Instinct had woken him at dawn, and since then he had been busy finding things to do, trying to ignore the urge to visit his brother and extract from him whatever it was Calchas had been so desperate to reveal. Eventually his resistance folded and he walked the short distance to Agamemnon’s tent, stepping over the guy ropes and beneath the lines of clothing that had been hung out to dry during the reprieve from the rain. The heavily armoured guards bowed their heads at his approach, before stepping aside and letting him pass.
He found his brother alone, seated exactly as he had left him the night before – his elbows resting on the arms of his chair, his fingers laced together in his lap and both sandalled feet planted firmly on the fur-covered floor. His head was bowed and he did not seem to notice Menelaus enter.
‘Agamemnon?’
The king remained still. His great chest, encased by its magnificent cuirass, did not stir, and immediately Menelaus felt panic claw at his throat. His flesh prickled and went cold.
‘Agamemnon?’
‘I hear you, brother.’
Agamemnon’s voice seemed to come from a distance, as if he had indeed died and his soul was speaking from the Underworld.
‘Ag . . . Agamemnon, what’s wrong?’
The king of Mycenae lifted his head and faced his brother. Menelaus’s nostrils flared briefly, the only sign of his shock at the sight before him.
‘Brother, what’s happened? You look – ill.’
If the preceding weeks had seen Agamemnon transformed from a healthy, vigorous and determined ruler into an exhausted shadow of his former self, the man who sat before Menelaus now was changed almost beyond recognition. His once smooth skin was lined with anguish and his dark-rimmed eyes had lost their shine, leaving only a glimmer of the tormented soul within. The hair above his ears had turned grey overnight.
‘Calchas told me how to lift the storm, Menelaus. He told me what we must do if we want to sail against Troy.’
He let his gaze fall to the floor again. Menelaus rushed across to kneel before his brother, taking his hands in his own and looking up into his troubled face. Tears were rolling down Agamemnon’s cheeks – something even Menelaus had never seen before – causing the Spartan king to shiver. He squeezed his brother’s hands gently.
‘What is it? What must we do? Zeus’s beard, man, won’t you tell me?’
Agamemnon shut his eyes tightly. When they opened again, the window into his emotions had been closed. Instead, there was a dark, hard glint, like the reflection of light from a piece of obsidian. He turned to Menelaus, his features drawn with a tense determination that made the edges of his nostrils tremble.
‘I’ll tell you, Menelaus, but first you must answer me this: are you determined to have Helen back?’
He seized his brother’s wrists in a fierce grip and looked deeply into his eyes, as if the answer could be seen in the reflection from his eyeballs. Menelaus yanked his hands free and stood.
‘You know I am,’ he answered sharply, turning his back on Agamemnon and walking to the centre of the tent. Then something struck him about the way the question had been asked, and he turned and pointed his finger at the man who had been elected to lead the expedition. ‘I want Helen as much as you want Troy!’
Agamemnon’s shoulders sloped, as if the last taste of hope had left him. ‘Then we must send for Iphigenia.’
‘Iphigenia?’ Menelaus asked, perplexed. ‘Your daughter?’
It was then that Agamemnon told him what was to be done.
Menelaus sat on one of the other chairs and stared at his brother in silence. After a while he reached for a silver goblet on the table beside him, only to find it empty.
‘And you’ll go through with this?’
Agamemnon did not respond, but the grim look on his face showed his resolve.
‘Well, I don’t trust Calchas,’ Menelaus stated, his voice seething with anger. ‘He’s a Trojan, after all, and a traitor to his people, which is even worse. He’s always getting drunk and then having these supposed dreams from Apollo – how can you be sure he’s right with this one?’
‘You saw him when the snake turned to stone. It was a clear sign from Zeus, and he was the only one who could interpret it.’
‘But you don’t know he’s right, yet.’
‘He’s been right about plenty of other things,’ Agamemnon said. ‘He’s told me things that no other man could know. And I believe him with this, too.’
‘Clytaemnestra will never allow it.’
‘Do you think I’m stupid enough to tell her?’ Agamemnon spat. ‘I’ll send Talthybius to fetch the girl on some other pretence. I’ll say . . . I’ll say I’m going to wed her to Achilles. Even Clytaemnestra won’t prevent her precious daughter from marrying the best warrior in Greece.’
‘Don’t be too sure of it,’ Menelaus responded, standing again. He began pacing the floor, trying to make the horror of what they were planning to do settle in his mind. But it was too awful, and as he spoke it seemed as if he was preparing some cold military strategy. ‘She’s a stubborn woman and she loves that girl more than her own life. We need to send somebody who can persuade her to let Iphigenia come to Aulis. Perhaps you should go.’
‘No!’ Agamemnon snapped. ‘Never! Do you think she wouldn’t be able to read it in my eyes? If I go, she’ll sense something’s wrong.’
‘Send Odysseus then. Even if he can’t convince Clytaemnestra to send the girl, he’ll be able to devise some trick or other.’
A smile crossed Agamemnon’s face, making Menelaus flinch with revulsion.
‘Yes. Send Odysseus, then, with Talthybius as a guide. And make sure Eperitus accompanies him.’
‘Eperitus?’ Menelaus asked.
‘Why not? My wife always spoke highly of him, and I’ve a gut feeling he’ll be able to appeal to her now. We’ll send for them immediately – they’ll have to journey overland because of the storm, so we can’t afford to waste any more time.’
Agamemnon stood and shouted for the guard and his body slave. His drive and energy were rapidly returning and he began to strip off his armour and clothing, eager to bathe and start the day.
Menelaus left his brother to his machinations. The price for releasing the fleet and sailing to the conquest of Troy had almost been too much for the King of Men to bear, but somehow – at a terrible cost – he had brought himself to accept it. The cost was another piece of his humanity fed to the cold fires of his ambition; but the thought that his preparations for war could continue seemed to console him and lend him new energy.
For a moment, as Menelaus filled his lungs with the cool, damp air outside the tent, he wondered whether it was right that his passion for Helen – and his desire for vengeance on Paris – should demand so much sacrifice from others. But he immediately knew that if he entertained such questions they would defeat him. He had to be determined to see the war through at all costs, to himself or anyone else. No, he had not asked Paris to offend his hospitality and steal his beloved wife. If there was a cause for the coming war, the blame lay firmly in the Trojan’s lap, not his.
Chapter Twenty
GALATEA
Eperitus was woken the next morning by Arceisius, kneeling beside his straw mattress and shaking him gently by the shoulder.
‘Is it time?’ he said, his voice creaking with tiredness. The air beyond his thick woollen blanket was cold and damp, and he could sense the sun had not yet risen.