Agamemnon was waiting for us. His nose was curved and sharp like an eagle’s beak, and his eyes glittered with a greedy intelligence. He was solid and broad across his chest, firmly planted in his feet. He looked seasoned, but also worn—older than the forty years we knew him to be. At his right side, a place of honor, stood Odysseus and Diomedes. On his left was his brother, Menelaus— king of Sparta, cause of war. The vivid red hair that I remembered from Tyndareus’ hall was touched now with threading gray. Like his brother he was tall and square, his shoulders strong as a yoke-ox. His family’s dark eyes and curving nose seemed softer on him, more temperate. His face was smile-lined and handsome where his brother’s was not.
The only other king that I could identify with any surety was Nestor—the old man, chin barely covered by a sparse white beard, eyes sharp in his age-whittled face. He was the oldest man living, it was rumored, the canny survivor of a thousand scandals and battles and coups. He ruled the sandy strip of Pylos, whose throne he still clutched stubbornly, disappointing dozens of sons who grew old and then older, even as he bred new ones from his famed and well-worn loins. It was two of these sons who held his arms steady now, shouldering other kings aside for a place at the front. As he watched us his mouth hung open, breath puffing his threadbare beard with excitement. He loved a commotion.
Agamemnon stepped forward. He opened his hands in a gesture of welcome and stood regally expectant, waiting for the bows, obeisance, and oaths of loyalty he was owed. It was Achilles’ place to kneel and offer them.
He did not kneel. He did not call out a greeting to the great king, or incline his head or offer a gift. He did nothing but stand straight, chin proudly lifted, before them all.
Agamemnon’s jaw tightened; he looked silly like that, with his arms out, and he knew it. My gaze caught on Odysseus and Diomedes; their eyes were sending sharp messages. Around us the uneasy silence spread. Men exchanged glances.
My hands clutched each other behind my back as I watched Achilles and the game he played. His face seemed cut from stone as he stared his warning at the king of Mycenae—You do not command me. The silence went on and on, painful and breathless, like a singer overreaching to finish a phrase.
Then, just as Odysseus moved forward to intervene, Achilles spoke. “I am Achilles, son of Peleus, god-born, best of the Greeks,” he said. “I have come to bring you victory.” A second of startled silence, then the men roared their approval. Pride became us—heroes were never modest.
Agamemnon’s eyes went flat. And then Odysseus was there, his hand hard on Achilles’ shoulder, wrinkling the fabric as his voice smoothed the air.
“Agamemnon, Lord of Men, we have brought the prince Achilles to pledge his allegiance to you.” His look warned Achilles— it is not too late. But Achilles simply smiled and stepped forward so that Odysseus’ hand fell off him.
“I come freely to offer my aid to your cause,” he said loudly. Then turning to the crowd around him, “I am honored to fight with so many noble warriors of our kingdoms.”
Another cheer, loud and long, taking what felt like minutes to die. Finally, from the deep crag of his face, Agamemnon spoke, with patience that had been hard won, hard practiced.
“Indeed, I have the finest army in the world. And I welcome you to it, young prince of Phthia.” His smile cut sharply. “It is a pity you were so slow to come.”
There was implication here, but Achilles had no chance to answer. Agamemnon was already speaking again, his voice lifted over us all: “Men of Greece, we have delayed long enough. We leave for Troy tomorrow. Repair to your camps and make yourselves ready.” Then he turned with finality and strode up the beach.
The kings of Agamemnon’s innermost circle followed him, dispersing back to their ships—Odysseus, Diomedes, Nestor, Menelaus, more. But others lingered to meet the new hero: Thessalian Eurypylus and Antilochus of Pylos, Meriones of Crete and the physician Podalerius. Men drawn here for glory or bound by their oath, from every far-flung crag of our countries. Many had been here for months, waiting as the rest of the army straggled together. After such tedium, they said, looking slyly at Achilles, they welcomed any harmless entertainment. Particularly at the expense of—
“Prince Achilles,” interrupted Phoinix. “Please excuse my intrusion. I thought you would wish to know that your camp is being prepared.” His voice was stiff with disapproval; but here, in front of the others, he would not chide.
“Thank you, worthy Phoinix,” Achilles said. “If you’ll pardon us—?”
Yes, yes, of course they would. They’d come by later, or tomorrow. They’d bring their best wine and we’d broach it together. Achilles clasped hands with them, promised it would be so.
IN CAMP, Myrmidons streamed around us hefting baggage and food, poles and canvas. A man in livery approached and bowed— one of Menelaus’ heralds. His king could not come in person, he regretted, but had sent the herald here in his place to welcome us. Achilles and I exchanged a glance. This was clever diplomacy— we had not made a friend in his brother, so Menelaus did not come himself. Yet, some welcome was due to the best of the Greeks. “A man who plays both sides of the fence,” I whispered to Achilles.
“A man who cannot afford to offend me if he wants his wife returned,” he whispered back.
Would we accept a tour? the herald asked. Yes, we said, in our best princely manner. We would.
The main encampment was a dizzying chaos, a bedlam of motion— the constant fluttering of pennants, laundry on lines, tent walls, the hurrying bodies of thousands and thousands of men. Beyond this was the river, with its old watermark from when the armies had first arrived, a foot higher on the bank. Then the marketplace center, the agora, with its altar and makeshift podium. Last, the latrines—long, open ditches, busy with men.
Wherever we went, we were observed. I watched Achilles closely, waiting to see if Thetis would again make his hair brighter or his muscles bigger. If she did, I did not notice; all the grace I saw then was his own: simple, unadorned, glorious. He waved to the men who stared at him; he smiled and greeted them as he passed. I heard the words, whispered from behind beards and broken teeth and callused hands: Aristos Achaion. Was he as Odysseus and Diomedes had promised? Did they believe those slender limbs could hold against an army of Trojans? Could a boy of sixteen really be our greatest warrior? And everywhere, as I watched the questions, I saw also the answers. Yes, they nodded to each other, yes, yes.
Chapter Eighteen
I WOKE THAT NIGHT GASPING. I WAS SWEAT-SOAKED, AND THE tent felt oppressively warm. Beside me Achilles slept, his skin as damp as mine.
I stepped outside, eager for a breeze off the water. But here, too, the air was heavy and humid. It was quiet, strangely so. I heard no flapping of canvas, no jingle of an unsecured harness. Even the sea was silent, as if the waves had ceased to fall against the shore. Out beyond the breakers it was flat as a polished bronze mirror.
There was no wind, I realized. That was the strangeness. The air that hung around me did not stir, even with the faintest whisper of current. I remember thinking: if it keeps up like this we won’t be able to sail tomorrow.
I washed my face, glad of the water’s coolness, then returned to Achilles and restless, turning sleep.
THE NEXT MORNING is the same. I wake in a pool of sweat, my skin puckered and parched. Gratefully I gulp the water that Automedon brings us. Achilles wakes, draws a hand over his soaked forehead. He frowns, goes outside, returns.
“There is no wind.”
I nod.
“We will not leave today.” Our men are strong oarsmen, but even they cannot power a full day’s journey. We need the wind to take us to Troy.
It does not come. Not that day, or that night, or the next day either. Agamemnon is forced to stand in the marketplace and announce further delay. As soon as the wind returns, we will leave, he promises us.