There were few who did not blame the slaying of the white hart for their present troubles. Agamemnon had shot a creature precious to one of the immortals, and now this unidentified god was making all their lives a misery because of their leader’s sacrilege. The King of Men, keen to set sail, was the most frustrated of them all. He had offered repeated sacrifices to all the gods, but to no avail. On every occasion, as he had stared up into the rain with fresh blood streaming down the dagger in his right hand, his desperate prayers were met with deep rumbles of displeasure from the skies above. And as the fleet remained holed up between the mainland and Euboea, the pressure on its leader grew.
He sat on a heavy wooden chair with a high back. It was covered in a thin layer of tin and had been draped over with furs, which were soft beneath the naked skin of his thighs and calves. His new breastplate felt stiff and awkward, pressing into the flesh beneath his armpits and at the tops of his legs, but he refused to remove it because of his constant fear of assassination. The double cloak over his shoulders was warm and light.
Agamemnon drummed the fingers of his right hand repeatedly on the table before him, trying to drown out the constant pattering of the rain on the high roof of his tent. The thumb and forefinger of his other hand were busily massaging his aching temples as he studied the map Odysseus had placed on the table. It depicted a rough representation of Ilium and its surrounding islands.
‘If this distance is correct,’ said King Nestor, leaning across and tapping the point between the walls of Troy and the line of beach between the Scamander and Simo¨eis, ‘then it’s too risky to make the landing so close to the city.’
‘Nonsense,’ Menelaus said. ‘If we land the ships here we can cross the plain in no time. The Trojans will be taken completely by surprise, and before they know it our army will be streaming through the city.’
The two men were among a handful that had joined Agamemnon in his tent after the nightly feast, a time when the leaders of the expedition would sacrifice to the gods and share food together. Tonight, though, the atmosphere was more affected than usual by the sombre weather. Achilles had departed with the Ajaxes and Teucer, all of them intent on brightening their mood with wine. Many others had returned to the familiarity of their own camps, hoping to wake the next morning and find clear skies. Only Idomeneus, Diomedes and Odysseus had joined Nestor and the Atreides brothers to discuss a strategy for the attack on Troy, and were now poring over the rough map that the Ithacan king had made from memory.
‘Your eagerness to rescue your wife is blinding you to the realities of war, Menelaus,’ Nestor countered. ‘If the Trojans are prepared for us, they can meet us on the beaches and massacre us as we leap down from our ships. If they are not prepared but are able to meet us in force on the plain, they could check our advance and throw us back into the sea before we have time to organize a proper defence. And if we don’t take the city in the first attack and have to lay siege to it, any determined attack they make could reach our camp with ease.’
‘Do you doubt our army’s ability to beat the Trojans?’ Agamemnon asked, cocking an eyebrow towards his trusted adviser.
‘No, but just as many battles are decided by the gods as they are by feats of arms. If the prophecy of the snake and the sparrows was interpreted correctly, then we can be sure the gods won’t give us Troy in the first attack. And I’ve seen too many battles on open ground to want to risk our ships on that beach. If it’s my advice you want, Agamemnon – and that was the reason you asked me to join this expedition – then you won’t gamble everything we have in such a place.’
‘Nestor’s right,’ Odysseus agreed. ‘The plain is too exposed. If we attack there the war won’t last ten days, let alone ten years.’
‘Then where do we attack?’ asked Idomeneus.
‘Right here,’ Nestor answered, tapping a point on the mainland north of Tenedos. It was one of the large bays Odysseus’s ship had passed on its mission to Troy. ‘It’s wide and sandy, ideal for beaching a large number of ships, and it can’t be seen from Troy because of the distance and this ridge. That means we can land unopposed and form up our armies before marching on Troy. Then, if the gods are against us and we are forced back, we can use the ridge as a line of defence.’
‘That places the Scamander between us and Troy,’ said Diomedes, running his finger over the line of the river. ‘Even if there’s a ford, it’ll be easier for the Trojans to defend it against . . .’
He left the sentence unfinished as all seven men turned to look at the soldier who had just entered. His cloak was soaked through and his polished armour streamed with rivulets of rain that dripped onto the furs beneath his sandals.
‘Sorry, my lords, but it’s the Trojan priest. He wants to see the King of Men – says it can’t wait.’
‘Another one of his wine-induced dreams, no doubt,’ Menelaus sniffed. ‘Send him away, Ixion.’
‘No,’ said Agamemnon, shooting a glance at his brother. ‘Bring him in. It might be important.’
The soldier disappeared and a moment later Calchas came hurtling in through the same elaborately embroidered flap of cotton, to land in a damp heap on the piled furs and fleeces. His customary hooded cloak was absent, and his white priest’s robes were soaked through, revealing his nakedness beneath. He raised himself up on his hands and looked at the gathering of kings, swaying slightly and reeking of wine. His staring eyes were red-rimmed and filled with fear.
‘What is it, my friend?’ Agamemnon asked, forcing a smile to his lips. ‘Do you have a word for us from the gods?’
‘Yes, King of Men!’ Calchas replied, raising himself to his knees and shuffling forwards with his hands clasped together like a suppliant. Then he looked around at the other kings, as if he was seeing them for the first time, and pulled back with an angry look on his face. ‘No! I have nothing for these, only you. You must send them away.’
‘Show some respect or I’ll send you to Hades, you wretch,’ Diomedes warned, putting a hand to the hilt of his silver-studded sword.
‘Don’t be offended, Tydeides,’ said Agamemnon, using the familiar form of address for the son of Tydeus. ‘He’s half out of his mind at most times of the day, but even more so when he’s had one of his visions.’
Odysseus looked up.
‘Have there been others we haven’t heard of?’
‘Nothing of importance,’ Agamemnon responded, meeting Odysseus’s intelligent eyes. ‘And nothing that has upset him as much as whatever’s on his mind now.’
‘In the name of Apollo, send them away!’ Calchas implored, tears of anguish and frustration rolling down his cheeks. ‘Lord Agamemnon, I must speak to you alone.’
Idomeneus thumped the table in frustration, the annoyance clear on his handsome features.
‘Calchas may bring word from the gods themselves, but what we’re discussing could decide the fate of the whole expedition. Send him to the guard tent, Agamemnon, and call him in when we’re done.’