'What are you talking about? What is all this mystery?' There was a short pause, while the Singer seemed to ruminate. Then he said, 'I do not tell things that are outside of the Songs, or I would not last long as a Singer, not here at least, and probably not anywhere. Calchas the priest would be the one to ask.'

'Calchas? I know him. I saw him sometimes at Mycenae. He is the King's diviner.'

'Not any longer. He has one task only now.'

'What is that?'

'He will tell you. Calchas has become talkative, he speaks to anyone who will listen, telling his wrongs. Poimenos will show you the way.'

2.

Inside the tent Iphigeneia was silent for a while, not quite looking at her companion, not quite looking at her surroundings, as if still waiting for something more, something to save her from the burden of being alone here, dressed for a different sort of reception.

Sisipyla felt the loneliness of her mistress, seeing her stand there motionless and lost in her bridal clothes. She remembered how she had dressed the princess in the improvised enclosure on the ship, and how docile the usually impatient Iphigeneia had been, raising her arms, turning her body this way and that, offering her face for the make-up, eager for everything to be just so, wanting to make a splendid impression. Now, if Achilles did not come soon, these beautiful things would have to be taken off again, the rouge sponged away, the hair released from its elaborate dressing, the nightgown put on. But it occurred to her now that this couldn't be done yet, the chest with their things in it had not been brought up from the ship.

'I know these hangings,' Iphigeneia said suddenly. 'They are from the walls of the royal apartments at Mycenae. That design of foliage and doves, it's been there as long as I can remember.' She was smiling and a faint flush of colour had come to her face. 'My father brought them for tent hangings to use during the siege of Troy, then when he was getting things ready for my arrival he must have had them hung here, something familiar, so I wouldn't feel too far from home. Even with all these affairs of state in his mind, all that responsibility resting on his shoulders, he found time to think of his daughter's welfare.'

'He is truly great,' Sisipyla said, glad that the princess had broken the silence, as it meant that now she could speak herself and perhaps be of some comfort to her mistress. She thought of Agamemnon, for whom she had never felt anything but a sort of dread, picturing his face in the brief glances she had had of it, the narrow eyes, the bitter pride of the mouth. 'The truly great are so in small things also,' she said. 'If they would only bring our chest up I could get you ready for the night. You will need your sleep to look your best tomorrow, when Achilles–'

'Achilles will come tonight, I know he will come tonight, as soon as he returns from the hunt. He will not want to let a night pass without coming to bid me welcome.'

'But Lady, if he has been overtaken by the dark somewhere, or gone astray in some difficult place, he too may have to wait for morning before returning to the camp. Besides, excuse me, if he is going to be so very late and come expecting interviews in the middle of the night, since it is his own fault, even if accidental, it will show better judgement for the princess to send me to tell him that she has retired, that she will see him in the morning. It is always good to begin well and get things clear from the start. In that way the man does not take things so much for granted. I could ask one of them outside if we could just have the chest brought up.'

'I forbid you to mention this chest one more time. How is it that you occupy your mind with small things, like chests and getting ready for bed? Do you think I don't know yet what suits with my dignity, that I have to go in for tricks and false modesty and pretended offence?'

Iphigeneia had spoken angrily, but her face softened as she looked at Sisipyla now. 'I know that you like everything to be done in the proper way, and that you are concerned to guard me against uncautious behaviour, but there are times in life when we have to take a broader view. Naturally, looking as you do from the commonplace, everyday perspective, you cannot possibly understand the nature of a man like Achilles. We met only once, but it stayed in his memory for ever, from that moment I was his predestined bride. We are both of noble birth and that puts us on the same wavelength, we have the same sense of special destiny. And then there is this splendidly reckless proposal of marriage on the eve of battle. Do you think a man like that will feel he is scoring points because I am ready to receive him in the middle of the night? He is far above such petty egotism and vanity. Call it intuition if you like, I just have this very strong sense of what kind of person he is. I feel as if I know him through and through. He is brave and strong, but he is gentle and forbearing too. I know that when he enters this tent he will not seem a stranger to me. He may arrive at any moment and I intend–'

At this moment they heard a man's voice outside, speaking to the guards. 'What did I tell you?' Iphigeneia drew herself up and raised her head and gestured to Sisipyla, who went forward to the entrance and passed through, returning after some moments followed by a dark-bearded, broad-shouldered man of average height with flecks of grey in his hair. Iphigeneia went some paces towards him. 'Achilles,' she said, 'you have come at last.'

'No,' the man said, shaking his head a little. 'I am not Achilles, I am Odysseus of Ithaca, son of Laertes. I have come to call you to a higher destiny than even the noble Achilles could offer. Will you ask your attendant to leave us alone together for a little while?'

3.

Poimenos indicated the tent at some twenty or thirty paces' distance, then turned abruptly and disappeared into the night, giving Macris the impression that he wanted to avoid going any closer. The tent was small, closed across the front. There was a light inside and the shadow of a hunched form. Macris called out his name and his father's name, and after some moments there was a fumbling with the strings of the flaps inside and then a man emerged, crouching low at the entrance, holding a small and reeking oil-lamp in one hand.

'What do you want with me,' he said, in the Greek of the Argolis but with accents markedly foreign.

Macris remembered the priest as he had last seen him at Mycenae, perfumed and expensively dressed, in close attendance upon Agamemnon as his diviner. But even in a better light he would not easily have recognized him in this dishevelled crouching figure, with the long, matted hair falling in disorder round his face, the black smudges that made caverns of the hollows of his eyes. He wore only a loincloth and a sleeveless vest, and there was a heavy odour of wine on his breath.

'Macris, Macris,' he said. 'Yes, I know your father. Is he well?'

'Thank you, yes, he is well.'

'What brings you to me? No one calls for Calchas now.'

'I was sent to you by the Singer. He said you were the one to ask. Things have happened that I don't understand. Why wasn't Achilles there to–'

'Did he have a boy with him?'

'No, he didn't have anyone with him. How could he have anyone with him when he wasn't there himself? That's what–'

'I was robbed of that boy. While I had the ear of the King, while I could still read the signs, he admired me, I was his model. I would catch him imitating my smallest movements. The Singer took him away from me with stories.'

'I am sorry to hear of this loss,' Macris said, as politely as he could manage. 'Just now the Singer was telling the story of Athamas and he brought Agamemnon into it, as if they were somehow in the same situation.' A presentiment of horror came to him as he spoke, and his mind flinched away from it. 'What is the meaning?' he said.