Thank you Annemone Lee, ireadbooksandpeople, therealbriseis and fanoftroy. Your reviews are precious to me. Thank you also to everyone who faved and is following this story, and to every one of my readers.

It was so nice not to have to apologize in my last update… Unfortunately, it's not the case now: March was a hectic month for me. Sorry for the delay. :(

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

A screech and a thump. Some poor creature had been hurled from high in the sky, adding to the trail of destruction your now invisible bird was leaving behind it. One of the younger priests who had gone out to the yard to see what the commotion was about, saw me standing behind my window and gave me a questioning look. I shrugged dismissively.

But I knew what it was, of course: the eagle had shot up from my windowsill, so fast I only barely caught a glimpse of it moving, rose until it dissolved in the bluish haze of the sky, and began venting an unfathomable wrath, alternating between diving to catch anything moving on the ground, hoisting whatever hapless prey it had caught to an impossible height, and then dropping it to its death on the rocky soil of the isle.

Just as it had happened with you, in your own wrath a lifetime ago, its seeming absence had a more destructive impact than its presence ever had.

o – o - o

Agamemnon and I both jerked around to stare at the source of the voice. My jaw went slack when I realized it was Menelaus.

The Spartan king was blond, but a very different kind of blond than you: where you were all fire and gold, his colours were pale and somewhat washed out. He was plain, shy and rather devoid of brilliance. People said he was kind-hearted, but they always said it in a tone that implied it wasn't as much a compliment, as an accusation of weakness. More importantly, from everything I had heard so far, he always stood beside his older and more powerful brother, and never, ever, took a stand against him. What could possibly be driving him to do it now?

Agamemnon looked as taken aback as I was. "Excuse me?", he asked, incredulity patent in his voice.

Menelaus lowered his head, a bit like a stubborn ox not quite sure of its own strength. "That thing that you're doing. Taking another man's woman. It's not right."

Agamemnon's eyebrows rose almost to his hairline: "Another man's woman? What do you think are all of these women we got here? The captives you have in your own tent? Most of them belonged to other men before we captured them. Can't remember hearing you object to taking them, though."

Menelaus's head tipped even lower, but he persisted: "Yes, but that's different. Those women used to belong to our enemies. Achilles is one of our own."

There was a long pause. Agamemnon was clearly struggling not to lose his temper. Menelaus noticed his brother's displeasure and tried to placate him: "You know I backed your decision. I agree Achilles needed to learn a lesson and I think you did well to show him where power really lies. But that is already accomplished: nobody will dare challenge you from now on. To consummate his dishonour in that way…" the Spartan nearly choked "… that's just wrong, brother."

I gasped in understanding. That explained it: Menelaus, the betrayed husband, had been moved to sympathize, not with my predicament, but with yours. Male honour above all.

Well, whatever his reasons might be, I could only feel grateful for his intervention. If only Agamemnon would listen to him!

The high-king was frowning, obviously still on the brink of an outburst of anger. Suddenly, his lips curled in contempt:

"You still believe Helen was taken by force, don't you?" Menelaus' fair skin blushed a deep red. Agamemnon shook his head in annoyance: "Zeus help you, you can't wait to take her back, if she as much as deigns to look at you!"

Menelaus' cheeks were almost purple now and I realized Agamemnon had been right on target: the younger brother was still in love with his estranged wife and, given half a chance, would take her back without a moment's hesitation. That was why he believed, or needed to believe, that she had been taken from him against her will. A wave of pity for him washed unbidden over me. Poor Menelaus!

Agamemnon's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Well, let me tell you brother: if your lovely wife had made half the ruckus this one made while she was being brought here, not a soul in Sparta would have been able to sleep through her so-called abduction."

Menelaus went from purple to ashen and Agamemnon seemed a little embarrassed over the cruelty of his words.

"You're a fool, brother", he said, in a slightly softer tone. "But maybe you're right. Maybe the treacherous Trojan piece of scum held a knife to her throat. Who knows? I surely wouldn't put it past him."

There was another long pause. Agamemnon shook his head again.

"You're a fool", he repeated. "But you're my brother and I love you. So, if it means that much to you…" He gave me a slight push away from him. "For you, brother. For you."

As I made to walk away, he reached out abruptly, grabbed my arm and squeezed it viciously, digging his nails into my skin. "Don't look so pleased, girl. This is your loss, not mine. Believe me, it's your loss."

I nodded mechanically, almost blind with relief, and hurried off.

Hera be praised! I had gotten away! Thank every single merciful immortal on land and sea, I had gotten away!

For the next few days, life became a dull succession of working at the loom from dawn to dusk until the tips of my fingers were raw and almost bloody, swallowing down a bowl of watery porridge and being rushed to Agamemnon's hall to wait at his table for supper. But the simple knowledge that I wouldn't have to struggle with his advances was enough to keep my spirits up. Actually, the first couple of days I even caught myself humming under my breath.

Menelaus often ate at Agamemnon's and, whenever he did, I was careful to make sure he had everything he needed – wine, food, bread – before he even asked for it. Like I said, I knew he hadn't done it for me, or even specifically for you, but simply for his concept of male honour. Still, I had seen him confront his rather frightening brother, with a result that had pretty much saved my life, and I would forever be grateful to him for that. Besides, I had been moved by the realization that he was still in love with his morally questionable wife and I somehow wanted to let him know I valued him for that.

He always seemed mildly surprised to have someone willingly pay attention to his needs. He took to greeting me with a shy smile, to which I responded with a formal curtsy and a strictly serious face. I was extremely cautious to make it very clear I was only watching over his well-being and not the least bit interested in him.

Nothing much seemed to be happening. I knew you had locked yourself away in your tent and nobody had even glimpsed you anywhere in the Achaean camp. But there hadn't been any fighting either: except for the usual units sent out to patrol the plain, the men were hanging around idly by the ships and the Trojans remained safely behind their city's walls.

I was slowly beginning to worry. I knew you were betting everything on the conviction that Agamemnon would suffer a heavy defeat when he tried leading the army into battle without you. To paraphrase Menelaus, you wanted to show the Mycenaean where the soul of the army really lay. That would force him to recognize your true importance, restore your position in the Achaean hierarchy – and return me to you. But it would only work if there was a battle for Agamemnon to be defeated in. If he kept refraining from fighting…

I scolded myself: that was silly. Agamemnon couldn't possibly just stay there forever, before the walls of Troy, without attempting an attack. If he did, then he would lose everyone's support anyway. It had to be only a matter of time.

And, sure enough, after about ten days the high-king finally decided to move. He called all the army leaders and issued orders for the men to prepare to march. There was, however, some deep-set insecurity in him – I guess he knew, deep down, that you were the true military leader of the Achaeans, not him. So he made an unbelievably coarse mistake: he decided to test the men's loyalty by telling them that he had reached the conclusion that Troy was invincible and, therefore, it would be best for everyone to just go back home.

To nobody's surprise but his own, the men reacted with a gleeful clamour and stampeded off to their tents and ships, to get everything loaded and ready to leave. Agamemnon was left stunned into speechlessness, surrounded only by his highly embarrassed vassal kings.

We, the female slaves working away at the looms, didn't witness that scene, of course, but we did hear the clamour and then the gloomy return of an utterly dejected Agamemnon, who had lost all confidence and was actually contemplating a retreat. It took the combined efforts of Nestor, Odysseus and a couple of others to get him back on a warring mood. It was also those kings that then went from ship to ship across the whole camp, calming the men down and persuading them to stay and get ready to fight.

As far as army leadership was concerned, it was definitely a very bad start. Still, Nestor's and Odysseus' efforts at persuasion worked and, at long last, the army formed in disciplined lines, divided by tribes – another of Nestor's ideas – and got ready to march.

A dozen or so girls stood up from their benches and rushed to the tent's entrance to watch the show. I glanced at the overseer from the corner of my eye, but she seemed to accept the girls' curiosity as a matter of course, so I followed them outside. I was curious, not so much to see the army walk by, but to find out for sure whether there would be any Myrmidons marching with them.

The Achaean army was an imposing sight indeed. There were rows upon rows of armed men, made taller by the ornaments on their helmets and bulkier by the cuirasses that protected them, flowing by like an endless river, shields and spears clasped in their hands. For a moment, I questioned the soundness of your plan: even admitting Agamemnon had all but forgotten how to lead his battalions, with such an immense army following him it was far from sure that he wouldn't come back victorious.

And then everything would be lost for you and me.

It took quite a while for the last rows of armed men to pass by. There wasn't a single Myrmidon in sight and I found myself covering up a smile. Weirdly, not seeing the Myrmidons made me recall exactly how they looked when they were marching off to battle: their ranks closed, shield touching on shield like a moving wall with only a forest of spears protruding through, their helmets low over their heads, their eyes and faces focused and attentive, their steps steady and even. Warriors, every single one of them. The river of men that had just walked by were armed and shielded, yes, but they were really still just peasants, fishermen, craftsmen.

Agamemnon's army might be huge, but the majority of the men who made it up were not warriors. A great leader could turn them into a veritable fighting force, but anyone short of a truly great leader would find themselves at the head of just a mass of people lost in the chaos of pain and fear of a battlefield.

There was no longer any doubt in my mind: your plan would work. Agamemnon would be defeated. I had a moment of pity for the men who would lose their lives and limbs in the process, but I quickly stifled those feelings. I needed to harden my heart if I wanted to go back to you.

The other kings should have supported you. At the very least, they should have risen against the injustice committed against one of their own. Their men were their responsibility and it was their own fault if they now lacked the champion who knew how to bring them in and out alive, and how to take them to victory.

Whatever might happen to their men was their own damn fault.