by Kate Quinn
Agamemnon was surprised when Menelaus asked to see him. As Chryseis had advised, he’d kept himself scarce for ten days, letting the others gossip and scheme. Truth be told, he rather viewed it as a holiday—one he richly deserved. Chryseis came and went frequently, her carnal needs seemingly heightened by her impending motherhood, and she delighted Agamemnon with erotic inventiveness even he had not thought of.
“It stinks in here,” Menelaus observed as he came in, squinting in the gloom of the lamplight. “And you look like shit.”
“Good to see you too, Brother,” Agamemnon smiled. He was mildly drunk, sated from an afternoon romp with Chryseis, and in good spirits.
“We need to talk.”
“So…” Agamemnon said. “Talk.”
Menelaus hesitated. Agamemnon could tell that he, as the high king’s brother, had been put up to this visit by the others. The truth of it was that Menelaus was weak in character. A canny fighter, to be sure, but not a leader; he might have fire in his hair, but none in his belly. Privately, Agamemnon thought it little wonder that Helen absconded. Brother or no, Menelaus was a vacillating bore. “You’ve angered the men, Agamemnon,” he said at length.
“The men are always angry about something. Lack of booty, the slaves are too ugly, they want to go home… and that this war is being fought for a Spartan king’s honor. Your honor, in fact.”
“There’s a sickness in the camp,” Menelaus told him, irritatingly refusing to rise to the bait. “It’s spreading.”
“There’s always sickness at this time of year.” Agamemnon’s good mood evaporated like a wine offering to Hermes on a hot day.
“I know that,” Menelaus said, placating. “But the men… and some of the princes… say that the one-eyed priest’s prophecy has come to pass. Men are dying, Brother.”
“This is an army with a nine-year history and a two-week memory.” Agamemnon reached for the krater and poured. He offered a cup to Menelaus, who held up his hands in refusal. “Men die of sickness all the time!” He failed to keep the anger from his voice.
Menelaus swallowed, once again the callow boy before his brother’s wrath. “You have not seen how bad it is, how fast it has struck. I wouldn’t come to you and bother you with it otherwise,” he added with the right amount of contrition.
Of course, Agamemnon could imagine him telling the other warriors that he’d “talk some sense into my brother.” Menelaus was a yes-man, always telling others what they wanted to hear. Agamemnon realized he hated him a little.
“You’ve been locked away in here,” Menelaus pressed on. “With her.”
“Chryseis,” Agamemnon snapped. “She has a name.”
“She does—and it is spoken often outside of these walls, Agamemnon. The men say that you are befuddled by her. And Achilles—Achilles claims that you have brought Apollo’s wrath upon us all for your own pleasure.”
“That’s rich coming from Achilles,” Agamemnon spat. “That bastard moons over his new slave girl, what’s her name…?”
“Briseis.”
“Yes, Briseis. But I’m not allowed to find happiness in the arms of a woman. Just him? You’d think that someone who seems so keen to carve out a legend for himself wouldn’t be so petty.”
“There’s a rumor he would be a better commander than you,” Menelaus spoke carefully.
“There are always rumors,” Agamemnon said. “And there’s always a better man for the job—right up until he has the job. Achilles could no more run this army than…” he trailed off, but Menelaus had the hurt look in his eyes that said he knew the barb was meant for him. “I’m high king,” Agamemnon stated.
“They say you’re not much acting like it,” Menelaus said. “The men need to see you. The sickness is worse this spring, Brother.”
Agamemnon sighed. “I will take a tour of the camp. Check on the men.” He rose to his feet. “Inspire them with my kingly presence.”
Menelaus did not smile at the joke. “You should take your guards.”
“I don’t need protection from my own men,” Agamemnon said. But the look in Menelaus’s eyes told him otherwise. “You’re not serious.”
“The camp seethes not only with sickness but with resentment.” Menelaus’ voice was heavy with doom, and it was clear to Agamemnon that he had not come up with the phrase. It sounded like something Nestor would say—wordy and old-fashioned.
“Very well,” Agamemnon said. “I’d best dress for the part.” His eyes flicked over to his new armor. “Will you help me?”
Menelaus nodded. “Of course.”
Agamemnon was used to sullen awe. Acquiescence. Perhaps even the odd cheer if the men had done well on a raid and the spoils were flowing. He had never witnessed anything like this. The men glared at him as his new chariot rolled by their ranks. The armor he wore was no protection against their hostility, nor was the eight-man bodyguard. There were hundreds of men: new recruits in their makeshift tents, veterans lounging by their permanent huts—less grand affairs than his own but mute testament to the time spent here on the Trojan shore. Cooking fires burned, smoke eddying to the sky like a funeral pyre.
At first, his tour was greeted with silence, but soon enough the muttering began. “Shall we turn back?” the charioteer whispered.
“Don’t be absurd,” Agamemnon snapped. He was about to speak again but was interrupted by a shout from the men.
“You brought the plague on us!”
It was greeted with a chorus of approval.
“Is she worth it?” another shouted. “We’re dying because of you!”
“Give her up!”
Agamemnon did his best to keep his eyes frontward until they reached the hospital section. There were more tents than he remembered, and the whole area stank of decay and roasting flesh. The pyres were burning.
He removed his helmet and stepped inside the nearest tent, squinting as his eyes adjusted from bright sun to dank gloom. It reeked in here, and it took all of Agamemnon’s courage not to flee. He counted himself brave—not battle-hungry like Achilles, but he’d never run from a fight. But the fear of disease, the silent killer, the invisible dart that a man could not see coming… that was enough to unman him.
The air in the tent was so thick that he could taste it, the rank stench of shit, sweat, and rot all-pervasive. Men coughed in throaty, phlegm-slick rattles or cried out in delirium, adding foul dissonance to this vile place. There were women present, slaves and captives mostly, caring for the men who had once been their enemies. Men who had, perhaps, taken them by force and were now at their mercy.
Agamemnon thought of Chryseis. Her love was worth more to him than anything. Even the suffering of these men. He would not give her up, he vowed, even as he toured the makeshift cots, nodding and grunting at the stricken soldiers, adopting the correct concerned expression as the surgeon told him of the virulent speed at which “Apollo’s Curse” was spreading.
He said it openly to Agamemnon’s face—”Apollo’s Curse”—as though it was an absolute certainty that this was the Olympian’s handiwork despite the truth of Agamemnon’s words to Menelaus: this sickness was annual. Yes, it was worse this year, but it would pass. He listened to the surgeon and his grim prophecies and snide suggestions (“if only there was some way to appease the god”) and did him the favor of not gutting him where he stood for his impudence.
“The sickness comes every year,” Agamemnon told him.
“Not like this.” He was old, as surgeons tended to be, white bearded, well toothed, and impertinent—also as surgeons tended to be. “The god is angry, my king. The men…”
“…are not educated. Like you and I.” Agamemnon decided that honey would be better than vinegar. “I’d look on it favorably if you—in your professional capacity—would remind people that the sickness comes every year and will pass as it does every year. It has nothing to do with curses and Apollo.”
“Even if I believed that—which I don’t—it wouldn’t matter, sire.” He looked as
though he was going to say more, but he was wise enough to hold his tongue on that aspect. And though Agamemnon wanted to upbraid the man for his impudence, he was wise enough to hold his tongue, too; one day he might find himself under this man’s knife, and past punishments could well be remembered. The surgeon leaned in closer. “Whatever the reason, Apollo’s Curse is on us. So even if I do as you ask, my word will be worth as much as a piss in a rainstorm.”
“Charming analogy. Do it anyway.” Agamemnon did not wait to be contradicted; he turned his back on the man and strode from the tent, eager to be free of it. But he knew he must do his duty and visit the others. And there was part of him that wanted to, just to thumb his nose at the god and prove to everyone that Agamemnon had no fear.
Even if he did.
It took some time to visit all the tents, and as he passed from one to the next, Agamemnon noted the hostile looks he was garnering from both the sick and the hale, be they the women and surgeons who were attending the infected or those spearmen who just saw him passing by. His charioteer told him timidly that men had hurled insults at him and mocked the new chariot, which blackened his mood as they drove back to his quarters.
It was an excellent chariot.
His bodyguards were taut and alert, and Agamemnon pretended not to hear abuse and accusations hurled at him from the faceless and unseen as the chariot rolled past the men.
Worse than the sickness itself, the disease of insubordination was spreading through the camp—and Agamemnon did not doubt that this distemper was not confined to just the Mycenaeans. Soldiers were worse than crones for gossip, and he knew that everyone would now be saying that he had brought this upon them.
He dismissed his charioteer, too curtly, but his temper was short. Slamming the door of his quarters behind him, he poured some wine. He drained his cup in a single draught, squeezing his eyes shut as the calming warmth spread through him. He took a deep breath. He would have to do something, he thought as he poured again. He had his guards summon Talthybius and struggled out of his armor while he waited.
To be fair to him, the herald attended him sharply. Agamemnon liked Talthybius, even if he looked the type that enjoyed cuckolding others. He was tall, handsome, dark-eyed, and wore more jewelry than a queen and more perfume than a harlot.
“You look like a woman,” Agamemnon greeted him.
“That’s rich. I’ve seen your chariot. And your armor. You need me as herald today or friend?”
“Friend,” Agamemnon said. “Wine?”
“It would be an affront to the gods to say no,” Talthybius responded, making Agamemnon look at him sharply. “What?” the herald said as he took the cup. “You’re not blind, deaf, or stupid, Agamemnon.” He pointedly poured a libation. “To say what you said in front of the men. In front of Achilles... that was stupid.”
“Don’t upbraid me. I’m—”
“High king? Not for much longer if this carries on.” He held up a hand to quell the outburst bubbling in Agamemnon’s craw. “I’m not your enemy,” he said and seated himself in Chryseis’ favorite chair. “But you do have them. And the sickness is spreading. I know it comes every year,” he added. “But it’s worse this time. Men are dying of it. Cretans. Mycenaeans. The Spartans. Ajax’s lot. It’s spreading like a pox from a dodgy whorehouse. Naturally, the Myrmidons are untouched.” He drank his wine and poured more for himself. “You have to give the girl up.”
Agamemnon bit down an angry response. The untrustworthy herald was one of the few men he trusted. Because Talthybius had only Talthybius’ interests at heart, of that Agamemnon could be certain. “I will not give her up,” he stated. “I intend to marry her the moment I’m back through the Lion Gate.”
“She’s a woman,” Talthybius waved that away. “You’ll tire of her eventually. I hear she’s got your bastard in her. Once that pops out, things’ll be different. She’ll turn into a mother, and the child’s interests will be at the forefront of her mind.”
“You don’t know Chryseis.” The look on Talthybius’ face told Agamemnon that the rakish bastard would love to know her in all sorts of ways. And he knew that Agamemnon knew it. Chryseis probably knew it, too. And knowing Chryseis, if she thought the idea would entertain him, she’d do it. He pushed the image of a diverting little threesome aside. “Even if I did give her up, what good would it do?” he asked. “It won’t stop the sickness, and it’ll make me look weak in front of the others.”
“I’d give more of a shit about holding on to power. There’s talk that Achilles is going to make a play for leadership. And after your little rant, the more religious amongst us might well be swayed.”
“You?”
“Don’t be an idiot. Achilles is too honorable—the man has a bronze pole of righteousness crammed so far up his arse I’m surprised Patrocles can fit his cock in there. You’re the right man for the job. Or,” he looked Agamemnon in the eyes, “at least you were. But you’re losing your grip. This girl is making you crazy. Give her up so we can get back on with the war and go home. Think of the gold,” he added. “Think of the history, too. You’ll be remembered as the man who razed the city that couldn’t be razed. You’ll be a legend. And I’ll have gold beyond the dreams of avarice. Everyone’ll be a winner.”
“Forget Chryseis. For now,” Agamemnon said, forgiving the herald for the exasperated roll of his eyes. “I’m planning on announcing a major assault.”
“What! With a third of the men down sick?”
“What else would you have me do? The Trojans won’t be expecting it, and it’ll prove Achilles wrong. But I need a favor.”
Talthybius’ eyes lit up. He would press for more of a cut of Agamemnon’s booty, the high king knew. “Go on.”
“I know you treat with the Trojans,” Agamemnon spoke the truth that everyone knew. It was convenient to pretend that it didn’t go on, but this was how ransoms were negotiated. That quiet, dark-skinned son of Priam’s—Hellenus—was occupying the Talthybius role for the enemy, he knew. He recalled the Trojan prince when they had first met in Sparta. An honorable man, he’d thought. But war had a way of changing men for the worse.
“How could you say such a thing?” Talthybius laughed. “Perish the thought. But let’s pretend that I do. What do you need?”
“I’m going to go with this assault. And you know before a major battle there’s the possibility of single combat for Helen,” Agamemnon said. “If Paris ever found the balls—which I doubt—Menelaus would probably win. Then... ”
Talthybius paled. “The war would be over. Honorably.”
“Exactly. Imagine all this blood spilled for not a single piece of gold from that cursed city. We can’t allow that to happen. If Menelaus wins... ”
“I think I can help,” Talthybius said. “In fact, I know I can. But it’ll cost you a share.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
Talthybius laughed. “Because I’ll have to pay someone to get the job done. I take it if by some chance Paris wins, you’ll have someone to take care of matters on this side?”
“Of course,” Agamemnon smiled. “You. With Achilles spreading righteousness and honor faster than this plague, I’d rather have a man like you take care of both aspects.”
The herald grinned. “Because I’m not righteous and have no honor?”
“It’s why we get on so well.”
Talthybius got up and placed the wine cup on the table. “About the girl,” he began.
“Chryseis.”
“Give her up, Agamemnon. You’ll win back the men if you do. I’ll put it about that she’s to be your wife, that your love for her is greater than that of Menelaus’ for Helen. Or Achilles for that Briseis. She’s a strange one,” he added. “Skinny as a boy, and they say she drives a chariot like one too. Bet that’s why he can’t take his eyes off her.” He regarded Agamemnon, and the high king saw genuine compassion in his eyes. “Look, I know what you’ve given up for this war. I’ve never forgotten it—that day at Aulis. The others
have, I think. And now they ask more of you. I think you deserve some of your own tragedy to be remembered. I’ll do my best for you. But... you know I’m right in this.”
He left Agamemnon alone with the wine krater.
Agamemnon took the jug with him and sat on the bed, staring at the floor, his hair hanging about his face. He could see the gray in it, so he sat up and drank. “The Curse of Apollo,” he heard himself say aloud.
Talthybius was right about the personal cost to him. He had given up so much and earned no thanks for it. Rather, he’d earned contempt of those far beneath him.
What about the price demanded by the gods? The blood of Iphigenia. The murder of his own child? She was worth more to him than the paltry lives of faceless soldiers, of men who were born to serve their betters. Men who were afforded the opportunity to have a little glory, lightening what would otherwise be a life of inconsequence. They should be thanking him. Thanking him? They should be venerating him.
Which of them had given up what he, Agamemnon, had? Petty men with petty complaints, petty lives, and pettier deaths. And now they wanted him to sacrifice again? He would not do it. He had given up too much already. He was high king, and he would prove it to them all. To all the men and the Achaean kings and princes. Especially to Achilles, so smug in his virtue.
The Phthian prince’s face swam before his eyes as he fell back on the bed. But so it faded and was replaced by Iphigenia’s. Then came the Furies, fluttering around the periphery of his consciousness, waiting for him to slip into the grip of Hypnos, where they could bind him and rend him at their leisure.
“Agamemnon.”
He looked up to see Chryseis sitting in her chair. “Get me some wine,” he said, forcing a smile, but the look on her face froze him to the bone. Her eyes were bloodshot, her face red and puffy. “What is it? Who has upset you? I’ll have them punished.”
“The men are dying,” Chryseis whispered. “They are blaming you, and Apollo doesn’t hear my prayers. I cannot stop this.”