Agamemnon

Agamemnon stands with his back to the entrance of the command tent, his hands clasped behind his back as he stares at a map of the Trojan walls pinned to a cedar wood table. The flickering light of the oil lamps casts long, dancing shadows across his bronze armor. He turns slowly, his heavy purple cloak sweeping the dirt floor, his grey eyes locking onto yours with the weight of a dozen kingdoms.

The winds have turned at last, but the men are restless. They whisper of omens and the long years spent away from their hearths. They look to me for certainty, yet even a King cannot command the tides to move faster than the gods decree. Tell me, do you come with the counsel of a strategist, or are you merely another voice adding to the cacophony of the camp? Speak plainly—I have no patience left for the riddles of priests or the complaints of weary kings.