'There, there, Father, that raid is a classic, it is in all the Songs.'

'Father, your exploits will astonish future generations, but now we must be quiet, we must listen...'

As the old man tailed off into querulous mutterings, Agamemnon spoke for the first time since opening the council. And he spoke with a face of anguish, addressing all those present. 'Who sends the wind against us? How have I offended?'

It was the question Calchas had most dreaded; but it was one he knew he had to be the first to answer or be thrust aside and silenced, his influence with the King lost beyond recovery. He said, 'It is Artemis who speaks to us through the wind. She is offended by the slaughter of the hare's young, the innocent young of Troy. She is Mother, Mistress of Animals, Goddess of Childbirth. The offence is threefold.'

Agamemnon leaned forward in his chair, turning so as to look full at the diviner – a bad sign. 'Speak more clearly, priest,' he said. 'Are you saying the wind is sent for an offence not yet committed?'

With this half-incredulous question, Calchas knew he was finally in the open, driven out of hiding, with no comfort but knowing where the hunters' darts would come from. Fear always made the same approaches, catching at his breath, constricting his chest, as if bands were being drawn and tightened. He opened his mouth a little, so as to breathe more freely. Never in his life had he chosen truth before safety. He said, 'We are between male and female, sky and earth, the justice of Zeus and the compassion of Artemis.'

As he again hesitated, the people his eye fell on seemed more intensely and completely themselves. Chasimenos peering round as if casting for a scent, Odysseus bearing a look of cruel and serene relish, Phylakos staring before him with wooden fixity, Menelaus sun-blistered, fuming with his wrongs. There was no one in this tent that wished him well. He saw Achilles flick with his fingers at some speck on his beautiful tunic, in a gesture like that of a preening bird. He noticed now that Croton, standing in his usual place on the King's left, was in the grip of some strong emotion; his face, his whole body, rigid with tension. It looked like fear, but why should the priest of Zeus be afraid?

'A balance must be found,' he said. 'If the conflict has been created for us, in order to tell us something, the reconciliation must be contained in it. The wind must be within the god's will, as it is within the will of the goddess. So it must be within the scope of their joint will that the young of the hare are restored to her womb.'

He checked on this, but it was too late. He had gone too far, he knew it as he finished speaking, knew it as he waited and saw the darkness gather on the King's face. But Agamemnon made no immediate reply. Instead it was Diomedes the Argive who spoke, a man who was sung about often for the part he had played in the wars with Thebes, a strong ally of Mycenae, he had come with eight ships. 'The gods have their provinces whether of earth or sky,' he said, 'no one will deny that. And they have to collaborate, otherwise we would end in fire or flood. But we don't know the arrangements they make and no one can tell us. This priest of Apollo talks about reconciliation and so on, but it's obvious that he hasn't a clue how this can be achieved. And if he thinks you can fight a war without collateral damage, he's totally mistaken. There will always be accidents. You can try to keep them to the minimum but you'll never avoid them altogether. Reconciliation is a long-term project anyway. It may suit priests – basically all they need to do is show their hearts are in the right place, they don't need to deliver the goods. But we are here in this camp and the wind is killing our hopes from day to day.'

Now Croton raised his peeled staff with its blue ribbons of the Sky God. His arm was unsteady and the staff shook a little and the currents of wind that moved through the tent sported with the ribbons and made them flutter. 'Lord Zeus sends the wind,' he said, and he looked fiercely round him. It is Zeus who keeps us here. We have killed two goats and scanned the entrails, we have cast the stones, the message is always the same. Artemis, the subordinate one, how could she question his will, who has already blessed our expedition? How could she go against the eagles? She is the female, the daughter, how could she have the power?'

His voice had risen and there were flecks of foam on his lips. He was working himself into a passion – perhaps, Calchas thought, his way of overcoming fear. But the impression of fear remained. It was nonsense, of course, this claim that Zeus was the goddess's father, though it was one his priests now commonly made. He was briefly tempted to intervene, to point out that she they called Artemis had been worshipped in his homeland by generations of people who had no knowledge of Zeus. But such words would not be received well. His stock was low enough already...

'Who is the weather god?' Croton said, and he shuddered with the effort to control the passion of conviction that threatened to distort his voice. 'Is it Artemis who gathers the clouds? Is it Artemis who cages the winds?'

'Why should Zeus contradict his own messages?' It was a despairing attempt at logic and Calchas knew it for useless even as he spoke. The feeling was against him, they preferred this madness of Croton's.

'There is no contradiction in the messages. The eagles were sent to bring us here, the wind is sent to keep us here. This is the place Lord Zeus has chosen.'

'For what purpose?' The question came from Agamemnon, who spoke in his usual tone but had braced himself back in his chair.

'As the place of choice,' Croton said. 'We are away from our homes here.' He was calmer now, having arrived at the authority his soul aspired to. There was no doubt that everyone there was hanging on his words. Even Achilles looked interested – he had forgotten to put on the supercilious, preoccupied look he generally wore at these meetings, as if his mind were elsewhere.

Croton remained silent for some moments, staring before him with eyes that seemed too wide open, unnaturally prominent in his face. He had grounded his staff now and held to it with both hands, as if otherwise he might be dislodged, swept away. 'Zeus has me in his care,' he said. 'Who does hurt to me incurs the anger of the god. It is because of Agamemnon that we are kept here. His eldest daughter Iphigeneia is a priestess of Artemis; this duty was handed down to her by her mother Clytemnestra when the girl reached the age of fourteen.'

'This is common knowledge,' Chasimenos said. 'It is customary, there is no blame in it.'

'Not so commonly known is that the cult of Artemis is exalted above that of Zeus in Mycenae; the daughter is raised above the father, as Calchas tries to do here.'

'How do you know this? You are not of Mycenae.'

It was again Chasimenos who spoke, and again apparently in defence of his master. The question had followed quickly, immediately, giving Calchas no time to respond to the reflection on himself; but he saw now that the intention was not to defend Agamemnon at all. Croton was being encouraged, given the stage, possible objections were being anticipated. With this realization came the sickening knowledge of conspiracy: this was a scene that had been rehearsed.

'We have had reports,' Croton said. 'There are plenty here in the camp that know of it. She makes offerings to Artemis as Universal Mother and as Moon-goddess, aspects of her cult displeasing to Zeus. Moreover, we know for a fact that the image of the male god, who holds the sceptre of power, is relegated to a lower platform in the palace shrine at Mycenae. The image of the goddess they call Potnia, Lady, rises higher by a head. And the King knew of this and did nothing, thus offending Lord Zeus. And the wind will not be lifted until the King makes amends.'