‘We’ve had to institute a curfew,’ Patroclus replied. ‘Fighting was a major problem in the first few weeks. There are fewer injuries if everyone is in their tents by dark. Of course, there are always rule-breakers, but we’ve found that if I take first watch, I can talk most of them down. Agamemnon sends out his own patrols later at night, and they are less gentle.’
I noticed how he said the wordwe, how it rolled off his tongue with practiced ease. ‘You and Achilles are organizing patrols? Isn’t that the duty of the commander?’
We crested a dune at the outskirts of the camp and paused. Free from the noise and stink of human habitation, I felt as though I could finally breathe again. I watched the black waters tumble onto a shore gilded silver by the stars.
Patroclus shrugged. ‘It is. Agamemnon can issue all the orders he likes; it doesn’t mean anyone will listen to them. In the beginning, he tried to calm the tension with proclamations. They weren’t worth the papyrus they were written on.’
‘What of Menelaus?’ I asked. ‘Wasn’t it his wife Helen’s abduction that led to all of this? Why doesn’t he take a more active role in leadership?’
Patroclus shot me a withering glance. ‘Menelaus isn’t fit to command a hunting party, and we both know it. The Spartans, his own people, dislike him so much that they offered up only a symbolic number of men.’
I didn’t bother to defend my uncle, who was a stranger tome. This kind of talk bordered on treason, but there was no one to hear us except the sand and the night wind.
‘Patroclus,’ I began, feeling once more the unease that had sent me out of the tent. ‘You said that the army has been here for weeks. Why haven’t you already left?’
Patroclus frowned, the moonlight casting strange shadows on his face. The rest of his body seemed encased in darkness, armour blending in with the black night. ‘It’s the weather that’s the problem. Specifically, the wind. The strong trade winds you normally get at this time of year are absent, and a fleet like this can’t sail to Troy on mere breezes. So we wait. The men grow restless, and Agamemnon tries in vain to keep them in check.’
‘Agamemnon will be Achilles’s father-in-law soon,’ I observed. ‘Family ties create harmony, or so it is said.’
‘Yes,’ Patroclus acknowledged hesitantly. ‘Which is something I don’t understand. This marriage places Achilles in the line of succession for kingship of Mycenae, and I can’t imagine Agamemnon wants to risk ceding his throne to Achilles. They despise each other.’
‘I gathered,’ I replied dryly. ‘What I want to know is where Iphigenia fits into all of this. Will Achilles be good to her?’
‘Of course,’ Patroclus replied. ‘Achilles is good at everything he does; marriage will be no exception. Besides, Iphigenia is a sweet girl with a remarkable head for strategy, and it’s clear that she adores him. Achilles likes to be adored.’ On the lips of someone else, this might have been an insult, but from Patroclus it was only an observation of preference. It seemed to me that Patroclus spent a great deal of time observing Achilles’s preferences.
‘Do you love him?’ I asked suddenly.
Patroclus stared at me. He continued to stare unblinking for several seconds, and even in the dim light of the stars hisexpression might have withered the hardy beach grass on the dunes. I felt as though I had stumbled upon a bedroom tryst, sheets tossed aside and limbs all akimbo. I reddened and averted my gaze. Patroclus hid his feelings behind defences as impenetrable as the phalanxes he led. He would reveal nothing that could leave Achilles vulnerable.
‘Everyone loves Achilles,’ Patroclus replied lightly, turning away from me. ‘Myself included. Everyone except Agamemnon, which is why I don’t understand this marriage. There are rumours that the lack of wind is divine punishment, sent by Artemis in return for Agamemnon killing a sacred stag. But if he offended Artemis, why try to appease the goddess of virginity by marrying off one of her sworn virgin priestesses? And why to Achilles, of all people?’ He glanced sidelong at me. ‘If you have more information, I would be eager to hear it.’
I understood now why Patroclus had brought me to this remote place, far out of earshot of the camp. The hair along the nape of my neck prickled, and I realized I was in the presence of a man who was as dangerous as Achilles in his own way. I recalled the mention of a boy killed in a game of dice and wondered if it had been a mere accident after all.
I knew nothing about Agamemnon’s motivations and said as much to Patroclus, who absorbed the information with equanimity and looked away, the light of interest fading from his eyes. I had nothing more to give him, and so he graciously but firmly escorted me back to the women’s tent. But Patroclus’s question gnawed at me: WhatwasAgamemnon thinking when he contracted this marriage? What was I missing?
I crawled back to my bedroll next to the softly snoring Iphigenia and fell into an uneasy sleep.
29
Psyche
It was the morning of her wedding, and Iphigenia looked beautiful.
She was dressed in a long-sleeved gown of saffron. It proclaimed her the daughter of a powerful man, since only a woman who never did any housework would wear such a garment. One of the Messenian slaves managed to find flowers, a rarity in a military camp, and Elektra used them to fashion a crown for her sister. Under the flowers, Iphigenia’s curly dark hair had been combed back and braided into two parts. She looked like springtime itself, like the goddess Persephone come to earth.
I watched as the crowd parted for my cousin. The army was in full regalia, sweating and muttering, but they fell silent as Iphigenia passed.
I caught my first glimpse of Agamemnon on the dais, wider and greyer but otherwise unchanged since Helen’s wedding all those years ago. Clytemnestra stood with me and the other women in the crowd. Neither she nor her husband acknowledged each other.
Achilles was waiting on the dais as well, taller and even more infuriatingly handsome than he had been at the Heraean Games.I noticed that he stood as far from Agamemnon as convention allowed. I was not surprised that they disliked each other. Agamemnon might be the commander, but Achilles was the beloved hero.
As Iphigenia approached the dais, a hand tugged at my skirt. ‘Can you lift me up? I can’t see.’ It was Elektra, lost amidst the excitement.
I lifted the child onto my hip and smiled as Elektra marvelled at the crowd. The girl was hardly heavier than a few sacks of grain, though her arms around my neck offered reassuring weight. I wondered if it would feel like this when I held my own child.
When she spotted Iphigenia, Elektra whispered into my ear, ‘Her braids are uneven. The left is much bigger than the right.’
A few of the soldiers around us chuckled, and I felt my cheeks turn red. ‘Hush,’ I told the child.
