“Prince of Ithaca,” Achilles said. His voice was formal; there were none of the boyish smiles from the day before. “I wish to hear you speak of Agamemnon and the other kings. I would know the men I am to join, and the princes I am to fight.”
“Very wise, Prince Achilles.” If Odysseus noticed a change, he did not comment on it. He led us to the benches at the base of the mast, below the big-bellied sail. “Now, where to begin?” Almost absently, he rubbed the scar on his leg. It was starker in daylight, hairless and puckered. “There is Menelaus, whose wife we go to retrieve. After Helen picked him for her husband— Patroclus can tell you about that—he became king of Sparta. He is known as a good man, fearless in battle and well liked in the world. Many kings have rallied to his cause, and not just those who are bound to their oaths.”
“Such as?” Achilles asked.
Odysseus counted them off on his large farmer’s hands. “Meriones, Idomeneus, Philoctetes, Ajax. Both Ajaxes, larger and lesser.” One was the man I remembered from Tyndareus’ hall, a huge man with a shield; the other I did not know.
“Old King Nestor of Pylos will be there as well.” I’d heard the name—he had sailed with Jason in his youth, to find the Golden Fleece. He was long past his fighting days now, but brought his sons to war, and his counsel, too.
Achilles’ face was intent, his eyes dark. “And the Trojans?”
“Priam, of course. King of Troy. The man is said to have fifty sons, all raised with a sword in their hands.”
“Fifty sons?”
“And fifty daughters. He’s known to be pious and much loved by the gods. His sons are famous in their own right—Paris, of course, beloved of the goddess Aphrodite, and much noted for his beauty. Even the youngest, who’s barely ten, is supposed to be ferocious. Troilus, I think. They have a god-born cousin who fights for them, too. Aeneas, his name is, a child of Aphrodite herself.”
“What about Hector?” Achilles’ eyes never left Odysseus.
“Priam’s oldest son and heir, favorite of the god Apollo. Troy’s mightiest defender.”
“What does he look like?”
Odysseus shrugged. “I don’t know. They say he is large, but that is said of most heroes. You’ll meet him before I do, so you’ll have to tell me.”
Achilles narrowed his eyes. “Why do you say that?”
Odysseus made a wry face. “As I’m sure Diomedes will agree, I am a competent soldier but no more; my talents lie elsewhere. If I were to meet Hector in battle, I would not be bringing back news of him. You, of course, are a different matter. You will win the greatest fame from his death.”
My skin went cold.
“Perhaps I would, but I see no reason to kill him.” Achilles answered coolly. “He’s done nothing to me.”
Odysseus chuckled, as if a joke had been made. “If every soldier killed only those who’d personally offended him, Pelides, we’d have no wars at all.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Though maybe it’s not such a bad idea. In that world, perhaps I’d be Aristos Achaion, instead of you.”
Achilles did not answer. He had turned to look over the ship’s side at the waves beyond. The light fell upon his cheek, lit it to glowing. “You have told me nothing of Agamemnon,” he said.
“Yes, our mighty king of Mycenae.” Odysseus leaned back again. “Proud scion of the house of Atreus. His great-grandfather Tantalus was a son of Zeus. Surely you’ve heard his story.”
All knew of Tantalus’ eternal torment. To punish his contempt for their powers, the gods had thrown him into the deepest pit of the underworld. There they afflicted the king with perpetual thirst and hunger, while food and drink sat just out of his reach.
“I’ve heard of him. But I never knew what his crime was,” Achilles said.
“Well. In the days of King Tantalus, all our kingdoms were the same size, and the kings were at peace. But Tantalus grew dissatisfied with his portion, and began to take his neighbors’ lands by force. His holdings doubled, then doubled again, but still Tantalus was not satisfied. His success had made him proud, and having bested all men who came before him, he sought next to best the gods themselves. Not with weapons, for no man may match the gods in battle. But in trickery. He wished to prove that the gods do not know all, as they say they do.
“So he called his son to him, Pelops, and asked him if he wanted to help his father. ‘Of course,’ Pelops said. His father smiled and drew his sword. With a single blow he slit his son’s throat clean across. He carved the body into careful pieces and spitted them over the fire.”
My stomach heaved at the thought of the iron skewer through the boy’s dead flesh.
“When the boy was cooked, Tantalus called to his father Zeus on Olympus. ‘Father!’ he said. ‘I have prepared a feast to honor you and all your kin. Hurry, for the meat is tender still, and fresh.’ The gods love such feasting and came quickly to Tantalus’ hall. But when they arrived, the smell of the cooking meat, normally so dear, seemed to choke them. At once Zeus knew what had been done. He seized Tantalus by the legs and threw him into Tartarus, to suffer his eternal punishment.”
The sky was bright, and the wind brisk, but in the spell of Odysseus’ story I felt that we were by a fireside, with night pressing all around.
“Zeus then drew the pieces of the boy back together and breathed a second life into him. Pelops, though only a boy, became king of Mycenae. He was a good king, distinguished in piety and wisdom, yet many miseries afflicted his reign. Some said that the gods had cursed Tantalus’ line, condemning them all to violence and disaster. Pelops’ sons, Atreus and Thyestes, were born with their grandfather’s ambition, and their crimes were dark and bloody, as his had been. A daughter raped by her father, a son cooked and eaten, all in their bitter rivalry for the throne.
“It is only now, by the virtue of Agamemnon and Menelaus, that their family fortune has begun to change. The days of civil war are gone, and Mycenae prospers under Agamemnon’s upright rule. He has won just renown for his skill with a spear and the firmness of his leadership. We are fortunate to have him as our general.”
I had thought Achilles was no longer listening. But he turned now, frowning. “We are each generals.”
“Of course,” Odysseus agreed. “But we are all going to fight the same enemy, are we not? Two dozen generals on one battlefield will be chaos and defeat.” He offered a grin. “You know how well we all get along—we’d probably end up killing each other instead of the Trojans. Success in such a war as this comes only through men sewn to a single purpose, funneled to a single spear thrust rather than a thousand needle-pricks. You lead the Phthians, and I the Ithacans, but there must be someone who uses us each to our abilities”—he tipped a gracious hand towards Achilles —“however great they may be.”
Achilles ignored the compliment. The setting sun cut shadows into his face; his eyes were flat and hard. “I come of my free will, Prince of Ithaca. I will take Agamemnon’s counsel, but not his orders. I would have you understand this.”
Odysseus shook his head. “Gods save us from ourselves. Not even in battle yet, and already worrying over honors.”
“I am not—”
Odysseus waved a hand. “Believe me, Agamemnon understands your great worth to his cause. It was he who first wished you to come. You will be welcomed to our army with all the pomp you could desire.”
It was not what Achilles had meant, exactly, but it was close enough. I was glad when the lookout shouted landfall up ahead.
THAT EVENING, when we had set aside our dinners, Achilles lay back on the bed. “What do you think of these men we will meet?”
“I don’t know.”
“I am glad Diomedes is gone, at least.”
“Me too.” We had let the king off at Euboia’s northern tip, to wait for his army from Argos. “I do not trust them.”
“I suppose we will know soon enough what they are like,” he said.
We were silent a moment, thinking of that. Outside, we could hear the beginnings of rain, soft, barely sounding on the tent roof.
“Odysseus said it would storm tonight.”