The Gates Of Troy (52 page)

As the group of men awaited the appearance of Agamemnon, a great peal of thunder split the clouds above them. They felt it in the air and the ground beneath their feet, and a moment later sensed the flicker of lightning inside the swirling belly of cloud over their heads. Instinctively they grew uneasy, some of them glancing upwards or across at the tents on either side of the glade. Then, as if in response to their anxious looks, the guard on one of the tents reached across and pulled open the heavy cotton and flax canvas. A moment later Agamemnon stepped out, wearing his lion’s pelt and his breastplate of gold, tin and blue enamel. As he stared at the circle of leaders from beneath the lion’s upper teeth, they could see that his face was set in a fierce grimace and there was an almost fanatical gleam in his eyes. Then, stepping forward, he stumbled and clawed at the guy ropes to steady himself. The soldier reached out to help, but Agamemnon pushed him away irritably before continuing across the clearing. His steps were wavering and unsteady, though he tried to walk with his back straight and his head high, and when he reached the altar he gripped the edge of the plinth to keep himself from falling. He looked around at the gathered kings and princes and, to their surprise, he was smiling – a desperate grin that was halfway between amusement and derision.

‘Where’s Achilles?’ he demanded.

‘He won’t come,’ Nestor answered. ‘As a point of honour.’

‘Honour?’ Agamemnon scoffed. ‘Honour! There’s no honour in this for any of us; why should
he
remain aloof from it all?’

‘Because he’s the only sane one among us,’ said Diomedes. ‘This isn’t right, Agamemnon. It will put a curse on all of us.’

‘It’s the will of the gods!’ Agamemnon retorted, leaning across the altar towards him, the slurring of his words more pronounced now. ‘Even Achilles in his pride won’t remain untouched. He can hide away in his tent, declaring I’ve offended his honour, but we’re all part of this. The stain of it will fall on him, too.’

There was another deep roll of thunder followed by a flash of lightning, forking down from the clouds beyond the wood and momentarily sundering the oppressive gloom. Agamemnon threw both fists up at the sky and howled with anger, then drawing a dagger from his belt struck again and again at the marble plinth, sending showers of sparks to join the spray from the rain. But the blade refused to break and, his anger expended, the king slumped across the altar and lowered his head.

At that point, the guard at the other tent lifted the canvas and Calchas walked out, pulling Iphigenia behind him. She wore a brown cloak that fell almost to her ankles, and her feet were bare as she staggered forward into the ferocious rain, looking confused and fearful. A crown of small yellow, blue and white flowers had been plaited into her hair, reminding the onlookers of the summer that had been driven away from Aulis by the storms, and which would only return when the girl’s life blood had been spilled.

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 willingness 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.