Sisipyla had moved her hands to her sides now and she stood very straight. 'I don't remember him,' she said.

'Don't remember him? A marvellous man like that? You really are hopeless. I remember him perfectly. There was something in the way he looked at me, even then – you can always tell. What I think myself is that he must have been repressing it all these years and now he is about to go into danger it has come bursting out, no longer to be denied. It's very romantic. He probably thinks, you know, there isn't much time, make hay while the sun shines. We must start to get ready, there is going to be a banquet in honour of Diomedes, he is the one that brought the proposal, he is a close friend of Achilles. My mother offered to send some of her women to help me dress, but I said I only needed you.'

5.

By virtue of his father's rank, Macris was seated in the upper part of the hall, in the area above the libation stone. Clytemnestra occupied the King's place in his absence, with the honoured guest Diomedes at her right hand. Macris did not sit with his father, however, but lower down, as became his youth and relative obscurity. He was content with the place; from here he could observe and listen without anything much being required from him. Observing and listening were what he had vowed himself to, once the first shock of the news had passed. It was as near to action as he could come; and action, the refusal to languish or turn in on himself, was always his way of dealing with distress, had been so from his earliest years. Violent physical action, preferably; many were the setbacks and disappointments he had outrun, outwrestled, exhausted through the exhausting of his body.

This was not possible now. He did not want to combat his feelings because Iphigeneia was at the heart of them. But he could cultivate hostility for others, which was still better than lamenting and mooning about. Much better. Achilles first, the absent threat. The heart could not but falter at such a rival, so celebrated for his beauty and fleetness of foot and prowess in battle. Only a few years older than himself and so many killings and lootings to his credit.

Of course, a good part of this must be exaggeration; a lot depended on who had the ear of the Singer. This invulnerability business, for example – it was obviously something put about to scare people. Achilles had a heart and a belly and a gizzard, just like anyone else. I would be ready to put it to the test, he thought. At the drop of a hat. Then there was this matter of divine birth. Easy to say you had a sea-goddess for a mother, but what about the proof? His own mother was Leucippa of Dendra. Anyone wanting to check up on him could go to Dendra and find her there, looking after the estates while her husband did his turn of service here. She would vouch for his birth, and woe betide any who doubted it. But how could anyone go looking for Thetis in her palace under the sea? What kind of an address was that?

He glanced across at Clytemnestra, who had calculated her effects well this evening, and looked spectacularly funereal among the festively dressed people around her, white faced and raven-haired, with shadowed eyelids, in a black gown, the bodice tight and open down the front to show the dark borders of her nipples and the splendid depth of her cleavage. Pleasure at the news had warmed her face and softened the usual bitterness and hunger of her mouth. She had made the speech of welcome to the guests and poured the first libation, bearing the bowl herself to the altar. Seated on her left, across from Diomedes, was the mysterious Aegisthus, son of Thyestes and cousin to Agamemnon. His fair beard and florid complexion were in sharp contrast to the white-faced Queen. He had arrived at the court almost as soon as the King had left it, and stories about him were rife. He was said to be the product of an incestuous union between his father and his half-sister Pelopeia, to have been abandoned as a child and suckled by a goat. There were those who said, when they were sure of their company, that he was the killer of Atreus, Agamemnon's father, whose body had been found in a lonely place on the seashore, bearing many stab wounds upon it. But there were no stories, not yet at any rate, only insinuations, as to why, in Agamemnon's absence, he had received such a welcome at the Mycenaean court, why he lingered there, why the Queen kept him so constantly by her side.

Macris was glad for the wine, but he had little appetite for the soup of lentils flavoured with cumin that was placed before him; still less for the quail's eggs and roast hare that followed. Nonetheless, he attacked the courses as they came with every appearance of gusto, in accordance with his principle of positive action. He saw Iphigeneia rise to take wine to the guest of honour. She was flushed and serious, conscious of being looked at as one about to change her state. Macris watched the tension of care in her movements as she poured out the wine, saw how intent she was on her duties, saw – with an insight unusual in him, born of his wretchedness – that she suffered, must always have suffered, at the fear of not getting things right, not being as she should. He had thought of her often, her face, her form, what it would be like to have her naked beneath him, the status and dignity it would confer on him to have her as his wife, how fertile she would be, whether she would bear sons. But it had not, until now that he was going to lose her, occurred to him to wonder what she might feel or think about things. He thought, she is one for whom nothing will ever be quite good enough, nothing will ever come up to the mark. As she stood before Diomedes, waiting for the customary compliments, he thought he had never seen her look so beautiful, in her short-sleeved blue and silver bodice and long, pleated skirt. A tress of her hair had been carried across the crown of her head and secured by gold pins.

Diomedes finished his words and drank, and Iphigeneia moved away. Aegisthus leaned his face forward to speak, the torchlight glinting on his fair brows. The Queen's eyes were lowered, she showed no sign of listening. She had thanked Diomedes in her speech of welcome, declared herself and the Kingdom of Mycenae honoured by the choice of such an ambassador. Achilles had sent his closest friend to show the value he placed on her daughter and on the alliance with the House of Atreus.

Was it Diomedes who had told her of this close friendship? It sounded to Macris like one more exaggeration. Hardly likely, he thought, that the two would have met before coming together at Aulis. Achilles was lord of Phthia on the borders of Thessaly, whereas Diomedes was an Argive. There was no story that connected them, none that he knew of. It was true that friendship could take quick root among men about to embark on war; but it was Agamemnon that Diomedes was more likely to be close to: they were neighbours, they had clan ties, they were close associates and allies in the war.

It was time now for the third libation. Iphigeneia rose and stood at her place and a silence fell among the people. She raised her head and chanted the words honouring her absent father Agamemnon. Her voice was not strong but it was clear and pleasing. Macris watched the movements of her throat and the pauses in her breathing and saw that she was moved. When she ended and bowed her head there was a rustle of approbation among the seated guests. Diomedes took the shallow, two-handled cup to the altar, bearing it with both hands. He prayed to Zeus the Guardian for blessing on the house, and poured the wine over the stone slab. There was silence while they waited for the prayer and the scent of the wine to reach the abode of the god, which was the time required for the offering to run along the grooves in the altar stone and down into the circular basin at the foot. Then, at a signal from Clytemnestra, the flute-players began again and talk was resumed.