The men listened to him without expression. They were disgruntled, he knew, because he had come upon them unexpectedly. The duty officer normally inspected them only at the changing of the guard. A ridiculous practice, in Macris' view; if they always knew when the officer was coming, what kind of inspection was it? The fact that there had been no war fought on Mycenaean territory in living memory was no reason for slackness. He kept such opinions to himself, however – no sense in making oneself unpopular when there was nothing to be gained from it.

Next he went to take a look at the sally-port in the northern wall. It was from the guard post on the ramparts here that the famous eagles had first been seen, haunting the spear side of the palace walls. So his father had told him – at the time he had been at sea with his uncle, somewhere east of the island of Melos. The usual regret came with this thought, the sense of having missed a chance. He knew himself to be brave. He had been trained to arms since his boyhood. He did target practice with the javelin every day and had bouts with sword and buckler whenever he could find a partner. He made a point of doing fifty press-ups every morning and working out with weights to keep in shape. And here he was, checking guard posts, trying to instil some sense of discipline into men who basically couldn't care less.

Men without ambition, he thought. The worst fault of all. Men like that would end up on the scrap heap. Troy was where the action was, Troy was the opportunity of a lifetime; her riches were celebrated by singers wherever people were gathered together; she had provided an honourable cause for quarrel, blessed by Zeus through the eagles. A returning hero, laden with booty; it was his only hope of being taken seriously in the marriage stakes. With Iphigeneia as his bride there would come royal rank, large grants of land. After that, the way was open. Agamemnon might not survive the war. Orestes was the only son, and he was already, at the age of eight, showing marked signs of mental instability, talking to himself and seeming to see presences in empty rooms. At that rate he would be off his head altogether by the time he came of age.

No, the prospects were there for the man who was man enough to seize them. And that man he felt himself to be. Apart from everything else, she was a beautiful girl with a great figure. He thought of her again now, as he had seen her at their meeting near the gate, her face framed by the scarf, the way she had met his eyes and glanced aside, the smile she had given him, teasing, yes, but not only that, there had been kindness for him in it. Thinking of this, spurring his horse forward, he felt capable of anything. It was not too late. Some dream was clouding the mind of his father, or some bad augury. But the old man would come round, there would still be time to join the army. In his heart was the hope, naturally unconfessed, that the adverse wind might last just a little while longer, just until he could get to Aulis.

The men at the sally-port had seen the mounted party pass below them, had seen the red and white banners of Mycenae carried by the foremost. The riders had already started the ascent, they would soon be at the main gate. Learning this, Macris stayed only moments, just long enough to assure himself that all was in order. He was making his way towards the cluster of stone houses on the south side of the citadel, one of which was used as a mess for the officers of the garrison, when he met on the road a small detachment of his father's people, clan members from the home region of Dendra. Their leader told him they had been detailed to await the visitors outside the gates, where the road drew level with the bastion.

Macris accompanied them and waited there at their head. They heard the horses' hoofs striking on the stone of the road. Then the first riders came into view and Macris at once recognized Phylakos, the commander of Agamemnon's personal guard: Riding beside him was a man he did not know, some dozen years older than himself, very erect in his bearing, with strongly marked, impassive features. Behind these two came others whose faces he knew, all men under Phylakos' command. The numbers were less than had been reported – he counted fourteen.

He waited there as they advanced, two abreast now on the narrow approach between the bastion and the outer wall. His own people waited in a group, slightly to the rear of him. So long as he was there, they would not move without his order. Phylakos raised a hand in greeting but did not immediately slacken his pace, and for some moments it seemed as if he were expecting those before him to give way without further ceremony.

But Macris, apart from returning the salute, did not move. There was a procedure to be followed with strangers, even when they came accompanied by people known. Macris believed in procedures, and he saw no reason to relax the rule for the sake of a man whom he neither liked nor trusted.

Phylakos was obliged to rein in his horse and displeasure at this was written on his face. The man beside him eased forward a little in the saddle but made no other move. He was dark-bearded, with a high-bridged prow of a nose and a curving scar on his forehead. The dust of the journey lay on the riding mantle he wore over his shoulders. 'We have ridden far today,' Phylakos said in his harsh, dragging voice. 'We are in haste to see the Queen. Have them open the gate.'

Still Macris did not move. The blood had risen to his face at the other's tone, at the implication that he was not important enough to have the identity of the stranger announced to him. He took care to show nothing of this, however. 'I do not know who it is that is with you,' he said.

'This is Diomedes,' Phylakos said, anger still in his voice. He made a brief gesture towards the youth before him. 'Macris, son of Amphidamas.'

Both men laid hand on heart and slightly bowed their heads. Macris turned away quickly to order the gate opened. He was afraid it would show in his face – which always showed more than he liked despite all his striving – how impressed he was at this illustrious name, announced so brusquely. It must be a matter of first importance to have brought such a man from Aulis. Diomedes, whose father Tydeus had joined the expedition of the Seven against Thebes and been killed before the walls of that city. Diomedes, who at an age hardly greater than his own had marched against Thebes, together with the other sons of the Seven, the Epigoni, and razed it to the ground in vengeance for his father's death. Diomedes, who had provided eight ships, who headed the combined forces of Argos, Nauplius and Troezen. Macris was relieved to see that the men at the guardhouse moved briskly and were wearing their helmets and that there were no dogs in sight. It would be seen that he knew how to keep a guardhouse. It was not much to set against a record like that, but it was something.

The party passed through the gate and on to the ramp. Phylakos and Diomedes at once took the road to the palace. The remainder clattered down to the garrison barracks. Macris followed more slowly. He longed to know the purpose of the visit; but it would be a mistake to start questioning inferiors, to show oneself not only more ignorant than they, but vulgarly curious into the bargain. These were points a man had to watch if he was in the business of establishing a reputation.