Now, after the calculated pause, he appeared at last, surrounded by six of his palace guard, helmeted and armed with spears, who fell in round him as he emerged from the tent, men specially chosen for their height, which should exactly match his own – if they were taller, he feared it would enter the Songs that he was stunted of growth. The people of the Mycenaean League raised a shout at his appearance and their chiefs, Diomedes, Euryalus and Sthenelus, raised their arms to acclaim him. His brother Menelaus also shouted, as did the Spartan troops under his command. But many remained silent, so it was at best a ragged greeting he was given. Nonetheless, his darkly bearded face broke into a smile and he raised his right arm, the palm of the hand outwards, in acknowledgement. This smile showed the teeth, it was too broad for such scattered applause, or so it seemed to Calchas, and it was lasting too long. The guards held their spears upright, their faces without expression. The shafts of the spears shone in the sunlight, they formed the bars of a cage, and Calchas felt his mind touched by gossamer wings. The King was waving and smiling inside a gilded cage. It was thus the mad were treated.

Agamemnon walked forward and seated himself, and the guards moved into place round the throne. Still he made no signal for the proceedings to begin, but remained for some moments silent and motionless, sitting upright, his back not touching the chair. He had taken care with his appearance this morning, Calchas noted – just as he had himself. His dark, lustrous hair, thick and shaggy as the mane of an Argive pony, was combed out to his shoulders and he wore a gold circlet round the brow to keep the hair from his eyes in this wind. His robe was dark blue, colour of royalty; it was held in by a belt, from which hung a long dagger in a scabbard of polished leather.

There was a pause, filled by the sound of the wind and the cries of gulls circling above. Then the King raised his arm and brought it slowly down again. Shouts broke out and the two champions came forward from their places on opposite wings of the assembled army, and walked down to the space marked out for them. Both were equipped with the standard conical helmet with bronze cheek pieces and nose guards, and both carried the round oxhide shield and the heavy thrusting spear. But the Boeotian was more heavily armoured – he wore a tunic of leather with bronze shoulder plates, and he had chosen as his second weapon the short, broad-bladed stabbing sword. Stimon the Locrian had no sword, but he had a dagger slung low on his right side. For body armour he had nothing but a short coat of padded linen.

The two men came together and turned towards the King, standing side by side, waiting for his signal. When the nod came they moved quickly apart to the limits of the space. And now for a while it was as if they had decided to mock each other by imitation, circling with knees flexed, shoulders lowered in a crouch, spear points dipping slightly. For a space of time that was brief enough, but seemed protracted to Calchas, watching with the fascination of the fearful, the two circled each other on the shingle. They were lost to everything, they had stepped into a private world, from which only one would emerge to the life he had left – the waves, the painted hulls, the shit on the wind.

The movements were quicker now, from time to time the points of the spears snaked out in darting, feinting movements, caught by the sun in splinters of light. The Boeotian seemed stronger – twice his opponent took the shock of thrusts on his shield, heavy thrusts that briefly unsettled his balance. The sun of mid morning was still low enough to give a certain advantage to the one who had it behind him, and both men manoeuvred for this position.

There comes always a moment, whether of fear, rage, confidence warranted or mistaken, when the first move is made, the definite one. Calchas knew this just as all those present knew it. Not a deliberate decision, but a sort of gathering, depending on the god that prompts. It came now. Opilmenos made the drill movements he had learned when scarcely more than a child, raising and lowering his shield sharply, at the same time stamping the right foot, ploys to distract the other's attention for a split second from his spear point. He now drove this forward with all the weight of his body behind it, a lunge that carried him forward three paces, the point raised as he advanced until it was aiming at a spot just above his opponent's collarbone.

Stimon could not block the attack altogether, there was too much power in it, but he swayed to the right a second or two before the impact and thrust out his shield, so managing to deflect the spear across the right side of his body, not quite far enough, however: the point scored through the inner part of his arm, high up, just below the shoulder. He took two staggering steps further to the right, exposing his flank. The padded linen of his tunic was suddenly red to the elbow on the right side. He had kept his grip on his spear, but it seemed too heavy for him now, the point was hardly clear of the ground.

The sickness and exhilaration of prophecy fulfilled came to Calchas. This was the moment he had seen prefigured, watching the man dance in the firelight, the death contained in that fullness of life. It was what he had seen, what Pollein had guided him to see. As he waited now for Stimon to be killed he remembered that shaft of luminous conviction, felt some shivering return of it, the burden and tyranny of the god's favour.

The Boeotian's thrust had brought him too close to use his spear again without shortening his grip. This he now began to do, slamming his shield against his opponent's left flank to give himself time. The movement was well executed, in the same drilled and robust fashion as his first attack. But the stagger of the Locrian was transformed now, by a miracle of balance and coordination, into the first steps of a dance, taking him round almost in a half circle, helped by the push from the other's shield, until he was sideways to the Boeotian, who had shortened his grip on the spear but had to make a half turn before he could deliver the killing stroke. It was the standard manoeuvre, the only possible one, but he was destined never to complete it. Stimon dropped his spear and sank to his knees. In a single movement he drew the dagger from its sheath and made a wide, back-handed sweep with it. The blade flashed and then dulled, as it sliced through the tendons behind the right knee. Opilmenos raised his face and opened his mouth wide and fell.

He was disabled, groaning and helpless there on the bloody shingle, crippled for life – with hamstrings severed, he would never fight again. Whether he lived or died lay with Stimon the dancer, who had won the bout by dancing and was dancing still, on his feet once more and stepping carefully and delicately around the fallen man, holding the spear he had taken up again.

He kept out of range of the other's hands, which might still have sought for his throat or his eyes. He was waiting for the moment when he could get a thrust at the neck or abdomen, areas not protected by the cuirass. He was waiting, but he was not in haste; it soon became obvious to all watching that the moment of the kill was being deliberately delayed, that Stimon was playing up to the spectators, putting on a show. The Boeotian knew it too. As the hope of mercy left him he found the resolution to draw the short sword from his belt, the only defence remaining to him.

And now, amid the continuing hush, it became a dance for two persons, Stimon swaying his hips and raising his knees and setting his feet with exaggerated care while the wind scattered the drops of blood from his shoulder widely over the pebbles; Opilmenos twisting his body round to follow him, making attempts to rise, striving to keep his eyes always on the weapon in the other's hands, because to look away was to acquiesce in his death. Then Stimon quickened his step, the fallen man could not gyrate quickly enough, the thrust came, piercing the side of the neck, entering deeply into the throat. When the point was withdrawn, Opilmenos moved still, but it was the pumping of his blood that moved him. The Locrian turned away, not towards the King – he did not give a glance to Agamemnon – but towards his own people. Calchas heard, or thought he heard, the metal shoulder pieces of the dying man scrape on the pebbles. Then all other sounds, even the lamentation of the wind, were engulfed by the great shout of triumph that came from the Locrians as they broke ranks, their leader, Ajax the Lesser, to the fore, and surged forward to hoist the victor shoulder-high. Agamemnon rose to his feet, again smiling. The show was over.