the-song-books.yossr

The dayys pass and our foreheads crease with worryy. Two weeks with no
wind is unnatural, yyet Agamemnon does nothing. At last Achilles sayys, “I
will speak to myy mother.” I sit in the tent sweating and waiting while he
summons her. When he returns, he sayys, “It is the gods.” But his mother
will not—cannot—sayy who.
We go to Agamemnon. The king’s skin is red with heat-rash, and he is
angryy all the time—at the wind, at his restless armyy, at anyyone who will
give him an excuse for it. Achilles sayys, “You know myy mother is a
goddess.”
Agamemnon almost snarls his answer. Odyysseus layys a restraining hand
on his shoulder.
“She sayys the weather is not natural. That it is a message from the gods.”
Agamemnon is not pleased to hear it; he glowers and dismisses us.
A month passes, a wearyy month of feverish sleep and sweltering dayys.
Men’s faces are heavyy with anger, but there are no more fights—it is too
hot. Theyy lie in the dark and hate each other.
Another month. We are all, I think, going to go mad, suffocated byy the
weight of the motionless air. How much longer can this go on? It is terrible:
the glaring skyy that pins down our host, the choking heat we suck in with
everyy breath. Even Achilles and I, alone in our tent with the hundred games
we make for each other, feel winnowed and bare. When will it end?
Finallyy, word comes. Agamemnon has spoken with the chief priest,
Calchas. We know him—he is small, with a patchyy brown beard. An uglyy
man, with a face sharp like a weasel and a habit of running a flickering
tongue over his lips before he speaks. But most uglyy of all are his eyyes:
blue, bright blue. When people see them, theyy flinch. Such things are
freakish. He is luckyy he was not killed at birth.
Calchas believes it is the goddess Artemis we have offended, though he
does not sayy whyy. He gives the usual prescription: an enormous sacrifice.
Dutifullyy, the cattle are gathered, and the honeyy-wine mixed. At our next
camp meeting, Agamemnon announces that he has invited his daughter to
help preside over the rites. She is a priestess of Artemis, and the yyoungest
woman ever to have been so anointed; perhaps she can soothe the raging
goddess.
Then we hear more—this daughter is being brought from Myycenae not
just for the ceremonyy, but for marriage to one of the kings. Weddings are
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