supper-fires, and the priest said the omens so far were good.
“The sacrifices are well begun,” said Agamemnon.
“For me,” said Menelaos, “they are ended. It wasn’t our own sins that brought us to Troy, but as you said last evening, the sins of others. Whatever errors we have fallen into since we arrived, we’ve had reason to regret as they occurred. If anything was overlooked, through pride or ignorance, this day of sacrifice must have made up for it, and something more. I sail for Sparta to-morrow.”
“When I think of sailing,” said Agamemnon, “I remember Aulis. Our setting out from that harbor cost the life of my child, offered to appease the gods. You did not object to excessive sacrifices then. It was all for you, my brother. My quarrel with Achilles I atoned for long ago, since I was in the wrong. But since at other times I may have been wrong when I thought I was right, I must now satisfy even the unsuspected angers of Zeus and Athena before this host of mine can face wind and wave and what lies between us and our dear homes.”
“What you really fear,” said Menelaos, “is your wife.”
“Your own wife is with you,” said Agamemnon, “and your daughter is safe in Sparta, no doubt looking after your affairs. We’ve all been looking after them. Now I must care for my people. What I really fear is the vengeance of Athena on every one of them, on you and me, on the meanest that row in the ships, for the theft of her image and the outrage to her priestess.”
“Odysseus stole the image,” said Menelaos, “but only because the city couldn’t be taken while the image was