The Songs of the Kings (23 page)

Dressing Up

1.

Early in the morning, soon after first light, as the ship rounded the headland of Attica and passed into the open sea beyond the island of Ceos, the hostile wind suddenly dropped and a period of calm descended. Then a breeze from the southeast sprang up, bearing them forward, to the great relief of all on board. By noon they were well into the Euboean channel and Sisipyla was sent to ask the captain how long it would be before they came to Aulis. Soon, she was told. Perhaps before the dark.

It was time to prepare the princess for her arrival. Her litter, and an awning to protect her from the sun, and a tent improvised from canvas and spars were in place already on the high poop of the ship. Here, while the ship was propelled smoothly forward by the auspicious breeze—surely sent by Artemis in favor of the nuptials— under the skillful hands of Sisipyla, the princess was dressed for her meeting with the groom. She wore a long skirt, hooped with copper wires to make it bell-shaped, and made up of numerous small strips of different colors falling in flounces and decorated in half-moon patterns in honor of the goddess, and a red jacket brocaded in a darker shade, open at the front from throat to navel, with the breasts lightly veiled by a high-necked diaphanous vest. Her cheeks were touched with rouge and her eyelids darkened with a dye made from the black poplar, Hecate's tree, symbolizing the renewal of the moon.

It was a beautiful and stately stranger that was at last revealed to view. Aware of her finery, she bore herself more deliberately, and she seemed taller to Macris, waiting below, because of the high chignon on the crown of her head, rising above the rows of small curls before and behind the silver headband. Seeing her thus, dressed and scented and painted for another, he felt a thin phlegm of bitterness rise in his throat; he did not speak the compliments that had risen to his mind and after a moment or two he moved away into the waist of the ship.

The light was failing when they came within sight of the Greek ships lying at anchor, and it was dusk when they disembarked, Iphigeneia carried on her litter by four men through the placid shallows, Sisipyla wading with the others, raising the hem of her narrow skirt. Waiting with lighted torches on the shore was a group of men, no more than a dozen, their faces not yet distinguishable.

Macris offered his arm to the princess as she descended from the litter, and remained at her side while she stood there, motionless on the dark beach, waiting, with a sure instinct of dignity, for those meeting her to advance. The flickering light of the torches still made vision difficult. A man detached himself from the group and came some paces forward, followed closely by one of the torchbearers. He bowed and straightened himself and the light fell on his dark-eyed, handsome face. “Welcome, princess,” he said. “Achilles sends deepest apologies at not being here to meet you. He has been delayed at the hunt.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Patroclus.”

“And my father? Why is he not here to meet me?” Iphigeneia spoke calmly, without haste. Perhaps only Sisipyla, standing close behind, knew the effort this cost her.

“An unfortunate indisposition. An attack of colic that came upon him suddenly.”

Iphigeneia took a step forward. “I will go to him.”

“No, no, he is in some pain, he would not wish to receive you in that condition. He expects to be recovered by morning. It is late, you will be tired, our orders are to escort you to your quarters.”

“Your orders?” Macris said. He too, for quite different reasons, found it difficult to keep his voice on an even keel. Iphigeneia's beauty and loneliness in the torchlight, the wasted splendor of her dress, something too brusque in the manner of this messenger of Achilles had distressed and angered him in equal measure. He glanced briefly round for Diomedes, who as chief ambassador was most responsible for the princess's reception. But he had disappeared into the darkness. Phylakos was there still, but no appeal could be made to him. He said, “Your orders will need to take account of the princess's wishes and of her natural disappointment at finding neither bride-groom nor father to welcome her after such a journey.”

“And who may you be?” Patroclus said.

Macris left the princess's side to move forward so that his face could be clearly seen. He was close to Patroclus now, and looked directly into his eyes. “I am Macris, son of Amphidamas.”

He continued the close regard and for some moments it was like the game he remembered from childhood, played with sticks instead of swords, the game of who strikes first at the signal; and he knew he would win this contest against the man before him, whether it was in play or in earnest. He said, “You must have sighted our ship in early morning. Lord Achilles did not think of forgoing his sport on this day, when his bride was arriving?”

“Macris, you go too far and too fast, as usual,” Iphigeneia said. “I have not asked you to quarrel on my behalf.”

“This one is always ready to quarrel,” Phylakos said, and he came forward, crossed to the group with the torches, passed into the shadows beyond them. Macris saw now that of those who had landed with the princess there only remained the women and himself and the six he had brought with him. “He is a boy that needs a lesson,” Phylakos said from somewhere in the shadowy haze beyond the lights.

Macris suppressed the retort that rose to his lips. He would have been ready enough to quarrel with Phylakos too, for all the older man's strong build and the tricks he had picked up in the years of battle. All his suspicion, his sense of the general wrongness of things, first felt at Mycenae, was redoubled now at this scrambled reception, at the rudeness to himself when he stood by the side of the princess as her escort. Patroclus had not even bothered to find a convincing form of words. How could Achilles convey regrets when he was still somewhere out in the countryside?

“Permit us to accompany you to your quarters,” Patroclus said. “We have made everything ready for you.”

“I will need my women with me.”

“There is no need. There are women here who will be within call.”

“Women of the camp?”

“Lady, we are far from the luxuries of the palace here. There would not be room for people in constant attendance.”

Iphigeneia had been allowing herself to be guided forward, but now she stopped. “I will keep Sisipyla with me,” she said.

“You can send for your slave girl at any time you need her, but our orders—”

Iphigeneia remained motionless. “I am not interested in your orders,” she said, and there was the faintest quiver in her voice. “Perhaps you didn't hear me properly. Macris, will you make my wishes plain to this man?”

Without needing instructions, the small squadron under Macris's command had formed in close order round the princess, and Macris now positioned himself directly in front of her, right arm resting loosely across his body. He said, “The princess desires that her companion Sisipyla should accompany her and remain in attendance. If this desire is not met, she will return under our escort to the ship.”

For some while nobody stirred or spoke. They could hear the faint hissing of the water as it moved among the pebbles. Somewhere inland a dog barked and others joined in. Macris watched Patroclus come to the only possible conclusion. He could sense the calculation going on behind the other's eyes: Better to yield in lesser matters . . . Why did they want to isolate her?

“Lady, by all means keep the girl with you. Forgive me, I had not realized that it mattered so much.”

On this, Iphigeneia moved forward once again with Sisipyla beside her. Macris, following close behind, saw the lighted tent that they were led to. He had hoped for a word of farewell, or even just a glance, but none came. Iphigeneia had not looked at him or spoken to him again after that one request. Six armed men had been stationed round the tent. Light fell on the faces of the two at the entrance as they stood aside for the princess to pass, and Macris recognized them as members of Agamemnon's palace guard. Six seemed a lot; but of course the King would want to give his daughter what state and consequence he could in the rough conditions of the camp. Surely Agamemnon would take it amiss, as a slight upon himself, that the husband-to-be had failed to be present at his betrothed's arrival?

The two girls moved here and there inside the tent and their shadows were cast on the canvas wall. Macris tried to distinguish between them, tried to determine which one was Iphigeneia's, but they were identical in form and movement, it was impossible to tell which was the princess and which the slave. Then they vanished altogether as the two passed into the central part of the tent where the woven hangings blocked the light.

Sick at heart, he turned away, turned his back on the lighted chamber where Iphigeneia would wait for Achilles. He dismissed his men with orders to find quarters in the Mycenaean lines and report to him next day at sunrise. He had no desire for rest; in the agitation of his feelings even the thought of remaining still was intolerable to him; he had no gift for passivity, no saving instinct to seek shelter from unhappiness by retreating into the self. It was dark outside the confines of the camp, the light of fires and torches making the world beyond seem vast and featureless. He would walk along the shore until he felt tired enough to think of sleeping.

The descent of night had stilled the sea and the ships at their moorings made no sound as he passed. The light was strong enough for him to make out the gleam of the waterline, and he kept just above it, on the shingle. Somewhere out to sea a lost gull uttered desolate cries. Macris walked until the way was closed off by rocks, the scattering of some ancient landslide. On his return, as he came up to the outskirts of the camp, he saw a low light burning above the shore and heard the high chant of a singer and the ruffling wingbeat sound of a lyre.

He mounted towards the light and the sound and came upon men grouped in a semicircle round a singer with a bird-like tilt of the head that suggested blindness. Seated close behind him was a boy with a beautiful rapt face.

It was the story of the Boeotian king Athamas, and Macris had heard it before, it was in every singer's repertory, always in demand because of the dramatic changes of fortune in it and the element of horror. Macris found a place a little apart and sat down to listen.

Athamas was a very unlucky man, though rich and powerful. This bad luck he brought upon himself by his folly in taking a second wife while the first was still living. The new wife was named Ino, a Theban woman, one of the daughters of Cadmus. She was a potent sorceress, and very grasping and greedy, the kind of person who wants everything and wants it now. She was immediately jealous of the first wife, whose name was Nephele. She was tormented by the thought that Nephele's son Phrixus would inherit the throne, taking precedence over her own children. This thought allowed her no rest by day or night. She couldn't think of anything else, she felt she was going mad.

She didn't dare to do any harm to Phrixus directly, much as she would have liked to. But she brooded over it and in the end she hit upon a plan. By her black arts she maddened the Boeotian women so that they secretly parched the corn seed intended for the spring sowing. As a result the crop failed and the specter of famine loomed over the land. Just as Ino had expected, Athamas sent messengers to consult the oracle at Delphi and bring back word as to how the catastrophe could be avoided. This was the springing of the trap, the moment this diabolical woman had been waiting for. She was ahead of the game at every point, for now with her spells she turned the brains of the returning messengers and made them commit a horrible crime. They falsified the words of the oracle, they reported to the king that if the famine was to be averted his only son Phrixus must be sacrificed at the altar of Zeus.

Macris felt a prickling at the nape of his neck. Never before had he heard the story told in such a gripping manner. It was as if the Singer were himself a witness, as if he were trying in his own person to warn or persuade. The boy had assumed his exact posture, shoulders held back and head tilted. The people listening were rapt in silence, no smallest sound came from them.

It was a lie, a lie, but the king believed it. He had no choice but to believe it. And that is the important thing, not the truth or the lie but the belief, the readiness, that is what pleases Zeus. It cannot be immediate, there must always be struggle, but in the end the king must agree, so as to save his people. Otherwise, how can he continue to be king? The welfare of the people is more important than the life of the child. Some say Athamas was concerned only to save his throne, but this is to take the view of the snake, not the eagle. There will always be cynics. How can our great leader, Agamemnon, tamer of horses, think only of one life when a thousand men are waiting on his word, how can he pause to wonder whether the messenger is under a spell? He leads his child to the altar and makes everything ready for the sacrifice. He takes up the knife . . .

The Singer paused, waited a moment, then struck a shuddering chord on the lyre for the killing stroke. When he resumed, it was on a quieter, more measured note. It was related by some that at the very moment the knife was raised a ram with a fleece the color of gold appeared from nowhere, sent by merciful Zeus, and Phrixus climbed on its back and it rose with him and flew off to the northeast and neither the boy nor the ram was ever seen again. The northeast, where the wind that had so plagued them came from, the wind that was now stopped . . .

Once more he made a pause. And now he did something very rare with him, almost unprecedented, he turned his face towards the vague, glimmering shapes of his listeners and spoke directly to them. “Now that the wind has gone, it is difficult for a blind man to know north from south. Now that the wind has gone, it is difficult for blind and sighted alike to know the will of Zeus. Some say this, some say that. There is always another story. Perhaps there was no witchcraft, perhaps the messengers spoke the truth. Perhaps Ino was innocent, pursued as some say by the jealous wrath of white-armed Hera, consort of Zeus, because her lord had once been in love with Ino's sister, Semele. There is always another story. But it is the stories told by the strong, the songs of the kings, that are believed in the end.”