A Thousand Ships(25)

Agamemnon at first refused to see the men who gathered outside his tent demanding an audience. But they did not disperse, and the hum of the crowd grew louder as they waited. Chryseis knew he would have to face them sooner or later, but she had already noticed that Agamemnon was a coward. He was desperate to avoid arguments with his men because he could rarely best a man with words; but his petulance forced the arguments into being, just the same. Chryseis’ only first-hand experience of living with a man was with her father. And although she had often thought him cold and inflexible, she now realized that he was also a strong, principled man who did not shirk his responsibilities.

Agamemnon, she could see, was not. He spent a great deal of time telling everyone about his unparalleled importance, but he rarely wished to make the choices that a king must. How such a weak and petty man had risen to such a position of authority, she had wondered more than once. She had concluded that the Greeks’ selfishness was the cause: every man looked out for himself first and his men second, and the other Greeks after that, if at all. Merit was decided by what a man had, not what he did. Chryseis contrasted the Argive king with her father, who would never permit such shallowness in himself or his daughter. So although she was afraid of Agamemnon’s pawing hands and his vicious temper, she found herself feeling oddly superior to the man who now owned her.

From within the tent, she heard the frantic murmurs of his advisers cease. Agamemnon walked out to angry jeers from the men who had been waiting in the suffocating heat to hear him speak. But he was not in a conciliatory mood.

‘Go back to your tents,’ he shouted. ‘We have seen the summer fever before: this is no different. In a day or two it will all be over.’

‘It’s not the summer sickness,’ a man called out from the middle of the crowd. ‘This is something else.’

The murmuring increased, like the chatter of frightened birds. ‘Go back to your tents,’ Agamemnon said again.

‘Tell him what you told us,’ another man shouted, and with that Chryseis could no longer wait out of sight. She needed to see what was happening. She crept on her knees to the space between two tents so she could see. ‘Tell him,’ more voices were saying. Finally, someone stepped forward. A priest, Chryseis knew immediately. She saw the arrogance behind his eyes and the ornate robes he wore in service of the god, which also served to emphasize his own importance.

‘What is it, Calchas?’ Agamemnon said. ‘What would you have me sacrifice today?’

It was an odd turn of phrase, Chryseis thought. He must have known that only a few meagre calves were left in the pens: a choice of sacrificial victims belonged to happier men than this mottled band of Greeks.

‘I have spoken with the gods,’ Calchas said. ‘And the men are right: this is no ordinary sickness. It is a punishment sent to us by Apollo.’

The chattering was growing ever louder, until Agamemnon raised his fist.

‘A punishment from Apollo? Then sacrifice a hecatomb,’ he said to derisive snorts. If the men gathered every cow in the camp, they would not have a fifth of the hundred required.

‘We could sacrifice two hundred cows and it would have no effect,’ said Calchas. ‘The Archer has one demand, and that is for you to return the daughter to her father, the priest.’

Chryseis felt a thickening in her throat. Had her father done what he had threatened and called down the wrath of Apollo on the Greeks?

Agamemnon’s face flushed a bright, sickly red. ‘Give away my prize?’ he said. ‘Never.’

‘It is the only cure for the blight,’ Calchas replied. ‘The priest wants his daughter back and he has called down the curse of the god he serves. The plague will not be lifted until we return her.’

‘We?’ shrieked Agamemnon. ‘She doesn’t belong to us. She belongs to me. And why would Apollo demand that only one man gives up his prize? Why should that man be me, king of all the Greeks? Why shouldn’t Odysseus give up his prize, or Ajax?’

There was a long pause. ‘Because your prize is the daughter of Apollo’s priest,’ said Calchas.

‘You have always been plotting against me,’ Agamemnon said. ‘Even before we sailed from Greece. Your conniving ways have already cost me my daughter, my oldest child.’ His voice cracked, and suddenly Chryseis understood why Briseis had advised her to mention his daughter when he seemed likely to harm her, all those nights ago. The man had lost his own child, and he could not stand to think of it. ‘And now you would take away my prize. Mine, out of all the leaders of the Greeks. Get out of my sight, or I will kill you myself.’

‘I assure you, king, that I do not mean to be the bearer of ill tidings,’ Calchas said, and Chryseis was immediately certain that the man enjoyed nothing more. He was almost smacking his lips together. ‘But the girl must be returned to her father, or the Greeks will all pay the price.’

‘Give her back,’ shouted someone. ‘Give her back.’ The cry was taken up by others, and soon spread across the crowd. Agamemnon looked from one group of men to another, but could not see any hint of disunity. They were of one mind, and that mind was set against him. And Chryseis saw that her time in the Greek camp was at an end. Her father had done exactly as he had sworn he would do. She should have known that he would force even an invading army to bow to his will.

‘I will not be left without a prize,’ he said. ‘You!’ He pointed at Odysseus. ‘Go to Achilles and tell him that I claim his girl. If mine is taken from me, then I will have his.’