The war tent stank of sweat and smoke and too many men breathing the same air.
Agamemnon's great pavilion had been erected on the highest ground above the beach, its hides lashed tight against the wind that never stopped blowing. Inside, the kings of Greece had gathered again—not by choice, but by duty. They had been summoned at dawn, and they had come, because to refuse the High King's summons was to declare oneself an enemy.
Odysseus sat near the center of the long table, his hands folded before him, his storm-dark eyes moving from face to face. He had learned long ago to read men in silence. Ajax sat at the far end, a mountain of muscle and scars, his massive arms crossed. Diomedes stood near the entrance, refusing to sit, as if he might need to leave at any moment. Nestor was in his usual chair, leaning on his staff, his ancient eyes half-closed. Idomeneus was near the brazier, warming his scarred hands. Menelaus stood behind his brother, a shadow at Agamemnon's shoulder.
