Something in his tone convinced me, so when I heard voices outside the stable door I crouched down behind a manger listening to the pure, liquid cadences of proper Greek – and to the power and authority one of the voices owned.

‘Isn’t Achilles back yet?’ it asked imperiously.

‘No, sire, but he ought to arrive before nightfall. He had to supervise the sack. A rich haul. The wagons have been laden.’

‘Excellent! I’ll wait in his cabin.’

‘Better to wait in the tent on the beach, sire. You know Achilles. Comfort isn’t important.’

‘As you wish, Phoinix.’

Their voices faded; I crawled from my hiding place. The sound of that cold, proud voice had frightened me. Achilles was a monster too, but better the monster you know, as my nurse used to say when I was little.

No one came near me during the afternoon. At first I sat on the bed I presumed belonged to Achilles and inspected the contents of the bare and featureless cabin curiously. A few spears were propped against a stanchion, no attempt had been made to paint the plain plank walls, and the dimensions of the room were tiny. It contained only two striking items, one an exquisite white fur rug on the bed, the other a massive four-handled pouring cup of gold, its sides worked to show the Sky Father on his throne, each handle surmounted by a horse in full gallop.

At which moment my grief opened and swallowed me, perhaps because for the first time since my capture I had no urgent or dangerous situation to push it away. As I sat here my father would be sprawled on the Lyrnessos refuse heap, food for the perpetually hungry town dogs; that was the traditional fate for high noblemen killed in battle. Tears poured down my face; I threw myself on the white fur rug and wept. Nor could I stop. The white fur became slick under my cheek and still I wept, keening and snuffling.

I didn’t hear the door open, so when a hand rested on my shoulder my heart ran about the inside of my chest like a trapped animal. All my grand ideas of defiance fled; I thought only that the High King Agamemnon had found me, and cringed away.

‘I belong to Achilles, I belong to Achilles!’ I wailed.

‘I’m aware of that. Who did you think came in?’

Carefully wiping the relief from my face before I lifted it, I dabbed at the tears with the palm of my hand. ‘The High King of Greece.’

‘Agamemnon?’

I nodded.

‘Where is he?’

‘In the tent on the beach.’

Achilles went to a chest by the far wall, opened it, rummaged inside it and threw me a square of fine cloth. ‘Here, blow your nose and mop your face. You’ll make yourself sick.’

I did as I was told. He came back to my side and gazed at the rug ruefully.

‘I hope it dries unmarked. It was a gift from my mother.’ He looked me over critically. ‘Was it beyond Phoinix’s resources to find you a bath and a clean dress?’

‘He offered. I refused.’

‘But you won’t refuse me. When the servants bring you a tub and fresh raiment, you’ll use them. Otherwise I’ll order it done by force – and not by women. Is that understood?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ His hand was on the latch when he paused. ‘What’s your name, girl?’

‘Brise.’

He grinned appreciatively. ‘Brise. “She who prevails”. Are you sure you didn’t make that one up?’

‘My father’s name was Brises. He was first cousin to King Anchises and Dardania’s Chancellor. His brother, Chryses, was high priest of Apollo. We are of the Royal Kindred.’

During the evening a Myrmidon officer came to me, unbolted my chains from the beam and led me by them to the side of the ship. A rope ladder was suspended from the rail; silently he indicated that I was to descend, doing me the courtesy of going first so he wouldn’t look up my skirts. The ship was high on the pebbles, which rolled about and hurt my feet.

A huge leather tent squatted on the shore, though I couldn’t remember seeing it when I had arrived on my donkey. The Myrmidon ushered me in through a flap in the back, into a room crammed with about a hundred women of Lyrnessos, none of whom I recognised. I alone had the distinction of chains. Many pairs of eyes fastened on me in hangdog curiosity as I searched the throng for a familiar face. There, in the corner! A head of glorious golden hair no one could mistake. My guard still kept hold of my fetters, but when I moved towards the corner he let me do as I wanted.

My cousin Chryse’s hands were across her face; when I touched her she jumped in panic, her arms falling. She looked at me in dawning wonder, then flung herself at me, weeping.

‘What are you doing here?’ I asked, at a loss. ‘You’re the daughter of the high priest of Apollo, therefore inviolate.’

Her answer was a howl. I shook her.

‘Oh, stop crying, do!’ I snapped.

Since I had been bullying her from the days of our shared childhood, she obeyed me. Then she said, ‘They took me all the same, Brise.’

‘That is a sacrilege!’

‘They say not. My father put on armour and fought. Priests don’t fight. So they classified him as a warrior and took me.’

‘Took you? Have you been raped already?’ I gasped.

‘No, no! According to the women who dressed me, only the ordinary women are thrown to the soldiers. Those in this room have been saved for some special purpose.’ She looked down, saw my hobbles. ‘Oh, Brise! They’ve chained you!’

‘At least I bear visible evidence of my status. No one could mistake me for a camp follower, wearing these.’

‘Brise!’ she choked, a familiar expression on her face; I always managed to shock poor, tame little Chryse. Then she asked, ‘Uncle Brises?’

‘Dead, like all the rest.’

‘Why aren’t you mourning him?’

‘I am mourning him!’ I snarled. ‘However, I’ve been in the hands of the Greeks for long enough to have learned that a captive woman needs her wits about her.’

She looked out of her depth. ‘Why are we here?’

I turned to my Myrmidon. ‘You! Why are we here?’

Though he grinned at my tone, he answered respectfully enough. ‘The High King of Mykenai is the guest of the Second Army. They’re dividing the spoils. The women in this room are to be apportioned among the Kings.’

We waited for what seemed an aeon. Too tired to talk, Chryse and I sat upon the ground. From time to time a guard would enter and remove a small group of women according to coloured tags on their wrists; they were all very handsome girls. No crones, no strumpets, no horse faces, no skeletons. Yet neither Chryse nor I wore tags. The numbers dwindled, we were ignored; finally we were the only two left in the room.

A guard entered and flung veils over our faces before we were led into the next room. Through a thin mesh over my eyes I saw a huge blaze of light from what seemed a thousand lamps, a canopy of cloth overhead, and all around a sea of men. They sat on benches at tables, with wine cups at their elbows and servants hurrying back and forth. Chryse and I were shepherded to stand before a long dais on which stood; the high table.

Perhaps twenty men sat on one side of it only, facing the diners. On a high-backed chair in the middle was a man who looked as I had always fancied Father Zeus might. He had a frowning, noble head; his elaborately curled grey-black hair cascaded over his shimmering garments and a great beard bound with threads of gold fell down his chest, gems sparkling from hidden pins. A pair of dark eyes surveyed us broodingly as one white, aristocratic hand toyed with his moustache. Imperial Agamemnon, High King of Mykenai and Greece, King of Kings. Anchises looked not one-tenth as royal.

I tore my gaze away from him to scan the others as they lounged at their ease in their chairs. Achilles sat on Agamemnon’s left, though he was hard to recognise. I had seen him in armour, grimed and hard. Now he was in a company of kings. His hairless bare chest gleamed below a massive collar of gold and gems across his shoulders, his arms glittered with bracelets and his fingers with rings. He was clean-shaven and his bright gold hair was loosely combed back from his forehead, gold pendants in his ears. His yellow eyes were clear and rested, their unusual colour striking under his strongly marked brows and lashes, and he had painted them in Cretan fashion. I blinked, then looked away, confused. Upset.