The fire in Agamemnon's tent had burned down to embers. Achilles had not touched the wine. He sat with his legs stretched out before him, still in the armour he had worn off the ship, his spear propped against the chair beside him—always within reach. He had been in the tent for perhaps ten minutes, and in that time he had not once looked at Agamemnon directly. He looked at the tent walls. The maps. The brazier. Anything except the High King.
Agamemnon had noticed. He noticed everything.
"You were delayed."
"I was delayed because I wanted to be." Achilles examined his fingernails. "The wind was against us. We could have pushed through. I wanted to see how long you'd wait."
"And."
"Three days. I had you at two."
Agamemnon poured himself wine. He did not offer the cup. "You've arrived. The fleet sails soon."
"Hector."
"Hector is in Troy."
