are camped at our gates.”
Before anyone could object, he went on, “And what if they did? Menalaos would have his wife returned to him and we could leave these shores with honor.”
Agamemnon snatched the scepter back. “Leave without razing Troy? What honor is there in that? I have sacrificed my own daughter to tear down Troy! I will not leave until that city is reduced to ashes!”
Odysseos reached for the scepter again, but Menalaos, sitting between him and Agamemnon, took it first. “If Helen is returned to me, we could sail for home and then come back next year, with an even bigger army.”
He was younger than his brother, but they shared the same pugnacious look to their faces.
Agamemnon shook his head hard enough to make his beefy cheeks quiver. “And how will we raise a bigger army, with Helen returned? Who will come to Troy with me once the bitch is back in Sparta?”
White-bearded Nestor, sitting at Agamemnon’s left, raised his voice. “High King, you do not hold the scepter. You have no right—”
“I’ll speak whenever I want to!” Agamemnon shrilled.
They argued back and forth, then finally commanded me to tell them exactly what the Trojan princes had said to me. I accepted the scepter, then got to my feet and repeated the words of Paris and Hector.
“Paris said that?” Menalaos spat on the sandy floor. “He is the prince of liars.”
“Pardon me, King of Sparta,” said old Nestor, “but you do not have the scepter and therefore are speaking out of turn.”
Menalaos smiled scornfully at the whitebeard. “Neither do you, King of Pylos.”
Nestor got to his feet and reached for the scepter. I handed it to him willingly. He remained standing as he said, “If this Hittite is reporting truly, Hector expects to storm our ramparts in the morning. Hector is an honest man, not given to deception”—he eyed Odysseos as he said that—”and a great warrior. Tomorrow we will face a battle that could well determine the fate of this war. I have seen such battles before, you know. In my youth …”
On and on Nestor rambled, secure in his possession of the scepter. Odysseos looked bored, Menalaos and the others of the council fidgeted in their chairs. Agamemnon’s face slowly reddened.
At last the High King grabbed the scepter from Nestor’s hand. Startled, the old man gaped at Agamemnon, then slowly sank back onto his chair.
“We face disaster!” Agamemnon cried, his narrow little eyes actually brimming with tears. “Hector could overrun our camp and slaughter us all!”
Odysseos leaned across and took the scepter from the High King’s hand. Holding it aloft, he proclaimed loudly, “We must not give way to despair! We must show Hector and his Trojans what metal we are made of. We will defend our camp and our boats. We will drive Hector away from our ramparts. Think of the songs the bards will sing of us when we are victorious tomorrow!”
A murmur went around the council circle. Heads nodded.
Odysseos turned to Patrokles, sitting almost exactly opposite to Agamemnon’s place. “Noble Patrokles, tell mighty Achilles that tomorrow he will have the chance to gain great glory for himself.”
Patrokles nodded solemnly. “Glory is what he lives for. But if he refuses, perhaps I could convince him to let me lead the Myrmidones—”
“You?” Agamemnon laughed aloud. “You’re too soft for anything but serving tidbits. Stay by your master’s side and let the men tend to the fighting.”
Patrokles’ face burned red. I thought Agamemnon had just thrown away what ever slight chance we might have had to get the Myrmidones to fight alongside us, with or without Achilles.
25
By the time the council meeting ended it was growing dark outside. I left Agamemnon’s lodge with Odysseos, as befitted my station. A considerable bonfire was crackling out there, casting a fitful red glare across the sand. The King of Ithaca waited outside the door of the lodge until Menalaos came out.
“Son of Atreos,” he said, reaching out to clasp Menalaos by the shoulder, “the Hittite tells me that Helen has sent one of her maidservants with a message for you.”
Menalaos’ heavy brows lifted with surprise. “She sends me a message?”
“Apparently so,” replied Odysseos, nodding.
“Bring her to my cabin then.”
Odysseos turned to me. “Do so.”
I left the two kings as they ambled toward Menalaos’ cabin and hurried to the campfire where my men were sitting with their evening meal, their swords and spears resting on the ground beside them, atop their shields. Apet sat with the slave women, her black robe pulled around her, its hood down across her shoulders, as she spoke animatedly to them. She’s not so silent with other women to listen to her, I said to myself.
Magro spotted me first and scrambled to his feet. The others quickly rose, also.
“Where’s my sword?” I asked them. I felt naked here in camp without it.
“We’re going to fight in the morning?” asked little Karsh as he picked my sword from the pile of weapons on the ground.
“Yes,” I said, taking the sword from his hand. “We’ll stand with Odysseos at the gate and show them what trained Hatti soldiers can do.”
“On foot, against chariots?”
“We’ll hold the gate,” I said flatly.
Magro laughed. “While the Trojan footmen scramble up the palisade and outflank us.”
I shrugged. “There will be plenty of Achaian footmen to defend the length of the palisade.”
Magro spat onto the sandy ground, showing what he thought of the Achaian footmen.
“Eat well and get some sleep,” I told them. “Tomorrow you’ll earn your keep.”
Before they could reply I walked over to the huddle of women. “Apet,” I called. “Menalaos wants to hear what you have to say.”
She pulled up her hood and rose to her feet like an offering of black smoke. Her features were shadowed by the hood, but if she felt any fear of facing her former master she showed nothing of it. Without an instant of hesitation she fell in step alongside me.
Odysseos was still in Menalaos’ cabin when we got there. The two of them were sitting at a trestle table, spearing broiled chunks of lamb from a large oval platter with their daggers, flagons of wine at their elbows. The King of Sparta ordered all his servants out of the cabin once his guard allowed Apet and me inside. I got the feeling he wanted Odysseos to leave, too, but he said nothing to the King of Ithaca.
Apet pulled down the hood of her robe as she walked beside me to the table. My stomach rumbled, reminding me I had not eaten since the morning, in Troy.
“You are Helen’s servant, the Egyptian,” Menalaos said truculently. “I remember you from Sparta.”
Apet bowed stiffly and said “Aye, my lord” in a low whispering tone.
“You went with Helen when Paris spirited her away.”
“Aye, my lord.”
“Why shouldn’t I have you nailed to a tree and burned alive?” he spat.
“Mighty king,” she said, with just a trace of mockery in her voice, “I have been Queen Helen’s faithful slave since she was a babe in arms. Her father brought me from distant Egypt to be her nurse and attendant. It was his command that I never leave her side.”
Menalaos snorted with disdain. “Your loyalty should have been to me. I am her husband.”
Apet bowed her head slightly, but said nothing.
Menalaos fidgeted in his chair and glanced uncomfortably at Odysseos, who focused his eyes on Apet.
At last Menalaos burst out, “Well, Egyptian, what message do you bring from my wife?”
Apet’s coal-black eyes never left his. “My mistress commands me to tell you that she will willingly return to Sparta with you only after you have conquered Troy. She will not accompany you as the consolation prize for losing the war.”
