by Kate Quinn
I’d seen my own death—and worse—in my dream visions, my face not much older than it was now. Whereas Helen…
The justice of the gods is never meted out in equal portions.
Would that Helen’s mother had possessed the good sense to truss her infant daughter into a burlap sack weighted with rocks and throw her into the sea, or that her divine father, Zeus, had drowned his daughter on her way to Troy’s fair shores. Instead, the golden temptress found her way to our city, where she intended to wreak havoc.
I’d done everything in my power to stop her, but I’d failed.
Now our fate rested in the hands of our warriors and our walls.
I knew neither would save us.
And so on the day that ships arrived, with the briny sea breeze whipping at my unfettered hair and the solid walls of Troy beneath my feet, I stood in the wreckage of my sanity and keened.
My song was a funeral dirge to make even Hades shudder, for myself, my family, and my city.
Our end had begun.
THE THIRD SONG
The Sacrifice
by Russell Whitfield
The death of honor, rolled in dust and blood,
Slain for a woman's sin, a false wife's shame!
Aeschylus, Agamemnon
AGAMEMNON
The pennants hung limp, bereft of wind to stir them. The smoke from the hecatombs was a funeral pall hanging thick over this obscenity, filling the throats and watering the eyes of the eager scum who watched.
Agamemnon was glad of it because tears ran unchecked down his face. Tears of sorrow mingled with impotent rage. He looked at Calchas, the priest and harbinger of this dread oracle, and his grip tightened on the dagger. A quick rush, a thrust, and he could open the fat bastard’s guts and leave him mewling out his last breaths in the mire of his own blood and shit.
There was a murmur from the assembled troops as they saw his daughter. His Iphigenia.
She won't feel it, Agamemnon told himself. Thank the gods, she won't feel the pain. She was so sluggish from the draft of poppy milk she could hardly stand—her eyes impossibly black as two women supported her, leading her toward the altar. He could not bring himself to look at his wife. Clytemnestra’s hatred for him was tangible, a palpable thing he could feel deep in his soul. She could not know that his hatred for himself paled hers into insignificance.
His soul.
Agamemnon could feel the fire of shame and self-loathing burning it away with each step Iphigenia took toward the altar, leaving him with nothing inside.
It was not as though this was all about acquiescence to the gods, though everyone would say that it was. The truth was that the assembled Achaean kings, princes, and warriors hungered not to appease the Olympians, nor even to bring Helen of Sparta home. It was all for the gold that King Priam held in Troy. Lust and greed covered with the rank veneer of religion. The gods demanded sacrifice for some imagined offense that he—the high king, ruler of Mycenae—had caused the goddess Artemis. So spoke Calchas, and the kings and princes agreed. The gods would be appeased, would send a fair wind to the Achaean fleet becalmed at Aulis—but only if a sacrifice was made.
That sacrifice was to be his beloved daughter.
What kind of god asked of a man that he take the life of his own child so that a fleet might sail?
Calchas’ whining voice invoked them now, Apollo and Artemis, Zeus and Athena, and all the other bastards that inhabited that lofty palace on Olympus, playing their games with the lives of men, guiltless and unfeeling in their immortality.
Agamemnon hated them, too. Hated all of them—soldiers and princes, priests and gods. There was nothing left to him but hate. Perhaps he should plunge the dagger into his own throat now and end it.
But what then? They would still kill Iphigenia, and probably Clytemnestra and little Orestes, too, of that Agamemnon had no doubt. They had an “honor guard” anyway—led by huge Ajax of Locris; the threat was implicit. Back out, and they die. But the truth—the hated truth—was that he, Agamemnon, was the only one who had the strength to hold this band of fractious, petty, and dishonorable reavers, who had the gall to call themselves kings, together. If he fell, then the war at Troy would be forgotten as they fell on each other, contesting for the right to be high king in his stead.
The irony was not lost to him. Wherever the dagger struck, it would result in war. Wherever the dagger fell…
The slave women laid his daughter out before him on the altar, her golden hair spilling out around her head, her eyes looking up at him, pupils so huge, evidence of the poppy he’d insisted they give her. Calchas had tried to refute this, demanding that the sacrifice be willing and aware—but faced with the close and immediate rage of Agamemnon and the distant promise of retribution from Olympus, he had relented. Like all men of religion, he was a coward at heart, hiding behind the unseen power that afforded him right and privilege.
The high king sobbed as he looked down at his child. She thought she had been summoned to Aulis to be married. He could only imagine how happy she must have been. The joy she must have felt…
“Father,” she murmured and smiled.
“I love you,” he said, hearing his own voice as a strangled sob. Calchas was still intoning the rites, but Agamemnon could stand it no more.
He rammed the dagger into his child’s breast, screaming in raw anguish as the blade struck home, screaming as her blood coursed out all over his hands, bursting from her mouth as she bucked and writhed on the altar, screaming as she died under his own hand.
Screams that were drowned out as the men cheered his deed…
Agamemnon awoke in the darkness of his quarters, his body soaked with sweat, heart pounding in his chest.
“My king!” His guard’s voice from outside.
“I’m fine,” he croaked. “Fine. A dream from the… gods…” He looked at his hands in the semidarkness and imagined them still tacky with Iphigenia’s blood. The only thing that could wash away the stain for a while was wine.
Agamemnon stumbled from his bed and went to the krater, pouring for himself the strong, unwatered Trojan stuff that allowed him a small measure of peace. And he drank deep in the night, drank and drank till all he could do was stumble back to his bed and beg the gods that he hated to send him no more dreams.
He was still mildly drunk when he awoke. It was his constant state now—sleepless nights, hungover days, and the endless raids on Trojan territory.
He dressed himself and warred—as he warred every morning—with the temptation to have another cup of wine to steady himself. And it was a war that always ended in defeat. He found his shaking hands pouring a cup that he promised himself would be small. It was, but he always tipped a little more into it, wincing at the taste as he gulped it down.
Nine years, he thought. Had it really been so long? Nine summers spent besieging Troy's walls, drawing out Troy's warriors to fight on the plain. Nine winters spent in idleness, fighting suspended to the occasional raid, the Trojans using the cold months to bolster their supplies, the Achaeans hunkered down inside their fortified camp, waiting for the return of warmth. Some princes or warriors took their ships home in the cold months, but mostly they came back with the spring, lured by the scent of Trojan gold, persuading themselves that this would be the year the city fell. Nine years. That wasn't a war; it was a state of life, a time apart.
Time enough for a boy to become a man. Or for a man to become old. As Agamemnon had become old. He left his quarters and made his way to the ramparts of the long-established Achaean camp. His camp. His camp because he had to think of everything first, and first, nine years ago, had been where to position their base. War was seasonal, but Agamemnon knew, even back then, that this would be a huge investment in time and resources. As it was, the camp ran east to west with the great river—the Scamander—at the western edge. Kings and princes considered glory. Drinking water was not glorious. Washing water was not glorious. Sanitation was not glorious. But without it, they’d
be finished. Even so, despite Agamemnon’s best efforts, the summer always brought sickness. But at least, he thought, the death toll from it was manageable.
Agamemnon stared out over the Plain of Troy and the citadel in the distance. He’d forgotten what it had looked like when he’d first come here. There was barley now—fields of it around the city—but that would be gone soon, harvested or crushed by the feet of marching soldiers and the chariot wheels. Indeed, the plain itself was all but barren—once verdant, now flat and dead, killed by the killing that went on upon it. The only life left after the nine years of battle and foraging were a swath of green trees beside the river—both sides agreed that this would remain untouched as it was a sanctuary for the gods. The huge walls of Troy were blurred, but whether that was the haze of the morning mist or the failing of his own eyes, he did not know. He wondered if King Priam was—at this moment—mirroring him, looking out at the great adventure that had become the bane of his existence. For there was no real honor to be had in this fight anymore. No real gain. Not for men like he and the Trojan king, men who had bled out the final days of their youth on those god-cursed plains only to find that all that remained to them was obduracy and embittered pride. He was only forty-five, but at times he felt twice that. But, as Chryseis often said, it was he—Agamemnon—who bore the weight of the Achaean cause on his shoulders (“mighty shoulders,” she called them), where none of the other lesser kings did. They could concern themselves with petty rivalries and their own glory-seeking; Agamemnon must carry the burdens of the entire camp. Atlas himself would weary of such a burden.
Chryseis.
Thought of her made him smile. She had come to him as a captive, a prize. Well, hardly a captive; it was she who had chosen him and not the other way around. He recalled the day she came to him, head held high amongst the downcast prisoners, her mouth slightly parted, her gaze that met his, a gaze full of promise. He did not have to force himself on Chryseis; in fact, after their first time, it was she that begged him for more.
And she was prize indeed, for she and she alone had enabled him to find at least some joy in life. She had helped him to start living again, a balm for the emptiness inside. She had helped him recover a vestige of the man that had been Agamemnon, the man that lived behind the actor’s mask he wore as high king.
She drank as much—if not more—than he did. She turned his bouts with the wine krater from melancholic to Dionysian. When she was on fire with Dionysus through her veins, she did things to him—and let him do things to her—that one would only do to a slave. A real slave. Except that Chryseis liked it. Chryseis would suggest it. Chryseis enjoyed it.
It wasn’t just her body and her inventiveness that fired him. It was her mind. She was intelligent, analytical, and—he knew well—shameless in her desire for self-preservation. Chryseis had chosen him because he was high king. Chosen him because here, in this closed-off part of the world that was the war, she could be his queen. Chosen him because she knew he would know this—and would accept it. Relish it, even.
He turned away from the rampart and clambered down the ladder back into the Achaean camp, aware of the eyes of the soldiery upon him; drawing himself to his full height, the king of Mycenae stood perhaps two hands taller than most men. He was, he knew, imposing—as the high king should be. And he was accorded the proper respect by his men—unlike so many of the other Achaean chiefs who chose to engender the ludicrous façade of being as one with their troops.
Hypocrites, Agamemnon thought. Kings are only one with their troops until it comes time for the spoils to be divided. Then kings would be kings and take the lion's share, while their men had to settle for basking in the reflected glory of their leaders and counting their meager cuts. At least the Mycenaean warriors knew and accepted the truth: Agamemnon, son of Atreus, was more than they. A king should act like a king—the men knew it and knew better than to be surly about it. Because he had no love for them—not the way Prince Achilles of Phthia loved his Myrmidons.
Agamemnon hated them all. Because he remembered their cheers when he’d struck the blow against his daughter—and if any man gave him cause to be punished, Agamemnon acted with impunity. They hated him, too. But even if they took a lesser share, he was making them rich, and he had learned long ago that avarice was all that drove men. Lust—for women, for gold, for power. Men were base creatures. Ironic, then, that he had to place their welfare and their objective first and foremost.
They had to win this war. Even if he didn’t care if he—or they—lived or died. The gods loved a joke.
His bodyguard in tow—eight of the tallest spearmen Mycenae could muster—Agamemnon elected to tour his section of the encampment—ostensibly a random inspection, but the truth of it was that he was eager to meet with his charioteer. He was impatient but forced himself to cast an eye over the defenses and ask after the state of the men (the former he cared about, the latter he suffered). But they were in good spirits. There was a complaint of sickness with the animals, and Agamemnon once again had to remind them it always happened at this time of year as the temperature swung this way and that and spring spat out its rain. But, as it was, aside from a few minor ailments, the men were well—the season’s fighting had yet to truly begin, and as such they were well-paid, well-fed, and uninjured.
But not if Achilles had his way.
He was pushing for a major assault as soon the weather allowed. Which was well and good because a major assault would give the Phthian prince the chance to bathe himself in blood and glory, but of course leave Agamemnon to count the butcher’s bill of an ill-conceived and hasty attack if it all went wrong.
Yet, even if he did despise the man—and Agamemnon did despise him—he was honest enough with himself to admit that Achilles, his companion, Patrocles, and the rest of the Phthian warriors known as the Myrmidons were superlative killers. But Achilles was all about the fight and had no comprehension of grand strategy. He was a soldier, not a general; but no one—not even Agamemnon himself—had the guts to tell him. It galled Agamemnon, but he, like everyone else, was afraid of Achilles. Because with a spear in his hand, Achilles was peerless. One day, Agamemnon thought, he’d have to have the bastard assassinated. When he was no longer useful, of course.
He pushed thoughts of the troublesome Achilles aside as he neared the horses’ enclosure, his pace quickening, his lips pulled into a grin. He loved this place, the smell of the manure, the neighing and whickering of the beasts, the brusque sound of bronze saw on hard wood as the carpenters set about fixing damaged chariots. Or building new ones.
Agamemnon called to his own charioteer as he spied the lad working: a short blond youth, not over brave. Agamemnon had seen more than one prince go down to Trojan spears because of an over-eager charioteer, and he was thankful that his driver held his own personal safety—and hence his king’s—in high esteem.
“My king!” The boy turned from his work and, after a moment, remembered to bow.
Given the state of the new chariot, Agamemnon was prepared to let that little lapse of protocol pass. “She’s a thing of beauty,” he said, running a hand over the vehicle’s flank.
“And she’s unique in this army,” the charioteer affirmed with all the confidence of youth. “No one else rides a dual chariot, my king. I reckon they don’t even have one of these in Troy.”
It was true: Achaeans and Trojans both tended to use the box chariot. It was light, easy to maintain, a de facto choice. This one—the dual chariot—had curved extensions at the back, offering greater balance and making the vehicle fast, maneuverable, and compensating for its greater weight. The extensions were exquisitely designed, constructed (at great personal expense) from heat-bent wood, and the box was painted light gold.
“She’s faster than a lion,” the charioteer smiled. “It’ll be like riding a lioness into the fight, my king,”
Sweat gleamed on her back as Agamemnon rammed himself into her; he ran a hand over her buttocks—it came away slick—and gave
her a slap, making her squeak in mock outrage.
“Pull my hair,” Chryseis demanded. “Pull my hair and fuck me.”
Agamemnon obliged, grasping her thick, black tresses in his fist, twisting them in his fingers, pulling hard so that she was forced to lean back toward him before he shoved her down, laying atop her. He teased her neck with his teeth and then bit her shoulder hard as he moved inside her. Gods! He couldn’t get enough of her. She urged him on onward, whispering about all the things he could do to her, the things she wanted him to do to her, till could no longer resist. He came into her, his cries of joy mingling with hers.
Agamemnon collapsed on top of her, still inside her, marveling at the way even their hearts pounded in unison. He kissed her shoulder, her neck. “I love you,” he murmured as he rolled away.
Chryseis placed her head on his chest, her lush body pressed close to his. “And I love you, my king,” she said.
“Sometimes,” Agamemnon murmured, “I think you really mean that.”
“I do,” Chryseis protested. She was silent for a moment. Then: “It’s funny how things work out. I should hate you,” she said. “I’m a captive. A slave taken as a prize. Slaves should hate their masters.”
Agamemnon chuckled, remembering that she had been captured outside the city walls—disobeying her father’s command. He had been right to try to cloister her away even after the raiding season, when the Achaeans holed up in their camp and afforded the Trojans some freedom of movement. It galled him, but he simply didn’t have the manpower to keep a siege up all year round. As such, the Trojans were able to resupply, allies were able to come in… He pushed the troublesome thoughts away. “To be fair, Chryseis,” he said, “you’ve never much acted like a slave.”
“That’s true,” she admitted. “But what I mean is that I have come to love my life here. In my father's house, it was nothing but rules and standing on display and never laughing. Being told I had royal blood through my mother and must be perfect as marble; being beaten when I fell short. My father telling me he'd marry me off to a prince—he thought Prince Hector would offer for me and make me future queen of Troy, and he beat me again when Princess Andromache was chosen instead.”
