and wake her, but the sound of slaves moving about beyond the bedroom door made him anxious to find his clothes and be gone before the rest of the palace awoke.

‘Don’t go,’ Clytaemnestra said as he tried to slip free of her embrace. Her limbs tightened about him and she lifted her face to look at him. ‘There’s no hurry – the sun hasn’t even risen yet.’

She must have been awake for some time, Eperitus realized as he brushed the hair from her eyes and kissed her on the cheek. It was hot where it had rested against his arm.

‘I can hear slaves in the corridor. If they catch me here and Agamemnon finds out, you could pay for it with your life.’

‘As could you,’ Clytaemnestra responded. ‘But my maids are loyal; they won’t dare say anything that could incriminate me.’

Suddenly the door swung open and a young, heavily proportioned girl rushed in, carrying a folded black dress over her arm.

‘My lady! My lady!’ she began, before sensing at once that something was out of place. Her eyes fell on the garments strung out over the floor, then crept over the bed to rest on the man in her mistress’s arms, his nakedness only half covered by the furs. Her round face was transformed with horror as she dropped the dress and clapped her hands to her mouth.

‘Damn it, Polymele!’ Clytaemnestra snapped, throwing the furs aside and rising naked from the bed. ‘What do you mean by bursting in like this?’

‘My lady,’ the maid stuttered, eyeing Eperitus with a mixture of fear, confusion and desire. ‘It’s . . . It’s your husband. The king is approaching the Lion Gate with an escort of twenty men.’

‘Gods!’ Eperitus exclaimed. He leapt from the bed and began gathering up his clothes, heedless of the maid’s eyes.

‘The dress, girl, quickly!’ Clytaemnestra ordered, holding her arms wide as Polymele unfolded the garment and began draping it about her mistress. ‘Are you sure it’s him?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘Then something must be wrong. Leave the dress to me; I want you to fetch a hooded cloak – black, of course – and wait for me by the door. And not a word of what you’ve seen to anyone, do you understand? If Agamemnon finds out, Polymele, I’ll put a curse on your womb so that you give birth to a litter of pigs.’

Looking terrified, the maid fled the room with a squeal and Clytaemnestra closed the door behind her. Finding her sandals, she slipped them on to her feet and began to knot her hair up at the back of her head. Eperitus, now fully dressed, rushed to the window and looked out towards the city gates, where there was a large commotion of people and horses.

‘Come away, my dear,’ Clytaemnestra said, putting a hand on his shoulder and drawing him back into the room. ‘You don’t want to be seen peering out of the queen’s bedroom, do you?’

Eperitus turned to her and placed his hands on her thin hips.

‘If Agamemnon’s here, the palace is going to be teeming with life. How am I going to slip out without being noticed?’

‘There’s a back stair that leads to the garden. Polymele will take you. But tell me this, Eperitus, and quickly: if I leave with Iphigenia, tonight, will you come with us?’

‘Leave?’ Eperitus smiled. ‘Assuming Agamemnon doesn’t find out about us, why would you want to leave? This is your home, Nestra, and Iphigenia isn’t your only child.’

‘You don’t know the danger she’s in,’ the queen replied.

There was a sharp knock at the door and they instinctively pulled apart from their light embrace, looking anxiously across the room.

‘Who is it?’ Clytaemnestra asked.

‘Polymele, my lady. I have your cloak, and they say the king is on his way up to the palace at this very moment. I was concerned . . .’

Clytaemnestra pulled the door open and allowed Polymele to fold the cloak about her shoulders. She instructed her to take Eperitus down to the gardens then, without regard to the girl’s presence, put her hand to Eperitus’s cheek and kissed him.

‘Think about what I said,’ she whispered, then turned and rushed down the corridor, her cloak billowing out behind her.

Polymele led Eperitus down a narrow staircase that opened onto the gardens below the palace. She left him there without a word and returned by the same route, though her parting expression was enough to tell him what she thought of his presence in the queen’s quarters.

The gardens were bright and fresh in the morning light and the pungent aroma of the many flowers reminded Eperitus of Clytaemnestra’s bedroom, but he had no time to enjoy their peaceful beauty. A sudden commotion on the terraces above filled him with a sense of urgency and he ran across the dew-wet lawns to the main staircase, leaping up them three at a time to emerge on the courtyard before the great hall. As he stepped out into the chaos of slaves and guards, all running in different directions to prepare for the arrival of their king, a voice called to him. He turned to see Odysseus waving from the doorway of the guest house. Talthybius was at his side.

‘Where have you been?’ Odysseus asked as Eperitus pushed his way through the crowds to join them. ‘I’ve had men looking all over for you. Agamemnon’s here, in person!’

‘I’ve been in the gardens since before dawn. I couldn’t sleep. But why’s Agamemnon here?’

‘We don’t know, yet,’ said Talthybius, looking worried, ‘but for him to leave the army and come here himself, it must be a serious matter.’

As he spoke a group of slaves spilled out of the passageway that led from the palace threshold, chased by a pair of soldiers with bronze body armour and plumed helmets – members of Agamemnon’s personal bodyguard. The king emerged in their wake, his armour dusty and his red cloak travel-stained. His beard had grown longer and more unkempt since they had last seen him, but the blood-drained face and sunken eyes were alert and filled with purpose. At his appearance, every slave and soldier bowed their heads before him. Talthybius followed suit, but Odysseus and Eperitus remained upright as the King of Men approached. The stooping form of Calchas was at his shoulder.

‘Welcome home, my lord,’ said Talthybius. ‘We weren’t expecting your arrival.’

‘Of course you weren’t,’ Agamemnon snapped, the blood rising to his cheeks. ‘You were too busy dithering about here, enjoying the comforts of palace life no doubt.’

Despite Agamemnon’s accusation of idleness, Odysseus seemed unconcerned and responded with a broad smile and a hand on the Mycenaean king’s shoulder.

‘You’ve arrived just in time, Agamemnon,’ he said. ‘Your wife has been busy making preparations for Iphigenia’s marriage to Achilles, and if everything goes to plan we’ll be setting out within two or three days. But how are things with the fleet? Have you come to tell us the storm has lifted?’

Agamemnon’s icy blue eyes met the warm green of Odysseus’s, trying to penetrate the thoughts behind them. After a few moments his severe expression melted away and he returned Odysseus’s smile.

‘The storms are as strong as ever, my friend; the reason I’ve left the army is to make sure Iphigenia is taken to Aulis as soon as possible. For one thing, I didn’t encourage the right sense of urgency when I sent you here. For another – and more importantly – you haven’t had the benefit of Calchas’s insight into Clytaemnestra’s thoughts.’ He turned to the priest. ‘Why don’t you explain what you know to Odysseus?’

Calchas pulled back the hood of his black travelling cloak to reveal his bald pate and pallid, skull-like face. His eyes maintained a constant twitching and his tongue flicked over his bottom lip and teeth as he looked about at the men, considering their faces closely as if scrutinizing their very thoughts. Clytaemnestra, he informed them, had no intention of going ahead with the wedding. Her agreement was a facade, covering her real intention to find a means of escape. The ancient gods she worshipped had suggested to her that Agamemnon had a different purpose in sending for their daughter – a purpose that the queen had no intention of conceding to. Odysseus gave Agamemnon a questioning look at the mention of this, but the king ignored him and focused on the priest. Apollo, Calchas continued, had revealed the queen’s intentions to him in a dream a few nights before, which he had shared at once with Agamemnon.

‘Which is why I’m here now,’ the King of Men added. ‘It is imperative Iphigenia comes back to Aulis immediately – everything depends on it. I’ve already ordered fresh horses and provisions for the return journey; we head back tomorrow morning.’

‘But why the urgency?’ Odysseus asked, his eyes narrowing inquisitively.

Agamemnon raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ll find out in time, my friend.’

At that moment, Clytaemnestra appeared and crossed the courtyard to join them. She stood between Odysseus and Eperitus – giving the latter a strong sense of discomfort in front of Agamemnon and the knowing gaze of Calchas – and placed her fists on her hips.

‘Your arrival is unexpected, husband.’

‘I thought it might provide you with a pleasant surprise,’ he responded, stepping towards her and placing his hand on her waist. He pulled her towards him and kissed her hard on the lips.

Clytaemnestra turned her face away and her husband released his grip on her.

‘Didn’t trust me to release Iphigenia into your clutches is more like it,’ she hissed, not trying to hide her contempt.

‘Calchas here had an inkling of your reluctance, so I thought my presence might encourage you,’ Agamemnon answered.

Clytaemnestra looked at the priest, who threw his cloak back across his shoulders to reveal the white robes beneath. ‘An Apollonian?’ she sneered. ‘I should have known one of your kind was at the heart of this.’

Calchas’s eyes narrowed and his twitching stopped as he focused his disdain on the tall woman in black. ‘Apollo lays bare many things. It is more profitable to follow an Olympian than one of the fallen gods you worship. The rule of Gaea and Hecate is fading from the world; you should recognize that and leave your witchcraft behind.’

‘You dare to call me a witch in front of my husband?’

‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ Agamemnon said, and Calchas grinned victoriously. ‘Now, I’m going to the great hall. Have food prepared for me and my men, and send Orestes to me. Odysseus, join me when you’re ready. I want to talk with you.’

‘And Iphigenia?’ Clytaemnestra asked as her husband brushed past her, followed by Calchas and Talthybius.

‘The girl can do as she pleases,’ he said, turning on the steps to the great hall. ‘Just make sure she is prepared to leave first thing tomorrow.’

Clytaemnestra watched him disappear through the high doors before turning to Eperitus. She looked at him with sombre, pleading eyes, then marched off into the palace to carry out her husband’s orders.

‘It can never come to anything, you know,’ Odysseus commented as the courtyard rapidly emptied, leaving him and Eperitus alone except for a pair of guards by the great hall.

‘What can’t?’

‘You and Clytaemnestra. No, don’t act surprised. Your bed wasn’t slept in last night and I’d already sent Eurylochus to look for you in the gardens before you appeared. I know there’s a concealed entrance from the royal quarters, so it isn’t difficult to deduce where you slept last night.’

Eperitus turned away and looked at the plain below the city, which was a lush green after the rains. He was surprised at the speed with which his friend had found him out, and did not know how to reply. Then Odysseus seized him by the shoulders and turned him around, staring fiercely into his eyes.

‘You’re a damned fool, Eperitus! Zeus’s beard, don’t you realize Agamemnon will have both of you killed if he finds out about this? Next time you want a woman for the night, find yourself a slave – not a bloody queen!’

Eperitus knocked Odysseus’s hands from his shoulders and glared back at him. ‘Don’t forget I nearly died at Sparta because of your passion for a princess!’

Odysseus’s eyes darkened for a moment and his giant fists were clenched tightly as he stared at the captain of his guard. Then the anger drained away as quickly as it had risen and he shook his head, breaking eye contact.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and with a sudden laugh slapped Eperitus on the arm. ‘How could I forget? But I married that princess: I hope you’re not intending to do the same with Clytaemnestra?’

‘Clytaemnestra’s already married, unless you hadn’t noticed,’ Eperitus replied lightly. ‘Though she did ask me to help her escape from Mycenae. She said Iphigenia is in danger.’

‘I believe she is,’ Odysseus sighed. ‘You and I both know Agamemnon’s losing his sanity over this war, and with Calchas muttering visions and prophecies in his ear who knows what he might be persuaded to do? But Clytaemnestra has her own insight into things, too, and if she doesn’t want her husband to take Iphigenia then she must have good reason. Are you going to help her, Eperitus?’

‘No. My place is with you.’

‘I’m glad to hear it, for both our sakes. But you must remain wary. She’s a desperate woman and she’ll try to persuade you to help her, especially if she thinks she has an emotional hold over you. Don’t let her, though – it can never work, and she might just pull you down with her.’

Eperitus lay on the straw mattress looking at the chink of silver moonlight beneath the door. The snores of the other Ithacan soldiers told him that they, unlike he, had not had difficulty sleeping. It had been a busy day after the arrival of Agamemnon, with the palace a hive of activity hurriedly finishing the wedding preparations in time for the departure early the next morning. To escape the commotion, Odysseus and Eperitus had spent the day outside the city walls, drilling the men and honing their weapons skills. But, although he felt physically tired, Eperitus’s mind would not allow him the boon of sleep.

Since the evening meal he had been turning over in his mind the reasons for Agamemnon’s untimely arrival. All day he had been expecting the Lion Gate to burst open and an armed guard to come out and arrest him. But none came, and he assumed Agamemnon had not guessed at his wife’s infidelity. His thoughts were more concerned, though, with the fate of Iphigenia. Despite his general disregard for children, Eperitus had come to like Clytaemnestra’s daughter in their few days together and he found himself pitying her. He had not seen the child or her mother all day, but from Agamemnon’s talk at the evening feast it seemed she had still not been informed of the marriage to Achilles, or even that she was to leave for Aulis in the morning with her father, while Clytaemnestra remained at Mycenae.

At the thought of Clytaemnestra, Eperitus felt a sudden desire to leave the guest house and go out into the moonlight. Perhaps some time spent in the quiet gardens while the palace slept would clear his mind, he thought, so he pulled his blanket aside and put on his sandals. He unrolled the cloak he had been using as a pillow and threw it over his shoulders, then moved silently to the door and slipped out to the courtyard. A single guard stood beneath the threshold of the great hall, where Agamemnon’s escort slept, but he paid scant attention to Eperitus as he crossed to the doorway that led down to the gardens. Moments later a second figure emerged from the guest house and slipped into the shadows by the wall, following Eperitus at a short distance as he descended the steps to the wide lawn below. Eperitus sensed a presence and glanced back over his shoulder, but could see nothing other than the dense bushes rippling with the night breeze. Already on edge after the unexpected arrival of Agamemnon, he assumed his sharp instincts were being further befuddled by the lack of sleep.

‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ said a female voice behind him.

Eperitus turned to see Clytaemnestra sitting on the bench by the pond. He crossed the grass and sat next to her. The features of her pale face were lost beneath the shadow of her hood, but he caught the glimmer of her damp eyes as she looked at him.

‘How could you be waiting for me?’ he began.

‘I willed you to come,’ she said, taking his rough hand in her soft fingers. ‘Once I make a strong connection with someone I can put images and desires into their mind. It’s a gift of the ancient gods; I can do it with Helen and Iphigenia, and I can do it with you.’

Eperitus raised his hand and tipped the hood back from her face. Her eyes were dark-rimmed and her cheeks stained with tears.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

Clytaemnestra leaned across and placed her mouth against his. Though her hands were cold, her lips were almost hot. He put his hand behind her head and held her face gently to his as they kissed.

‘What is it?’ he asked again, pulling away just enough to speak. ‘Is it Iphigenia?’

‘You know it is,’ she responded, kissing him once more before lowering her gaze to the pond, where the wavering reflection of the moon looked back at her. ‘Agamemnon has no intention of marrying her to Achilles. It’s just a lie to get her to Aulis.’

‘But why? To ensure your loyalty while he’s at Troy?’

‘Nothing quite so simple,’ Clytaemnestra told him bitterly. ‘It was the white hart, the creature you helped him to hunt through the woods at Aulis. That was no ordinary animal: it belonged to Artemis and that made it sacred. As soon as Agamemnon’s arrow found its mark the expedition to Troy was doomed, and boasting that Artemis herself could not have fired a better shot only made matters worse. In her anger the goddess sent the storms to bottle up the fleet, and until Agamemnon pays the price she demands then not one ship will be able to leave the Euboean Straits for Troy.’

‘Artemis wants Iphigenia’s life in payment for the white hart,’ Eperitus said quietly, suddenly comprehending. He looked up at the moon, the symbol of the goddess’s cold nature, and felt despair creep into his heart. The thought of Iphigenia being brought to harm seemed intolerable. ‘Is there no other way?’

Clytaemnestra gave a bitter laugh. ‘None of the Olympians are more cruel or vengeful than Artemis. She and Apollo shot down the children of Niobe simply because the poor woman insulted their mother. When Actaeon caught her bathing, she turned him into a stag and he was torn apart by his own hounds. Even Callisto, her friend, she turned into a bear and shot dead, all because Zeus raped her. No, Eperitus, the goddess wants payment in kind, like for like: Iphigenia for the sacred hart. Only my daughter’s innocent blood will satisfy Artemis, and unless Agamemnon is prepared to carry out the sacrifice then he’ll not get his war.’

‘But surely Agamemnon will come to his senses and give up his ambitions?’

Clytaemnestra stood and looked up at the moon, which seemed distended to unnatural proportions as it hovered menacingly above the hilltops, its curious scars and pockmarks etched out in cold grey.

‘Part of me hopes that he will look on Iphigenia and his heart of stone will melt,’ she said. ‘But that is just a fool’s hope, because I know Agamemnon is as unyielding and pitiless as Artemis herself. And I can blame myself for that. I hated him because he murdered my first husband and our baby, tearing the infant from my breast as he suckled and butchering him before my eyes. I never forgave him for that and over the years I have denied him the love he craves, slowly turning him from a monster of passion into a monster without any feelings at all. If he has any desire now it is for power only, and his lust for war with Troy has turned his mind from its natural course. I believe he will do anything to achieve his ambitions, Eperitus,’ she said, turning to stare into her lover’s eyes. ‘Even murder his own child.’

‘Then you must leave at once,’ Eperitus said, placing his hands on her shoulders. ‘My heart wants this war, but I wouldn’t have it at such a cost. Go and fetch Iphigenia now and leave Mycenae by one of its side gates.’

‘And go where?’ Clytaemnestra retorted. ‘What chance would a woman and a child have out in the wilds, homeless and alone, hunted by the most powerful man in Greece? We’d be caught before the sun had set. No, Eperitus, if I’m to take Iphigenia and flee I only have one hope. You!’

Eperitus looked at the woman who only the night before had become his lover for the second time. He remembered the taste of her mouth against his and the soft and skilful touch of her hands on his body; he recalled her tenderness as they made love, and the realization that she had never given herself in such a way to Agamemnon. But if he fled with Clytaemnestra and Iphigenia, it would be to abandon his oath of service to Odysseus and lose the greatest friendship he had ever known. He would sacrifice all he had fought so hard to gain for a woman he did not love and a girl he hardly knew, to spend the rest of his life like a hunted beast, running from one hiding place to another. For all his fondness towards Iphigenia and his horror at Agamemnon’s intentions, Clytaemnestra was asking too much of him.

‘I can’t help you,’ he said, stepping away from her and looking down. ‘My duty is to Odysseus. I can’t break my oath to him.’

‘You warriors and your damned oaths,’ Clytaemnestra spat, her eyes flashing with anger. Then she placed her hands either side of his head and pulled him into a kiss. ‘But you are going to help me, Eperitus, one way or another. If nothing else, we are lovers and I want you to make me a promise on your oath.’

‘What promise?’

‘I’m going to try to escape tonight, but if I fail and Agamemnon kills Iphigenia . . .’ Clytaemnestra paused and took a deep breath. ‘If Agamemnon murders my daughter I want your word that you will protect him until he returns from Troy.’

‘Protect him?’ Eperitus exclaimed. ‘I could understand if you wanted me to kill him, but . . .’

‘I intend to have that pleasure for myself,’ Clytaemnestra said, her eyes as cold as ice in the moonlight.

Eperitus could see she meant what she said. ‘If that’s what you really want, then I give you my word I’ll protect him.’

‘No, Eperitus!’ Clytaemnestra said firmly. ‘That’s not good enough. I want you to swear it before Zeus, the Sun, the Earth and the Avenging Furies. Say it.’

There was power in the queen’s voice as she spoke, a power that reflected the hatred beneath. In that moment, Eperitus sensed the similarity between Clytaemnestra and Agamemnon: both were unshakeably ruthless and cold at heart, and if resolved on something would not let anything stand between them and their desires. Whether they had always been like that or had grown severe and cold over the years together, Eperitus was unable to tell, but he had no more chance of denying Clytaemnestra’s will than he would an order from the King of Men himself.

‘Have it your way, Clytaemnestra,’ he said. ‘If Agamemnon murders Iphigenia, then I promise to protect his life to the best of my ability until he returns from Troy. I call upon Zeus, the Sun, the Earth and the Avenging Furies to witness my oath. Now are you satisfied?’

‘I am,’ she said, reaching out and taking his hand. ‘Don’t think badly of me, Eperitus, for I had to extract this promise from you. Without it I could not say what I’ve been longing to tell you since I first set eyes on you in the great hall.’

Eperitus felt suddenly tense. He thought of Calchas’s words to him in Priam’s throne room and realized with a cold shiver that Clytaemnestra was the one the priest had told him to seek.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

Clytaemnestra stepped closer and rested her head on his chest. ‘I said I would try to escape, Eperitus, and that I wanted you to help me. I expected you to refuse me at first, of course – you are bound by honour and friendship to serve Odysseus, and I knew you would not betray him for my sake. But I also knew you would never allow Iphigenia to come to harm, if you knew the truth about her.’

‘The truth?’ Eperitus asked. ‘What truth?’

‘That Iphigenia is your daughter, Eperitus.’

Chapter Twenty-five

AT THE LION GATE

Eperitus seized Clytaemnestra’s shoulders and stared at her in disbelief.

‘Iphigenia’s not my daughter,’ he said, shaking his head and frowning. ‘That’s a lie to make me help you escape. Odysseus said you were desperate, but I never thought you’d stoop to this.’

‘Stop being a fool, Eperitus, and use your head. We made love ten years ago and Iphigenia was born nine months later. I hadn’t slept with Agamemnon for weeks when I realized I was pregnant, though I allowed him to take me as soon as I knew – I didn’t want him to discover my infidelity. But even if your head is too obstinate to believe it, then search your heart and you’ll know.’

He sat on the bench and stared hard at the dark surface of the pond, trying desperately to comprehend what Clytaemnestra’s news meant. Despite his words of denial, he knew she was not lying to him: Iphigenia was the right age to be the product of their lovemaking in the Taygetus Mountains, and he believed Clytaemnestra when she said she had not slept with Agamemnon for weeks before becoming pregnant. More convincing, though, was the sense of familiarity he had felt about Iphigenia from the moment he had first seen the girl. He now realized that he had recognized something of himself in her features and even her character. Though her mannerisms were echoes of Clytaemnestra and Agamemnon, her determination and childish sense of honour were his.

Clytaemnestra sat next to him and laid a hand gently on his shoulder. ‘You know it to be true, don’t you?’ she said. ‘You only have to think about how alike you are. Jenny accepted it straight away when I told her.’

‘You told her!’ Eperitus exclaimed. ‘When?’

‘This morning, after Agamemnon arrived.’

Eperitus’s surprise quickly turned to curiosity, tinged with fear. ‘So what did she say? Was she pleased – or disappointed?’

Clytaemnestra laughed. ‘For a while I think she was too shocked to believe me, but when she finally listened to her instincts and accepted it was true, she was overjoyed. She’s longed for a father like you all her life, Eperitus, someone to give her the love and attention that Agamemnon never did.’

She took Eperitus’s hand and held it in her lap, smiling up at the night sky with more tears flowing down her cheeks. Only now they were tears of happiness. ‘I’ve told her stories about you since she was a little girl, you know. I thought she should at least hear about you, even if she didn’t realize you were her father. The funny thing is,’ she said, smiling and sniffing at the same time, ‘she has always thought more of you than any of the other great men of Greece.’

‘Because you made more of me than you should have.’

‘No – because she knew, in her heart, that you were special to her. And these past few days have proved it. Being with you has given her such joy, and learning you’re her real father has brought all her hopes and dreams to life.’

Clytaemnestra looked to the east and saw that the darkness was already being suffused by the light of approaching dawn. If they were to flee Mycenae, it would have to be soon. Eperitus followed her anxious gaze and understood her concern.

‘Years ago, I visited the oracle at Mount Parnassus,’ he began. ‘The Pythoness’s words burned themselves into my memory: “Ares’s sword has forged a bond that will lead to Olympus, but the hero should beware love, for if she clouds his desires he will fall into the Abyss.” She was predicting a choice between fame and renown in battle, or love that will lead to obscurity. Naturally, as a soldier I want to win immortality by defeating my enemies and bringing glory to my name, so I’ve always been careful not to give my heart to a woman. I never realized the Pythoness could have meant my own daughter. And now it seems the choice is upon me: allow Agamemnon to have his way and then follow Odysseus to fame in Troy, or betray my own king and flee with you and Iphigenia into a life of insignificance, to have the love of a family but ultimately to die and be forgotten.’

‘Then let Iphigenia be your fame and your glory,’ Clytaemnestra pleaded. ‘In Troy you may win renown with your spear, but who will tell of it? Will you surpass Achilles, Ajax, Diomedes or even Odysseus? Of course not. The bards won’t sing of your greatness, Eperitus, or preserve your name in their poems for future generations. True fame is for kings, not soldiers. But Iphigenia will pass on your name – to her children, and they to their children. She already worships you like a god and knows everything you’ve done. Why not let her be your legacy?’

Eperitus thought of Iphigenia’s face, recalling her different reactions and expressions during the days he had spent in her company. He remembered her sombre and respectful look – advanced for her years – as they had laid the garland of flowers over Aerope’s gravestone; he grinned with pleasure at the memory of her pride as she paraded him like a captive before her friends; and then he thought of her consuming enthusiasm as she exaggerated his adventures to Tecton and his father. Suddenly he knew he could not permit Agamemnon to destroy such a beautiful and wonderful life. He would not allow his newly discovered family to be annihilated by one man’s ambition.

He looked up at the thinning darkness and sniffed the air. Dawn was not far away. ‘Come on,’ he said, standing and pulling Clytaemnestra to her feet. He led her across the wide lawn towards the steps. ‘We must head for Ithaca at once – Penelope will hide us if Agamemnon comes looking for Iphigenia. But it’s more likely the expedition will break up before then, and when Odysseus returns home I’ll explain to him why I had to leave.’

‘And he’ll thank you for preventing this cursed war and allowing him to return to the family and home he loves,’ Clytaemnestra assured him, squeezing his hand and smiling. ‘Now I must fetch Jenny – she’s waiting for me in my room, ready to leave. Go and fetch your weapons and meet us here as soon as you can. I’ve arranged for a man to meet us with horses on the other side of the walls; he’ll supply us with provisions for a few days, and I will bring enough gold to meet our needs in the weeks ahead.’

‘I’ll be quick,’ Eperitus replied, releasing her hand and running towards the steps that led to the courtyard above.

Eperitus paced up and down by the pond, his grandfather’s shield slung over his shoulder and his spears clutched in his sweating palm. Every few moments he threw an anxious glance towards the doorway that led to the royal quarters, but it was only when he thought of going to fetch Clytaemnestra that the door finally burst open and the queen appeared with Iphigenia at her side.

He moved towards them, but upon seeing him Iphigenia let go of her mother’s hand and ran across the lawn towards him.

‘Father!’ she said as he bent down to meet her. She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly, pressing her cheek against his.

‘Daughter,’ he answered softly in her ear, lifting her up and holding her close against the leather of his breastplate. She was light in his strong arms and he felt the anxiety ease from his body as she hugged him. ‘What took you so long?’

‘I couldn’t find Eperitus,’ she explained, leaning back and opening her palm to reveal the ivory warrior Tecton’s father had carved. ‘I didn’t want to leave without him.’

‘Well, now you have the real Eperitus,’ he said, looking into her brown eyes and smiling. ‘And I promise you won’t be able to lose me so easily.’

‘She’ll lose you all too soon if Agamemnon finds us,’ Clytaemnestra warned, her face strained and nervous as she joined them. ‘He’ll be awake soon, so we must go now if we’re to get away.’

Without wasting another moment they ran across the garden to the far gate, which led to the narrow streets beyond. As they scanned the silent shadows for signs of life a cock crowed from the upper reaches of the city behind them. Seized by a sudden sense of urgency, they abandoned their caution and dashed down the sloping road towards the lower level. Soon they were at the top of the ramp that overlooked the circle of royal graves and led to the Lion Gate. The vast doors were shut, as Eperitus had expected, and three guards were seated on the ground before them, huddled in their thick cloaks and talking quietly to each other.

At the sight of the man, woman and child they sprang to their feet and reached for the long spears propped against a nearby wall.

‘Who’s that?’ one of them called, his voice full of suspicion as he lowered his spear menacingly at the newcomers.

‘Your queen,’ Clytaemnestra answered, striding down the broad, paved steps towards them. ‘Open the gates and let me out. I have urgent business in the town.’

The men did not move. ‘I’m sorry, mistress,’ said the same guard, ‘but the king has given orders for no one to enter or leave – including yourself.’

At that moment, Eperitus’s sharp hearing picked up the sound of many footsteps running through the palace above, accompanied by the shouts of men and the clanking of heavy armour. Somehow, the absence of Agamemnon’s wife and daughter had already been discovered; the pursuit was about to begin.

‘Hold this,’ he ordered, slipping the shield from his shoulder and passing one of his spears to Iphigenia.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked, struggling to hold the tall shaft – nearly twice her own height – with both hands.

But Eperitus, knowing there was no time to waste arguing with the gate guards, had already launched himself down the ramp at the three men. Their reactions were tired and sluggish as he ran past Clytaemnestra towards them, and before they could lower their spears his shield had knocked one of them aside and sent him sprawling across the flagstones. The others staggered backwards, but as both men lowered their weapons defensively Eperitus slammed the shaft of his remaining spear into the face of one of them, catching him across his right eye and forehead and knocking him unconscious to the floor.

‘Open the gate!’ Eperitus shouted over his shoulder to Clytaemnestra as he faced the last guard.

Clytaemnestra and Iphigenia ran together towards the wooden portals and strained to lift the heavy bar from its brackets. Somewhere in the palace above a voice was barking orders. Weapons and armour clanked in response, and Eperitus knew that at any moment dozens of soldiers would be rushing down to prevent their escape. He looked at his opponent’s frightened and confused expression, sensing the man’s inexperience, and in the same instant lunged forward with the point of his spear. The thrust was unexpected and the man’s attempt to parry it came far too late; the weapon punched into his shoulder and with a scream of pain he spun around and fell to the floor, clutching at his wound.

Eperitus leapt over his writhing body and helped Clytaemnestra and Iphigenia pull open the gates. They swung back with a groan to reveal the road – a dull grey in the darkness before dawn – and the colossal walls rising up to the right. Below them was the ramshackle town where their horses were waiting for them.

‘Father,’ Iphigenia said. ‘Your spear.’

Eperitus stroked his daughter’s soft hair, then took the weapon from her hands and started down the road towards the town below. Clytaemnestra was at his side and Iphigenia slightly ahead of them, half-running in her eagerness to leave Mycenae, but as they approached the furthest corner of the walls a man appeared and slid down the rocky slope to stand in the road ahead of them.

‘Stop where you are!’ he ordered.

It was Talthybius. Though he stood confidently before them, he was unarmed and wore no armour.

‘He must have come through the sally port in the north wall,’ Clytaemnestra hissed in Eperitus’s ear. ‘Don’t let him stand in our way. Knock him down if you have to and let’s be gone!’

But before Eperitus could even think to attack the herald, the chinking of metal and the soft slipping of leather sandals on stone announced the arrival of seven more men on the slope to their right. They quickly rushed down the steep incline and formed a line behind Talthybius, sealing off the only escape from the city.

Eperitus could tell by the overlapping plates of their ceremonial body armour and the boars’ tusks on their helmets that they were members of Agamemnon’s elite guard, and would not be knocked aside as easily as the militiamen at the gates. But as he felt his hope diminish, Eperitus knew he could not allow them to prevent Iphigenia escaping the terrible fate that Agamemnon had planned for her. He felt his old, dogged sense of determination fill the void that hope had vacated, and with a dark look in his eyes stepped forward.

‘I’ve no fight with you,’ he announced, raising the palm of his hand in sign of parley. ‘Stand aside and let us pass.’

‘As one of Odysseus’s men you can do as you please,’ Talthybius replied. ‘But the queen and her daughter are forbidden to leave Mycenae.’

‘Iphigenia’s life is in peril, Talthybius. I’m taking her and her mother to a place of safety, and for that reason you must let us go.’

The herald shook his head dismissively. ‘There’s no danger to the girl as long as Agamemnon is here. Now, stand aside, Eperitus, or face the consequences.’

‘Damn your stupidity, Talthybius,’ Eperitus spat. ‘Don’t you realize it’s Agamemnon she’s in danger from? The king has lost his senses: he’s going to take Iphigenia to Aulis and sacrifice her to the gods!’

The self-assured smile was swept from Talthybius’s face and the men behind him looked at each other uncertainly. Eperitus turned to Iphigenia, standing behind him with her mother’s hands on her shoulders, and saw the look of shock and dread on her face. He tried to comfort her with a smile but could hardly disguise his own fear and growing sense of panic.

‘Don’t be absurd, Eperitus,’ Talthybius said incredulously. ‘The king would never kill his own daughter. Even in his darkest dreams he wouldn’t do such a thing.’

‘But it’s true,’ Clytaemnestra retorted. ‘And Agamemnon’s dreams have become very dark of late. Calchas has told him that the only way to lift the storms at Aulis is to sacrifice his own daughter, and in his madness Agamemnon believes him. That’s why I implored Eperitus to escort us from the city – and if you try to stop us, you and all your men will be committing murder.’

‘Don’t listen to them, Talthybius,’ said a voice from the top of the slope. They looked up to see Calchas standing at the corner of the city wall. ‘The king is no more mad than I am, and if you let the girl escape you’ll be held accountable for preventing the war against Troy.’

Talthybius’s face was filled with doubt as he looked from Calchas to Clytaemnestra and back again. ‘Then is what the queen says true?’ he asked the priest. ‘Does Agamemnon intend to kill his own daughter?’

Calchas pointed to the heavens, where the darkness was being pushed back by the light of the new day. ‘The gods must be appeased!’ he cried. ‘Only the girl’s blood will satisfy them, and unless you want the fleet to remain at Aulis until it rots then you will do as your king demands.’

Talthybius looked across at Eperitus and shook his head apologetically. Then he stepped back and waved his men forward. Eperitus looked down at Iphigenia, his face stern and sad.

‘You always wanted to see me fight, Jenny,’ he said, then laid one of his spears on the paved road and turned to face the line of approaching Mycenaeans.

The soldiers spread across the road and prepared to fight. They eased the tall shields from their shoulders and slipped their left arms through the leather grips, altering their stance so that the weight was balanced evenly. Their reserve spears were cast into a pile at the side of the road and the remaining weapons turned towards Eperitus, the sharpened bronze tips gleaming coldly in the morning light.

Eperitus watched the men plant their feet firmly on the paved road and grip the shafts of their spears. The overlapping plates of their body armour guarded every natural weakness from the neck to the groin, while the layer of boars’ tusks on their bronze helmets would deflect almost any blow. More concerning, though, were the eyes that stared out from beneath the ornate helmets: they were confident but cautious, and it seemed to Eperitus that every one of the men facing him was a skilled and natural fighter. If the defence provided by their armour would not prove too difficult to penetrate, then their training and experience might. Nevertheless, he positioned himself in front of them and took his spear in both hands.

‘Throw down your weapons, man,’ said one of the Mycenaeans, a short, stocky soldier with a long beard. There was sympathy in his hard eyes. ‘Don’t make us kill you.’

Eperitus took two paces forward. The three men in the middle of the line stepped back, while the two on either side edged round to form a horseshoe about him. Iphigenia stooped to pick up Eperitus’s second spear, but was grabbed by her mother, who pulled her back and held her tightly. As the Mycenaeans were still moving, Eperitus lunged to the left with his shield held out before him. The four-fold leather smashed into the nearest soldier, pushing him over the edge of the road to fall crashing down the gentle slope beyond. In the same instant he swung the shaft of his spear at the face of the next soldier, who was already turning to meet the attack. It caught him above the neckguard, causing him to drop his spear and stagger backwards, dark blood oozing out between his fingers as he clutched at his injured mouth.

The remaining Mycenaeans gave a shout of anger and surged forward. The nearest struck low, stabbing with the point of his spear at Eperitus’s groin. The blow was intended to kill him, and as he swept it aside with his shield Eperitus knew the battle would be to the death. He lunged at his opponent, thrusting his spear into the gap where the warrior had leaned forward to attack. The point would normally have found the soft flesh above the thigh, crippling the man if not killing him, but instead was turned aside with a dull scrape by the lowest plate of body armour.

The man stepped back, shaken by the skill and ferocity of Eperitus’s attack. Two others took his place, striking simultaneously, one high from the left and the other low to the right. Eperitus sensed rather than saw the approach of both spear-points, instinctively raising his shield to deflect the first while twisting aside so that the other slipped past him. He felt the ash shaft brushing past his hip, and at the same time heard a scream of alarm from Iphigenia. Eperitus looked across to see one of the guards brushing Clytaemnestra aside and seizing hold of his daughter.

With a roar of anger, he swung the edge of his shield into the face of one of his opponents, breaking his nose and sending him stumbling backwards. The other rushed forward, only to receive the head of Eperitus’s spear in his thigh. It passed through his leg and was torn from Eperitus’s grip as the man fell dying to the ground, the dark blood pumping thick and fast from the pierced artery. Eperitus jumped across the screaming warrior and, casting aside his cumbersome shield, rushed to help Iphigenia.

‘Stand back!’ he ordered as Clytaemnestra tried to pull the tall, muscular soldier away from her daughter.

The man’s shield was slung across his back and he had thrown his spear aside in the struggle with the child and her mother. He turned at the sound of Eperitus’s voice, but on seeing that his enemy was unarmed stepped forward with his fists raised and a grim smile on his face. Eperitus dodged the first blow, which swept past his left ear, and reacted with an upward punch to the man’s nose. The Mycenaean tottered sideways, stunned and blinking, but was quick to regain his senses. With a shake of his head, he turned and raised his fists again. Eperitus moved around him so that he was standing in front of Iphigenia.

‘Father!’ the girl warned, as the other guards formed a new line across the road. They were joined by the two men who had been knocked aside by Eperitus’s first attack, their eyes burning with a desire for revenge.

‘Clytaemnestra,’ Eperitus said, not taking his eyes from the man before him. ‘When I attack, take Iphigenia down the slope and into the town. Find the horses and escape – don’t wait for me.’

Before she could reply, he kicked downward at his opponent’s shin, scraping away the flesh with the edge of his sandal. The man shouted with pain, but was quickly silenced by a swift blow from Eperitus’s fist. The next instant, Eperitus drew his sword and prepared to run at the line of men before him. That he would die on their spear-points was inevitable, but if it gave his daughter a chance to flee he knew the sacrifice would be worthwhile.

‘What is this!’ barked a cold voice.

Eperitus turned to see Agamemnon standing in the gateway. He was tall and fearsome in his red cloak, white tunic and gleaming breastplate, as formidable a sight as the snarling stone lions in the wall above his head. On either side of him were Odysseus and Eurylochus. Eurylochus was grinning broadly, but Odysseus’s face was a mixture of concern, confusion and anger as he looked at the armed men spread across the road.

‘Eperitus,’ he said, sharply, ‘what’s happening here? Eurylochus says you were trying to run away with Agamemnon’s wife and daughter. In the name of Athena, tell me he’s wrong!’

‘I’m not wrong, my lord,’ Eurylochus announced, stepping forward and pointing an accusing finger at Eperitus. ‘I followed him down to the gardens and heard him and the queen planning to run away to Ithaca. I didn’t catch everything, but I know there’s a man waiting with horses and provisions for a long journey.’

‘You treacherous worm!’ Eperitus sneered, shooting a glance at Eurylochus.

Clytaemnestra stepped forward and looked imploringly at the king of Ithaca. ‘Whatever Eurylochus thinks he heard, Odysseus, he is wrong,’ she answered. ‘Iphigenia’s life is in danger, and I asked Eperitus to help me get her away from Mycenae.’

‘What sort of danger?’ Odysseus demanded.

Eperitus sheathed his sword and looked at his daughter. She stared back at him with fear in her eyes, but also pride at his fierce resistance against the Mycenaean guards. He fought the urge to pull her into the safety of his arms.

‘Calchas has bewitched the King of Men,’ he replied, turning to Odysseus. ‘He convinced Agamemnon that the storm at Aulis will not be lifted unless he sacrifices Iphigenia to Artemis, as retribution for the slaying of the white hart. When Clytaemnestra told me, I agreed to protect her.’

‘A human sacrifice!’ asked Odysseus, staring incredulously at Calchas on top of the slope. ‘That sort of thing is the stuff of legend, not reality!’

‘All wars require sacrifice,’ Agamemnon responded. ‘Didn’t you tell me in the woods that hunting the white hart could cost us dear? Well, if war with Troy requires the death of my own daughter then so be it.’

He stepped out from beneath the shadow of the gate and held out his hand towards Iphigenia. His jaw was set firmly and his blue eyes were as hard as sapphires as he stared at the girl. She responded with a look of hatred and, leaving Clytaemnestra’s side, ran towards Eperitus and threw her arms about him. Eperitus placed the palm of his hand on her head, but could not look at her.

With an expression of contempt on his pale face, Agamemnon signalled to his guards, who seized Eperitus by the arms and pulled him away from his daughter. Another took hold of the queen and dragged her out of the king’s path as he walked down the sloping road towards Iphigenia, followed closely by Odysseus. At that moment Eperitus realized the oath he had sworn to Clytaemnestra – the oath to protect Agamemnon – was not binding until the king killed Iphigenia. But if Eperitus could kill Agamemnon now, though he would lose his own life in the aftermath, he would at least save the girl.

With a huge backward thrust of his arms, he threw off the men who were holding him and drew his sword from its scabbard. It flashed red, catching the light of the sun as it rose above the mountains in the east, but as Eperitus turned his fierce gaze on Agamemnon, Odysseus whipped out his own sword and brought the pommel down on the back of his friend’s head.

Chapter Twenty-six

THE KING AND THE THIEF

Eperitus woke from the depths of a dark dream with his head throbbing and his body feeling as if it were made of stone. He looked up at an unfamiliar ceiling, colourfully decorated on one side with scenes of maidens dancing to the music of lyres and flutes, and on the other with naked youths boxing, wrestling and running. He briefly recalled his dream, in which he had been pursuing a silver deer through a dark forest, only to see the creature transformed into Iphigenia as he closed upon her with his spear. Then he heard the scrape of a chair nearby, followed by sandalled feet crossing a stone floor towards him.

‘How’s your head?’ Odysseus asked, looking down at his friend with a mixture of concern and relief. ‘I hit you a bit harder than I intended. You’ve been out cold for most of the day.’

Eperitus sat up, provoking sharp stabbing pains in the back of his head and between his eyes. He winced, but quickly brushed aside the discomfort to focus on Odysseus. ‘Where’s Iphigenia?’ he croaked. ‘What happened?’

He sat up and tried to stand, but Odysseus laid a hand on his shoulder and forced him to remain on the bed.

‘Iphigenia’s with Agamemnon. They’re on their way to Aulis as we speak.’

Eperitus brushed his friend’s hand aside and stood. ‘Then we must go after them, at once!’ he said, urgently looking around the room. Although he still wore his tunic and could see his sandals and cloak nearby, there was no sign of his weapons in the unfamiliar room. ‘He’s going to murder her, Odysseus – you heard him admit it! Surely you’re not going to stand by and allow him to go ahead?’

‘Agamemnon is the elected leader of all the Greeks,’ Odysseus reminded him, gently but firmly. ‘He can do as he pleases, whether you and I like it or not. Besides, he left Mycenae at dawn this morning, with Calchas, Talthybius and a bodyguard of twenty warriors, all on horses. It’s now reaching sunset, and even if we were able to leave this moment and catch them on our little ponies, what chance would six Ithacans stand against so many? If we weren’t massacred there and then, we’d be denounced as traitors for opposing Agamemnon’s will.’

Eperitus slumped back down on the bed, seemingly crushed by the weight of Odysseus’s information. The orange light of the westering sun shone through the small, high window on the lime-plastered walls and Eperitus knew that his daughter would already be a long way from Mycenae – far beyond any chance he would have of preventing her doom. Briefly, he wondered whether Clytaemnestra had told Odysseus the truth about Iphigenia, but there was nothing in the king’s eyes to show this. Should he tell him now, he thought – surely, as a father himself, Odysseus would understand his anguish and help him? But he kept his silence and, shaking his head slowly, looked at his friend with despairing eyes.

‘I can’t just let her be killed in cold blood,’ he said. ‘It’s monstrous, like something from the old legends.’

Odysseus narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, then sat down beside Eperitus.

‘You did everything you could to save her, but it was hopeless from the start. Even if you’d managed to escape, what chance would you have had with every warrior in Greece hunting for you? As it is, you’re only alive now because of the efforts of Talthybius, Clytaemnestra and myself. Agamemnon was enraged that you tried to help his wife and daughter to escape; he wanted you killed there and then, and it took all my powers of persuasion to stop him. Clytaemnestra helped, saying she had told you their lives were in danger and they had to flee the city. Only when Talthybius confirmed this did Agamemnon believe you were acting in ignorance to save his family.’

‘Then I owe Clytaemnestra and Talthybius my thanks,’ Eperitus said. ‘But if you hadn’t hit me over the head I could still have helped Iphigenia to get away.’

Odysseus laughed ironically. ‘If I hadn’t knocked you out, you would most certainly have been dead,’ he said. Then he reached across and grabbed Eperitus’s arm, a fierce look in his eyes. ‘Do you think I didn’t see what you were about to do? Admit it, Eperitus – you wanted to kill Agamemnon, didn’t you!’

‘Yes!’ Eperitus exclaimed, snatching his arm away and turning to face the window. ‘Yes, and I’d strike him down now if he were here. Iphigenia has become . . . precious to me in these past few days. Agamemnon doesn’t care for her or Clytaemnestra, but I do – and they care for me!’

Odysseus stared at his friend for a time, his expression dark and stern. Eventually, he broke the silence that had fallen in the room. ‘You wanted war, Eperitus, and as Agamemnon said, war requires sacrifice. When Helen left Sparta, whether by force or of her own free will, she had to give up all but one of her children. How do you think she feels now? And what about Menelaus, who lost everything he lived for in Helen? Achilles has given up a wife and child to go to his doom against Troy, and unless the words of the oracle can be broken, then I’m condemned not to see Penelope or Telemachus for twenty years. It’s the same story, one way or another, for every man waiting at Aulis, whether spearman or king. Even Agamemnon, the great King of Men, will be sacrificing his own humanity when he takes Iphigenia’s life – a fitting price for his ambitions, perhaps. But you should count yourself blessed, Eperitus: at least you have no family to sacrifice to the flames of this war.’

‘Blessed, am I?’ Eperitus scoffed, pacing the room in his bare feet. ‘By all the gods on Olympus, Odysseus, don’t you realize who Iphigenia is? She’s my daughter.’

Odysseus opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out. It was the first time Eperitus had ever seen a look of anything like stupidity on the face of his astute, sharp-minded friend, and as Odysseus closed his mouth again and narrowed his eyes in thought Eperitus suddenly felt like laughing.

‘But how?’ the king asked.

‘Clytaemnestra and I became lovers ten years ago, when I was hiding in the Taygetus Mountains. I never knew before we came here that I’d fathered a child – how could I? – but Clytaemnestra says Iphigenia is mine, and my every instinct tells me it’s true. And now, perhaps, you can truly understand why I did what I did.’

‘Of course, but . . .’

‘There’s no but about the matter,’ Eperitus snapped, turning to his friend with a sudden look of intense determination on his face. ‘Your message is clear, Odysseus – the gods are cruel and demanding, but no man can deny them their due. Have you given up on Penelope and Telemachus so quickly? Well, I’m not prepared to simply lie down and accept that Iphigenia is lost. I won’t allow her to slip from my fingers, to be murdered by an insane king at the insistence of an unloving god; and if you will help me, then I know there’s still hope.’

‘Think about what you’re asking, Eperitus,’ Odysseus responded. ‘They’re a whole day’s ride ahead of us, and even if we could catch up with them they outnumber us three to one.’

‘No, you think about it!’ Eperitus shouted. ‘You’re the most intelligent man I know, and yet you haven’t seen what this means yet! If you help me save my daughter, then the words of the oracle can be broken. When Agamemnon can’t appease Artemis with Iphigenia’s life, the fleet won’t be able to sail for Troy. Before long the expedition will be forced to disband, and even if you have to walk there you’ll be able to return home to Ithaca – to your family. If we work together, Odysseus, we can save Iphigenia and stop the war. I know we can!’

Odysseus’s eyes narrowed for a moment, then widened as he realized the insane possibility of what Eperitus was suggesting. His face broke into a grin and, grabbing Eperitus by the arms, he stared at his friend with a new intensity.

‘By the gods, Eperitus, you’re right! Why didn’t I realize it at the Lion Gate? I could go home to my wife and son, and if Iphigenia came back with us you’d have every reason to stay on Ithaca and forget your lust for glory. Come on, man, get your sandals and cloak on – we haven’t a moment to waste. I told the others to be ready to leave as soon as you were awake, so they should be waiting for us.’

‘What will you do?’ Eperitus asked, already crouching down and tying on his sandals.

‘I don’t know yet, but I’m going to take your advice and think about it. Obviously, we can’t use force – it’ll need subtlety and cunning – but unless all the gods are against us then we’ll take whatever opportunities arise.’

They left the room – a small guest-chamber in the royal quarters – and passed through several narrow corridors to a flight of stairs, which took them down to the threshold of the palace. Here they could see the city below them, where the shadows lay long and dark, and beyond its walls a landscape of green hills in a fertile plain. As they paused to take in the view, Eurylochus passed through the pillared gateway and came running towards them.

‘Odysseus!’ he called. ‘Everything’s ready. Clytaemnestra has provided horses instead of the ponies we came on, so . . .’

Before he could say another word, Eperitus launched himself forward and seized him by the throat with both hands. Eurylochus’s legs buckled beneath the attack and the two men collapsed on the flagstoned floor, punching and kicking ferociously at each other. Eperitus, his lower lip already bleeding, quickly forced Eurylochus onto his back and pushed his thumbs into his fleshy neck, throwing all his weight into the stranglehold as Eurylochus fought back with surprising strength, kicking out with his fat legs as he struggled to throw off his attacker.

‘You treacherous swine,’ Eperitus cursed through gritted teeth, staring into Eurylochus’s beady eyes. ‘If Iphigenia dies because of you . . .’

‘I didn’t know you were . . .’ Eurylochus gagged, but the force of Eperitus’s fingers crushed the words in his throat and he could only gasp for more air as his oxygen-starved brain began to fall into the unconsciousness that preceded death.

Then Odysseus locked his arms about Eperitus’s chest and dragged him away with irresistible force. Eurylochus rolled over onto his knees and coughed violently, before vomiting over the flagstones. Eperitus continued to struggle against Odysseus’s fierce grip for a few moments, then gave up and let the tension drain from his muscles. As soon as Eurylochus had risen groggily to his feet and taken a few steps back, carefully massaging the marks on his bulging neck, Odysseus released his hold and Eperitus stepped free.

‘Eurylochus didn’t know anything about Agamemnon’s plans,’ the king explained angrily. ‘I’ve already questioned him on the matter, and he says he only overheard you and Clytaemnestra planning to run away with Iphigenia.’

‘I did what I thought was right,’ Eurylochus croaked, shooting a fierce glance at his attacker.

‘Liar,’ Eperitus spat, stepping towards Eurylochus. ‘You’ve hated me ever since Odysseus made me captain of the guard. And because of your petty jealousy a young girl is going to die!’

Odysseus placed a restraining hand on Eperitus’s shoulder. ‘Stop this,’ he commanded. ‘Both of you! If we’re to have any chance of catching Agamemnon, we must leave before it gets dark and ride late into the night. That means we haven’t got time to waste on your differences.’

After a warning glance at both men, he strode off towards the portico that led down to the lower levels of the city. Eperitus and Eurylochus scowled briefly at each other, then followed in his wake. The sun had already gone down by the time they reached the city walls, leaving behind an azure sky streaked with avenues of thin cloud. A line of six horses were waiting on the road beyond the Lion Gate, where Arceisius, Polites and Antiphus were talking quietly. Antiphus playfully admonished the newcomers for their lateness, before pointing each man to his horse. Eperitus walked over to the tall mare that had been assigned to him and stroked her neck. She was entirely black but for a white diamond on her nose, and her coat shone with a blue gleam in the failing light. Though he had liked Melite, the pony that had brought him to Mycenae, he could feel the strength and speed in the horse before him and knew she would make a much more suitable mount for the pursuit of Agamemnon.

‘We’ve packed your things for you,’ Antiphus said, glancing briefly at the blood on Eperitus’s lip and the marks about Eurylochus’s bulbous neck. ‘There’s a few days’ supply of food and a couple of skins of water for each of us. And we’ve brought your weapons down, too.’

Eperitus thanked him and looked across at the shield, sword and spears stacked ready at the side of the road. But as he turned, he noticed a figure standing beneath the shadows of the gateway. It was Clytaemnestra.

‘Give the queen our thanks for her hospitality,’ Odysseus said. ‘And especially for the gift of the horses.’

He caught Eperitus’s eye and smiled knowingly, before turning away and adjusting the blanket on his horse’s back. Eperitus walked back to the gate, where Clytaemnestra was leaning against the smooth wall with her arms behind her back and her red hair loose over her shoulders. Her pale face seemed to have lost its harshness, and was soft and appealing in the twilight, but he could also see the redness in her eyes and the despair in her crushed expression. The promise of happiness had been cruelly snatched away from her before it could be realized, and now she was condemned to remain the queen of Mycenae – cold, beautiful and lonely. Agamemnon had not punished her rebellion, but not out of kindness: without Iphigenia he knew her life would be even more empty than before, and in time her loneliness would consume her. Soon all she would have would be her hatred for her husband, gnawing at her with a greater and more bitter intensity than it had ever done before.

Understanding all these things, Eperitus looked at her and was moved with pity. He had a sudden urge to take her in his arms and comfort her, feel her thin body close to his again – perhaps for the last time – and tell her everything would be all right. But what comfort could he offer? What hope could he give when Iphigenia was already in the hands of her murderous father?

‘Thank you for the horses,’ he said, resisting the urge to reach out and touch her. ‘We’re going to ride through the night to catch them up, if we can.’

Clytaemnestra smiled sadly, like a child without hope, and looked down at her feet. ‘And what will you do if you find them in time? There are too many of them for your small band.’

‘Odysseus has promised to help. If anybody can find a way to save Iphigenia, he can.’

He smiled reassuringly and took a step towards her, but she retreated before him. A quick movement of her eyes told him that the others were watching - at least, he knew, Eurylochus would be – and that they were unable to show their affection for each other.

‘Goodbye, Eperitus,’ she said, turning away. ‘Save our daughter, if you can. But if you can’t, don’t forget your promise – protect my husband until he returns to me.’

They rode as swiftly as they could, long into the night until they passed the watchtowers on the northern border of Agamemnon’s kingdom. Here Odysseus called a halt and they ate a cold, frugal meal before snatching a brief and fitful sleep. They were up again before dawn and galloping along the dirt road as the sun rose above the hilltops in the east. Eperitus rued the fact that they were not all experienced horsemen, for with skill they could have gone further in less time with the horses Clytaemnestra had given them, which were swift and strong; without them their pursuit of Agamemnon would not have stood a chance. As it was, Eperitus sensed his daughter, helpless and alone, was slipping beyond his reach.

They came to Megara soon after nightfall and found a room with straw mattresses – a particular blessing for Polites and Eurylochus, who were the least used to riding and seemed to ache in every muscle. The next day was again warm and sunny, and the hooves of their mounts kicked up clouds of dust behind them as they sped along the coastal road beside the Saronic Sea. Being the best rider among them, Eperitus was at the head of the file with his comrades strung out over some distance behind him. As he strained his eyes for sight of a dust cloud that might reveal Agamemnon’s party ahead of them, a bent figure clad in a long brown cloak with the hood pulled over its face hobbled out into the road and waved an arm. Heaving on the reins, Eperitus brought his horse to a halt and looked down at the old woman before him.

‘What is it, mother?’ he asked as Odysseus and Arceisius came galloping up on either side of him, kicking up a cloud of dust as they reined their mounts in. All three riders were unrecognizable from the fine grey dirt of the road that caked their faces and clothing.

The woman did not answer immediately, but spent a long moment pondering the men, studying the shields and weapons they carried and looking in admiration at their fine mounts. Though she must have been tall in her youth, now she was crooked with age and it was with difficulty that she craned her neck to stare up at them. Finally, as Eurylochus and Antiphus joined the group, a quavery voice came out from the shadows beneath her hood.

‘Forgive an old crone her curiosity. I can see you’re in a hurry, and that seems to be the way of youth these days. When I was a lass they used to say that only a fool hurries, but the world no longer has the wisdom it used to. Anyway, I saw your shields and your tall spears, and I thought to myself: here are some warriors, riding to war no doubt, courageously hurling their lives into the path of danger as if they’ve plenty to spare, and not caring about their poor mothers sitting at home and worrying about the ones they brought into the world with such travail and pain.’

‘Yes, old hag, we’re warriors,’ snapped Eurylochus, impatiently. ‘Now, was there a point to throwing yourself into our path, or do you just want to bore us with tales of how things used to be?’

‘As I said,’ the old woman continued, nodding sagely, ‘always in a hurry. Do I have a point, though? Yes, of course. I was just thinking to myself what magnificent, dust-covered warriors you all look, and how similar to my poor son you are, just before he rode off to his death in battle, leaving me – already a widow – destitute and poor, hardly able to feed myself but for the charity of passers-by.’

‘Our hearts bleed for you,’ Eurylochus interrupted, tossing a barley cake into the road at her feet. ‘Now, save us the detail of your suffering and stand aside, before I’m tempted to ride over you.’

Odysseus raised his hand to silence his cousin. Despite the urgency of their pursuit, he smiled kindly at the crone and nodded. ‘Go on, mother.’

The woman ignored the cake at her feet and cocked her head to look up at Odysseus. Her eyes gleamed from the shadow of her hood. ‘You have the manners of a nobleman, my lord,’ she croaked. ‘And perhaps your patience in listening to an old hag will be rewarded, eh? I was saying you reminded me of my son, a mighty warrior with noble blood in his veins. Beloved of the gods, he was, and though I say he went to war leaving me destitute, it is not entirely true. For after he was killed – outnumbered and surrounded by his enemies – his friends retrieved his armaments and sent them back to me, to remind me of him in his pride and glory. And long I have kept them, long; not only for the sake of his memory, but also because of their great pedigree. For they aren’t the weapons of mere mortals: each one was given to him by a god, in recognition of his piety and devotion to them.’

Eurylochus snorted and muttered something under his breath. Arceisius turned to him, admonishing him in a loud whisper: ‘Be careful, Eurylochus. Haven’t you heard the gods often disguise themselves as crones or beggars to test the quality of a man?’

‘Well said, son,’ the old woman cackled. ‘You may be young, but you’re certainly no fool. And maybe the gods are about to reward you, for though I said I have kept my son’s weapons for long, I find myself forced to part with them to feed my hungry belly. My eyes fail me now and I can no longer earn my way as a seamstress, so perhaps you can spare some food and a few trinkets in exchange for a helmet, a bow or a dagger? They’re all that remain of my son’s proud armaments – the rest were had by wise travellers like yourselves, who knew a bargain when they saw one.’

‘What would we want with a load of blunt, second-hand weapons?’ Eurylochus scoffed.

‘May the gods forgive your ignorance,’ she replied. ‘Did I not say they were the gifts of the immortals to my son? Would you insult the Olympians by turning your noses up at these fine weapons: a bow given by Apollo, which has unerring aim; a helmet from Ares himself, which can be penetrated by no weapon; and a dagger from Aphrodite, that is not only made of gold but also gives the wearer the power to woo any woman he comes across?’

‘One of my men needs a new bow,’ Odysseus said. He was eager to press on and, not wanting to show disrespect to an old woman, had decided the only option was to buy something and make a rapid departure.

The crone turned and hobbled towards a blanket that had been spread out on the ground at the side of the road, beneath the shade of an olive tree. Stooping a little, she took hold of one of its corners and pulled it away to reveal the armaments she had spoken of: a battered but polished helmet, a well-kept bow, and a dagger that gleamed with gold in the sunlight.

Suddenly, Antiphus leapt down from his horse and ran to look at the weapons.

‘Hey!’ he exclaimed. ‘This is my bow!’

The old woman stepped back, straightening up a little as she moved. ‘Impossible,’ she laughed. ‘I’m afraid you’re gravely mistaken, lad. This is my son’s bow, given to him by . . .’

‘Apollo,’ Odysseus said, jumping down and patting the dust from his clothes. ‘Yes, we know. But Antiphus wouldn’t make a mistake about a weapon he’s owned since boyhood. Perhaps you’ll allow us to take a closer look at these other gifts of the gods.’

At that moment, Polites arrived. The crone took one look at the giant warrior, then turned and began to hobble away at a rapid pace. ‘I suppose you intend to rob me, do you?’ she complained as she retreated. ‘Five armed men and now a giant from the old tales! Take the damned weapons, then. A poor widow can hardly defend her possessions from determined thieves, can she, if they’ve a mind to have them for themselves?’

Odysseus signalled to Eperitus, who spurred his horse forward to block her escape. Meanwhile, Antiphus picked up his bow and studied it closely, checking for damage while smiling broadly at the feel of it in his hands again. Beside him, Odysseus stooped down to pick up a clay jar from beneath the shade of the tree.

‘Don’t touch that!’ the crone ordered, hobbling back towards him. ‘It’s the only water I’ve got and the nearest stream is a good walk away on the other side of that ridge.’

Ignoring her, Odysseus poured the water over his head and wiped the dust from his face.

‘Recognize me now?’ he asked, after drying his face on the blanket that had covered the array of weapons.

The old woman pulled the hood further down across her face. ‘Never seen you before in my life. Now, why don’t you take the weapons and leave me in peace. And may the gods curse you for your wickedness, stealing from a helpless crone and all.’

‘You’re neither a crone nor helpless,’ Odysseus replied, seizing her arm and pulling her to her full height, then throwing the hood back from her head. It was Galatea.

‘This is your dagger, Eperitus,’ Antiphus announced, bending down to pick up the weapon. ‘And your helmet, Polites.’

‘Where’s my sword, woman?’ Eurylochus demanded.

‘And my spear?’ Arceisius added.

Galatea shrugged off the heavy cloak from her shoulders and stood before them in a plain woollen dress. Her suntanned skin shone with sweat and her grey eyes gleamed with defiance.

‘They went – not that I got much for the old junk. The only reason I couldn’t get rid of that dagger was because nobody could afford my price, and I certainly wasn’t going to give it away. As for that oversized helmet, I couldn’t find a soldier with a head as big as a horse to take it from me.’

Polites looked hurt, but remained silent as he gazed in awe at the beautiful thief.

‘Well, you can at least give Odysseus those gold bangles back,’ said Eperitus.

‘No,’ said Odysseus, who had been watching Galatea in thoughtful silence. ‘No, I’m going to let you keep them.’

The scowl fell from Galatea’s face and everybody looked at Odysseus in astonishment.

‘Keep them?’ repeated Eurylochus.

‘Yes – keep them,’ Odysseus confirmed. ‘And what’s more, Eurylochus, when we reach Eleusis we’ll get the girl fine clothes and jewellery fit for a goddess. What do you say, Galatea?’

Galatea could not stop her face breaking into a bright smile, but she crossed her arms and stared at the Ithacan king with her head cocked to one side. ‘Keep what I took from you and get more on top? Not without something in return, no doubt. What’s your price?’

‘Come with us to Aulis,’ Odysseus replied, patting the flank of his horse and smiling cryptically. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ve got in mind on the way.’

Chapter Twenty-seven

ARTEMIS

Agamemnon had ordered the leaders of the Greek factions to gather in the wood overlooking the army’s camp, in the glade where the altars to the gods had been placed. The kings and princes arrived one by one, unaccompanied by their captains or advisers, to find two white tents standing on opposite sides of the clearing, their canvas heavy and sagging with the ceaseless rain. Each tent was guarded by one of Agamemnon’s bodyguard, but the King of Men was nowhere to be seen.

At the centre of the clearing was a single plinth, longer and wider than the marble altars encircling it and gleaming white in the heavy gloom. A wooden pyre stood not far from it, built to the height of a man and covered by a ship’s sail – stretched between four wooden posts – to keep it dry. The canvas flapped noisily in the strong north-easterly winds that whistled through the trees and tugged at the sodden cloaks of the Greek leaders. There were more than two dozen of them now, standing in silence amidst the curtains of rain that swept the clearing. A few blinked up at the skies above, where billowing clouds twisted and curled in different shades of grey, constantly blending and separating in an endless metamorphosis. It was as if Aulis had been sewn into a shroud of endless shadow, where day passed into night and night into day without a glimpse of the sun – a Hades for the living, where every moment was an intolerable drudge and there was no hope of escape. But as they gathered for the sacrifice that Calchas had promised would lift the storm, the leaders’ spirits fell to their lowest ebb. Being warriors, primed for war, they longed for nothing more than to sail to Troy and reap a great victory; but when the awful nature of the sacrifice had been revealed to them there was not one who did not baulk at the horror of it. The cold looks of the men as they passed through the camp on their way to the gathering told them what the common soldiers thought about the price of Agamemnon’s war, even if it was the King of Men’s own daughter who had to die.

And yet they came as they had been commanded, their faces half hidden by their hoods as they formed a circle around the central altar. Menelaus hung his head and avoided the eyes of the others about him. He had known Agamemnon’s intentions from the beginning, but because of his longing for Helen had not discouraged them; he was complicit in Iphigenia’s death, and the girl’s blood would be as much on his hands as his brother’s.

Beside him, standing tall and aloof, was Diomedes. His handsome face was held high, but his stern brown eyes looked with disdain at the altar before him, openly declaring his condemnation of the act that would soon take place. Nestor, on the opposite side of the circle, shared the Argive’s distaste, but, as he stood with his hands behind his back, watching the raindrops explode off the marble altar, he knew the will of the gods could not be denied. The other leaders knew it too – Palamedes, Idomeneus, Menestheus, Teucer, Little Ajax and the rest – and had come to the clearing without protest. Even Great Ajax was there, towering above them like a standing stone in the torrents of rain. When it came to battle, his faith was in his own strength rather than the whims of the Olympians, but he knew the storm could not be fought with muscle and bronze alone. It was an unnatural thing sent by the gods, and if Artemis could be appeased only with the death of a young girl then her price had to be met.

Only two of the highborn Greeks were absent. The first was Odysseus, who had still not returned from Mycenae, and the other was Achilles. On discovering his name had been used to lure Iphigenia to Aulis he had flown into a rage at Agamemnon, reproaching him for his deceit and promising to have no part in the sacrifice. Since then the Phthian prince had remained shut in his tent with Patroclus, refusing all summons from the King of Men. Even Nestor and Diomedes, after being welcomed with the hospitality that befitted their rank, were politely but firmly refused when they asked Achilles to put aside his anger and attend the sacrifice. Agamemnon may have been elected leader of the Greeks, they were told, but he needed to be taught that Achilles would not tolerate the misuse of his name.

As the group of men awaited the appearance of Agamemnon, a great peal of thunder split the clouds above them. They felt it in the air and the ground beneath their feet, and a moment later sensed the flicker of lightning inside the swirling belly of cloud over their heads. Instinctively they grew uneasy, some of them glancing upwards or across at the tents on either side of the glade. Then, as if in response to their anxious looks, the guard on one of the tents reached across and pulled open the heavy cotton and flax canvas. A moment later Agamemnon stepped out, wearing his lion’s pelt and his breastplate of gold, tin and blue enamel. As he stared at the circle of leaders from beneath the lion’s upper teeth, they could see that his face was set in a fierce grimace and there was an almost fanatical gleam in his eyes. Then, stepping forward, he stumbled and clawed at the guy ropes to steady himself. The soldier reached out to help, but Agamemnon pushed him away irritably before continuing across the clearing. His steps were wavering and unsteady, though he tried to walk with his back straight and his head high, and when he reached the altar he gripped the edge of the plinth to keep himself from falling. He looked around at the gathered kings and princes and, to their surprise, he was smiling – a desperate grin that was halfway between amusement and derision.

‘Where’s Achilles?’ he demanded.

‘He won’t come,’ Nestor answered. ‘As a point of honour.’

‘Honour?’ Agamemnon scoffed. ‘Honour! There’s no honour in this for any of us; why should he remain aloof from it all?’

‘Because he’s the only sane one among us,’ said Diomedes. ‘This isn’t right, Agamemnon. It will put a curse on all of us.’

‘It’s the will of the gods!’ Agamemnon retorted, leaning across the altar towards him, the slurring of his words more pronounced now. ‘Even Achilles in his pride won’t remain untouched. He can hide away in his tent, declaring I’ve offended his honour, but we’re all part of this. The stain of it will fall on him, too.’

There was another deep roll of thunder followed by a flash of lightning, forking down from the clouds beyond the wood and momentarily sundering the oppressive gloom. Agamemnon threw both fists up at the sky and howled with anger, then drawing a dagger from his belt struck again and again at the marble plinth, sending showers of sparks to join the spray from the rain. But the blade refused to break and, his anger expended, the king slumped across the altar and lowered his head.

At that point, the guard at the other tent lifted the canvas and Calchas walked out, pulling Iphigenia behind him. She wore a brown cloak that fell almost to her ankles, and her feet were bare as she staggered forward into the ferocious rain, looking confused and fearful. A crown of small yellow, blue and white flowers had been plaited into her hair, reminding the onlookers of the summer that had been driven away from Aulis by the storms, and which would only return when the girl’s life blood had been spilled.

Iphigenia looked across at the circle of hooded men and the hunched figure of Agamemnon, and her eyes darkened with anger. Suddenly she began to struggle against the pull of Calchas’s hand, digging her heels into the mud and leaning backwards as she tried to wrench herself free of his fierce grip. The priest turned and threw both hands about her wrist. The black hood slipped from his head as they fought and his bald pate gleamed white and bulbous through the sheets of rain. Eventually the combined strength of his thin arms succeeded and the girl was pulled onto her knees.

‘Why are you doing this to me?’ she screamed. ‘I don’t want to die!’

Agamemnon lifted his head from the plinth and gazed across at the girl he believed to be his daughter, kneeling in the mud with her arms stretched suppliantly towards him. For a moment the strength seemed to drain from his body, and if it were not for the altar he would have slumped to the ground. Then, though his arms were weak and numbed by the cold marble of the plinth, he pulled himself up and looked again at the weeping girl, her face now hidden in her hands. With his thoughts and senses dulled by the incessant rain, he tried to remember how Iphigenia had looked as a baby, and then as she had grown into a girl. But the memories would not come: all he could see was the face of his son, Orestes; it was as if Iphigenia was a stranger to him, a mere acquaintance flitting in and out at the edges of his life.

A clamorous boom ripped through the skies above, followed by a great flash of light. In its wake, he heard a voice in his head, telling him he did not love the girl. The voice belonged to Calchas and as Agamemnon looked across at the priest, standing now patiently at Iphigenia’s side, it seemed to him the man knew his thoughts. He stared at the faces of the kings and princes around him. Their eyes were hard, disapproving, but expectant. He was their elected leader – the self-styled King of Men – and if he was to take them to Troy he must carry out the edicts of the gods, however cruel. Finally he looked again at his daughter. Her face had lifted now and there was a scornful look on her young features, a look that reminded him of her mother. Suddenly she struggled to her feet, slipping in the mud, and raising her face to the heavens began to shout: ‘Eperitus! Eperitus! Help me!’

Agamemnon rose to his full height, throwing off the chains of lethargy that had bound him to the altar. With an angry frown, he thrust a finger towards Iphigenia.

‘Silence her!’ he commanded. ‘And bring her to me.’

Calchas clapped his hand over Iphigenia’s mouth, but she bit into the soft palm and he pulled away with a yelp of pain.

‘I’ll come freely,’ she declared, glaring angrily at Agamemnon. ‘I won’t be dragged to my death like a dumb beast.’

With that, she took a deep breath, brushed the wet strands of hair from her eyes, and approached the altar. The circle of hooded men parted before her, and as she passed between them she saw Menelaus and Diomedes on either side of her. Diomedes could not hold her gaze and hung his head, but Menelaus held out his hands pleadingly and opened his mouth to speak.

‘You are not to blame, uncle,’ she said, then with a smile walked past and stood before the marble plinth, facing the man she had thought of as her father until only a few days ago. The dagger was still clutched in his hand and for a moment her eyes lingered on the beads of rain as they ran down the shining blade and dripped to the ground. Agamemnon looked at her with hard eyes and his mouth set in a firm line.

‘The altar is too high, my lord,’ she said, bitterly. ‘You will have to help me up.’

Agamemnon looked at Calchas, who had followed the girl into the circle of men. He stepped up behind her and unfastened the cloak from around her neck. It fell to form a dark pool about her feet, revealing the white sacrificial robes beneath. For a moment it seemed to the onlookers that a pillar of light had been uncovered before their eyes, then Calchas placed her arm about his neck and, lifting her from the ground, laid her on the great stone slab. Iphigenia turned her eyes from the falling rain and shivered, though whether it was with the cold or with fear, no one knew.

Agamemnon gave another nod and Calchas stepped back, shrugging the heavy cloak from his shoulders to reveal the white priest’s robes beneath. Lifting his face to the heavens, he stretched out his arms and began a low, unintelligible chant. His voice grew steadily louder and the onlookers could hear him calling on the gods to witness the sacrifice, singing their names and many titles in a wavering tone that was both hypnotic and chilling. As he sang the name of Artemis, the virgin huntress, goddess of the moon, Agamemnon took the dagger in both hands and lifted it above his head. He looked down at his daughter’s chest, rising and falling rapidly, clawing at the last moments of life, and she looked back at him, wide-eyed but silent. Then there was a loud crash from above as if the sky had split asunder, followed by a keen whistling and a cry of pain from Calchas. A flash of lightning followed and for an instant the priest seemed frozen, his right arm lifted above his head and the fingers of his hand splayed wide. Through the centre of his palm was an arrow, stuck fast in the flesh and bone.

‘Stop!’ commanded a high, strong voice.

Agamemnon let the dagger fall to his side and looked across at the woman who had emerged from the cover of the trees, carrying an empty bow in her left hand. She was tall and beautiful, but despite the girlish ponytail of jet-black hair and the white, thigh-length chiton, her stern face was filled with authority and power. At her side was a pure white doe, which followed her on its leash as she walked towards the circle of altars.

‘Stop the sacrifice at once,’ she ordered. ‘The girl’s life is to be spared.’

As she approached, the downpour faded to a fine drizzle and the strangled half-light of the clearing brightened a little, giving the jewelled necklace about her neck and the golden bangles on her wrists a dull gleam. The nobles fell back before her, confused and stunned by her unexpected appearance. On the altar, Iphigenia sat up and wiped the rain from her eyes to stare at the elegant but commanding figure, standing like a light at the edge of the nightmare in which she was trapped. Beside her, Calchas released a sharp squeal of pain as he pulled the arrow from his palm and fell to his knees. Clutching his wounded hand under his armpit, he looked up at the woman with an angry glimmer in his eyes.

‘How dare you interrupt a sacred ritual?’ he hissed through gritted teeth as he felt the waves of pain bite. ‘You’ll pay for this with your life, woman.’

Then, to the astonishment of the gathered leaders, Agamemnon stepped around the altar and fell to his knees at the woman’s sandalled feet, bowing his head in silence before her.

‘You have not been chosen to lead the Greeks for nothing, Agamemnon,’ she said. ‘You alone among your peers have recognized that I am an immortal. While their stiff necks refuse to bow before me, you have shown me the respect that is my due.’

With this, she looked about at the kings and princes until one by one they knelt in the mud and lowered their heads. Her voice was clear, proud and authoritative, and even if some exchanged questioning glances with each other, they felt obliged to follow Agamemnon’s lead. Eventually only Palamedes remained standing, scrutinizing the woman with disbelieving eyes.

‘How do we know you’re one of the immortals?’ he challenged her, his fists on his hips. ‘What proof can you give?’

Her face darkened with anger and she pulled an arrow from the quiver that hung at her hip. Fitting it to her bowstring, she aimed it directly at Palamedes’s face.

‘I am Artemis,’ she snarled. ‘And you can choose to kneel willingly before me, or I can bring you to the ground with an arrow through your eye. Either way, I have no intention of proving my divinity to a mere mortal.’

Reluctantly, Palamedes fell to one knee and bowed his head slightly, without removing his eyes from the female archer. Galatea breathed a mental sigh of relief and, lowering the bow, turned to Agamemnon.

‘I am the one who demanded this sacrifice of you, King of Men, and now I am relieving you of the task. You have proved your willingness to obey me and that is enough – you have passed the test. I will ask Aeolus to call off the winds at dawn tomorrow, leaving only a westerly breeze to fill the sails of your galleys and take you to Troy. As for your daughter, she is to come with me to serve as a priestess in my temple at Tauris. You will sacrifice this white doe in her place.’

Galatea knelt by the animal that Antiphus and Arceisius had trapped the previous evening, noticing to her horror that the powder Odysseus had used to whiten its fur was already beginning to run in the constant drizzle. If the ruse was to work, she would have to act quickly. Patting the doe on its hindquarters and shoving it gently towards the central altar, she held her other hand out towards Iphigenia and beckoned her to come. The girl slid her legs over the marble slab and jumped to the floor, then with agonizing slowness – her eyes filled with awe – walked cautiously towards the tall white figure. All the time, Galatea could sense Palamedes’s eyes upon her, watching for some chink in her facade of divine authority and making her wish she had shot him when she had the chance. As it was, she reminded herself that she was a goddess, without mortal equal, and raised her chin disdainfully as she bent her gaze forcefully upon him. After a moment he lowered his eyes to the mud.

Then the thunder returned, closely pursued by a splash of lightning that flashed off the wall of trees. Galatea looked up, sensing a sudden change in the atmosphere, and within moments the clearing was filled with driving rain mixed with sleet and hail. It blew cold against her cheeks and forehead as she beckoned urgently to Iphigenia. The girl quickened her pace and reached out to take Galatea’s hand. She felt the woman’s warm fingertips grasp her palm, and at the same moment there came another change in the air about them. Then there was a loud twang and a gold-tipped arrow passed through Galatea’s neck. She was dead in an instant, dropping into the mud at the child’s feet.

Iphigenia stepped back and screamed. Behind her the Greeks rose to their feet and looked about themselves in panic, sensing that a terrible presence was upon them. The clouds above the clearing began to move with an unnatural speed, twisting and contorting as if the skies themselves were in pain. Peals of thunder followed one upon another, forcing many of the men below to throw themselves to the ground in fear. Great columns of branched lightning struck again and again around the perimeter of the wood, and then with a great howl the wind began to rage through the glade. It plucked the sail from over the pyre and tossed it up into the clouds, where it was torn violently and carried away over the treetops; the two tents followed and their sparse contents were scattered across the long grass and into the trees while the guards fled for cover.

As Galatea fell, Polites had sprung up from his hiding place in the trees and only the quick reactions of Eurylochus and Arceisius had prevented him from running out to her body. Even then, it took all their strength and the help of Antiphus to restrain the muscle-bound giant and pull him back into the cover of the undergrowth. Eperitus, too, had risen to his feet, looking anxiously at Iphigenia as she cowered at the edge of the circle of altars, her arms thrown around the neck of the fretful doe as the storm grew in ferocity about them. Odysseus’s ruse had failed at the last moment and now there was only one way to save Iphigenia.

He took a step forward, but immediately a strong hand seized his arm and pulled him back into the undergrowth. ‘You can’t just run out there in full view of everyone,’ Odysseus hissed. ‘It’ll mean your own death as well as the girl’s.’

‘She’s my daughter!’ Eperitus retorted, shaking off Odysseus’s hand. ‘And don’t forget, if she dies your hopes of returning to Penelope and Telemachus will die with her.’

‘Eperitus is right,’ said Antiphus. ‘He can run out and fetch her in the middle of this storm and nobody will even notice.’

‘Don’t be foolish,’ Odysseus said, catching Eperitus by the wrist as he stood again. ‘Can’t you see something’s happening? This is no ordinary storm.’

‘Look!’ said Arceisius.

He released Polites’s arm and pointed to the opposite side of the clearing, past the stooping Greeks and the scattered debris from the tents to where a lone figure had emerged from between the trees. He wore no helmet or armour and his blond hair was blown wildly by the wind, but he stood tall and unbent by the gale, a long sword held in his hand. It was Achilles.

His eyes roamed across the chaos before him – sneering briefly at the sight of Agamemnon and Calchas cowering behind the central altar – until he saw the terrified figure of Iphigenia. Without hesitation, he strode through the midst of the other kings and princes towards her.

‘Come, girl!’ he shouted over the gale and the endless rumbling of thunder. ‘This is no place for you.’

Suddenly, a shaft of lightning stabbed down into the carefully stacked pyre of logs behind him. The wood that Agamemnon had intended for Iphigenia’s body burst into orange fire, the flames licking outwards in every direction. Achilles staggered backwards, throwing his arm across his face for protection. Then, to the amazement of all watching, the flames turned blood red, stretching up to a height above the treetops. In their midst, barely discernible at first but taking shape rapidly, was the figure of a woman. She was tall – twice as tall as Ajax, who alone among the gathered leaders had remained on his feet throughout the storm – and in her hand was a bow of the same height. She stepped out of the fire and even Achilles and Ajax fell to their knees before her.

‘Artemis,’ Antiphus whispered, his eyes wide with fear and awe. ‘It was her arrow that killed Galatea.’

Eperitus stared at the goddess and despaired. Her face was young and beautiful, with pure white skin and golden hair, but her eyes were black; filled with a terrible darkness and power that were not tempered by reason or compassion. The heavy sheets of rain and the blustering wind seemed to pass over her without effect, and as her fierce gaze swept across the men many threw themselves face down on to the ground or covered their heads with their cloaks. Inevitably, her eyes fell upon Iphigenia and the doe that was still clutched in her arms.

‘The girl is mine!’ she declared, and even the clamour of the storm gave way to the sound of her clear, booming voice. ‘Only her blood will appease the offence done to me.’

Eperitus watched his daughter look up at the goddess, but there was no fear in her eyes any more. For days she must have lived in the shadow of her impending death, hoping and praying that she would be released from her doom. Briefly, as she felt Galatea’s hand slip into hers, she must have thought the Fates had spared her. But now there was no escape, and letting go of the comforting warmth of the doe, she rose to her feet. Released from the girl’s arms, the animal sprang away towards the trees, but a moment later it lay dead in the thick grass, one of Artemis’s gold-tipped arrows protruding from its side.

‘Rise, King of Men,’ Artemis commanded, ‘and take up your dagger. The time to pay for your insult has come.’

Agamemnon staggered to his feet and fell back against the altar, staring up at the goddess. Behind her the clouds continued to churn in torment as the thunder and lightning growled and flickered through their grey innards. The carved ivory handle of the dagger was still clutched in his palm and he looked down at the curved blade in surprise. As Eperitus watched, he prayed to Athena that Agamemnon’s mind would be filled with memories of the girl he thought was his daughter, and that any love the king still possessed for her would somehow deter him from the task that had been laid on his shoulders. Even now, the choice was still his to make: if Agamemnon desired it, he could deny the will of Artemis and let the storm continue. But as this last desperate hope of a reprieve dared to reveal itself, Eperitus knew how empty it was. Agamemnon did not love Iphigenia – she was only a girl, and unlike Orestes she would never be able to inherit his throne. What was more, Agamemnon was half-crazed with ambition. He knew the chance to unite the Greeks would not come again, and never under his own command. If he spared Iphigenia, he would no longer be the King of Men, leading a great army to renown and riches in Ilium; instead, his power would fade and he would be remembered as a gutless fool who did not have the strength to rise to his destiny. And as Eperitus guessed at Agamemnon’s truest desires, the king’s lip curled back in an angry sneer and he reached down to seize Calchas by his mud-stained robes.

‘Calchas!’ he shouted, hauling the priest to his feet. ‘Fetch the girl. Now!’

Calchas stared at him for a moment, his eyes wide with fear. Then he came to his senses and lurched through the mud towards the child, who was standing expectantly in the rain, her hair swept back from her face by the wind, her eyes blank. Achilles, whose mind had been filled with debate as he knelt before the goddess, now stood and moved across the path of the Trojan priest.

‘Don’t provoke me, Achilles,’ Artemis warned. ‘Your allotted time has not yet come, otherwise I might be tempted to kill you where you stand. But this is no affair of yours; Agamemnon insulted my honour before he did yours, and I will not allow you to interfere with my revenge.’

Achilles frowned up at her for a moment, before lifting the point of his sword defiantly towards Calchas. ‘Let the girl alone,’ he ordered. ‘Agamemnon used my name as a ruse to bring her here, so it’s up to me to put that right.’

Suddenly the weight of the sword began to increase in his hand. His muscles reacted against the strain, struggling to hold the weapon up as it grew heavier and heavier, until he could no longer support it. He tried to release his grip on the handle as the sword pulled him to the ground, but his fingers could not move and he was forced to his knees, the great power of his arms helpless to free himself from the weapon.

Calchas ran past him to where Iphigenia was waiting. Though he expected to have to use force, she shrugged his hands from her shoulders and walked slowly towards the altar with her head held high. One by one, the kings and princes stood and formed a crescent around the high plinth, many of them throwing their hoods over their faces so they did not have to look at the terrible figure of the goddess. Instead, they watched in silence as Calchas lifted the girl onto the marble slab for a second time. Above the clearing the unending thunder grew in a crescendo, while the lightning that flashed around the edges of the wood now formed a curtain of flickering light, repeatedly blasting the all-consuming gloom and yet unable to defeat it. The torrents of rain cascaded from the heavens so that the Greeks stood ankle-deep in water that seethed beneath the ceaseless downpour. Iphigenia, shivering with cold under the sodden robes that stuck to her skin, looked into Agamemnon’s face as he approached the side of the altar. The dagger gleamed in his hand and his icy blue eyes were hard and devoid of emotion, as if his soul had been sucked out and only the shell of his living body remained. Iphigenia closed her eyes and every muscle in her body tensed.

Then a shout erupted from the tree line and Eperitus ran out. With Galatea dead and even Achilles’s unexpected attempt to save the girl stopped, he could no longer restrain himself. The leaders of the expedition, whose distaste at the sacrifice had not quenched their collective thirst for war, turned in surprise as he sprinted towards them. They saw that he was unarmed, but none came forward to stop him. They did not need to. Artemis bent her gaze upon the lone man, then thrust out her palm towards him. It was as if he had hit a wall: Eperitus fell back into the mud as Iphigenia stretched out a hand towards him and whispered ‘Father’. Behind her, the gigantic figure of the goddess faded and was gone. The flames of the pyre disappeared also, leaving only a trail of white smoke as the blackened stumps of wood hissed in the rain. Then Agamemnon raised the dagger above his head in both hands and brought it down. Iphigenia screamed, and a sudden silence followed.

Eperitus lay sobbing on his side in the waterlogged grass, his body aching and his muscles heavy. His daughter lay still on the altar, and as Agamemnon buried his face in her robes, his shoulders shaking, a line of blood appeared over the edge of the slab and trickled down to the ground. The thunder and lightning had ceased and all about the wood the clouds were rolling away, taking the rain and wind with them. Soon the circle of sky above the clearing was a pale blue, and for the first time in weeks the face of the sun could be seen above Aulis. It bathed the glade in alien light, as if to welcome Iphigenia’s soul, and its heat caused steam to rise from the grass and the sodden clothing of the bent figures that stood or knelt there. But Eperitus cursed it. While the storm had raged, his daughter had lived. Now that it was gone he knew she had departed with it, to become a phantom in the halls of Hades. And soon many more would follow her, Trojans and Greeks alike, to the land of mourning and forgetfulness.

book

FOUR

Chapter Twenty-eight

THE CHOICES OF EPERITUS

Eperitus raised his eyes to the marble altar, a bright smudge in his tear-filled vision, and saw the white-robed body lying still and lifeless on top of it. Iphigenia, his daughter, was gone. He had failed her.

Struggling to his knees, he forced his heavy limbs to crawl towards the plinth, determined to claim the child’s body and take her back to her mother in Mycenae. Then a shadow fell across him and he felt a strong hand underneath his arm, pulling him to his feet and taking the weight of his body.

‘Not that way,’ said Odysseus, his voice gentle and kind as he hooked Eperitus’s arm over his shoulder and steered him towards the edge of the clearing.

‘No, Odysseus. I’ve got to go to her.’

‘Iphigenia is dead, Eperitus. There’s nothing more we can do for her now.’

The king beckoned to Antiphus, who ran over and took Eperitus’s other arm. Together they forced him against his will from the clearing, and though he struggled at first, twisting to look over his shoulder at the body on the altar, his limbs were too weary and eventually he allowed them to take him into the shadow of the wood. The last thing he saw was Polites lifting Galatea’s body in his arms and, accompanied by Eurylochus and Arceisius, walking into the trees on the opposite side of the glade.

Long staves of yellow light penetrated the gloom of the wood and birds were singing in the blue skies overhead, but the three men were silent as they crunched through the debris of fallen twigs and leaves. Eperitus, now walking unsupported, was too desolated by the loss of his daughter to talk. It seemed to him that a dream of hope and joy had opened up before him, only to be snatched away again with terrible brutality; and in the wake of that brief dream the world to which he had returned now seemed more forlorn and colourless than ever. It was as if a great light had entered his life, and its snuffing out had left a darkness so deep it devoured all the purpose and beauty from living.

As they walked down the slope towards the eaves of the wood – beyond which they could see the tents of the Greek camp gleaming white in the sunshine – they heard a loud call and turned to see Achilles, sword in hand, striding through the undergrowth towards them.

‘Welcome back, Odysseus,’ he said, shaking the Ithacan’s hand and slapping him on the arm. ‘And you, Eperitus. I wasn’t expecting to see either of you up there.’

‘We’ve only just returned from Mycenae,’ Odysseus explained. ‘We headed to the clearing as soon as we heard the sacrifice was underway, but by the time we got there it was almost over. The first thing we saw was the goddess and in his excitement Eperitus ran straight out . . .’

‘Save your imagination for the more gullible,’ Achilles said, holding up a hand and smiling. ‘I expect you were watching from the edge of the clearing all along. And I’ll wager my armour it was you who sent that girl out to fool Agamemnon – it has all the marks of one of your tricks. I’d only just reached the clearing myself, determined to stop the sacrifice, when she came striding out with her arrogant swagger, just like a real goddess. Who knows, she might have even walked away with the child if Artemis hadn’t appeared in person.’

Odysseus, knowing it was pointless to continue with his attempted deception, shrugged his shoulders and glanced at Eperitus for the first time since they had left the clearing. ‘It was a forlorn hope at best, but I admit I hadn’t accounted for the possibility of divine intervention.’

‘You did the best any man could do,’ Eperitus said. His eyes were pained with deep sadness, but a glimmer of his normal, resolute spirit had returned.

‘Then you were trying to save the girl,’ said Achilles. ‘But why?’

‘We could ask the same question of you,’ Eperitus replied.

Achilles smiled. ‘Then come to my tent and eat with me – we can ask each other all the questions we want there. You’re welcome, too, friend,’ he added, nodding to Antiphus. ‘Now, by your leave, I’ll run ahead and get some meat over the coals. And don’t delay; I’m as hungry as a boar, so I won’t wait too long.’

With that, he ran off through the trees, leaping a fallen trunk and several thickets of fern that were in his path. As he reached the edge of the wood, Odysseus called his name and the young warrior turned.

‘What about your sword?’ Odysseus shouted.

‘Light as a feather,’ Achilles replied, waving it over his head, before running out of sight beyond the brow of the hill.

The sun was bright and hot as they reached the army’s encampment. The only blemish on the blue sky was a pall of black smoke from Iphigenia’s funeral pyre, floating up from the woods and drifting towards the east. The tents of the main camp seemed untouched by the gales that had raged through the wood, though the amount of rain they had absorbed was shown by the steam that curled up from the sea of canvas. Achilles’s own tent – wide and spacious with a high ceiling – seemed hardly to have been affected by the endless days of storm. The dirt floor was covered with long grasses that his Myrmidons had cut and dried over their cooking fires, while the early afternoon sun on the white canvas made the interior bright and warm.

The Ithacans took the chairs that were offered to them. Kraters of wine were brought shortly afterwards, followed by low tables loaded with platters of bread and freshly cooked lamb. Patroclus and Peisandros joined the small feast and the men satisfied their hunger in busy silence, but for Eperitus who sat morosely and neither ate nor drank. Odysseus watched him with concern as Achilles leaned back in his fur-draped chair, folded his hands across his stomach, and looked at his guests.

‘You wanted to know why I tried to save Iphigenia,’ he began. ‘Well, it’s a simple matter of honour. Agamemnon sent you to fetch the girl under the pretence that she was to marry me, did he not?’

‘As far as we were aware, that was the reason we were sent to Mycenae,’ Odysseus explained.

‘I don’t doubt it, but when I found out Agamemnon had used my name to deceive his wife and daughter I wanted to teach him a lesson. He can call himself King of Men and lord it over the Greeks as much as he likes, but I won’t allow him to drag my name into his deceptions. And if it hadn’t been for the intervention of Artemis, I’d have stopped this vile sacrifice and sent the girl alive and well back to her mother.’

‘Even if it meant the fleet wouldn’t sail to Troy?’ Odysseus asked. ‘I thought you wanted glory, not a quiet life at home?’

Achilles merely shrugged. ‘Of course I do, but not at the price of my honour. After all, a man’s name is the only thing that will outlive him, and when I’m dead I want the name of Achilles to mean something worthwhile. But I’ve made my point to Agamemnon and now it’s time to look ahead. There’s a greater will than Artemis’s at work here, and you can mark my words: this war will take place and nothing we do is going to prevent it.’

‘I’m beginning to agree,’ Odysseus said. ‘Though for a while I’d thought the storms would put a stop to Agamemnon’s plans.’

‘There are too many prophecies and oracles around for everything to stop because of an offended goddess, and you can be sure our glorious King of Men is no less a puppet than we are. This war is like a boulder rolling down a mountainside – no force on earth can stand in its way.’

He held up his krater and Mnemon, his lean and gangly servant, refilled it.

‘Now,’ Achilles continued, ‘tell me what was so important about Agamemnon’s daughter that you risked her father’s wrath to save her?’

Odysseus looked at Eperitus and indicated with a nod that he should answer the question. For a moment, Eperitus was tempted to confess the truth about Iphigenia and why he had tried to stop the sacrifice. After all, Achilles was a father; he would understand. But had he not given up his own child for the promise of glory in Troy? And what of Odysseus’s advice, that the secret of his relationship with Iphigenia should remain between them, for the sake of Clytaemnestra’s safety and his own? He glanced down at the cut grass and the many fleeces spread across the tent floor, his mind suddenly filled with the memory of his daughter lying frightened and alone on the stone altar, then raised his head and looked at Achilles.

‘Honour,’ he lied. ‘I promised Clytaemnestra that I would try to save her daughter. I was trying to keep my word.’

Achilles gave an approving nod, but it was Odysseus who spoke next.

‘And I helped him, because Eperitus is my friend and because I didn’t want the storms to end. You mentioned prophecies and oracles, Achilles, so here’s another: the Pythoness told me that if I go to Troy I won’t see my home or family for twenty years, so I’d hoped the storms would spare me from my doom. But they haven’t, it seems, and now I have another question for you. We could have said all this up in the wood – why bring us back to your tent?’

At this, Achilles laughed out loud and leaned across to Patroclus. ‘What did I tell you? There isn’t a more astute man in the whole Greek army – not even Palamedes.’

‘Oh, I remember Odysseus’s cleverness from Sparta,’ Patroclus replied in his cold, clipped voice. ‘After all, it’s thanks to his idea for the oath that we’re all here now.’

‘He could hardly have foreseen Helen being kidnapped by a Trojan, Patroclus,’ Achilles continued. ‘But you’re right, Odysseus, there is another reason for asking you here. Your own protection.’

‘Protection from what?’

‘Agamemnon, of course. I’m not the only one who’ll be linking the appearance of that girl with your special kind of cunning, Odysseus. Why would she have impersonated a goddess and tried to coax Agamemnon into releasing his daughter if she wasn’t put up to it? Clytaemnestra could have been behind it, you might say, but with Eperitus running out into the glade like that – in front of every king and prince in the army – you’ll have a hard task convincing Agamemnon you weren’t trying to prevent his sacrifice. And sooner or later, when he has recovered from what he’s done, he’ll want you to answer for it.’

‘And how will you protect us?’ Eperitus asked.

‘We’re guilty of the same crime,’ Achilles replied with a knowing grin. ‘By openly inviting you to my tent I’m letting Agamemnon know that he takes his vengeance out on all of us, or none of us. But whereas he can afford to punish you, Odysseus, because your men only form a small part of his force, he won’t dare to question me. He needs me.’

‘The Myrmidons are renowned fighters and their leader’s reputation as a warrior is second to none,’ Eperitus responded, restraining his anger at Achilles’s arrogance. ‘But Agamemnon has enough ships and soldiers to conquer Troy without the contributions of either Ithaca or Phthia. How can you be certain he won’t expel you from the expedition, too?’

‘Because Troy can’t fall without Achilles,’ Peisandros said, leaning his huge bulk forward and taking a handful of meat and bread from the platters before him. He crammed them into his mouth before continuing. ‘Weren’t you there when Calchas made his prophecy before the council of Greek leaders? Either way, Agamemnon believes everything the priest says: he killed his own daughter at Calchas’s suggestion, so he’s not going to risk sending Achilles and his Myrmidons home, is he?’

‘I remember the prophecy,’ Odysseus said, ‘and what you say is right, Achilles, so we’re grateful for your protection.’

Achilles gave a small nod. ‘It’s the best thing for the expedition, whether Agamemnon knows it or not. His insistence on this sacrifice has already lost him a lot of support, and if he starts singling out his best men for defying him with good reason then the alliance against Troy will fall apart. Besides, I like you both. Even though I prefer openness to guile, this war is going to need your intelligence, Odysseus; and as for you, Eperitus, you share my sense of honour and that’s admirable in any man. And what’s more, I’m going to give you some advice for the attack on Troy.’ He leaned forward confidentially and lowered his voice. ‘Other than Patroclus and Peisandros here, no one else knows what I’m about to tell, so you must keep it to yourselves. My mother has the power to see the future, and before we left Phthia she told me that the first Greek to land within sight of Troy would die. She knew I would want that honour for myself, so maybe she’s just trying to keep me alive a little longer. But I’ve never known her foresight to be wrong so when the attack comes I’m going to hold back. I suggest you do the same.’

He sat back up and stretched his legs out in front of him. Odysseus drained his krater and signalled to Mnemon for more wine.

‘I’ve never known a man so bound up by divination and augury,’ he said as the servant filled his cup. ‘How can you tolerate it?’

Achilles smiled broadly and held his hands up nonchalantly. ‘It runs in the family. My mother was chosen by Zeus to be his bride, until the Fates prophesied that her son would become more powerful than his father. So he married her to Peleus instead. But one takes whatever precautions are practical. Take Mnemon here. My mother once had a dream that if ever I killed a son of Apollo, Apollo would kill me out of vengeance, so she gave me Mnemon as a slave to remind me of the fact. He can’t cook and he always mixes the wine too weak; and when it comes to putting on my armour, he can hardly lift my sword, let alone my spear or shield. But he knows every son of Apollo by rote, including where they live and who their sons are, just in case. If ever I face one in a fight – and Apollo has a few bastards in Ilium – it’s Mnemon’s duty to let me know.’