The descent of night had stilled the sea and the ships at their moorings made no sound as he passed. The light was strong enough for him to make out the gleam of the waterline, and he kept just above it, on the shingle. Somewhere out to sea a lost gull uttered desolate cries. Macris walked until the way was closed off by rocks, the scattering of some ancient landslide. On his return, as he came up to the outskirts of the camp, he saw a low light burning above the shore and heard the high chant of a singer and the ruffling, wing-beat sound of a lyre.

He mounted towards the light and the sound and came upon men grouped in a semicircle round a singer with a bird-like tilt of the head that suggested blindness. Seated close behind him was a boy with a beautiful rapt face.

It was the story of the Boeotian king Athamas, and Macris had heard it before – it was in every singer's repertory, always in demand because of the dramatic changes of fortune in it and the element of horror. Macris found a place a little apart and sat down to listen.

Athamas was a very unlucky man, though rich and powerful. This bad luck he brought upon himself by his folly in taking a second wife while the first was still living. The new wife was named Ino, a Theban woman, one of the daughters of Cadmus. She was a potent sorceress, and very grasping and greedy, the kind of person who wants everything and wants it now. She was immediately jealous of the first wife, whose name was Nephele. She was tormented by the thought that Nephele's son Phrixus would inherit the throne, taking precedence over her own children. This thought allowed her no rest by day or night. She couldn't think of anything else, she felt she was going mad.

She didn't dare to do any harm to Phrixus directly, much as she would have liked to. But she brooded over it and in the end she hit upon a plan. By her black arts she maddened the Boeotian women so that they secretly parched the corn seed intended for the spring sowing. As a result the crop failed and the spectre of famine loomed over the land. Just as Ino had expected, Athamas sent messengers to consult the oracle at Delphi and bring back word as to how the catastrophe could be avoided. This was the springing of the trap, the moment this diabolical woman had been waiting for. She was ahead of the game at every point, for now with her spells she turned the brains of the returning messengers and made them commit a horrible crime. They falsified the words of the oracle, they reported to the king that if the famine were to be averted his only son Phrixus must be sacrificed at the altar of Zeus.

Macris felt a prickling at the nape of his neck. Never before had he heard the story told in such a gripping manner. It was as if the Singer were himself a witness, as if he were trying in his own person to warn or persuade. The boy had assumed his exact posture, shoulders held back and head tilted. The people listening were rapt in silence, no smallest sound came from them.

It was a lie, a lie, but the king believed it. He had no choice but to believe it. And that is the important thing, not the truth or the lie but the belief, the readiness – that is what pleases Zeus. It cannot be immediate, there must always be struggle, but in the end the king must agree, so as to save his people. Otherwise, how can he continue to be king? The welfare of the people is more important than the life of the child. Some say Athamas was concerned only to save his throne, but this is to take the view of the snake, not the eagle. There will always be cynics. How can our great leader, Agamemnon, tamer of horses, think only of one life when a thousand men are waiting on his word, how can he pause to wonder whether the messenger is under a spell? He leads his child to the altar and makes everything ready for the sacrifice. He takes up the knife...

The Singer paused, waited a moment, then struck a shuddering chord on the lyre for the killing stroke. When he resumed, it was on a quieter, more measured note. It was related by some that at the very moment the knife was raised a ram with a fleece the colour of gold appeared from nowhere, sent by merciful Zeus, and Phrixus climbed on its back and it rose with him and flew off to the northeast and neither the boy nor the ram was ever seen again. The north-east, where the wind that had so plagued them came from, the wind that was now stopped...

Once more he made a pause. And now he did something very rare with him, almost unprecedented, he turned his face towards the vague, glimmering shapes of his listeners and spoke directly to them. 'Now that the wind has gone, it is difficult for a blind man to know north from south. Now that the wind has gone it is difficult for blind and sighted alike to know the will of Zeus. Some say this, some say that. There is always another story. Perhaps there was no witchcraft, perhaps the messengers spoke the truth. Perhaps Ino was innocent, pursued as some say by the jealous wrath of white-armed Hera, consort of Zeus, because her lord had once been in love with Ino's sister, Semele. There is always another story. But it is the stories told by the strong, the songs of the kings, that are believed in the end.'

The Singer's voice had lost force and fervour now, he sounded tired and rather confused. He made some effort to return to the miraculous ram, offspring of Poseidon and Theophane, which could not only fly but had the gift of speech, and whose golden fleece was later to be the object of the Argonauts' quest. But his phrasing was halting and mechanical and after a short while he fell silent.

In any case, Macris was not much interested in the ram. He had always found miraculous interventions hard to imagine. It had been the verve of the narrative, the drama of treachery and falsehood, the terrible gullibility of Athamas that had gripped him. What could have been meant by the reference to Agamemnon? There had been no wavering in the voice, no sense of an incongruous or discordant note, no seeming distinction in the Singer's mind between Athamas of Orchomenus and Agamemnon of Mycenae. Then the change in tone, the direct address, the overlaying of one story with another. Perhaps not weariness, as he had thought, but something else. Perhaps caution...

The boy had risen and was helping the Singer to his feet. The members of the audience were dispersing. Macris got up and went to the Singer, who was standing now, the boy supporting him with a hand under his arm.

Macris took the torch from the ground where it had been set, and held it up. 'What did you mean?' he said. 'How does Agamemnon enter into this story of Athamas and Phrixus?'

The Singer's face was stretched over the bones and deeply marked by privation. He turned in the direction of the voice, and Macris saw that one of his eyes was without focus and useless to him and the other was unsteady, as if affrighted by the nearness of the torchlight.

'You see nothing?'

'Some light comes on this side.' The Singer raised a hand. 'I see the shapes of things. I see you are tall and hear you are young. I have the boy's eyes to help me. This is Poimenos, a gift to me from the gods. Have you come with some gift?'

'I have nothing about me that I could give you. I have just arrived here. Tomorrow I will bring you a gift. What did you mean in the Song just now?'

'Young man, the meaning is inside the Song, and I have finished my singing for the night. If the meaning could be told so easily, what would be the use of the Song? You have just arrived? So you have come with Iphigeneia? You are of her party?'

'Yes.'

'You have spoken to no one?'

'Only to those who came to meet us at the shore.'

'But the princess was with you then.'

'Of course.' Macris was growing impatient. 'I have just told you that I came with Iphigeneia.'

'Naturally, in her presence...' The Singer lowered his head as if talking to himself.