The Gates Of Troy

by Iliffe, Glyn

  Iphigenia looked across at the circle of hooded men and the hunched figure of Agamemnon, and her eyes darkened with anger. Suddenly she began to struggle against the pull of Calchas’s hand, digging her heels into the mud and leaning backwards as she tried to wrench herself free of his fierce grip. The priest turned and threw both hands about her wrist. The black hood slipped from his head as they fought and his bald pate gleamed white and bulbous through the sheets of rain. Eventually the combined strength of his thin arms succeeded and the girl was pulled onto her knees.

  ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ she screamed. ‘I don’t want to die!’

  Agamemnon lifted his head from the plinth and gazed across at the girl he believed to be his daughter, kneeling in the mud with her arms stretched suppliantly towards him. For a moment the strength seemed to drain from his body, and if it were not for the altar he would have slumped to the ground. Then, though his arms were weak and numbed by the cold marble of the plinth, he pulled himself up and looked again at the weeping girl, her face now hidden in her hands. With his thoughts and senses dulled by the incessant rain, he tried to remember how Iphigenia had looked as a baby, and then as she had grown into a girl. But the memories would not come: all he could see was the face of his son, Orestes; it was as if Iphigenia was a stranger to him, a mere acquaintance flitting in and out at the edges of his life.

  A clamorous boom ripped through the skies above, followed by a great flash of light. In its wake, he heard a voice in his head, telling him he did not love the girl. The voice belonged to Calchas and as Agamemnon looked across at the priest, standing now patiently at Iphigenia’s side, it seemed to him the man knew his thoughts. He stared at the faces of the kings and princes around him. Their eyes were hard, disapproving, but expectant. He was their elected leader – the self-styled King of Men – and if he was to take them to Troy he must carry out the edicts of the gods, however cruel. Finally he looked again at his daughter. Her face had lifted now and there was a scornful look on her young features, a look that reminded him of her mother. Suddenly she struggled to her feet, slipping in the mud, and raising her face to the heavens began to shout: ‘Eperitus! Eperitus! Help me!’

  Agamemnon rose to his full height, throwing off the chains of lethargy that had bound him to the altar. With an angry frown, he thrust a finger towards Iphigenia.

  ‘Silence her!’ he commanded. ‘And bring her to me.’

  Calchas clapped his hand over Iphigenia’s mouth, but she bit into the soft palm and he pulled away with a yelp of pain.

  ‘I’ll come freely,’ she declared, glaring angrily at Agamemnon. ‘I won’t be dragged to my death like a dumb beast.’

  With that, she took a deep breath, brushed the wet strands of hair from her eyes, and approached the altar. The circle of hooded men parted before her, and as she passed between them she saw Menelaus and Diomedes on either side of her. Diomedes could not hold her gaze and hung his head, but Menelaus held out his hands pleadingly and opened his mouth to speak.

  ‘You are not to blame, uncle,’ she said, then with a smile walked past and stood before the marble plinth, facing the man she had thought of as her father until only a few days ago. The dagger was still clutched in his hand and for a moment her eyes lingered on the beads of rain as they ran down the shining blade and dripped to the ground. Agamemnon looked at her with hard eyes and his mouth set in a firm line.

  ‘The altar is too high, my lord,’ she said, bitterly. ‘You will have to help me up.’

  Agamemnon looked at Calchas, who had followed the girl into the circle of men. He stepped up behind her and unfastened the cloak from around her neck. It fell to form a dark pool about her feet, revealing the white sacrificial robes beneath. For a moment it seemed to the onlookers that a pillar of light had been uncovered before their eyes, then Calchas placed her arm about his neck and, lifting her from the ground, laid her on the great stone slab. Iphigenia turned her eyes from the falling rain and shivered, though whether it was with the cold or with fear, no one knew.

  Agamemnon gave another nod and Calchas stepped back, shrugging the heavy cloak from his shoulders to reveal the white priest’s robes beneath. Lifting his face to the heavens, he stretched out his arms and began a low, unintelligible chant. His voice grew steadily louder and the onlookers could hear him calling on the gods to witness the sacrifice, singing their names and many titles in a wavering tone that was both hypnotic and chilling. As he sang the name of Artemis, the virgin huntress, goddess of the moon, Agamemnon took the dagger in both hands and lifted it above his head. He looked down at his daughter’s chest, rising and falling rapidly, clawing at the last moments of life, and she looked back at him, wide-eyed but silent. Then there was a loud crash from above as if the sky had split asunder, followed by a keen whistling and a cry of pain from Calchas. A flash of lightning followed and for an instant the priest seemed frozen, his right arm lifted above his head and the fingers of his hand splayed wide. Through the centre of his palm was an arrow, stuck fast in the flesh and bone.

  ‘Stop!’ commanded a high, strong voice.

  Agamemnon let the dagger fall to his side and looked across at the woman who had emerged from the cover of the trees, carrying an empty bow in her left hand. She was tall and beautiful, but despite the girlish ponytail of jet-black hair and the white, thigh-length chiton, her stern face was filled with authority and power. At her side was a pure white doe, which followed her on its leash as she walked towards the circle of altars.

  ‘Stop the sacrifice at once,’ she ordered. ‘The girl’s life is to be spared.’

  As she approached, the downpour faded to a fine drizzle and the strangled half-light of the clearing brightened a little, giving the jewelled necklace about her neck and the golden bangles on her wrists a dull gleam. The nobles fell back before her, confused and stunned by her unexpected appearance. On the altar, Iphigenia sat up and wiped the rain from her eyes to stare at the elegant but commanding figure, standing like a light at the edge of the nightmare in which she was trapped. Beside her, Calchas released a sharp squeal of pain as he pulled the arrow from his palm and fell to his knees. Clutching his wounded hand under his armpit, he looked up at the woman with an angry glimmer in his eyes.

  ‘How dare you interrupt a sacred ritual?’ he hissed through gritted teeth as he felt the waves of pain bite. ‘You’ll pay for this with your life, woman.’

  Then, to the astonishment of the gathered leaders, Agamemnon stepped around the altar and fell to his knees at the woman’s sandalled feet, bowing his head in silence before her.

  ‘You have not been chosen to lead the Greeks for nothing, Agamemnon,’ she said. ‘You alone among your peers have recognized that I am an immortal. While their stiff necks refuse to bow before me, you have shown me the respect that is my due.’

  With this, she looked about at the kings and princes until one by one they knelt in the mud and lowered their heads. Her voice was clear, proud and authoritative, and even if some exchanged questioning glances with each other, they felt obliged to follow Agamemnon’s lead. Eventually only Palamedes remained standing, scrutinizing the woman with disbelieving eyes.

  ‘How do we know you’re one of the immortals?’ he challenged her, his fists on his hips. ‘What proof can you give?’

  Her face darkened with anger and she pulled an arrow from the quiver that hung at her hip. Fitting it to her bowstring, she aimed it directly at Palamedes’s face.

  ‘I am Artemis,’ she snarled. ‘And you can choose to kneel willingly before me, or I can bring you to the ground with an arrow through your eye. Either way, I have no intention of proving my divinity to a mere mortal.’

  Reluctantly, Palamedes fell to one knee and bowed his head slightly, without removing his eyes from the female archer. Galatea breathed a mental sigh of relief and, lowering the bow, turned to Agamemnon.

  ‘I am the one who demanded this sacrifice of you, King of Men, and now I am relieving you of the task. You have proved your willin
gness to obey me and that is enough – you have passed the test. I will ask Aeolus to call off the winds at dawn tomorrow, leaving only a westerly breeze to fill the sails of your galleys and take you to Troy. As for your daughter, she is to come with me to serve as a priestess in my temple at Tauris. You will sacrifice this white doe in her place.’

  Galatea knelt by the animal that Antiphus and Arceisius had trapped the previous evening, noticing to her horror that the powder Odysseus had used to whiten its fur was already beginning to run in the constant drizzle. If the ruse was to work, she would have to act quickly. Patting the doe on its hindquarters and shoving it gently towards the central altar, she held her other hand out towards Iphigenia and beckoned her to come. The girl slid her legs over the marble slab and jumped to the floor, then with agonizing slowness – her eyes filled with awe – walked cautiously towards the tall white figure. All the time, Galatea could sense Palamedes’s eyes upon her, watching for some chink in her facade of divine authority and making her wish she had shot him when she had the chance. As it was, she reminded herself that she was a goddess, without mortal equal, and raised her chin disdainfully as she bent her gaze forcefully upon him. After a moment he lowered his eyes to the mud.

  Then the thunder returned, closely pursued by a splash of lightning that flashed off the wall of trees. Galatea looked up, sensing a sudden change in the atmosphere, and within moments the clearing was filled with driving rain mixed with sleet and hail. It blew cold against her cheeks and forehead as she beckoned urgently to Iphigenia. The girl quickened her pace and reached out to take Galatea’s hand. She felt the woman’s warm fingertips grasp her palm, and at the same moment there came another change in the air about them. Then there was a loud twang and a gold-tipped arrow passed through Galatea’s neck. She was dead in an instant, dropping into the mud at the child’s feet.

  Iphigenia stepped back and screamed. Behind her the Greeks rose to their feet and looked about themselves in panic, sensing that a terrible presence was upon them. The clouds above the clearing began to move with an unnatural speed, twisting and contorting as if the skies themselves were in pain. Peals of thunder followed one upon another, forcing many of the men below to throw themselves to the ground in fear. Great columns of branched lightning struck again and again around the perimeter of the wood, and then with a great howl the wind began to rage through the glade. It plucked the sail from over the pyre and tossed it up into the clouds, where it was torn violently and carried away over the treetops; the two tents followed and their sparse contents were scattered across the long grass and into the trees while the guards fled for cover.

  As Galatea fell, Polites had sprung up from his hiding place in the trees and only the quick reactions of Eurylochus and Arceisius had prevented him from running out to her body. Even then, it took all their strength and the help of Antiphus to restrain the muscle-bound giant and pull him back into the cover of the undergrowth. Eperitus, too, had risen to his feet, looking anxiously at Iphigenia as she cowered at the edge of the circle of altars, her arms thrown around the neck of the fretful doe as the storm grew in ferocity about them. Odysseus’s ruse had failed at the last moment and now there was only one way to save Iphigenia.

  He took a step forward, but immediately a strong hand seized his arm and pulled him back into the undergrowth. ‘You can’t just run out there in full view of everyone,’ Odysseus hissed. ‘It’ll mean your own death as well as the girl’s.’

  ‘She’s my daughter!’ Eperitus retorted, shaking off Odysseus’s hand. ‘And don’t forget, if she dies your hopes of returning to Penelope and Telemachus will die with her.’

  ‘Eperitus is right,’ said Antiphus. ‘He can run out and fetch her in the middle of this storm and nobody will even notice.’

  ‘Don’t be foolish,’ Odysseus said, catching Eperitus by the wrist as he stood again. ‘Can’t you see something’s happening? This is no ordinary storm.’

  ‘Look!’ said Arceisius.

  He released Polites’s arm and pointed to the opposite side of the clearing, past the stooping Greeks and the scattered debris from the tents to where a lone figure had emerged from between the trees. He wore no helmet or armour and his blond hair was blown wildly by the wind, but he stood tall and unbent by the gale, a long sword held in his hand. It was Achilles.

  His eyes roamed across the chaos before him – sneering briefly at the sight of Agamemnon and Calchas cowering behind the central altar – until he saw the terrified figure of Iphigenia. Without hesitation, he strode through the midst of the other kings and princes towards her.

  ‘Come, girl!’ he shouted over the gale and the endless rumbling of thunder. ‘This is no place for you.’

  Suddenly, a shaft of lightning stabbed down into the carefully stacked pyre of logs behind him. The wood that Agamemnon had intended for Iphigenia’s body burst into orange fire, the flames licking outwards in every direction. Achilles staggered backwards, throwing his arm across his face for protection. Then, to the amazement of all watching, the flames turned blood red, stretching up to a height above the treetops. In their midst, barely discernible at first but taking shape rapidly, was the figure of a woman. She was tall – twice as tall as Ajax, who alone among the gathered leaders had remained on his feet throughout the storm – and in her hand was a bow of the same height. She stepped out of the fire and even Achilles and Ajax fell to their knees before her.

  ‘Artemis,’ Antiphus whispered, his eyes wide with fear and awe. ‘It was her arrow that killed Galatea.’

  Eperitus stared at the goddess and despaired. Her face was young and beautiful, with pure white skin and golden hair, but her eyes were black; filled with a terrible darkness and power that were not tempered by reason or compassion. The heavy sheets of rain and the blustering wind seemed to pass over her without effect, and as her fierce gaze swept across the men many threw themselves face down on to the ground or covered their heads with their cloaks. Inevitably, her eyes fell upon Iphigenia and the doe that was still clutched in her arms.

  ‘The girl is mine!’ she declared, and even the clamour of the storm gave way to the sound of her clear, booming voice. ‘Only her blood will appease the offence done to me.’

  Eperitus watched his daughter look up at the goddess, but there was no fear in her eyes any more. For days she must have lived in the shadow of her impending death, hoping and praying that she would be released from her doom. Briefly, as she felt Galatea’s hand slip into hers, she must have thought the Fates had spared her. But now there was no escape, and letting go of the comforting warmth of the doe, she rose to her feet. Released from the girl’s arms, the animal sprang away towards the trees, but a moment later it lay dead in the thick grass, one of Artemis’s gold-tipped arrows protruding from its side.

  ‘Rise, King of Men,’ Artemis commanded, ‘and take up your dagger. The time to pay for your insult has come.’

  Agamemnon staggered to his feet and fell back against the altar, staring up at the goddess. Behind her the clouds continued to churn in torment as the thunder and lightning growled and flickered through their grey innards. The carved ivory handle of the dagger was still clutched in his palm and he looked down at the curved blade in surprise. As Eperitus watched, he prayed to Athena that Agamemnon’s mind would be filled with memories of the girl he thought was his daughter, and that any love the king still possessed for her would somehow deter him from the task that had been laid on his shoulders. Even now, the choice was still his to make: if Agamemnon desired it, he could deny the will of Artemis and let the storm continue. But as this last desperate hope of a reprieve dared to reveal itself, Eperitus knew how empty it was. Agamemnon did not love Iphigenia – she was only a girl, and unlike Orestes she would never be able to inherit his throne. What was more, Agamemnon was half-crazed with ambition. He knew the chance to unite the Greeks would not come again, and never under his own command. If he spared Iphigenia, he would no longer be the King of Men, leading a great army to renown and riches in Il
ium; instead, his power would fade and he would be remembered as a gutless fool who did not have the strength to rise to his destiny. And as Eperitus guessed at Agamemnon’s truest desires, the king’s lip curled back in an angry sneer and he reached down to seize Calchas by his mud-stained robes.

  ‘Calchas!’ he shouted, hauling the priest to his feet. ‘Fetch the girl. Now!’

  Calchas stared at him for a moment, his eyes wide with fear. Then he came to his senses and lurched through the mud towards the child, who was standing expectantly in the rain, her hair swept back from her face by the wind, her eyes blank. Achilles, whose mind had been filled with debate as he knelt before the goddess, now stood and moved across the path of the Trojan priest.

  ‘Don’t provoke me, Achilles,’ Artemis warned. ‘Your allotted time has not yet come, otherwise I might be tempted to kill you where you stand. But this is no affair of yours; Agamemnon insulted my honour before he did yours, and I will not allow you to interfere with my revenge.’

  Achilles frowned up at her for a moment, before lifting the point of his sword defiantly towards Calchas. ‘Let the girl alone,’ he ordered. ‘Agamemnon used my name as a ruse to bring her here, so it’s up to me to put that right.’

  Suddenly the weight of the sword began to increase in his hand. His muscles reacted against the strain, struggling to hold the weapon up as it grew heavier and heavier, until he could no longer support it. He tried to release his grip on the handle as the sword pulled him to the ground, but his fingers could not move and he was forced to his knees, the great power of his arms helpless to free himself from the weapon.

  Calchas ran past him to where Iphigenia was waiting. Though he expected to have to use force, she shrugged his hands from her shoulders and walked slowly towards the altar with her head held high. One by one, the kings and princes stood and formed a crescent around the high plinth, many of them throwing their hoods over their faces so they did not have to look at the terrible figure of the goddess. Instead, they watched in silence as Calchas lifted the girl onto the marble slab for a second time. Above the clearing the unending thunder grew in a crescendo, while the lightning that flashed around the edges of the wood now formed a curtain of flickering light, repeatedly blasting the all-consuming gloom and yet unable to defeat it. The torrents of rain cascaded from the heavens so that the Greeks stood ankle-deep in water that seethed beneath the ceaseless downpour. Iphigenia, shivering with cold under the sodden robes that stuck to her skin, looked into Agamemnon’s face as he approached the side of the altar. The dagger gleamed in his hand and his icy blue eyes were hard and devoid of emotion, as if his soul had been sucked out and only the shell of his living body remained. Iphigenia closed her eyes and every muscle in her body tensed.