A Song of War: a novel of Troy

by Kate Quinn

  They brought Iphigenia to him, and she lay on the altar. He could feel the hilt of the dagger in his sweat-slick palm, the dampness of the tears on his face, the pounding of his heart in his chest.

  He raised the knife and brought it down...

  Iphigenia was gone; in her place a deer. The beast did not make a sound as the blade ended its life, its blood spraying him, neither warm nor cold. Agamemnon staggered away from the altar, looking around in confusion. About him, the air swam, the gathered throngs becoming as smoke, fading away. He dropped the knife, and it clattered on the stones, a tinny sound, too loud in the silence. He looked at his hands, bloodless now and clean.

  He was alone. Everything had vanished save for the mist. He could feel the ground beneath his feet, solid and firm, but the mist swam about him.

  He felt no fear and was acutely aware that he should be terrified. Perhaps, he thought, he had been struck down as he had committed his foul deed, and this was Hades’ realm. If that was so, then he counted himself blessed and started walking.

  As he did so, the mist swirled about him, and he saw shapes in it, the figures of men and women, sometimes making out their faces. Here was his own father, there that idiot Heracles with his club, solid for a moment, but as he focused on them, they became insubstantial and faded into nothingness.

  After a while—he could not say how long—the ground beneath his feet shifted and became less solid, each footstep crunching on sand and shale. The mist began to recede, and he saw that he was on the bank of a river, its water black and as unmoving as glass.

  The Styx, he reasoned. So he, Agamemnon, high king, was dead.

  “No,” he heard Iphigenia’s voice. “You are dreaming, Father.”

  Agamemnon turned and saw her standing before him, perfect and unsullied, her chiton white as purest snow. He heard himself cry out, a strangled gasp of disbelief, and he ran to her, pulling her to him, holding her tight, tears running unchecked down his face. “My child,” he sobbed. “Oh, my Iphigenia!”

  It was a dream; her words cut through him, but this was a dream unlike any other. Always there were Furies, the guilt, the self-loathing, the darkness. But this was different; he could feel her in his arms, and Agamemnon thought his heart would break for joy. He knew it could not last, but he was determined to hold on to it for as long as he could.

  He looked at her and kissed her face, her hair, her cheeks, and pulled her close once again. “Let me die,” he said. “Let me die so that I can be with you. I miss you so much,” he sobbed. “I am sorry. So, so sorry.”

  “I know,” she said and pulled away from him. “I forgive you.”

  “I cannot forgive myself.”

  “I know that, too.” She smiled at him as would a parent to a child who had learned a harsh lesson. “Walk with me. Time is short.”

  Agamemnon did as she asked, his hand reaching out to hers as it had done so many times when she was small. It was such a natural thing—their hands fitted together perfectly then. As they did now. “I’ve made mistakes,” he said after a while.

  “You have,” she agreed.

  “My ambition blinded me.”

  “Perhaps. But then, you are not the only man of ambition, Father. Men are weak, petty, and vain. They lust. They plot. They scheme. And they do vile, vile deeds and cloak them with the veneer of honor or acquiescence to the gods.” She looked at him. “As you know.”

  “I would undo it. A thousand times, I would undo it. I would burn in Tartarus to bring you back.”

  Iphigenia smiled. “It’s over there.” She pointed to the west. “So I’m told. I don’t think that you will end there, Father. But you will pay for what you have done, of that I have no doubt.”

  “I will pay my debts.” Agamemnon shrugged. “Nothing is worth anything, Iphigenia. You are lost to me. The woman I love is taken from me. The man who should be my staunchest ally in winning this war hates me—as I hate him. My fellow kings and princes maneuver for profit and gain. Across the field of Troy, Priam squats over a treasure beyond imagining. And that is what all this is about.” He laughed, a harsh sound in the stillness. “Treasure. Legend. It’s all dust in the wind, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know about that.” She smiled. “Time will tell.”

  “Why am I here?”

  “Because you need to forgive yourself. You are guilty of many things, Father. Accept your guilt. There is nothing... nothing... you can do to change what you have done. But you can change what you will do. You are high king. You know the realities of that role. You know that honor is hollow. But you know also that you of all men must maintain a veneer of it. That you must wear ten thousand different masks for the ten thousand different faces that bend their knee to you.

  “Be cruel if you will. Be strong. But above all, be king.”

  Agamemnon pulled her close and held her...

  And hit the floor with a thump.

  He had fallen asleep and fallen off his chair. His brazen wine cup lay next to him. He pushed it away as he sat up, and it rolled across the planks, its sound as tinny as a dropped dagger on stone.

  His robe was wet, and he stank. He realized in horror that in his drunkenness he had pissed himself. Pissed himself and puked all over himself—wine-dark, stinking vomit coated him, spattered all over the floor, wet, rancid, and bubbled with urine.

  Agamemnon sat in his own filth and cried. Cried because he had fallen so low, cried because his actions sickened him, cried because his beloved child was nothing more than a dream.

  A vision.

  It was more than a dream, he realized. She had come as a vision, and her words were true. Her compassion for him—she, whom he had killed—was boundless. She had forgiven him and asked him to forgive himself. That he could not do. Could never do.

  But he still had vengeance. He still had hate. And he had a war to win.

  Agamemnon staggered to his feet and tore off his robe, wiping the puke off himself with it before hurling it to the floor. He tipped water over himself, cleansing his body if not his soul.

  Men often spoke of their legend; they had grand dreams of how they would be remembered, how they would be venerated, how their stories would be told through the ages.

  They would tell Agamemnon’s story, all right. He would be remembered for his cruelty because, as clarity burned through him like Apollo’s sun, he knew without doubt that Troy would fall at his hand. And he would take out all his anger, his grief, and his suffering on that cursed city.

  The morning was cool and bright; the sun nowhere yet near its zenith. A light breeze disturbed the rough, shrubby grass, but Agamemnon could not hear its hiss over the tramp of many thousands of feet on the ground, the crunch and clink of armor on weapons, the cursing of the men.

  In the first ranks were his spearmen. The best of the best, elite because they had survived. They had stripped bodies of armor and equipment, and some had kit that would be the envy of a minor prince. Behind them, the less experienced and new. They had little armor and paltry, round buckler shields. In time, if they survived, they would be warriors, too. Next the archers and slingers—looked upon with contempt by spearmen, they always seemed to enjoy their lowly status and bragged that their kill tally would always be more than that of a base infantryman.

  The truth of it was that they were all part of the whole: spearmen would struggle without the support of the skirmishers, and all the skirmishers could do when facing the phalanx was run away when their ammunition was spent.

  It had been a week since he had had the vision of Iphigenia. A week to cleanse himself. A week to fight the Furies and not seek solace in the wine krater.

  And now... now... Agamemnon had not felt this way in years. He felt strong. He felt free. He lusted for battle, for vengeance. And he felt young. His armor, new and burnished, fit him well. His shield was light and strong, two circles atop each other, bull’s hide and bronze on a wicker frame, shaped so a spear could be thrust easily from behind it.

  From the c
hariot, he surveyed the host.

  His host, he reminded himself. Girded for war, they marched across the plain toward the Trojans, advancing through trampled mud and stands of barley. Agamemnon fancied that Priam’s men were afraid. Afraid at his sudden change of tactics, afraid that Agamemnon was now so confident in the support of the gods that he would fight without the vaunted Achilles. Afraid, above all, that they were going to lose. Because they knew that annihilation would follow their defeat. Their lines were as long as his, he noted. But they were thinner. Honor compelled them to meet the Achaeans on the plain.

  Honor seemed to have a way of undoing men.

  The charioteer steered the horses with his usual skill and efficiency, and despite himself, Agamemnon laughed aloud. “It is a good day to fight!” he shouted. Some of the men heard him and cheered.

  To his left was Talthybius—a bow and arrows secreted in the chariot–—and to his right, Menelaus.

  “It is good to have you back, Brother!” he called across.

  Agamemnon took it in the spirit it was meant, though Menelaus’ assessment was not entirely accurate. He was not “back.” He was different now, a man not only clad in bronze but bronze from within. He imagined his heart hardening, turning to metal so that it would not feel the loss of Chryseis. That it would not hold him in check with pity or mercy for his foes. That it would not be pierced by arrow, spearhead, or sword.

  Agamemnon turned to look back over his shoulder at the Myrmidon section of the encampment. He could feel Achilles’ eyes on him, hoping and praying that he would fail.

  He would not fail.

  How it must be destroying Achilles, Agamemnon thought. The man who defined himself by his skill at arms, sitting out the greatest clash in a generation. His men, undeniably the best fighters amongst the Achaeans, forced to watch as their so-called inferiors fought their way to victory. What was it Diomedes had said—a sword had to be tested?

  Not Myrmidon swords. Not today. Not in this war. And Achilles would—in time—go to his grave with the question whispering in his mind: What if? The ultimate test had come... and Achilles would not be tested.

  “My king!” A bark from Talthybius.

  Agamemnon turned his eyes to the front and saw a lone chariot driving toward them. The Trojan herald, he guessed. Agamemnon raised his arm for the army to halt, which took some time. Men couldn’t just stop on command; only the Myrmidons seemed to have mastered that. But it was tidy enough for Agamemnon’s liking. He nodded at Talthybius, who drove forward to converse with the Trojan.

  “Maybe they’re going to offer us a treaty,” Menelaus called.

  “There will be no treaty, Brother,” Agamemnon shouted back. “Only the return of Helen or the utter destruction of Troy will suffice. My fury at these people is great. My men have suffered too much to allow them to blind us with trinkets and tokens. What is theirs will be ours!” Those that heard him cheered and were soon spreading the word to those that didn’t, and soon a chorus of approval rippled down the lines as men from Ithaca to Sparta to Aulis acclaimed him.

  Agamemnon cared nothing for their paltry approval. All that mattered was winning. All that mattered was blood. All that mattered was Troy.

  The conversation between the heralds was brief, and soon Talthybius was heading back; he drove with skill, wheeling his chariot so he stopped close by Agamemnon. The expression on his face did not bode well.

  “What did he say?” Agamemnon asked.

  “That Prince Paris challenges King Menelaus to fight.” Talthybius was grim. That if he wins, we must depart and pay tribute. And if he loses, that Helen will be returned. And they will pay tribute.”

  Agamemnon ground his teeth. He had made provisions for a duel, how to manage the outcome, but now his impatience for a battle was surging too high. He wanted a clash of spears and shields that crossed the entire field, not one spear on one shield. Besides, why had Priam capitulated now of all times? It didn’t feel right.

  It occurred to him that Priam may not have acceded to this. That it could be some scheme of Hector’s. That one was as honorable as Achilles; perhaps he had pushed this on his brother because he saw—as Agamemnon had seen—that a duel was the cleanest way to end things and leave Troy intact. Except of course, Agamemnon couldn’t allow that to happen.

  Talthybius met his eyes. “All is in order,” he murmured, his gaze flicking to the Trojan ranks. So. Talthybius’ assassin was in place should Paris somehow carry the day.

  “Tell them I agree,” Agamemnon said.

  The priests on both sides made sacrifices, wailing to the gods as though their prayers would be heard. The gods, Agamemnon reckoned, would be like the men on both sides: looking forward to a battle of champions that put themselves at no risk. Indeed, he fancied that the only person not looking forward to the clash was Paris.

  But one could never tell. The rumors were that Paris was a coward, a fop, a lover of the finer things, and certainly he’d looked that way at nineteen when Agamemnon first clapped eyes on the Trojan prince. But they had been here for so long, and Paris was still alive and had fought in at least some of the engagements. Perhaps he’d been honing his skills for this moment? It was at least a possibility.

  He saw the ranks of the Trojans begin to part: Paris making his way forward. His eyes flicked to his brother. Menelaus was pacing back and forth like a lion in a cage, flexing and relaxing his shoulders, his fist gripping and then releasing on the haft of his spear, his breathing deep and calm. He carried the old-fashioned tower shield, a huge board of ox-hide over a wooden cross. It afforded greater protection than the newer double-hooped ones, and Menelaus was hefty enough to wield one for a long a time.

  The Trojans began to cheer, making Agamemnon look back to them. Paris emerged from the ranks. He was clad in expensive armor—bronze scales over leather, on his shoulders a spotted leopard skin. His helmet was bronze, decorated with jewels and sporting exotic feathers; the sort of thing that Talthybius would covet. His shield was impressive, though—a tower that looked to be strong and well made, its bull’s hide recently redone so that it shone.

  But for all that, he didn’t look dangerous; especially not when compared to Menelaus, who was now being acclaimed loudly by the Achaean host. At once, a contest between them and their Trojan counterparts began, each side seeking to outdo the other both in cacophony and quality of insult. Not that they could understand each other, Agamemnon thought, but with all the gesticulating, arse-flashing, and genital grabbing that was going on, the meanings were certainly clear.

  Menelaus strode toward Paris, eager to begin the thing, but Paris backed off, slowly at first and then with greater haste, retreating to the safety of his own lines.

  The cheering died down. Men looked to each other, confused. Menelaus thrust his spear into the ground and opened his arms wide, as confounded as the rest.

  Agamemnon stood taller than most, and the chariot gave him a vantage point. He kept his eyes on Paris as he wove his way back through his ranks; he stopped by a huge warrior—Hector, Agamemnon identified at once. Hector, the prince of Troy... Agamemnon wondered idly if Hector might be assassinated somehow behind those high walls. That’d break the spine of the Trojans in a night. It was worth a try. Such deeds won wars.

  Hector was gesticulating, clearly in anger. At one point, he reached out and shook the younger man, then slapped the palm on his hand on Paris’ gaudy war-helm. He pointed toward the Achaean lines, and Agamemnon noted Paris’ shoulders slump as the Trojan prince trudged back through his lines. His men cheered him as he came, but it was muted and soon drowned out by the chorus of abuse from the Achaeans.

  Paris, it seemed, was a coward, after all. Menelaus, on the other hand, while he may have been weak and indecisive when it came to being a king, at least could be counted on to fight. He was a boor, but he was strong and too unimaginative not to be brave.

  A hush fell as the two warriors circled each other, Menelaus shouting insults, threats, and imploring Zeus to gra
nt him revenge on “the man that had stolen his wife.” Which, Agamemnon ruminated, sounded better than “the man who fucked my wife so well she left me.”

  Paris, for all his timidity, had not folded in the face of this verbal assault. In fact, Agamemnon saw that it had perhaps stung him. Hurt his ego—which, if his armor was anything to go by, was prodigious. With a snarl, he drew back his arm and hurled his spear.

  Menelaus’ shield swung out and swatted the spear aside with contempt. He took a few quick steps forward and cast his own weapon, which flew as though Ares himself had given him aid.

  The men of both sides were cheering now, on their feet, jumping up and down, screaming advice, making bets, and generally enjoying themselves. Agamemnon could hardly begrudge them because they were usually the ones at most risk. A battle of champions (if Paris could be called such) was spectator sport.

  Paris’ shield came up, but at no angle—an amateur’s mistake. Menelaus’ broad-headed eight-footer passed through it as easily as Paris had between Helen’s legs. Agamemnon heard Paris squeal—actually squeal—in pain as the spearhead ripped into his shoulder. The sound of it fired Menelaus; he dragged his sword from its scabbard and began raining blows on Paris’ shield. Paris turned and ran away, pursued by the man he’d cuckolded.

  “By the gods, Brother!” Agamemnon roared. “Finish it. It is an embarrassment.” This said, he glanced at Talthybius, who sensed it and met his eye. The herald looked to the Trojan ranks for a few moments. He nodded, satisfied, and jerked his chin, clearly indicating that his assassin was in place. Agamemnon tried to follow the vague direction, but there were too many men moving and jumping about, and his eyesight wasn’t what it once had been.

  He turned his attention back to the fight—Menelaus was bearing down on Paris, who, it seemed, was at last struggling to free his own blade.

  He loosed it just as Menelaus reached him and swung it with a strength clearly borne of desperation. And it could have been a killing blow because Menelaus, in his eagerness to spill the Trojan’s blood, had lowered his shield.