We emerged from the back of the palace to look down on farm lands spreading away in all directions; the centre of Ithaka was more fertile than its rim. As we were about to descend the steps an old woman appeared from nowhere, holding a babe.

‘Lady, the Prince is crying. It is past his feeding time.’

Penelope took him instantly, cradling him in her arms.

‘This is Odysseus’s son?’ I asked.

‘Yes, this is Telemachos.’

I brushed his fat cheek with my finger, then moved onward; the fate of his father was of far greater moment. We walked through a grove of olive trees so old their tortured trunks were thicker than a bull, and found ourselves in a walled area containing more bare soil than it did fruit trees. At which moment we saw Odysseus. Menelaos muttered something in a choked voice, but I could only gape. He was furrowing the ground with the oddest team I have ever seen hitched to a plough – an ox and a mule. They hauled and jerked in opposite directions, the plough heaved and went sideways, the furrow was as crooked as Sisyphos. On his red head Odysseus wore a peasant’s felt cap, and threw something haphazardly over his left shoulder.

‘What is he doing?’ asked Menelaos.

‘Sowing salt,’ said Penelope stonily.

Babbling senselessly to himself, laughing insanely, Odysseus ploughed and sowed his salt. Though he must have seen us, no light of recognition came into his eyes; they shone instead with the unmistakable glare of madness. The one man we needed above all others was beyond our reach.

I couldn’t bear to watch. ‘Come, let us leave him,’ I said.

The plough was close to us now, its team growing angrier, harder to control. And without warning Palamedes leaped. While Menelaos and I stood paralysed, Palamedes snatched the child from Penelope’s arms and set him down almost under the ox’s hooves. Screaming shrilly, she tried to go to the babe, but Palamedes held her back. Then the team came to a halt; Odysseus ran in front of the ox and picked up his son.

‘What is it?’ asked Menelaos. ‘Is he sane after all?’

‘As sane as a man can be,’ said Palamedes, smiling.

‘He feigned madness?’ I asked.

‘Of course, sire. How else could he avoid honouring the Oath he swore?’

‘But how did you know?’ from Menelaos, bewildered.

‘I found a talkative servant just outside the Throne Room. He told me that Odysseus was given a house oracle yesterday. It appears that if he goes to Troy, he must remain away from Ithaka for twenty years,’ said Palamedes, enjoying his little triumph.

Odysseus gave the child to Penelope, who wept in earnest now. Everyone knew Odysseus was a great actor, but Penelope could act too. Fitting mates, that pair. His arm was about her and his grey eyes were fixed upon Palamedes. Their expression was not pleasant. Palamedes had incurred the hatred of one who could wait a lifetime for the perfect opportunity to be revenged.

‘I am found out,’ said Odysseus impenitently. ‘I take it you need my services, sire?’

‘I do. Why so reluctant, Odysseus?’

‘War against Troy will be a long and bloody business, sire. I want no part of it.’

Yet another who insisted it would be a long campaign! But how could Troy possibly withstand a hundred thousand men, no matter how high its walls?

I returned to Mykenai with Odysseus in my train, having put him in full possession of the facts. No use trying to tell him that Helen had been kidnapped. As usual he was a mine of advice and information. Not once had he turned back to see Ithaka fade across the waters; not once had I seen evidence that he would miss his wife – or she him, for that matter. They were controlled and stuffed with secrets, Odysseus and Penelope of the webbed face.

When we reached the Lion Palace I found that my cousin Idomeneus of Crete had come. He was very willing to join in any expedition against Troy – for a price, of course. He asked the co-command, and I gave it to him readily. Co-command or not, he would bow to me. He had been very much in love with Helen and took her defection (I had to tell him the truth too) badly.

The roll call was almost complete, clerks committed this and that and another to memory, every shipwright in Greece was hard at it. Luckily we Greeks built by far the best ships and owned vast forests of tall straight pines and firs to fell, as much pitch from their resin as we needed, sufficient slaves to donate hair to mesh it with, enough cattle for the hide sails. No need to commission ships elsewhere, betray our plans. The total was even better than I had anticipated: twelve hundred ships had been promised, and over a hundred thousand men.

As soon as the fleet was under construction I called the inner council into session. Nestor, Idomeneus, Palamedes and Odysseus sat with me while we reviewed everything thoroughly. After which I asked Kalchas to conduct an augury.

‘Good thinking,’ Nestor approved. He liked to defer to the Gods.

‘What does Apollo say, priest?’ I asked Kalchas. ‘Will all be well with our expedition?’

He did not hesitate. ‘Only, sire, if your expedition contains Achilles, the seventh son of King Peleus.’

‘Oh, Achilles, Achilles!’ I cried, grinding my teeth. ‘No matter which way I turn, I hear that name!’

Odysseus shrugged. ‘It’s a great name, Agamemnon.’

‘Pah! He’s not even twenty years old!’

‘Even so,’ said Palamedes, ‘I think we ought to hear more about him.’ He turned to Kalchas. ‘On your way out, priest, ask Ajax the son of Telamon to join us.’

He didn’t like being ordered about by Greeks. But he went, the cross-eyed albino. Was he aware that I was having him watched day and night? Just a precaution.

Ajax appeared shortly after Kalchas departed.

‘Tell me about Achilles,’ I said.

This simple request unleashed a spate of superlatives I for one found hard to sit through. Nor did it tell us anything we did not already know. I thanked the son of Telamon and dismissed him. What a lubber.

‘Well?’ I asked my council then.

‘Surely what we think doesn’t matter, Agamemnon,’ Odysseus said. ‘The priest says we have to have Achilles.’

‘Who will not come in answer to a summons,’ said Nestor.

‘Thank you, I know enough to know that!’ I snapped.

‘Hold your temper, sire,’ the old man said. ‘Peleus is not young. He didn’t swear the Oath. Nothing compels him to assist us, nor has he offered assistance. Yet think, Agamemnon, think! What could we do if our army contained the Myrmidons?’

His voice strengthened on that magical name; a heavy silence fell which he broke himself. ‘I would rather have one Myrmidon at my back than half a hundred others,’ he said.

‘Then,’ I said, determined that some of them there should suffer, ‘I suggest, Odysseus, that you take Nestor and Ajax to Iolkos and ask King Peleus for the services of Achilles and the Myrmidons.’

9

NARRATED BY

Achilles

I was close to him now, I could smell his rankness and his rage. Spear steady in my hand, I crept down on him in the thicket. Came his snuffling breath, the ground tearing as he raked it with a foot. Then I saw him. He was as big as a small bull, his bulk rolling on short and powerful legs, his black coat bristling, his long cruel lips drawn back around the curved and yellowed tusks. His eyes were the eyes of one doomed to Tartaros; he saw the phantom Furies already, and he was filled with the terrible wrath of a mindless beast. Old, coarse, a mankiller.

I shrieked aloud to tell him that I was there. At first he did not move, then slowly he turned his massive head to look at me. The dust rose as he raked, as he bent his snout and lifted a clod of earth on his tusks, gathering power for the charge. I came into the open and stood with Old Pelion my spear poised, daring him to come. The sight of a man facing him boldly was new to him; he seemed uncertain for a moment. Then he broke into a lumbering, ground-shaking trot that built into a headlong gallup. Amazing, that such a huge thing could run so fast.