'Yes, I have said so.'

'Your sacrificial knives, now, have certain things in common by virtue of their use. No one can make a sacrificial knife that does not resemble in some ways all other sacrificial knives. The King will desire a knife with a blade no wider than this.' He raised a blackened hand and made a small gap between forefinger and thumb.

'Yes, I suppose so.'

'A narrow blade is customary for your sacrificial knives so as to reduce accidental wounds if the victim happens to be struggling. Your sacrificial knives will need to be a certain length, not too short, a short blade may fail to find the vein, not too long, a long blade is dangerous in confined spaces, I have seen an innocent bystander get his eye put out.'

'All these are details, I was speaking of the quality.'

'Your sacrificial knives, now, must be single-edged, with a groove down the–'

'You may return to your forge,' Agamemnon said. 'I will pay you in gold for the work, if it is well done.'

When the smith had gone he turned moody eyes on Menelaus. 'There's an earthbound fellow if ever there was one,' he said. 'A mind that can't rise above petty details, incapable of taking flight.'

'No vision,' Menelaus said. 'Bolshie too, he was talking as if one victim were as good as another. It's this new class of technicians, they have no respect for authority, no sense of tradition. For two pins I'd have given him a kick up the arse.'

'You'd better get along to see the Singer,' Agamemnon said to Chasimenos. 'Just a general announcement, no need to go into details of design at this stage, I haven't worked them out yet. Just tell him the knife will be a masterpiece.' He paused for a moment and something like a smile twisted his lips. 'Calchas will take him my plans for the design. I'm going to make Calchas responsible for supervising the work from day to day.'

And so the fashioning of the knife became an element in that longing for Iphigeneia that was the longing for release from pain and travail, puffed up and spread by the wind, which veered from north to north-east and varied in intensity but never died away, rustling in the scrub of the hillsides, whispering among the pebbles of the shore, slapping at the hulls of the moored ships. Sounds became rumours: the whole thing was just a story to keep people happy, Agamemnon was playing for time, the Mycenaeans were secretly planning to leave; Iphigeneia wouldn't come, she would come but only to sacrifice an ox to Zeus in token of repentance; it didn't matter whether she came or not because Palamedes was preparing a coup that would put an end to Agamemnon's leadership and the curse of the wind at one stroke. Dark glances and knowing looks proliferated. It was a good time for those who could claim to know more than others did, they were listened to, they dominated conversation; and there were some who remembered the importance they achieved at this time as a highlight in their lives.

In face of these contradictory stories, the priests of Zeus circulated among the army by day and night, with their oak staffs and insignia of eagle heads, their banners bearing the colours of blood and sky and their one unvarying interpretation of events: the justice of Zeus required the sacrifice of the witch, the wind would not abate until her lifeblood splashed the altar.

Such certainty at a time of doubt made easy converts. The retinue of Croton swelled from hour to hour until it formed a long double line that wound its way through the camp, at first to the sound of oboes and kettledrums only, but then a sort of choric chanting was developed, certain phrases were shouted loudly and repeatedly. Croton, in the lead, would raise his right arm at regular intervals, and when he did this all those following also raised an arm and shouted one of two things, either We Love Zeus or Zeus Hates Witches. It happened quite often that some members of the procession shouted one slogan and some another; but this did not matter, it was volume and fervour that counted. For those at a distance the music and the shouting were strangely hollow and distorted, making it seem as if the wind had added one more to its repertory of voices; but those who were shouting felt that they were among comrades, they found the experience exhilarating and developed a taste for it. Croton was praised by the Singer, in a series of inspired verses, as the originator of civil liberty, the right to free assembly and the peaceful expression of the people's will.

The rumours, the slogans, the wind, the prospect of a spectacle, these became a state of things that might go on for ever, might be the very nature of life itself – and indeed, those who survived and returned home remembered this period of waiting as much more protracted than it really was, it became in the minds of many the nature of life before the war.

There was no way of checking, no way of verifying anything. It was dangerous to ask. There were those in the army who had seen Iphigeneia grow up, those for example who had done regular guard duty at the palace. There must have been a desire among these men, among some of them, that the sacrifice might be averted. Certainly, no one could warn her, even if prepared to risk his life to do so. There was no way of commandeering a ship and leaving by sea, not without concerted action and substantial numbers, and these were lacking. A permanent guard was kept on the ships and checkpoints were maintained night and day on all roads leading from Aulis, manned by archers faithful to Odysseus or the Cretan Idomeneus, who had made themselves jointly responsible for security. Of course, if someone, alone or perhaps accompanied by one or two others, had slipped out from the camp by night, on foot, using mountain tracks that were loose-surfaced and treacherous even in daylight, they might escape detection. But travelling thus, how could they have vied with the official delegation, already departed, in their swift ship, favoured now by the wind, how could they have reached Mycenae in time to prevent the princess's departure?

Poimenos, knowing the wishes of his master's heart, possessed by notions of heroic achievement derived from the Singer, offered to make the attempt. 'I can find my way through the passes,' he said. It is summer, there is no snow. One mountain is like another. I was often in high places when I tended the goats and I didn't have such good strong sandals then, I didn't have any sandals at all, I wrapped my feet in rags. Travelling night and day, going by the sun, it could be done.'

Calchas regarded his acolyte for some moments. The boy, in the glow of his idea, had turned to look eastwards – the wrong direction. He had no idea of geography at all. He had no idea where Delphi was, and that was where he came from, let alone Mycenae. There was such radiant enterprise on his face, such a blaze of imagined glory, that the diviner felt his eyes almost shocked by it, as at the assault of some strong light. Simplicity like that burned away the accumulated fat of his own doubts and anxieties and obstinate logic, returned him to primal harmony and clarity, where the will of the gods and the meaning of their messages could be known with certainty. It was what he needed, it was what Poimenos gave him. Perhaps it was simply hope. Why was it that now, in these days of his isolation and the King's disfavour, when he most needed hope, he felt this impulse to destroy it?

'Judging by the direction of your gaze,' he said, 'you are proposing to jump into the sea from the top of Mount Ocha and swim across to the island of Chios.' With gratification and sorrow he saw the light fade on the boy's face. 'You should be looking that way,' he said, pointing. And ships travel night and day also, you know, especially with a favouring wind, and then they will have horses and a good road. Even on the moral plane you would be outdistanced. Those with the impulse to destroy will always travel faster than those with the impulse to save. That is a lesson life will teach you.'