Is it true that you have betrothed me to Achilles? Her controlled voice threatens excitement, carefully guarding her heart lest my letter should prove false.
My soul aches. How dare I perpetuate this foul duplicity? I am responsible for much more than my child’s destruction, I am to blame for the bitterness of her last moments. The words of the gods resound through my chest, echoing my heartbeat: If she does not… Why do the gods give us children, only to demand them back? It is true. You are to be wed tomorrow afternoon, and we will hold the wedding feast in the evening.
Her eyes are luminous, questioning. Why would Achilles take a bride now?
I have prepared an answer, rehearsed it for days, but the final commitment to this horror draws sweat on my brow. I do this for my men, I do this for the countless lives that will be spared—I do this because I am a coward, and I fear the wrath of gods and men in life more than I dread their damnation in death. Many of the men are taking brides at this time. Pending war causes them to realize their mortality, the joys of family that they will miss if they are slain. Many wed now to carry on the semblance of marriage.
These men are not untried youths. Many of them have families waiting at home.
Achilles has not.
No, Achilles has not. She is silent for a moment. He feels need for one now.
It is not a question, but I sense her probing, the thinness of my lie. Perhaps he feels forsaken, far from home. I pray she does not know about the loyalty of his camp, the bond he shares with his cousin Patroclus.
She does not. So he would take a wife he knows not in an attempt at stability.
Perhaps he is lonely.
She smiles wryly, as though I have spoken naively. A great man like Achilles need never be lonely if he so desires. But she ceases her inquiry, and I breathe more easily as her mother greets me. My wife’s hopes for Iphigenia are fulfilled in Achilles, and no suspicions plague her.
Our daughter is to be wed to Achilles!
I force myself to meet Clytemnestra’s eyes. It is indeed a day to be proud.
Achilles
The woman who addresses me as I cross the camp is unknown to me, though she hails me as a familiar. Greetings, great Achilles!
I nod in reply, because her clothing pronounces her the wife or mistress of a high-ranking officer and I should not ignore her. But there is no need to speak to her, this brazen stranger.
Achilles, you are to be congratulated. Surely there is no finer bride than my daughter Iphigenia.
Her words halt me, and I feel hostility mounting as she approaches. I have taken no bride.
She is stung by my terse words, and the satisfied expression on her face slips ever so slightly. Of course not, the wedding is not until tomorrow afternoon.
I know of no wedding. Rage rears its ugly head against this presuming woman. Who is she, to foist her daughter on me unprompted? The brashness of this woman!
Her face is clouded in bewilderment, and she draws a much-creased letter from her bosom. But—but my husband, Agamemnon, wrote that you… Her voice trails off, uncertain in the face of my obvious ignorance. She extends the letter to me.
I skim the scored parchment, phrases leaping out at me. Proposed marriage between Achilles and Iphigenia…great warrior, requested our daughter…wedding at Aulis when you arrive…
There is no need to read the entirety of the letter. I thrust it back into the woman’s hands. Who are you? Have you proof of this letter’s veracity?
I am Clytemnestra, wife of Agamemnon, and this, she proffers the folded letter, is his seal.
I know of no wedding, I repeat, mastering my anger with difficulty.
But this letter is in my husband’s hand, and it bears his seal.
Her inability to comprehend astounds me. I should have thought better of the wife of Agamemnon, but he has trained his wife well. It would appear that we have been deceived.
Her eyes narrow. I would not think ill of my husband without reason, sir.
He has provided plenty of reasons, that vacillating coward of a general, I think, but before the hot words can leave my lips the tent flap behind Clytemnestra ripples. My tongue is stayed by the emergence of a gracious girl. One ought not speak ill of one’s commander before a lady.
Clytemnestra takes the girl by the hand, and the shadow of a memory crosses the recesses of my mind. A political event—the gathering of the kings and princes at the seat of the Atrides—a noble girl, the only woman present, with grave eyes—
It gives me pleasure to introduce to you my daughter, Iphigenia. Clytemnestra watches me, expression cold and calculating, weighing my response.
I bow to the girl. I believe we have met before, my lady.
I believe we have, sir. She extracts her hand from her mother’s. Forgive me, but I must join my father.
As she glides across the sand, Clytemnestra’s brow creases with concern. It cannot be true. We were told— She breaks off, dreams and reality sadly unreconciled. Clinging to a last shred of hope, she pleads. She will make a fine wife, Achilles.
I watch the slender figure move with dignity through the camp, recalling the purpose and intelligence in her face. I know.
Agamemnon
Her face is grave and young as I lead her through the camp, explaining the various tents and their purposes. The tacticians’ heads bent over a miniature fleet—the geographers with their careful maps—the steward doling out measured grain—she takes it all in with her deep eyes, speaking only to ask a valuable question or offer an insight. She is a born strategist; if only she were a man! No god would demand a firstborn son.
She misses nothing with those eyes. My men, surprised at their work by a slender maid, lower their gazes before her calm assurance. Here and there she pauses, asks some question about their tasks, and nods firmly in understanding after their explanations. The men touch their foreheads as she leaves, one of the few signs of respect that circulates through this camp. They do not touch their foreheads for me.
As we approach the edge of the camp, I steer her away from a bare stretch of sand outside a closed tent. If I cannot spare her life, at least I can protect her last hours from the stench of death. Oh my daughter, it seems to me that my hands are already stained with your blood!
I collect myself, for my hands are clean, unblemished, around her white form. The gods have removed my sin from me because I am doing their will. That tent belongs to a strange man, my darling, one who has gone quite mad since we put ashore. You must not bother yourself with him. My hand cups her back, drawing her towards the main thoroughfare. Come, let us discuss the conditions of settlement for your wedding.
But she puts my arm by with a decisive though gentle motion. Father, I would speak to this man and know the reason for his madness. Mayhap it could be prevented in the future.
I think not, I reply, but she is resolute and must know for herself. She brooks no mystery, a stern leader. From within the tent I can hear a slow stirring, as of an evil centuries old returning to life. She is pale in the face of madness, but even now she thinks that it can be learnt, tamed, brought to heel like dehydration or sunstroke.
She does not know that nothing can cure a man of the gods.
Calchas
In the darkness of the tent, the gods irradiate stabs of light from without. Around me, in me, through me, they pulse their terrible words: Blood—blood—destruction to the house of Atreus! They whisper truths that make me quail as they pass through my soul, dim prophecies about the death of Achilles the god-man, about ten long years watching Troy crumble slowly, slowly, about a boiling torrent of rage creeping in red around my vision. Shadowy faces pass before me in a stream, clinging to bodies slaughtered in the sickened monotony of war. One pale shade pauses before me, and I think he is familiar. Is it the stoop of his back, his dragging step?
And then I am overwhelmed by a vision of her, hovering outside my tent, wishing for entrance. The gods hold me in their grip as I fling wide the tent flaps and greet her. Hail, I
phigenia, favored of the gods!
She is taken aback by my words, a position in which I think she does not often find herself, but she quickly slips into her former dignity. To whom have I the pleasure of speaking, sir?
I sweep a low bow, caught up in the mockery of ceremony and the horror on the great Atrides’ face. I am Calchas, speaker for the gods.
And what message has the speaker for the gods to bring?
I open my mouth to reply, but Agamemnon catches my eye and shakes his head. No—let her remain in ignorance for a day yet, let her savor these last moments. I smile grimly. No one can alter the timing of the gods.
But Agamemnon is a buffoon. Thinking he can gain his precious daughter a few more hours, he snatches at my unspoken words. Good Calchas, will you not join my wife and me for this evening’s repast? Perhaps we can discuss the words of the gods then.
The presence of the gods vanishes from my mind, and I feel unexpectedly weak and vulnerable. But that fool of a general and his sacrificial daughter must not know that. I bow to him, restored to myself by the subtle insult of the gesture. To hear is to obey, my lord.
He winces against the double meaning of the phrase, eyes flickering over the ignorant princess. Indeed. Until this evening, Calchas.
I bow again, retreating to the inhabited twilight of my tent where the gods laugh in chilling banter. Until then.
Clytemnestra
I think it in poor taste that my husband has invited guests for our first meal together, though I cannot fault him for entertaining our future son. A worm of doubt gnaws at my heart with that thought. Had he no knowledge of this marriage? Is the wedding truly a lie, a deception forged in my husband’s name? But he was not surprised by our arrival; indeed, he was expecting us. The letter must be true.
Achilles is seated beside Iphigenia, and it seems that each has tried the other and been satisfied with what was found, for they are deep in earnest conversation, faces shining in unexpected respect. He has shrugged off his rude arrogance and she her cool repose for the conversation of esteemed equals. I admit that it is not all that I might desire for my daughter, but a mother might be forgiven for wishing for more than simple regard, however high, between one’s daughter and her husband. But I have seen what love can do; have we not all seen the disgrace of Helen and her noxious lover Paris? And so I am content, for respect can blossom into warmer affection, while passion rarely yields esteem.
My eye does not rest as kindly on our other guest, a strange and pale man whose face is a study in hollows and planes. His gaze lights restlessly on my daughter, my son, my husband. Mine—and he is the outsider, a man whose very presence damps the laughter on my lips, the gracious words that never sound.
My husband provides little reassurance. Instead of commanding the attention of Achilles, boasting of his many feats and his great power, he toys with his knife, nervously slicing score after score into the smooth tabletop. The duty falls to me to engage our guest, this awkward stranger. My husband has told me that he is the speaker for the gods in this army. I test a gracious smile. Have you come to bless the wedding, sir?
My husband’s knife clatters to the floor, lost from his careless hands. My dear, one must not ask such an imposition of the holy man.
It would be no trouble at all, madam. The man’s face loses its shuttered look for sly superiority. I wonder at this change and replay his words. Would be?
He licks his lips with a sharp tongue, dazzling me with his glittering eyes. That is, if there were actually a wedding.
Shocked at this man’s audacity, I look to my husband to reprimand this man for touting us at our very table. But he only sits quietly, hands still, the knife on the floor. From the corner of my eye, I see Achilles’ bronzed hand take Iphigenia’s, as if involuntarily. She, my princess, does not resist. Perhaps she knows she will need this unlikely ally against the words to come.
Alone, I await his words and am afraid.
Achilles
It is her quiet admiration for the precision of the Myrmidon warriors that elicits a grudging word from me. I have come with wariness, alert to the potential pacts of marriage that may be made on this night before the purported wedding. It was not my choice to attend this intimate meal; I have come because Agamemnon’s request was not a request. There are no requests in this time of tension at Aulis.
But her gaze is level and serious, and as I thank her for her words, she moves into a detailed analysis of my warriors’ drills and their relative effectiveness in battle. Her questions are numerous and well informed: Would this maneuver not weaken the right flank? Is this weight of spear not more effective than that? Could not chariots be better constructed to shield the rider while maximizing his range of movement? My answers grow more and more animated as she transforms from tactician to weapons specialist to versatile fighter. At one point I catch myself gesturing with both hands to support my argument. Her eyes shine with amusement, and I know she has triumphed by reaching the aloof Achilles. But no less, I think, as she launches into a technical and brilliant strategy, have I gained by engaging the true Iphigenia. She has been found out by her own trap, a master strategist too sporting to avoid her own snare.
As the evening grows dark and we finish the meal, I realize that although I had little choice in the marriage of which Clytemnestra spoke, if indeed it is a reality, I no longer care. The gods have seen fit to send a wife to me, unprompted, who will be a fit and just queen for the Myrmidons. One can ask for no greater charm in a woman than that she command one’s respect. I respect this woman, my bride.
Through the haze of the evening, Clytemnestra inquires of the other guest, the seer Calchas, if he has come to bless the marriage. Let him, if he so desires, for though the letter may have been a ruse I will yet take Iphigenia to wife on the morrow. But the holy man smiles evilly, the teeth of malicious knowledge. Madam, I fear you have been deceived.
Clytemnestra’s face is white, the lurking fears that have surely dogged her steps all afternoon realized. But she tucks her fear away behind a serene brow. Whatever can you mean?
It is as though time pauses in that breath, shielding us against the moments to follow. I find my hand grasping Iphigenia’s, as though the winds of time will tear her away from me when they blow again. Agamemnon’s hands are still on the scarred table, and he does not meet any eye.
Calchas rises, and his face shines with an indescribable light. The gods have spoken. Through the steaming entrails of a doe, through the dew and fire of evening, through the echoing silence of night. They smell the salt of sweat and battle to come, and they thirst. The gods demand a blood sacrifice, the outpouring of pure blood. He sways, eyes fixed on something we cannot see. Perhaps the gods themselves stand before his gaze. The gods have chosen their offering, a maiden noble and fair, the daughter of a king. Her hand rests in mine, unmoving. She does not flinch as he lays his hand on her head. May the blessings of the gods be upon you, Iphigenia, bringer of wind!
In the sudden silence, as time stumbles in and out of step, Agamemnon leaves the table.
Clytemnestra
I feel as though I am looking at my daughter through water, through the leagues of transparent water that brought us to Aulis. Her face flickers and gleams before my undulating gaze, now bright, now shadowed, as depths of rolling waves break between us. As we surface together, lungs gasping for air, the thinner atmosphere drains the color from her face. I dip under, away from her; I am drowning.
Water crashes around my vision, a white haze subsuming my eyes. It must have been only a moment since Calchas spoke, for they are a tableau, my daughter and Achilles and the seer, but the circle is broken and my husband is gone. The water clouds my eyes, thick and salty and bitter. He has abandoned us; who will protect us now?
She has not moved. The seer’s hand rests on her golden hair, her neck and shoulders curved under the weight of its holiness. Her cheek is as white as her dress. But she does not cry, my beautiful one, she does not weep or protest. As her cheek
pales, her hand lies limp in Achilles’. He grasps it with his strong fingers, but she does not seem to know, and the look in her eye is farsighted, clear. It is as though she is removing herself from us already, and I can do nothing to stop her. Oh my child, my daughter!
I reach for her but my arms are sodden, slow beneath billows. Water drenches the air between us, chokes the words in my throat. She is fathoms gone, and I cannot draw nearer for all my effort.
Through this wavering medium I see Achilles rise, the heat of his rage burning through the first waves of water. His gold sword is glows, the blessing of some god upon us, as he charges at the seer with his battle cry.
Calchas snatches his hand from my daughter’s head, whirling away from the destruction of Achilles. You dare not hurt the speaker of the gods, Achilles! Even you must fear them!
Achilles laughs, eyes ablaze. I fear nothing from the gods! Is not a goddess my mother? Have I not served Zeus faithfully all the days of my life?
Fear for your immortal soul, Achilles! Fear eternal damnation!
But he does not fear, and for all the seer’s powerful words he cannot turn Achilles, bent on wrath. The gold sword whirls dangerously about his head, but the gods must be protecting the unarmed seer for the pride of the Myrmidons cannot land a single blow on him. I want to tell Achilles this, to warn him against destroying that which the gods love, but the water rushes over me, wave upon cerulean wave, and I cannot move.
Troy Page 3
