The altar was built under the supervision of Croton and his two assistant priests, who were allowed as many men as they needed for it. The crest of a short rise was chosen, beyond the confines of the camp, clear all round for maximum viewing, important both for the spectators and for Zeus himself, as Croton pointed out: in the open, under the wide sky, where the god could get a sweeping overall view, not in some thicket or cave or hole-in-the-corner place, haunts of Hecate and her devotees and all the obscene practices of the night.

It was no easy task to find stones of the right size and shape that could be fitted together and built up to form a waist-high platform. Lines of labouring figures, forced by their loads into attitudes of humility and supplication, toiled over slopes of thorny scrub that lacerated their legs. One man fell into a gulley and broke his collarbone, another dropped a stone on his foot, crushing the toes. However, stone by stone and hour by hour the work continued. At the end of the third day Croton professed himself satisfied; it was certain that Zeus would look favourably on such an altar. What was needed now was a road to it, broad enough for a ceremonial procession, naturally with Croton himself at the head – it was his ambition, and he had already petitioned Agamemnon in the matter, to be the one ordained to wield the knife. It was not of course possible to make a paved way up to the altar, but the track could be widened and stones cleared. Men worked in shifts to get the road ready for Iphigeneia.

There is a pattern, in periods of protracted waiting, made up of what is customary and what is singular. The figures of toiling men, the booming voice of Ajax the Larger as he shouted threats and promises to his squad of reluctant athletes, the soft, pervasive odour of excrement hanging over the camp, the sharper stink of the horses, the endless creaking and groaning of the ships as they rocked in their moorings, all these were things woven into the tissue of existence from day to day. But one afternoon a particular thing happened. A father and a daughter appeared, asking the way to the tent of Menelaus. They had with them a man from a neighbouring village who had been recruited into the Euboean force under Elphenor and knew enough Greek to convert the local dialect into sounds intelligible to Menelaus and his Spartan guards.

These last had debated long and earnestly among themselves whether to disturb the king in his afternoon repose and so risk his wrath. The visitors did not look to be of much account, they were country people. The father was thin as a rake and vehement; the girl was broad-faced and stocky, with heavy breasts. Both had put on their best clothes for the visit, the father in clean white vest and loincloth, the girl in a high-necked bodice and long skirt decorated with paste-glass beads of various colours. They would not say what their business was, conveying however that it was important, even urgent. Something affecting the security of the army, news of a plot they had somehow stumbled on? They might think Menelaus the commander most important and respected in the Greek host, the one to be told; it was not very likely that anyone should have that idea of him, but it couldn't be ruled out. If it was so, and these people were turned away, they would go elsewhere with their news and Menelaus would be absolutely livid. The guards hadn't much to occupy them, they were bored, ready to welcome any diversion. Besides, they were curious. They could put it to Menelaus that, considering him the most important and respected commander in the Greek host, they had thought it better not to take chances. In the end, having drawn lots, two of them went in to him, the visitors having resolutely refused to enter the tent.

The attempts to interrogate the pair and the subsequent discussion among the guards had aroused a good deal of interest, and when Menelaus emerged from the tent he found himself before a considerable crowd. 'Well,' he said to the couple, in his brusque way, 'who are you? What have you to say to Menelaus? Come on, get on with it, I haven't got all bloody day.'

The tone of this made translation unnecessary. The father's mouth worked in agitation and he began to speak in the soft, mumbling tongue of the region.

'What does he say?'

The interpreter hesitated a moment. 'My lord, he says that this girl is his daughter and that you violated her yesterday afternoon when you passed by their house on a hunting trip.'

Menelaus had been dozing inside his tent and his eyes were not adjusted yet to the strong light outside and the wind that came against his face. He blinked and craned his head forward a little to stare at the girl. 'By Zeus, yes,' he said after a moment. 'Dead right. I knew I'd seen her somewhere before.' A smile overspread his face. It was agreeable to have his prowess made public in this way, as it were accidentally, just a casual thing which a man like himself, accustomed to such exploits, hadn't found necessary to mention. 'I didn't recognize her at first,' he said. 'She's got her glad rags on today. She didn't have so much on when I last saw her.'

There were sniggers at this from Menelaus' followers, and particularly from the two guards who had gone in to him with the message and who now, seeing his good humour, were congratulating themselves on having done the right thing, and expecting a good reward.

'Well, lads, you know how it is,' Menelaus said. 'We've all been there, haven't we? On the way back to camp, it was. We'd been after boar all day and we were thirsty as hell, the dogs too. We stopped at this hovel. Water for the dogs, wine for us. These people always have wine, if you know where to look for it. We had to push this fellow around a bit before he got the idea.'

Menelaus closed one of his small eyes in a wink and smiled round at his audience. 'They kept the stuff in an earth cellar behind this shack of theirs. He sent the girl to draw some off for us. I followed her with one man, whom I set to watch at the door. She fought a bit and tried to cry out, just for form's sake, you know. I mean, she knew who I was, there's no mistaking a kingly bearing, breeding will always show. I stuck her up against a barrel. Fantastic. No one had been there before. Now they have come to ask me to acknowledge it publicly, and you can see why. It isn't every day that a girl gets that sort of attention. It will give them tremendous status in their community. Well, I have always been a man who accepts his responsibilities. I want you all to know that their claim is just. Find out her name. I want the Singer to be told that this girl was raped by King Menelaus in person.'

This was conveyed to the couple, but the expected smiles did not appear on their faces. The girl said nothing, remaining with eyes cast down, aware of the gaze of all upon her, aware that in the minds of all she was still being pushed up against a wine barrel and roughly penetrated. The father glanced at the faces round him, and after a moment broke again into rapid, mumbling speech.

'What does he say?' Menelaus, disappointed in the reception his words had been accorded, was growing testy.

The interpreter took time over replying. It could be seen from his face that he was no longer much enjoying the job. 'He says he doesn't want the Singer to be told. He says it is already bad enough that everyone in the village should know his daughter is no longer a virgin. He humbly appeals to the laws of hospitality and would humbly like to remind the king that there was not only the wine but also the eggs, the oatmeal and a round of cheese. Plus the fact that the girl's marriage prospects have sunk to zero.'

A scowl of mingled wrath and incredulity had come to Menelaus' face. 'I can't believe what I'm hearing,' he said. 'Not want the Singer to be told? He's a liar, there were no eggs, we looked everywhere.'