Chapter 159: The Gathering of Eagles
The beach at Aulis stretched for miles, a crescent of dark sand caught between the mountains and the sea. The bay beyond it was choked with ships—a thousand hulls, black and brown and weathered grey, their masts swaying in the winter wind like a forest stripped of leaves. The smoke of ten thousand cooking fires rose into the pale sky, and the noise of the camp rolled across the water in a constant, grinding roar: the clash of hammers on bronze, the shouts of men, the whinny of horses, the ceaseless rumble of an army waiting to be unleashed.
Agamemnon stood on a low rise above the beach, his cloak snapping in the wind, watching the latest arrivals drop anchor in the bay. Beside him, Menelaus was silent. He had been silent for most of the morning, staring at the ships with the hollow, burning eyes of a man who had been wronged and had not yet found his revenge.
They were an odd pair, the two brothers. Agamemnon was broad and heavy, built like a bull, his dark beard streaked with grey, his face a mask of command that rarely slipped. Menelaus was leaner, red-haired, his features pinched by the long months of humiliation. He had once been a king like the others—proud, confident, secure in his authority. Now he was a cuckold, and everyone on that beach knew it. The knowledge sat on his shoulders like a physical weight.
"How many today," Menelaus asked.
"Three more contingents. Odysseus of Ithaca is already in the bay. Ajax of Salamis is close behind him. And Diomedes." Agamemnon’s voice was flat. "Diomedes of Argos has finally decided to honour his oath."
Menelaus made a sound that was not quite a laugh. "Honour. He held out longer than anyone."
"He held out because he’s cautious. Cautious men can be managed." Agamemnon turned his head slightly, his eyes moving across the bay. "Once the fleet sails, he’ll fight. That’s all that matters."
"And if he doesn’t."
"He will. He has no choice. His council forced his hand. He’s here because he has to be." Agamemnon paused. "Like most of them."
Menelaus didn’t answer. He was watching a small group of ships detach themselves from the anchored fleet and make for the shore—Odysseus’s contingent, sleek and well-maintained, their sails furled, their oars cutting the grey water in perfect unison.
"Odysseus," Menelaus said. "He’ll have questions."
"Odysseus always has questions. Let him ask. He’s too clever to refuse."
"Clever men are dangerous."
"Clever men are useful. It’s stupid men who are dangerous." Agamemnon adjusted his cloak. "Come. Let’s welcome the king of Ithaca."
Odysseus came ashore with twelve men, all of them lean and watchful, their armour plain but well-kept. He himself was not a large man—shorter than most of the kings who had already arrived, his build more athletic than imposing. His hair was dark, his beard close-cropped, and his eyes were the colour of the sea before a storm. Those eyes moved across the beach, across the ships, across the two brothers waiting on the rise, and took in everything.
He climbed the low rise and inclined his head to Agamemnon. "High King. The winds were favourable. We made good time from Ithaca."
"Your ships look well," Agamemnon said. "Twelve, as promised."
"Twelve. And every one of them crewed by men who know how to fight." Odysseus glanced at Menelaus. "My king. I was sorry to hear of your troubles. The insult to your house is an insult to all of us."
Menelaus’s jaw tightened. "Thank you."
The words were stiff, formal. Odysseus’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, and then he turned back to Agamemnon. "A thousand ships. I’ve never seen anything like it. The last time the Greek world assembled a fleet this size, my grandfather was a boy."
"The world has never seen a fleet this size," Agamemnon said. "That’s the point."
Odysseus nodded slowly. "Troy has been preparing for this war for years. Walls, ships, alliances—they’ve been building while we’ve been gathering. I’ve heard reports of fire weapons. A net across the strait. A refugee militia that’s been training for months. They’re not going to roll over because we have numbers."
"I’m aware of their preparations. That’s why we have Achilles."
"Achilles isn’t here."
The words hung in the air. Agamemnon’s expression didn’t change, but something in the set of his shoulders tightened.
"He was delayed by storms," Agamemnon said. "He’ll arrive before we sail."
"And if he doesn’t."
"He will."
Odysseus held his gaze for a moment. Then he nodded. "I’m sure he will. In the meantime, I’d like to look at the intelligence you have on the Trojan defences. The strait, the harbour, the walls. If we’re going to storm a city that’s been preparing for this for two years, I want to know what we’re walking into."
"You’ll have access to everything. My quartermaster will provide the maps."
"Good." Odysseus inclined his head again. "Then I’ll leave you to the rest of your arrivals. I saw Ajax’s ships on the horizon. He’s hard to miss."
He turned and walked down the rise toward the camp, his twelve men falling into step behind him. Menelaus watched him go.
"He didn’t ask about Helen," Menelaus said.
"No. He didn’t."
"He asked about the walls. The ships. The defences. He didn’t ask about my wife."
"Because he’s not here for your wife. None of them are. They’re here because they swore an oath. Because they’re afraid of what I’ll do if they don’t. Because they see an opportunity for plunder and glory." Agamemnon looked at his brother. "Helen is the excuse, not the reason. You know that."
"I know that." Menelaus’s voice was bitter. "But she’s still my excuse. And when we take Troy, I want her back."
"You’ll have her. I promised you that."
"You’ve promised a lot of things."
"And I’ve kept them." Agamemnon’s voice sharpened. "Every oath I’ve made, every alliance I’ve forged, every kingdom I’ve brought to this beach—I’ve kept my promises. Remember that. When you’re standing in Priam’s palace with your wife at your side, remember who put you there."
Menelaus didn’t answer. He looked at the bay, where another group of ships was approaching—larger than Odysseus’s vessels, heavier, their hulls painted black.
Ajax of Salamis had arrived.
The giant came ashore alone.
His men—warriors every one, the best fighters Salamis had to offer—followed at a respectful distance, but Ajax walked ahead of them, his feet sinking into the wet sand, his massive frame cutting a silhouette against the grey sky. He was the largest man any of them had ever seen, his shoulders broad as a doorframe, his arms thick with muscle, his face blunt and heavy, the face of a man who had been hit many times and had never once been knocked down.
He stopped at the foot of the rise and looked up at Agamemnon. He did not bow. He did not incline his head. He simply stood there, his great hands hanging at his sides, and waited.
"Ajax of Salamis," Agamemnon said. "You honour us with your presence."
"I brought twelve ships." Ajax’s voice was a low rumble, like distant thunder. "My best men."
"So I see. They look formidable."
"They are."
Silence. Menelaus shifted uncomfortably. Ajax’s eyes moved to him—a brief, assessing glance—and then returned to Agamemnon.
"My cousin Achilles," Ajax said. "He’s not here."
"Delayed by storms."
"He’ll come. He always comes." Ajax paused. "He wants Hector. Don’t get in his way."
"I have no intention of getting in his way. I want Hector dead as much as he does."
Ajax nodded once, a slow, heavy motion. Then he turned and walked toward the camp, his men falling into step behind him. The ground seemed to shake with every step he took.
Menelaus let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. "He’s not much for conversation."
"He doesn’t need to be. He’s the strongest man in the army. When the walls go up and the siege begins, he’ll be worth a thousand soldiers." Agamemnon looked at the bay again. "One more. Diomedes. Then we’re complete."
"Diomedes." Menelaus said the name like a curse. "He held out longer than anyone. He met with Trojan agents. He was this close to defecting."
"He didn’t defect. He’s here. That’s what matters."
"He’s here because his council forced him. Not because he believes in the cause."
"Belief is irrelevant. Obedience is what matters." Agamemnon’s eyes narrowed, watching the last group of ships making its way toward the shore. "And here he comes."
Diomedes of Argos came ashore with ten men, his armour plain, his face hard. He was a lean man in his early forties, with the weathered skin of someone who had spent his life outdoors and the wary eyes of someone who had learned to survive by seeing clearly. He did not hurry. He walked up the rise with the measured pace of a man who was not eager to arrive.
"High King." His voice was level. "I’ve brought my ships. As promised."
"As promised," Agamemnon said. "After some delay."
"There were... disagreements. With my council. They’ve been resolved."
"Clearly." Agamemnon’s voice was cold. "We’re grateful for your contribution. Every ship counts."
Diomedes’s eyes moved to Menelaus. "My king. I was sorry to hear of your troubles. The queen’s departure was a blow to us all."
Menelaus’s face went red. "A blow. Yes. You could call it that."
"Peace, Menelaus." Agamemnon raised a hand. "Diomedes is here now. That’s what matters. The past is the past."
"Is it." Diomedes looked at Agamemnon. "I’ve heard reports from Troy. They’ve been preparing for this war for two years. Fire ships. A net across the strait. Walls that have been reinforced. They’re not going to be easy to crack."
"I’m aware of the reports. That’s why we have numbers. That’s why we have Achilles."
"Achilles isn’t here."
"He will be. Before we sail."
Diomedes held Agamemnon’s gaze for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly. "I hope so. Because if we sail without him, we’re going to need every advantage we can get."
He turned and walked toward the camp without another word. Menelaus stared after him, his fists clenched.
"He defied you. In front of everyone."
"He’s angry. He was forced here against his will. He needed to assert himself. Let him. Once the fighting starts, he’ll fall in line." Agamemnon turned to face the bay. "They’ve all arrived. Odysseus, Ajax, Diomedes, Nestor, Idomeneus. The kings are assembled. The fleet is complete."
"Except for Achilles."
"Achilles will come. He wants Hector. Nothing will keep him from that."
Menelaus was silent for a moment. Then he said, "When do we sail."
"When the winds turn. When the omens are favourable. When Achilles arrives. When everything is ready." Agamemnon looked at his brother. "Patience. The walls of Troy have stood for a thousand years. A few more days won’t matter."
"Every day we wait, they grow stronger."
"Every day we wait, we grow stronger too. More ships. More men. More supplies." Agamemnon put a hand on Menelaus’s shoulder. "Trust me. This is what I do. I’ve been building toward this moment for years. Troy will fall. Helen will be yours again. And the House of Atreus will rule the Aegean unchallenged."
Menelaus looked at the bay, where a thousand ships rocked at anchor. The sun was setting, the sky streaked with orange and gold. The camp was lighting its torches, the fires spreading across the beach like a reflection of the stars.
"I want to believe that," he said quietly.
"Then believe it. It’s the truth." Agamemnon turned away from the water. "Now come. Nestor and Idomeneus are already in the camp. We should show them that the High King values their presence."
They walked down the rise together, toward the fires, toward the waiting kings. Behind them, the sea was darkening, the ships fading into shadow. The army was gathered. The fleet was complete. The war was about to begin.