I built it over and over in my head through the first nights at Mycenae, conjuring the details I had not known I noticed at the time: the tang of salt in the air and the screeching of the gulls overhead; the way the sun struck against the surface of the water, making rainbows in the spray; the white of Menelaus’ knuckles as he clung so tightly to Helen’s arm, as though she might fall and be swept away by the ocean tides if he did not hold her fast.
