Macris' eye lighted on his father Amphidamas, who was saying something to Phylakos seated near to him. The contrast between the two faces was striking – his father's good-humoured, with something mobile and expressive in the play of the features, the other's harsh and cold, with eyes that seemed always to be aiming, calculating distances. There was no doubt which was the better face. Macris felt an affectionate pride in his father, but it came accompanied, as usual nowadays, by a certain caution. He had vowed not to be any more like his father than he was already and could not help; he would not emulate a career that had consisted entirely of obedience to the dictates of duty and fidelity, to the dues of military service, to the toilsome patrimony of steep hillsides and narrow valleys. He had a better face than Phylakos, certainly; but it seemed a small reward. His father was fond of saying that a man should give a good account of himself. But Macris had felt increasingly of late that he wanted to be in that much smaller group to whom the accounts were offered. Duty and fidelity were for apprentices. It was like the drill movements in sword play: feint, thrust, side-step, disengage; once you knew how to do it, you could use it or not, you could find your own rhythm, you passed into the zone of distinction. Macris liked this phrase and repeated it often to himself. His father did not know the zone existed, and this seemed to Macris like a mark of arrested development. One had to reach out, to go beyond...

This made him think again of Achilles, who must have entered the zone long ago. Where and when had he met Iphigeneia? In the time he himself had been at Mycenae Achilles had not been a visitor and Iphigeneia had not been away. If they had set eyes on each other before that, the princess must have been no more than a child. A sudden passion, after such a long interval, was always possible, but it seemed unlikely. It was more probably a political matter, a move to strengthen ties with the powerful kingdom of Mycenae. But in that case the proposal seemed oddly precipitate, lacking in ceremony, a hasty wedding far from home, on the eve of battle.

Then there was the delegation itself. Diomedes was a good choice as ambassador, he carried weight, he was a friend of her father's, whom she might have seen at home sometimes. But who else was there? Half the escort were in the service of Diomedes and not from Mycenae at all; the rest were all members of the elite palace guard, personally chosen by Agamemnon and vowed to his service. Surely someone who really cared about the princess would have sent at least one or two people she knew well to accompany her, someone like Abas, who had been her singing master, or Penthes the gardener, who loved her and had pretended for years to comply with her instructions, generally wrong, for the cultivation of his vines and strawberries and walnut trees. Both men devoted to the family, who had volunteered for Troy when they might have stayed.

The princess would naturally want to take Sisipyla with her, and probably some other women. But where was the man she could completely trust, who would stay by her side? There was the long journey by land and sea, the unfamiliar atmosphere of a military camp. She would not even have the company of her mother – Clytemnestra had expressed her regret that the security of the kingdom would require her presence at Mycenae. The security of Aegisthus, more like, he thought. Of course, once there she would be all right, her father would take care of her and supervise the preparations for the wedding.

He glanced again towards Iphigeneia, and in the moment that he did so Phylakos turned his head and the eyes of the two men met and locked into a stare, which for a moment neither was willing to break. There was dislike on both sides expressed in this, something which had been there before, but which the encounter at the gate had quickened. After some moments the older man looked away with a deliberate slowness, clearly contemptuous in intent. Something stirred in Macris, too vague to be called suspicion, a sense of incongruity, of elements that did not quite match up. By contrast, the words that formed now in his mind had a crystalline clarity and purity: I will be that man.

An amazing sense of freedom came to him with this resolve. He would be the man of trust. He would protect the princess's person and her interests. My own too, he thought, rather belatedly remembering the zone of distinction. It will get me to Troy, for one thing. Agamemnon will be grateful for my care of her, and remember it. And much can happen on a journey, she will see my worth... With or without his father's permission he would go. It would be easier with permission, so he would try to obtain this, urging the princess's need for protection – an argument likely to appeal to his father. If it failed, he would wait for them somewhere on the road below. He would take some of his own people, in case he met with any trouble, men who had come with him to Mycenae and would follow him to Aulis at a word – or anywhere else for that matter.

6.

It was not until the evening of the next day, when the face of the moon was already showing, that Sisipyla was able to talk alone with her mistress. The princess had stayed late at the banquet, obliged to wait on the pleasure of her mother, who was noted for late nights and late mornings, and she had been too tired to talk by the time she got back to her apartments. And almost from the moment of waking next morning, Sisipyla had been anxiously occupied in seeing to the practical arrangements for the sacrifice, which were largely her responsibility. The ceremony at the time of full moon, in honour of Artemis, was the most important of those that Iphigeneia had to conduct.

Sisipyla had been running here and there, making sure that all was ready, that those escorting the procession had their garlands at hand, that the water-bearers and the flute-players knew their duties. The two girls who between them were to carry the incense-burner had not done it before, and they had to be carefully instructed. Then there were the men who would lift up the goat at the altar; this had to be done in just the right way, so that Iphigeneia could have free play with the knife. The throat had to be cut in one movement, and Sisipyla knew from experience that any botching in this department roused the princess's ire. So it was important that these men knew their business well; they would have to do the skinning and butchering afterwards and see to the roasting of the joints. The chosen animal she had prepared herself, gilding its horns and marking its face with henna and twining white ribbons in its coat. When, this done, she returned to the women's quarters by way of the south staircase, she found Iphigeneia waiting for her.

'What kept you so long?' the princess said. 'I've been calling you, I've got some important news.'

Sisipyla excused herself, but briefly, not wanting to delay the news or add to the princess's evident impatience. Iphigeneia expected her to be there when she was called, and no amount of explanation could absolve her from the fault, self-evident and beyond appeal, of having been absent.

'I wanted to tell you that my mother has given permission for you to go with me.'

'That is wonderful news.' She was not really surprised, however; it was what she had expected. She glanced quickly at Iphigeneia's face, which had returned to calm now, the news delivered. A kind of calm at least; something of the exaltation of the night before, when she had come between the torch-bearers with the news of the proposal, still remained. Sisipyla looked always for the light in the princess's face – her moods were expressed in light rather than changes of feature. Vexation dimmed her, happiness or pride was a radiance. It seemed the very quality of royalty to Sisipyla, this stillness of face – she was conscious of how quickly her own eyes glanced aside, how the corners of her mouth moved at any slightest thing. She thought, I was the first to be told, I will be the one closest to her of all who go there with her. 'Then we will come back here, won't we?' she said, the words issuing, it seemed, before any intention had been formed to utter them.