‘Only if it becomes inevitable,’ said the king finally. ‘Blood disgusts me.’

Several days later, a legation from Queen Clytemnestra arrived to pay her respects to King Menelaus and invite him to Mycenae, but the envoys were told that the king was ill. He lay in his bed, seized by fever; the queen was at his side, wetting his dry lips with cool water. Machaon, the healer who had so often cured him in the fields of Ilium, was dead, slain by the sword of Euripylus. His brother Podalirius, no less gifted in the medical arts, had been lost on their return voyage. All trusted that the gods would come to the king’s aid. As soon as the king was better, he would certainly go to Mycenae to meet with his sister-in-law and immolate a sacrifice on Agamemnon’s tomb.

The envoys waited several days to see if there was any improvement, to no avail. They only caught a glimpse of Queen Helen as she celebrated a sacrifice to speed Menelaus’s recovery. They were so close that they could see the small mole on her right shoulder and smell the heavenly scent of her skin as she passed.

When the head of the delegation reported this news to Clytemnestra, the queen seemed anxious: ‘There was something strange about her when I met her at Nemea. She always spoke softly, and stayed in the shadows.’

‘I don’t know why you say that, my queen,’ replied the man. ‘I saw her very closely, in broad daylight. Years and years have passed, but she is as beautiful as ever. Her skin still has the fragrance of violets, her voice is as sweet and harmonious as when she was a young maiden, when the Achaean kings were contending her hand.’

Clytemnestra asked no more, and was satisfied with the news she had received. The king’s illness was doubtless the result of her poison. Helen was loyal to their cause.

Another month passed, and the news from Sparta was still more comforting: she was told that an artist had been called to the palace to make a mould of the king’s face in damp clay and prepare his funeral mask. The great moment was close.

But the artist who made the mould of Menelaus’s face would have been in no hurry to complete his work had he seen how quickly the king had leapt from his bed afterwards, stealthily gone down to the stables and had his fastest chariot prepared for him. His head covered by a hood, he stepped aboard alongside the charioteer and nodded for him to lash the horses.

Three days later they passed the Peloponnesian isthmus at night, so as not to be seen, and continued for a week until they reached Boeotia and the shores of Lake Copais. On an island at its centre rose the impregnable fortress of Arne. The armed sentinels standing guard were astonished to see a tawny-haired warrior descend from the boat; the herald announced him as Menelaus the Atreid, king of Sparta, shepherd of peoples. Soon thereafter Queen Anaxibia was awakened in the deep of night and accompanied to the throne room. The king stood still as a statue in the centre of the room, his long red hair tied at the nape of his neck with a leather string; he spun around at the sound of her steps. They fell into each other’s arms and wept without saying a word in the middle of that large deserted room. They shed bitter tears, thinking of the childhood they had spent together, of the adolescent dreams of love they had confided in each other, of the memories of happy times and of their long separation, of the never-ending years of the Trojan war.

When they had given vent to their feelings, Menelaus looked at her as if he could not believe his eyes. ‘Beloved sister,’ he said, running the tip of his finger over a tear on her cheek. ‘Only you remain in this hostile land. I have come to ask for your help.’ A sudden gust of wind swept the hall from the windows open on to the courtyard. Menelaus’s black cloak swelled for a moment and fell again, swaying, to his ankles.

‘No,’ said Anaxibia. ‘I’m not the only one left. Sit down. Wait,’ and she motioned to a handmaiden who had risen from her bed to do her queen’s bidding. The woman moved off.

‘What is your plan? You surely know of the death of our brother. .’ The woman was back already, standing at the threshold of the door. With her was a youth of perhaps seventeen. He wore naught but a sheet around his bare shoulders. A golden down covered his cheeks and a cascade of blond hair lit up his face. His hair was so blond it seemed nearly white but his eyes were pitch black. Queen Anaxibia held out her hands to him, and kissed him on the forehead and eyes, then, indicating the guest, said: ‘This is your uncle Menelaus. We thought he was dead, but he has returned. He has just arrived from Sparta.’

Menelaus opened his arms. ‘Son,’ he said, his voice still trembling. ‘My boy.’ The young prince, still half asleep, returned his embrace a little uncertainly, and kissed the king on the cheek. ‘Orestes, I have come to put you on the throne of your father, at Mycenae, if you so wish.’

‘I do, wanax,’ said the young man. He was wide awake now, and his gaze was firm and certain.

‘Don’t call me that,’ said the king. ‘I’m your uncle and I love you as if I were your father. .’ They sat down and the maidservant brought them warm milk and some wine. ‘There is something that perhaps you do not know. .’ And as he was speaking, Menelaus sought the eyes of his sister to have her approval for what he was about to say. The queen nodded. ‘My boy, your mother was not forced against her will. . your mother made you an orphan of her own hand.’

The prince did not flinch. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘And I will kill her for it.’ He took a cup of milk from the table and downed it. He stood and took his leave with a slight bow: ‘Good night, uncle. I’m happy that you have returned.’ He crossed the threshold as weightless as the night air. The light of the torches burning in the corridor made the sheet covering his body transparent: he was as beautiful as a god.

Menelaus followed him for a moment with his eyes, then bowed his head. ‘It will be a bitter, fierce fight,’ he said, ‘more cruel than the Trojan war.’

‘Yes,’ said the queen. ‘Only members of the same family can truly hate each other.’

‘I’m afraid,’ said the king, ‘that my strength will not suffice. I must face a powerful coalition, alone.’

The queen’s lips curled into a smile. ‘You’re not alone,’ she said. ‘You have the most powerful ally that exists in the world. Come, I want to show you something.’ She got up and walked down the corridor. Menelaus followed her to the end, then down a stair that led under ground. They reached a small door closed with bronze bolts. Anaxibia drew them and thrust her torch into the interior. Menelaus was struck dumb, his eyes filled with stupor.

‘The talisman of the Trojans!’ he gasped. ‘Oh gods, gods of the heavens. . then it was not all futile. . all of that blood was not spilled in vain. . oh gods, I thank you.’

The queen closed the door and bolted it. ‘This is why you’ve found me here at Arne. This fortress in the middle of the lake is impenetrable; no one can violate it.’

‘But how could you have. .’

‘When our brother was murdered by that bitch, a ship managed to reach me here before anyone had thought of chasing it. Everyone thought that the talisman of Troy was to be found on Agamemnon’s flagship, which was burned at port and sunk by its crew. Clytemnestra was led to believe that the men had carried out an order of the king, who had somehow sensed her betrayal. She even sent divers down to explore the wreck, but the sea bottom was too deep; not even the most expert sponge divers could reach it. She could not know that the talisman was aboard a little thirty-oar which escaped towards the north and went ashore at Aulis.’

‘An action that seems inspired by the mind of Ulysses!’

‘Who says it wasn’t?’ said the queen.

‘Yes. .’ murmured Menelaus. ‘Ulysses turned back. . I’ve always asked myself why.’