I wondered if ‘war councils’ was not a polite way of saying ‘carousing and drinking’. I wondered further at a man who would not come to greet his own wife and daughters on the eve of the eldest’s wedding. But all of us were eager to leave the cramped interior of the carriage, and I did not waste our time by asking any questions.
Ithakan soldiers formed a periphery around us, and we were led to a large tent in the middle of the camp. It stood near an even more magnificent tent that I was certain must belong tomy uncle Agamemnon, though I saw no trace of the man. I noticed more soldiers peering at us, eyes bright with curiosity and perhaps other desires as well, but then my line of vision was abruptly cut off by the fall of the tent flap.
On the night before her wedding, it was traditional for a bride’s kinswomen to bathe her in rosewater, braid her hair, beautify her hands and feet with henna, and fill her ears with all the information a new wife needed to know. This was what the women had done for Helen’s wedding so long ago, although my mother and I had arrived too late to join in the ritual, and this was what we did for Iphigenia now.
The festivities were muted. Clytemnestra looked ashen, like a woman forced to sell her only child for bread. The rest of the women followed her lead and remained subdued. I told myself that this was because the bridal party was so small, and the tent was so stuffy. With the war, there was simply no time to summon all of Iphigenia’s relatives for a more elaborate ceremony. The only ones in attendance were Clytemnestra, little Elektra, and me, along with a pair of Messenian slaves whose names I never learned.
As I traced intricate patterns of henna paste onto Iphigenia’s hands, it occurred to me that I had never experienced these rituals myself. My own marriage to Eros – if it could be called that – was swift and unexpected. I hadn’t even had a proper wedding ceremony, let alone anyone to paint my hands and feet so beautifully. Though it would have made no difference in the way things turned out.
Grief speared my heart. I had lost Eros, Atalanta, and my mother and father as well. And I knew that however much I despised Agamemnon, however much I longed to claim the throne of Mycenae as my birthright, I could never dosomething that would sever me from Iphigenia. She was the only real family I had left, save for the baby growing in my belly.
I assumed that Clytemnestra would take the opportunity to expound upon the behaviour expected of a young bride or at least share conversation with her daughter. Instead, to my surprise, Iphigenia’s mother took to her bed after supper.
‘Weddings exhaust me, you know that,’ she snapped before settling down underneath her blankets.
The tent was not large. If one person wanted to sleep, it made no sense for the rest to stay up. Reeling with the abruptness of it, we extinguished our lamps and lay down as well.
I chose a spot next to Iphigenia, so close that I could smell the lingering scent of rosewater on her skin. After some time had passed, I heard a whisper.
‘I want your opinion,’ Iphigenia said. She spoke softly to ensure that no one else would hear, though snores already rose from Clytemnestra’s bedroll. I felt my cousin’s words as much as I heard them, the vibration reminding me of those sightless nights with Eros.
‘I’ve been thinking about what can gowrongwith Achilles, and not what I must do to ensure that things goright,’ she whispered. ‘After the wedding, he’ll be gone for a year or so on the Trojan campaign. I’ve been assuming I’ll stay in Mycenae, but – what if I go with him? If the wedding night goes well, that is,’ she added hastily. ‘If he’s a brute, it’s back to Tiryns for me.’
‘An interesting idea,’ I remarked. Brides didn’t usually go to war with their husbands, but these were not usual times.
‘My question,’ Iphigenia continued, her voice thrumming with excitement, ‘is this: Would you come with me, Psyche? All the way to Troy?’
Noticing my stunned silence, Iphigenia added hurriedly, ‘IfI go as his new bride and you come as my companion, even Father won’t be able to prohibit it. I’ll have to ask Achilles what he thinks, but I’m sure he won’t mind. What man wouldn’t want his new wife with him? Besides, I’m a trained priestess of Artemis, and the soldiers will want me there to perform the sacred rites. And you’ll get to fight in the war if you want to. It’ll be wonderful! I’ll be the priestess I’ve always wanted to become, and you’ll be the hero you were meant to be.’
I pondered this. My plan to seize the throne of Mycenae now seemed like nothing more than a naïve scheme; no one could stop the forward momentum of the war. But perhaps I could modulate it. I would have some sway with Agamemnon if I distinguished myself in the army. My fighting skills were adaptable, as I had learned on the road with the bandits. The other soldiers might balk at a woman’s presence at first, but they would come around. And Iphigenia was right that warriors far from home would appreciate the comforting presence of a priestess.
Another thought occurred to me. In my brief idyll at the seaside house and during the long brutal journey after, I had nearly forgotten the prophecy that the Oracle of Delphi spoke over my birth. Perhaps my own destiny lay at the other end of the sea at Troy. Perhaps it was there that I would become a true hero.
Even though it meant leaving behind any hope of seeing Eros again.
‘Well?’ Iphigenia’s breath was hot on my cheek, her tone hopeful.
I smiled. ‘Give me the night to think about it, Iphigenia. I have just come home, and I do not know if I am ready to leave again so soon.’
Iphigenia heaved a dramatic sigh and rolled over. Soon her breathing slipped into the easy rhythm that signalled sleep.
I lay awake, staring up at the darkness. Even as the sounds of revelry began to die away outside, I continued to gaze at the arch of the tent. Some instinct would not let me rest. At last I stood up, threw on a cloak, and, after a moment’s thought, strapped a long hunting knife to my belt. I needed air and the open sky.
I padded on silent feet to the entrance of the tent, careful not to wake the other women. This effort was spoiled when I pushed back the tent flap and nearly collided with an armoured figure. I should have known we would be under guard. This was a military camp, after all.
‘Lady Psyche, what brings you out at this late hour?’ one of the guards demanded.
It took me a moment to place the voice, not to mention the face that stared at me from beneath the plumed helmet. ‘Patroclus?’ I asked wonderingly.
He nodded, pulling off his helmet. Patroclus had grown since that day at the Heraean Games, which now seemed like a lifetime ago, but his face had the same simplicity.
‘Where are you headed this evening?’ he asked. ‘I would be happy to escort you.’
‘Nowhere. I only wanted to see the stars and listen to the ocean.’
Patroclus nodded. ‘It is unseemly for a lady of your standing to go walking alone among so many men. I will go with you. Remain at your posts,’ he ordered into the darkness. I realized that two other warriors stood before the tent, each wearing the same armour as Patroclus. More of the Myrmidons, Achilles’s men.
Patroclus began to walk, and I followed him. An idea dawned:perhaps I could establish an alliance with this man, and together we could form some coalition to face Agamemnon. I noticed the camp was oddly calm, and though I could hear laughter and voices from the tents, we encountered few soldiers. I remarked upon this strange fact as we wound our way around the tents and fires to the fringes of the camp.
