Talthybius, however, did not take them deeper into the camp as they had expected, but suddenly led them down another wide avenue that went back towards the straits. As they were passing a crescent of large tents, Eteoneus, the squire of Menelaus, emerged, followed by three others.
‘Odysseus?’ said one of the men. ‘Odysseus, is that you?’
Odysseus turned to see a tall man of thirty years or so, athletically built and dressed in a grey tunic and dark green cloak. His long, auburn hair was pulled back over his scalp and tied at the nape of his neck, revealing a handsome and intelligent face. Despite the fact that he wore no armour and did not carry any weapons, the brown scar across his clean-shaven cheek marked him as an experienced warrior.
‘Diomedes!’ Odysseus exclaimed, breaking into a broad smile. He seized the man’s hand and pulled him into a fierce embrace, which they held for a long time as they thumped each other’s backs and exchanged friendly greetings.
‘I hear you and Menelaus have been in Troy, talking peace and other such nonsense,’ said the king of the Argives. ‘Tell me you failed!’
‘You’ll hear my report when I give it to the council – you’re heading there, too, I assume. Have you been in this place long? What’s the hunting like?’
‘Good – plenty of woodland beyond the camp, full of deer. But stop trying to change the subject. Tell me about Troy – what’s it like? Will we take it at the first assault, or is Priam going to put up a fight?’
‘Forget Priam. It’s his son, Hector, we need to worry about. Anyway, you’ll have to wait until . . .’
‘And what about Helen?’ Diomedes continued, his voice assuming a more serious tone. ‘Did you see her?’
Diomedes had lost his heart to Helen when he first set eyes on her ten years before, and despite taking a wife since then it was clear he still loved her.
‘No, Diomedes, I didn’t see her. Now, will you stop heaping questions on me and introduce your companions?’
Diomedes gave an apologetic nod and stepped between the two men, placing a hand on each of their shoulders.
‘This is my friend, Sthenelaus, son of Capaneus,’ he began, indicating the man to his right. ‘We sacked the city of Thebes together in vengeance for our fathers, and now I’ve asked him to rule the Argive army in my place, if I should fall.’
Sthenelaus’s hair was a mass of black curls and his thick beard covered half of his hardened, bitter-looking face. He gave a curt nod in response to Odysseus’s smile.
‘And this is Euryalus the Argonaut, son of Mecisteus. He was also with us when we conquered Thebes.’
Euryalus was a small man, several years older than his companions, with long, white hair and a closely cropped beard. His red face broke into a pleasant smile as he shook Odysseus’s hand.
‘You remember Eperitus, captain of my royal guard,’ Odysseus said, turning back to Diomedes.
‘Glad you’re with us, Eperitus,’ Diomedes said, taking his hand. ‘And your other companion?’
‘I’m afraid that introduction will have to wait until the council,’ Odysseus said. ‘And we shouldn’t keep our royal comrades waiting any longer. Talthybius?’
The Mycenaean herald, who had been talking patiently to Eteoneus, gave a small bow before turning and leading the way through the field of flapping canvas. Diomedes walked beside Odysseus and threw a muscle-bound arm about his shoulders.
‘So, I hear you’re a king now. You look like it, too: majestic appearance, powerful bearing, grey hair . . .’
‘Thanks. I wish I could say the same for you, but you look as young and handsome as you did ten years ago.’
‘Listen, have you spoken to Agamemnon yet?’ Diomedes asked, lowering his voice confidentially.
‘I spoke to him the night before we left for Troy,’ Odysseus replied, surprised by the sudden change of direction. ‘But not since we arrived at Aulis. Is something wrong?’
‘I’m not sure. I’ve been his friend for a long time and I know him well, but since all this business started with Helen and Troy . . . well, he seems different.’
‘Concerned, perhaps?’ Odysseus suggested. ‘Or pressured? It’s understandable.’
‘Perhaps. But you’ll be able to judge for yourself soon.’
And with that he would say no more.
Chapter Sixteen
THE COUNCIL OF KINGS
They heard the clamour of voices long before they reached the edge of the camp. After they passed the last tent, Talthybius and Eteoneus led them through a belt of sycamore trees to a pair of tall, grim-looking standing stones, placed there by an ancient people long since forgotten. These formed the gateway to a large, natural amphitheatre that opened out to the east, giving a view over the crowded bay far below. They walked out into the midst of at least a hundred kings and other nobility, who were crammed on benches around the rocky slopes of the arena, talking noisily.
Odysseus, Diomedes and Eperitus recognized many of them from the courtship of Helen in Sparta. Most prominent was Great Ajax, the king of Salamis, whose vast bulk took up most of the bench he was sitting on. On his left – the antithesis of the giant warrior – was his half-brother, Teucer the archer, who sat twitching and blinking like an owl and constantly wiping his large nose on the back of his hand. To Ajax’s right was his namesake, Little Ajax, so called for his short stature and to distinguish him from his titanic friend. To Eperitus’s disdain, he saw that the man’s pet snake – a hideous brown serpent with a long, pink tongue that constantly darted from its scaly mouth – was coiled about his shoulders. Its master fixed Odysseus with a sneering look and spat into the dirt.
Odysseus, who had not forgotten their contest for the hand of Penelope, chose to ignore the Locrian king and looked about at the other familiar faces on the benches. Menestheus, king of Athens, was seated beside Idomeneus of Crete; both were handsome and richly dressed, with noble looks that befitted the great power each man wielded. King Elphenor was there, who ruled over the island of Euboea on the opposite side of the straits, as were Agapenor, king of Arcadia, Tlepolemos, king of Rhodes, Iolaus, king of Phylake, and many other renowned names. Among the lesser men were Palamedes, seated on the bench nearest Agamemnon, and Philoctetes of Malia, son of Poeas. The last time Odysseus and Eperitus had seen the latter, he was a young shepherd boy who had been awarded the magical bow and arrows of Heracles for agreeing to light the great hero’s funeral pyre; now he was a tall, lean young man with a chaotic mop of light brown hair and a wispy beard on his chin. But he was not the only one who had changed in the past decade. Some of the former suitors to Helen had aged visibly; others seemed to have grown in stature; still more had grown in other ways, allowing their bellies to expand through overindulgence and too little fighting.
At the far end of the basin were the Atreides brothers, Agamemnon and Menelaus, seated on high-backed wooden chairs. Unlike the rest of the council, they watched the newcomers in stony silence. Agamemnon, to Eperitus’s surprise, looked as if he had not slept for days: there were dark circles under his eyes, which were bloodshot and heavy-lidded, and his usually meticulous hair was unkempt. More shocking was the way his rich clothes seemed to hang about him. Agamemnon had always boasted a well-fed, athletic physique, similar to the other warriors gathered about the arena, but in the time they had been away on the mission to Troy the Mycenaean king had become drawn and thin.
Standing at Agamemnon’s shoulder was an old man wearing a purple cloak and a golden belt that glittered in the warm evening light. King Nestor of Pylos wore his grey hair short and kept his beard neatly trimmed; though not a tall man, he boasted a powerful physique and the hard-bitten aspect of a seasoned warrior. His nose had been broken in some battle or boxing match of the past, and the top of one of his large, disc-like ears had been sliced off many years before by an opponent’s sword. Like the Atreides brothers, he had his eyes fixed on the newcomers as they stood in the centre of the arena.