The Song of Troy (21 page)

The days dripped onward into high spring, tortmented by strong winds and deluges of rain. The sea was lashed into waves as high as the decks of the ships; there could be no hope of sailing. Each of us settled down to wait in characteristic fashion. Achilles drilled the Myrmidons pitilessly, Diomedes paced up and down my poor tent floor with increasing impatience, Idomeneus dallied in the arms of the courtesans he had brought with him from Crete, Phoinix clucked like a demented hen over his fleet, Agamemnon chewed his beard and refused to listen to any kind of advice, while the troops idled and diced, quarrelled and drank. No easy business, either, to bring sufficient food across the rain-soaked leagues to keep the army eating.

I felt little. It was all one to me which way I spent the beginning of twenty years in exile. Only a few of us gathered each day at noon to witness the reading of the omens. None of us expected a positive reason from Kalchas as to why the Great God had turned against us. The new moon waxed to full and waned to nothing without a pause in the tempest; it began to seem a serious possibility that we would not sail at all. If another moon went by the winds would be more unpredictable, and by the end of summer Troy would be closed to us until next year.

More because of my fascination with Kalchas himself than in any real hope that the God would draw back his veil and let us see his purpose, I never missed the noon ritual. Nor did this particular day prompt any prickles that it would turn out to be different. I simply went in my role of Kalchas watcher. Only Agamemnon, Nestor, Menelaos, Diomedes and Idomeneus arrived to keep me company. I had noticed in passing that the altar snake had long since emerged from his gluttonous hibernation and had taken up residence in his niche again.

But today was different. In the midst of his probing into the victim’s entrails Kalchas whipped around and pointed one long, bony, bloodied finger straight at Agamemnon.

‘There stands the one who prevents the sailing!’ he shrilled. ‘Agamemnon King of Kings, you have denied the Archeress her due! Her long-dormant anger has roused, and Zeus, her divine father, has heard her pleas for justice. Until you give Artemis what you promised her sixteen years ago, King Agamemnon, your fleet will never sail!’

Not a wild guess. Agamemnon stood swaying on his feet, his face ghastly. Kalchas
knew
what he was talking about.

The priest stalked down the steps, stiff with outrage. ‘Give Artemis what you denied her sixteen years ago, and you may sail! Not otherwise. Almighty Zeus has spoken.’

Covering his face with his hands, Agamemnon shrank away from the purple-clad figure of doom. ‘I cannot!’ he cried.

‘Then disband your army,’ said Kalchas.

‘I cannot give the Goddess what she wants! She has no right to demand it! If I had dreamed what the outcome would be – oh, I would never have promised! She is Artemis, chaste and holy. How can she demand such a thing of me?’

‘She demands her due, no more. Give it to her and you may sail,’ Kalchas repeated, voice cold. ‘If you continue to refuse your sixteen-year-old vow, the House of Atreus will sink into obscurity and you yourself will die a broken man.’

I stepped forward and forced Agamemnon’s hands down. ‘What did you promise the Archeress, Agamemnon?’

Eyes full of tears, he clung to my wrists like a drowning man to a spar. ‘A stupid, unthinking vow, Odysseus!
Stupid!
Sixteen years ago Klytemnestra was at full term with our last daughter, but her labour dragged on for three days without fruit. She couldn’t bring forth the child. I prayed to them all – the Mother, Here the Merciful and Here the Throttler, the Gods and Goddesses of the hearth, of labour, of children, of women. None of them answered me – none of them!’

The tears were falling, but he struggled on. ‘In desperation I prayed to Artemis, even though she is a virgin with her face turned away from fecund women. I begged her to help my wife give birth to a fine and unblemished child. In return, I promised her the most beautiful creature born that year in my kindom. Not many moments after I made the promise, Klytemnestra was brought to bed of our daughter, Iphigenia. And at the end of the year I sent couriers through Mykenai to bring me all the offspring they considered most beautiful. Kids, calves, lambs, even birds. I saw them all and offered them all, though in my heart I knew they would not satisfy the Goddess. She rejected every sacrifice.’

Did nothing ever change? I could see the end of this awful story as clearly as if it were painted on a wall in front of my eyes.
Why
were the Gods so cruel?

‘Finish it, Agamemnon,’ I said.

‘One day I was with my wife and the baby when Klytemnestra happened to remark that Iphigenia was the most beautiful creature in all of Greece – more beautiful, she said, than Helen. Before she was done saying it, I knew Artemis had put the words into her mouth. The Archeress wanted my daughter. Nothing less would satisfy her. But I couldn’t do that, Odysseus. We expose babes at birth, but ritual human sacrifice has not been practised in Greece since the New Religion drove out the Old. So I prayed to the Goddess and begged her to understand why I couldn’t do as she wanted. And as time went by and she did nothing, I thought she had understood. Now I see that she was only biding her time. She demands what I cannot give her, the life she let begin and insists upon ending while it is still virgin. The story of my daughter is come full circle. But I
cannot
permit human sacrifice!’

I hardened my heart. My son was lost to me: why should he keep his daughter? He had two others. His ambition had separated me from all
I
held dear – why shouldn’t
he
suffer as well? If lesser men were compelled to obey the Gods, so too should the High King, who was everyone’s representative before the Gods. He had promised, then withheld the promise for sixteen years only because it affected him personally. If the most beautiful thing born that year in his kingdom had been the child of any other man, he would have made the offering with a clear conscience. So I looked into his face with deliberate intention, my chest filled with the ache of exile, and succumbed to the urging of some daimon which had taken up residence within me the day that my house oracle had pronounced my fate.

‘You have committed a terrible sin, Agamemnon,’ I said. ‘If Iphigenia is the price Artemis demands, then you must pay it. Offer up your daughter! If you do not, your kingdom will collapse in ruins and your enterprise against Troy will turn you into the laughingstock of all time.’

How he hated being a laughingstock! Not the dearest member of his family could mean as much to Agamemnon as his kingship, his pride. I watched the conflict march across his face, the despair and grief, the vision of his own miserable descent into ignominy and ridicule. He turned to Nestor, hoping for support.

‘Nestor, what should I do?’

Torn between horror and pity, the old man wrung his hands together and wept. ‘Terrible, Agamemnon, terrible! But the Gods
must
be obeyed. If Almighty Zeus instructs you to give the Archeress what she demands, then you have no choice. I am very sorry, but I must agree with Odysseus.’

Weeping desolately, our High King appealed to each of the others; one by one, white-faced and grave, they sided with me.

I alone kept an eye on Kalchas, wondering whether he had made a few discreet enquiries into Agamemnon’s past. Who could forget the hatred and vindictiveness in his face the day the storm had begun? A subtle man. And a Trojan.

After that, it was a matter of simple logistics. Agamemnon, reconciled, convinced – thanks to me – that he had no other alternative than to sacrifice his daughter, explained how difficult it would be to get the girl away from her mother.

‘Klytemnestra would never permit that Iphigenia be brought to Aulis as a victim for the priest’s knife,’ he said, looking old and sick. ‘As Queen, she would go to the people, and the people would uphold her in this.’

‘There are ways,’ I said.

‘Then describe them.’

‘Send me to Klytemnestra, Agamemnon. I’ll tell her that, thanks to the storms, Achilles has become very restless and talks of taking himself and his Myrmidons back to Iolkos. I’ll tell her that you had the bright idea of offering him Iphigenia as his wife provided he remains at Aulis. Klytemnestra won’t question this. She told me that it was her ambition to marry Iphigenia to Achilles.’

‘But it’s a slur on Achilles,’ Agamemnon said doubtfully. ‘He would never consent. I’ve seen enough of him to know that he goes straight. After all, he’s the son of Peleus.’

Exasperated, I cast my eyes skyward. ‘Sire,
he will never know
! Surely you don’t intend to tell the whole world about this business? Each of us here today will gladly take an oath of secrecy. Human sacrifice wouldn’t win any hearts among our troops – they’d start to wonder who might be next. But if no rumour of it leaks out, then no harm is done, and Artemis is appeased.
Achilles will never know!’

‘Very well, do it,’ he said.

As we left I took Menelaos to one side. ‘Menelaos, do you want Helen back?’ I asked.

A wave of pain flooded into his face. ‘How can you ask?’

‘Then help me, or the fleet will never sail.’

‘Anything, Odysseus!’

‘Agamemnon will send a messenger to Klytemnestra ahead of me. The man will warn her to take no notice of my story and instruct her to refuse me custody of the girl. You have to intercept him.’

His mouth set into a thin, hard line. ‘I swear, Odysseus, that you’ll be the only one who speaks to Klytemnestra.’

I was satisfied. For Helen he would do it.

It was easily done. Klytemnestra was delighted with the match she thought Agamemnon had arranged for this beloved youngest female child, and it suited her to wed the girl to a man about to embark for a foreign war. She adored Iphigenia; marriage to Achilles would enable her to keep the girl with her at Mykenai until Achilles returned from Troy. So the Lion Palace rang with laughter and rejoicing while Klytemnestra packed boxes of finery with her own hands, spent time with her daughter to initiate her into women’s mysteries and marriage. She was still beside the litter talking to Iphigenia when it passed through the Lion Gate, her nubile yet unwed elder child Chrysothemis weeping in frustration and envy. Whereas Elektra, the oldest one of all, a thin, dour and unattractive replica of her father, stood on the ramparts with her baby brother, Orestes, clasped tenderly in her arms. There was no love lost between her and her mother, I had noticed that.

At the foot of the path Klytemnestra reached inside the curtains to kiss Iphigenia’s wide white brow. I shuddered. The High Queen was a woman given to passionate loves and hates; what would she do when she learned the truth, as eventually she must? If once she brought herself to hate Agamemnon, he would have good reason to fear her vengeance.

I hurried as fast as the bearers could carry the litter, anxious to reach Aulis. Whenever we stopped to rest or to camp Iphigenia chattered away to me artlessly – how much she had admired Achilles when she stole secret glances at him in the Lion Palace, how ardently she had fallen in love, how wonderful it was that she would marry him, for it was the desire of her heart.

I had steeled myself to feel no pity for her, but at times that proved difficult; her eyes were so innocent, so happy. But Odysseus is a man stronger than any others in that part of a man which gives him endurance, victory in adversity.

After night had fallen I brought the litter with its curtains drawn into the imperial camp and bundled Iphigenia straight inside a little tent near her father’s. I left her with him, Menelaos hanging on doggedly for fear the sight of her would break down Agamemnon’s resolve. Deeming it wiser not to draw attention to her advent, I posted no guards around her tent. Menelaos would have to make sure she stayed there.

11

NARRATED BY

Achilles

Each day in the rain and cold I exercised my men, warming them with hard work. Other commanders might let their troops grow slack, but the Myrmidons knew me better than that. They revelled in the conditions under which they lived, liked the rigid discipline and enjoyed a sense of superiority over other soldiers, knowing themselves more professional.

I never bothered to go to imperial headquarters, deeming it pointless. And when the second moon, a sliver, came into the sky, all of us began to assume that there would be no expedition to Troy. We simply waited for the command to disband.

On the first night the moon waxed full Patrokles went to spend the evening with Ajax, Teukros and Little Ajax. I had been invited, but elected to remain where I was, not in a mood for frivolity when the ignominious end of the grand enterprise loomed. For a while I played my lyre and sang, then lapsed into inertia.

The noise of someone entering my tent made me lift my head to see a woman holding the flap apart, a woman muffled in a wet, steaming cloak. I stared dumbfounded, hardly believing my eyes. Then she stepped inside, pulled the curtain across the entrance, twitched off the hood of her cloak and shook her head to free her hair of a few inquisitive drops of rain.

‘Achilles!’ she cried, eyes shining like clear, brownish amber. ‘I saw you at Mykenai when I peeped through the door behind Father’s throne. Oh, I am so happy!’

By this time I was on my feet, still gaping.

She was not more than fifteen or sixteen, that I saw before she took off her cloak to show me skin like milky marble faintly veined and two plump breasts. Her mouth was softly pink and tenderly curved, her hair the colour of the heart of a fire. So alive she made the air around her brittle, she had laughter in her face and a hidden strength beneath her extreme youth.

‘My mother didn’t need to persuade me,’ she hurried on when I said nothing. ‘I couldn’t wait until tomorrow to tell you how happy I am! Iphigenia will marry you gladly!’

I jumped.
Iphigenia?
The only Iphigenia I knew of was the daughter of Agamemnon and Klytemnestra! But what was she talking about? Whom could she have mistaken for me? I continued to stare at her like some shambling idiot, bereft of words.