The meltemi had arrived, with blustery winds that made sitting outside unpleasant. I wondered the weather was the same at Aulis. If these winds kept up there would be little possibility of Agamemnon’s fleet being able to sail.
I made my way down to the dining hall. We were a small company these days with so few men amongst us. Myrto, of course, and the few men Agamemnon had left behind to guard the citadel. They were mostly experienced but elderly troopers who were enjoying their retirement on light duties.
I had reached for my wine, when there was a disturbance at the far end of the hall. The door was thrown open, and a guard strode into the room, followed by a young woman. It was dark at that end of the hall, and it took me a moment to realise the girl was Charis. She had shaved her head. My hand jerked involuntarily and I knocked my wine flying. A serving maid rushed to mop up the mess, but I barely saw her. My eyes were focused on Charis as she walked jerkily towards me. I realised the guard was supporting her as the girl seemed barely capable of independent movement.
“Charis?” I stood up in a hurry. “What’s happened? Why did you leave your mistress?”
She came forwards slowly, stopped in front of me and fell to her knees.
“Charis? By all the gods, what has happened? Where’s Iphigenia?” I asked sharply.
“Dead.”
I hardly heard her, she spoke so softly. Or perhaps I did hear, but the gods, in their mercy, plugged up my ears for a few more minutes of peace.
There was a moment’s stunned silence. I felt the blood drain from my face. All talk in the hall had ceased.
I stooped beside her and pulled her up so she had to lift her head to speak to me.
“What has happened?”
“They killed her.”
I seemed to stop breathing.
“Iphigenia,” I whispered.
It made no sense. How could my daughter not be alive? It must be a mistake. Fragments of thoughts jostled with each other in my brain, but I could seize none of them. Charis’s words were too improbable to comprehend.
“Who killed her? Were you attacked? What happened?”
I looked at Charis. She looked terrible, her eyes wide, bruised and haunted, in a white, pinched face. The stubble on her head was ugly. She seemed to have difficulty forming the words.
“Wine,” I called. “Bring Charis a drink.”
Someone passed a goblet to me. I took it but found my hand shaking so badly the heavy red liquid slopped across the surface of the vessel and spilled over the sides. I thrust it back. The slave was Io. She stooped beside Charis and held it to Charis’s lips.
“Have a drink, it will help steady you.”
She obeyed. Maybe the wine did steady her. I passed my tongue over my dry lips.
“Carry on,” I said.
“They sacrificed her,” she said. “Calchas slaughtered her on the altar, like a sheep or an ox, as an offering to Artemis.”
There was a horrified intake of breath from the onlookers. I felt the walls of the hall constrict round me. The people had become blurred. I couldn’t control my temperature. I was hot; I was cold.
“Why?” I asked at last. “What had she done wrong? How had she offended?”
Charis was silent, as if, having told us the worst of it, she had run out of speech.
I drew her up to sit beside me at the table. The slave poured her more wine and filled my own goblet. I gripped the stem of the cup tightly to control my hands. “Start from the beginning,” I commanded. There would be no other way of making us understand this.
Charis gave a shudder. “We arrived at Aulis. Agamemnon came to meet us, as did Achilles. Achilles didn’t know they had lied to him. He thought he came to meet his bride, and he liked her. I could see he did. I think she liked him as well, and was relieved.
“They put us in a tent near to Agamemnon’s so we were kept safe and separate from the main camp, and there we spent the night. Iphigenia was happy. She talked about her wedding day, and how we would have to be up early to make her look her best. She asked me if I thought Achilles was good-looking. Which he is. We giggled together about what she would be doing the next night.”
Charis broke down in tears and couldn’t continue for a few minutes.
I sat waiting, under the spell of what she was recounting.
“The next morning we were up early, and I dressed her in her finery. She looked so beautiful. Agamemnon came to see if we were ready then led us out to the army. I thought the men were very quiet, seeing as it was a wedding. Usually people are cheerful and a bit bawdy, if you know what I mean. But I didn’t make much of it. I was more interested in Iphigenia and how lovely she looked. They walked us down a long track that led to the altar and the place of the ceremony. I could see a lot of men, officers I supposed, clustered at the far end by the altar, waiting for the bride.
“We were about two-thirds of the way towards the altar when there was this big ruction. Achilles suddenly burst through the men and ran up the track towards us, shouting at Agamemnon. ‘This is wrong,’ he said. ‘How dare you use my name in something so dishonourable? You will not do it.’
“Iphigenia had come to a halt, not knowing what to do. A couple of the officers had followed Achilles, and I saw them trying to hold him, but he was fighting hard. ‘No,’ he said again. ‘You will not do this. How could you all plan something so disgusting? Do you think the gods will be honoured by this travesty?’
“A priest had appeared, up by the altar. I realised it was Calchas. ‘The goddess needs a sacrifice,’ he cried. ‘She must be appeased or she will not lift the curse.’ Achilles rounded on him. ‘No. This is obscene; an offence to all the gods. Give Artemis a sacrifice. Whatever you want. A deer, a sheep, a bull, maybe. I do not believe Artemis wants the blood of a young, innocent girl.’
“I heard Iphigenia give a little moan as she began to understand, and I moved up beside her to embrace her. I could feel her shaking with horror.”
Charis’s face was wet with tears as she spoke. I clapped my hand across my mouth, feeling sick. “Are you saying Iphigenia had been lured to Aulis to be sacrificed?” I asked.
Charis nodded, crying helplessly.
“That’s what they wanted. Calchas had told them the reason they couldn’t get the right wind to blow them to Troy was because Agamemnon had offended Artemis. The only way to propitiate the goddess was to sacrifice the most precious thing Agamemnon had, which was his daughter.”
“And Agamemnon agreed?” I had no feeling within me. Maybe later I would begin to understand, but for now it was all words.
“Yes,” said Charis bluntly. “He agreed to it. It was Agamemnon who thought to bring Iphigenia to Aulis with the promise of marriage. Most of the other officers knew but had been sworn to silence. Agamemnon knew that if the fleet couldn’t sail soon, the troops would revolt, and he would lose his army. He couldn’t afford that. No one had told Achilles, though. He just thought he was getting married.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but no sound came out. I had to try again, to form the words, to make a noise. “Carry on.”
“Achilles was so angry. I thought he would attack Calchas. It took six officers to hold him down.
“Iphigenia flung her veil back so she could see more clearly. It might have been inappropriate, but it was clear she wasn’t there to be a bride. I think she decided in that moment that, whatever happened, she would look her fate directly in the eye. She looked at Calchas for a long moment. Then she turned her head and I saw she was looking at Agamemnon as if she couldn’t really believe what he had done. I can’t express the pure contempt on her face.”
Charis swung round in her seat towards me. “Oh, lady. She was so brave. I could feel her terror, her shock and horror, but she kept her head up like a queen. I was so proud of her, and so frightened for her. This all happened so quickly. One moment she’s a bride, next she’s a sacrificial victim. It was too much to take in.
�
�So there we were, frozen in a tableau. Achilles spewing obscenities at Agamemnon, Calchas grimly waiting for his victim, and the men and the officers standing in silence around us. I think that was when Iphigenia realised that the only man there not determined to see her die was Achilles. She couldn’t have escaped, however hard she tried, not even with Achilles’ help.
“I felt her gather herself. She loosened my arms, put her hands either side of my face and kissed me on the forehead. ‘Farewell,’ she said quietly to me.
“She turned and began to walk slowly, once again, down the track to the altar. She stopped when she reached Achilles. ‘Thank you for your support and your honour,’ she said. ‘It would have been a privilege to have been your wife.’ She even managed a wavery little smile for him. He made some terrible choking noise of protest. Oh lady, it broke the heart to watch it. I could hear some of the men sniffing, though none moved to help her.
“She turned away from Achilles, and I saw her draw a deep breath as she faced the steps to the altar. I tried to run forward, but Agamemnon grabbed my arm and wouldn’t let me go.
“Iphigenia climbed the steps on her own. Her tone was icy cold when she spoke to Calchas. ‘How should I lie?’ To do him justice, he bowed to her gravely before taking her arm and assisting her up onto the slab. She handed him her bridal veil, and he folded it and put it at her feet. He helped her lie down and arranged her skirts so that all was decent. He offered to bind her hands and feet but backed off when he saw her scorn.
“I was shouting ‘no, no …’ but it made no impression on the man holding me. Agamemnon could have been made of stone.
“Calchas made a short prayer to Artemis. Iphigenia never flinched or moved. Calchas lifted the curved blade over Iphigenia’s throat and cut down and across. Her lifeblood flowed down over the altar and was collected in a vessel. “There was a sort of collective sigh from the troops watching. I think I screamed, because my throat was sore afterwards but I don’t remember.
“After that, Calchas held the bowl of blood up and pronounced the army free of the curse. I turned and bit Agamemnon’s hand so badly that he let me go, and I ran down the path to the altar.
“She was beautiful in death. Calchas hadn’t marred her face, and she lay there looking so peaceful. I stood there for hours, just watching her. After a while I realised I had a companion on the vigil. Achilles had come to be with her. We stayed beside her for the rest of the day, until someone brought linen and water to clean her. I washed the blood from her neck. There was very little spilled on her dress, and it lifted easily enough when I sponged it.
“They brought a bier and laid her on it. I covered her with her veil and walked beside her to the funeral pyre. It was later I realised how prepared they’d been. They had built it before she even arrived in Aulis to be a bride. When we arrived they simply steered us away from the area so we never questioned why there was a funeral pyre waiting.
“They burned her that evening, my lady. There were few women to sing the funeral dirges, but the camp women did what they could. I sent my hair to the fire with her. It was all I had for her. The whole army came to pay their respects. Achilles couldn’t bear to be near Agamemnon. I saw his hatred when he looked at him. Of them all, he was probably the only one who really grieved for Iphigenia. It would have been such a good marriage for them both.”
Charis collapsed in tears, her grief raw and terrible. I sat beside her, mindlessly patting her hand, too numb to feel anything very much at all. I only half comprehended the story she’d told.
There was silence in the hall. The listeners were deep in shock. I felt their anger wind around me. They had loved their princess.
I bowed my head. This must have happened some time ago. It would have taken a few days for Charis to travel home. Maybe I had been playing with Orestes while my daughter was being murdered; perhaps I had been having lunch or an afternoon’s rest. My daughter had died, far from me, with none to come to her aid.
Each minute since then I had breathed the air of a world that no longer held my daughter, and I had known nothing.
I surged to my feet. I needed to be alone and clear of the shocked faces and soft murmurs of the people round me. I couldn’t bear their presence. I had no idea where I was going, just an overpowering need to be free of their curious eyes. I thrust past the guard at the door and made my way onto the terraces. The meltemi was blowing wildly. Leaves and small twigs were caught up in the gusts and twisted in little eddies of air. My hair blew out of its pins, and my gown tangled round my limbs as I stumbled along the path. I could barely see through the fog of pain that covered my eyes. My gown caught on some spiny shrub. I felt the tug as the delicate fabric ripped. I stopped and carefully untangled the material. It seemed very important to do this neatly and ensure no further damage occurred. I held the rip together with one hand but, to my distress, the wind kept the gown fluttering back towards the thorny bush. I gave a little sob as I stepped back away from it and made my way towards a seat.
It had been my intent to sit and think over Charis’s words, but when I reached the seat I found the incoherence of my thoughts wouldn’t let me stay still. Her words were too stunning, too shocking and too immediate. I couldn’t force my brain to be calm and confront them. There was no context or greater meaning within which I could process the abomination of Iphigenia’s death.
I paced restlessly up and down in front of the seat, my mind skimming through random fragments of memory, trying to force a pattern from a kaleidoscope of moments. My mind flitted backwards and forwards through the years, putting together a mosaic of incidents. The tesserae moved and shifted before forming together in the completed work of my daughter’s death. Agamemnon, the children, Calchas. Small moments that now came together into a new picture of violence, betrayal and murder.
The guilt I felt was visceral. I had let this happen. I had stayed married to a man I knew to be unstable and vicious. I should have left the first time he hit me. Instead, hoping it would all work out, I had stayed. It hadn’t worked out at all, and my inaction had led directly to Agamemnon’s destruction of our family. I would never forgive myself. There was no offering I could make to the gods to redeem my folly.
I felt a childlike desire to throw myself down on the tiles, like Electra, to kick and scream out my rage and anguish. I needed physical pain to ease my mental torment. A sudden vision of the Queen of Mycenae sprawled on the ground, writhing in a childish tantrum, all beating fists and kicking legs, forced an unexpected burst of hysterical laughter. I startled myself with the sound.
I staggered to the bench and sat. An iron band around my chest stopped my breathing and constricted my heart. Mindless horrors pressed in on me. Oh Iphiginia, my precious daughter. I twisted on the seat to ease the pain, and suddenly I was crying. Tears fell from my aching eyes, and my control gave way. I heard myself uttering terrible, unstoppable groans and cries as I rocked back and forth on the seat. My arms crossed over my chest as if to hold such ugly noises in, but they failed, powerless against the force that tore the anguish from my deepest core. My voice became hoarse with the tumult of the cries but still they poured from me to be lost in the rage of the wind. I beat my hands on my knees in a wild rhythm of fury and grief. A wisp of vagrant thought reminded me that professional mourners behave in such a manner at funerals. I hadn’t known they mimicked the actuality of grief.
Life was too deeply embedded to allow me to die in my anguish, much though I wished to. At last my hysterical outpouring stopped, and I was able to dry my eyes. I ached to my soul’s depths. I was exhausted.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
THE WORLD DID NOT STOP IN sympathy with my grief, and mundane tasks still had to be managed. Half my brain was filled with sawdust and unable to cope with, or comprehend, the hideous enormity of the crime against my daughter. I attempted to thrust my horror and grief to the back of my mind, like so much crumpled linen, and attend to my daily responsibilities.
I was surprised how calm I was, how steady my hands and voice as I dealt with my duties.
Two days later a fresh messenger arrived. He said nothing of Iphigenia’s murder, but informed me cheerfully the wind was now fair for the fleet to sail to Troy.
I was aghast at his insouciance. “And how has this miraculously changed wind come about?” I asked.
Myrto was with me, and I saw him glance at me sharply. Perhaps my tone wasn’t as controlled as I thought.
The messenger blenched and looked deeply uncomfortable. “A sacrifice was made to Artemis and she lifted the curse on the army. When she was appeased, the wind changed direction so that now it is in our favour.”
“And that sacrifice was my daughter?”
The messenger sounded shocked. “No, lady. The goddess interceded. When she knew the army was committed to propitiating her, she changed the sacrifice at the last minute and substituted a female deer. The goddess mercifully took Iphigenia up and carried her to Tauris to serve her as a priestess.”
I gaped at him in disbelief.
“Did you see the sacrifice?”
“No, lady, but I heard all about it. It was truly a miracle.”
I couldn’t believe the casual carelessness of his answer. I had lost my daughter and this fool prattled about miracles?
The blood rushed to my head in such a murderous rage I thrust myself from my seat and flung myself at him. My hands gripped his neck as I tried with all my strength to choke the life from him. I might be unable to reach Agamemnon, but I could kill this stupid man who made light of my daughter’s death. His hands clawed at mine as he tried to escape but he was small and light, not much more than a boy. He twisted in my grip but my thumbs were pressed hard against his windpipe and his face began to turn livid. His life was saved by Myrto, who leapt on me from behind and forcibly pulled me off.
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