‘Why did you come to see me?’ I asked.

‘To apprise you of a strange occurrence before someone else does,’ he answered.

‘A strange occurrence?’

‘This morning some soldiers went along the banks of Simois to fish. When the sun rose they saw something rolling in the water. The body of a man. They ran to fetch the officer of the watch, who brought the body in. Kalchas. He died, they think, not long after nightfall.’

I shivered. ‘How did he die?’

‘An excruciating head injury. An officer of Ajax’s happened to notice him walking along the clifftop on the far bank of Simois as the sun was setting. The officer swears it was Kalchas – he’s the only man in our camp who wears long, flapping vestments. He must have stumbled and fallen headlong.’

I stared at him as he sat looking soulful, the light of the godly shining out of his beautiful grey eyes. Could it be? Was it? With a shudder of sheer terror I found myself wondering if he was weighed down with a fresh sin on the long list of sins he was already whispered to carry. Add murder of a high priest to sacrilege, profanity, blasphemy, aetheism and ritual murder and you had a list which outdid Sisyphos and Daidalos combined. Godless Odysseus who was yet beloved of the Gods. Mortal paradox, knave and King rolled in one.

He read my thoughts and smiled blandly. ‘Achilles, Achilles! How could you think such a thing, even of me?’ A chuckle erupted. ‘If you want my opinion, I think Agamemnon did it.’

23

NARRATED BY

Hektor

No news of Penthesileia came; the Amazon Queen lingered in her far off wilderness while Troy hung in agony, a city’s fate depending on the whim of a woman. I cursed her and I cursed the Gods for permitting a woman to remain on any throne after the death of the Old Religion. The absolute rule of Mother Kubaba was gone, yet Queen Penthesileia reigned undisturbed. Demetrios, my invaluable escaped Greek slave, informed me that she hadn’t even begun to summon in the women of her countless tribes; she would not come before winter closed the passes.

All the omens spoke of war’s finishing in this tenth year, yet my father still dithered, humbling himself and Troy to wait on this woman. I gnashed my teeth at the injustice of it, I railed at him in the assemblies. But his mind was made up and he refused to budge. Time and time again I assured him that I stood in no personal danger from Achilles, that our crack troops could hold the Myrmidons at bay, that we could win without Memnon or Penthesileia. Even when I told Father what Demetrios had reported about Amazonian tardiness he remained adamant, saying that if Penthesileia didn’t come before the winter, then he was content to wait until the eleventh year.

Now that the whole Greek army was on the beach we had taken to walking the battlements again, looking at the various standards fluttering atop the Greek houses. On the flank of Skamander at a place where an internal wall split off some of the barracks there waved a banner I hadn’t seen before, a white ant on a black background holding a red lightning bolt in its jaws. Achilles the Aiakid, his Myrmidon standard. The face of Medusa could not have thrown more fear into Trojan hearts.

Obliged to listen to petty business when my loins burned for battle, I attended every assembly. Someone had to be there to protest that the army was stale and overtrained, someone had to be there to watch the King turn his notoriously deaf ear, to watch Antenor, the enemy of all positive action, smile.

I sensed nothing different about the day which changed our lives, went morosely to the assembly. The Court stood about chatting desultorily, ignoring the throne dais, at the foot of which a plaintiff was outlining his case – really earth-shaking litigation to do with the drains emptying Troy’s storm waters and excrement into unclean Skamander. His new apartment block had been refused access to the drains, and he, the owner-landlord, was very angry.

‘I’ve better things to do than stand here contesting the right of a pack of mindless bureaucrats to thwart honest taxpayers!’ he shouted at Antenor, who, as Chancellor, was defending the city drainage authorities.

‘You failed to apply to the correct person!’ Antenor snapped.

‘What are we, Egyptians?’ asked the landlord, waving his arms about. ‘I spoke to my usual man, who said yes! Then, before I could make the connection, a squad of enforcers arrived to forbid it! A man would fare better in Nineveh or Karchemish! Somewhere – anywhere! – that the bureaucrats haven’t managed to paralyse with their stupid regulations! I tell you, Troy is almost as inert as Egypt! I’m going to emigrate!’

Antenor’s mouth was already open to wade into the fray in defence of his beloved bureaucrats when a man burst into the hall.

I didn’t recognise him, but Polydamas did.

‘What is it?’ Polydamas asked him.

The man groaned with the agony of breathing, licked his lips, tried to speak and ended in pointing wildly at my father, who was leaning forward, sewers forgotten. Polydamas helped the fellow to the dais and sat him on its bottom step, signalling for water. Even the irate landlord sensed something more important than effluent in the offing, and moved away a little – though not far enough to prevent his hearing whatever was going to be said.

Water and a few moments’ rest enabled the man to speak. ‘My lord King, great news!’

Father looked sceptical. ‘What?’ he asked.

‘Sire, at dawn I was in the Greek camp attending an augury called by Agamemnon to divine the cause of a plague which has killed ten thousand men!’

Ten thousand men dead of disease in the Greek camp! I almost ran to stand beside the throne. Ten thousand men! If my father couldn’t understand the significance of that, then he was blind to all reason, and Troy must fall. Ten thousand less Greeks, ten thousand more Trojans. Oh, Father, let me lead our army out! I was about to say it when I realised that the man wasn’t done yet, that he hadn’t told all his news; I held my peace.

‘There was a terrible quarrel between Agamemnon and Achilles, sire. The army is split. Achilles withdrew himself, his Myrmidons and the rest of Thessalia from the war. Sire, Achilles will not fight for Agamemnon! The day is ours!’

I clutched at the throne-back for support, the landlord whooped, my father sat white-faced, Polydamas was staring at his man in disbelief, Antenor was leaning limply against a pillar, and the rest of those in the room seemed turned to stone.

A loud, bleating laugh rang out. ‘How are the mighty fallen!’ my brother Deiphobos brayed. ‘How are the mighty fallen!’

‘Silence!’ my father snapped, then looked down at the man. ‘Why? What caused this quarrel?’

‘Sire, it was over a woman,’ the man said, more collected now. ‘Kalchas had demanded that the woman Chryse, given to the High King out of the spoils of Lyrnessos, be sent to Troy. The Lord Apollo was so outraged at her capture that he arranged the plague and wouldn’t lift it until Agamemnon gave up his prize. Agamemnon had to obey. Achilles laughed at him. Jeered at him. So Agamemnon ordered Achilles to hand over his own prize out of Lyrnessos, the woman Brise, as compensation. After Achilles gave her to the High King, he withdrew himself and all the men under his banners from the war.’

Deiphobos found this even funnier. ‘A woman! An army split in two over a woman!’

‘Not quite down the middle!’ said Antenor sharply. ‘Those who have withdrawn can’t number more than fifteen thousand. And if a woman can split an army, never forget that it was a woman brought that selfsame army here in the first place!’

My father rapped his sceptre on the floor. ‘Antenor, hold your tongue! Deiphobos, you’re drunk!’ He returned his attention to the messenger. ‘Are you sure of your tidings, my man?’