was, however, engaged in the less glorious business of arguing with a hard-bargaining minister from Delos over terms for the provision of wine, oil and corn when word came that Achilles and his Myrmidons had arrived. ‘Send him up at once,’ he said. ‘Let’s see what this son of Peleus is made of.’ Then he dismissed the Delian with orders to think of better prices and summoned his chiefs of staff into council.
Many ferocious warriors were oiling their spear-shafts and sharpening their swords among the host outside the fort, and Agamemnon was glad enough to have their weapons under his command. But the touchy youth that Odysseus had brought back from Skyros was an altogether different proposition. Resolute to demonstrate that he was a man among men, Achilles walked into the council with an arrogance that fell not far short of disdain and then he sat throughout most of its deliberations taut as a bowstring, observing the others in the room with a taciturn frown that could be construed as vigilant in some lights and as surly in others.
From the first there was no doubting that this young warrior had something of a god about him. Whether or not Thetis, his mother, had seined him with fire or dipped him in the Styx, a radiance of immortality already flashed like a nimbus off his hair and glittered from the keen grey metal of his eyes. And it did so with such ardour that even old Nestor, more than forty years his senior, found it hard to stop a wondering gaze straying towards his lithe, graceful presence. For there was – Nestor saw with both admiration and trepidation – a killer’s glitter in that sheen.
Nor had he come alone. Though the invitation to join the council had been extended only to Achilles, a companion entered the room at his side, darker and slightly taller, but with much the same assured composure, as though the war had been arranged for their mutual satisfaction. When Agamemnon queried his presence, Achilles jutted his chin and said, ‘This is Patroclus, son of Menoetius, grandson of Actor, King of Phthia. Where I go, he goes also.’ And it was immediately clear that either both men stayed or both men left.
Seeing the blood flush in his brother’s face, Menelaus hastened to remind him that Patroclus had been among the men who took the oath at Sparta, and Odysseus further defused the tension by remarking that the last time he’d seen Achilles and Patroclus together they had been six years old and scrapping like dogs beside the stream at Cheiron’s school. ‘If the two of you fight as hard now as you did then,’ he said, ‘the Trojans are in for a bad time.’
Having already reminded himself that Apollo had promised victory only if Achilles came to the fight, Agamemnon joined in the laughter and ordered that room be made for another chair.
When Nestor asked for news about his old friend Peleus, Achilles answered with the stiffness of a young man reluctant to speak freely about his personal life. ‘My father regrets that he can no longer be of service to the cause himself, but the men I lead are his. Also he gave me the long spear which was Cheiron’s gift to him and bade me use it well. Divine Athena polished its shaft with her own hand. My father prays that the goddess will bestow her favour on us.’
Diomedes and Odysseus exchanged glances at the youth’s solemnity, but Ajax, who was cousin to Achilles, gave a good-natured laugh. ‘And no doubt your father warned you about keeping on the right side of the gods as mine did me. But as I said to the old man when I left his bedside, any fool can win glory if the gods are with him. I mean to do so whether they’re with us or not.’
‘Well I for one,’ said Odysseus wryly, ‘will be glad of any help we can get.’
At that moment Agamemnon’s herald Talthybius entered the room to announce the arrival of a Cretan legate, who was seeking audience with the High King.
‘Only a legate?’Agamemnon frowned. ‘Deucalion was supposed to send me ships. Where are they?’
Talthybius shrugged. ‘There’s no sign of them as yet.’
‘Damn these Cretans and their lies. Let’s have him in.’
Menelaus immediately recognized the legate from his visit to the island. One of Deucalion’s shrewder ministers of state in Knossos, Dromeus had caught the drift of the changing wind and aligned himself with the dissident faction of young men that had gathered around Idomeneus. That it was he, and not one of Deucalion’s minions that had come to Aulis, augured well. But where, Agamemnon demanded to know at once, were the ships they had hoped to see by now?
Dromeus chose to answer a different question. ‘There have been changes in Knossos since the sons of Atreus graced us with their presence,’ he said. ‘Deucalion has crossed the river to the Land of Shades. His son Idomeneus now sits on the Gryphon throne.’
There came a few formal acknowledgements of regret for Deucalion’s death before Agamemnon said, ‘But were we not given reason to think that your new king looks on our cause more favourably than his father did?’
‘That is indeed the case, Great King’
‘Then I ask again. Where are the ships?’
Dromeus opened his hands, brought them together at his lips and smiled. ‘The House of the Axe now stands ready to commit a hundred ships to this war.’
‘A hundred! Excellent!’Agamemnon made no effort to conceal his pleasure.
He turned smiling to Menelaus, who exclaimed that this was more than they had dared to hope. The mood around the table lifted.
Then Palamedes said, ‘So when can we expect to see them?’
Again Dromeus smiled. ‘This is, as you acknowledge, a generous commitment. You will not be surprised, therefore, that it comes attended by a condition.’
Lifted by a breeze gusting from a courtyard down the hill, the distant shout of an officer haranguing his men entered the room. With an irritable flick of his hand Agamemnon shooed a fly that was buzzing about his ear. ‘What condition?’
‘That as leader of so large a force King Idomeneus should share supreme command of all the allied forces.’
Telamon’s son, Ajax, an open-faced, broad-chested fellow with a frank manner, was the first to break the silence. He gave a derisive snort, slapped a hand across a sturdy thigh and said, ‘The crown has gone to your new king’s head! Go home and tell him that we already have the only leader we need.’
Still smiling, Dromeus fingered the curls of his beard and turned his gaze back to Agamemnon. ‘I might point out,’ he said, ‘that Crete’s hundred vessels are equalled in number only by the large squadron that the High King himself has brought out of Mycenae. Our ships are ready to sail. They await only your word.’
The stern young face of Achilles was also waiting for that word.
Agamemnon did not miss the quick sideways glance directed by Patroclus at his friend, but the cool, intimidating scrutiny of Achilles’ gaze remained fixed directly on the king’s frown, waiting to see how he would react.
Feeling the immediate need for decision, yet flustered by this unforeseen development, Agamemnon was, in those tense moments, listening for the advice of a god. When no voice entered the silence of his mind, he decided that though a hundred ships meant a great deal to him, his honour and authority meant a great deal more.
He was about to declare as much when Nestor straightened from where he had leaned to hear Odysseus whisper in his ear. ‘Perhaps’ – the old man cleared his throat – ‘perhaps it might be wise for the council to deliberate upon this matter?’
Taken aback, Agamemnon observed Nestor’s insistent nod.
‘My own thought precisely,’ he said. ‘If the Cretan legate will excuse us …’
Bowing courteously to each of the counsellors, Dromeus backed out of the room, leaving a musky trace of perfume on the air.
As soon as the door had closed behind him, Ajax said, ‘What is this whispering about? The High King is our commander. He has all the fighting force he needs.’
‘Bear with me, friend,’ Odysseus smiled, and would have said more but Palamedes intervened. ‘This matter requires