Iphigenia ascended the steps with an air of absolute dignity, one at a time. When she reached the top, she turned and bestowed a dazzling smile upon the assembly. Where had she developed this instinct for commanding a crowd? Certainly I had never possessed it.
When Iphigenia reached the men, Agamemnon embraced her. Then he took a dagger from his belt, and in one swift motion, slit her throat.
A moment of utter silence followed. Not a single person in the crowd of thousands moved. Crimson appeared in wild patterns, stark against the yellow of Iphigenia’s dress. Her hands fluttered to her throat, unable to stop the red river that poured from it. The whites of her eyes showed in panic.
Those are flowers, not blood,I thought, my mind careening desperately. This is a wedding.
Iphigenia fell to her knees, and blood spattered the wood.She collapsed onto the wooden planks of the dais, her skull bouncing disconcertingly.
Someone screamed. I was never sure who it was.
The crowd exploded. The bloody death had whipped them into a frenzy. They were an army with no war to fight, trapped on a lonely coast while their enemy gloated behind his walls on a distant shore. A woman had been taken by the Trojans and a woman had been sacrificed here, and that was how it should be. She was merely the appetizer before the feast.
I watched in numb silence as Achilles ran towards Iphigenia’s limp form, his mouth open in a wordless cry. He had scarcely made it halfway before one of his personal guard, probably Patroclus, dragged him to safety. Agamemnon watched him go with utter indifference, his daughter’s corpse at his feet.
I should have acted. I should have grabbed a sword and vaulted up to the platform, cutting down Agamemnon where he stood. But vengeance would not breathe life back into Iphigenia’s still body, and shock had left me numb. The world careened around me, unreal as a dream.
A howl rose from the army, a thousand mouths giving vent to one voice, a vicious song punctuated by the crashing of shields. The men had come here for a formal occasion. They hadn’t expected such a show.
Agamemnon was addressing the crowd, but I could not hear what he was saying. I could not tell if he felt any regret or shame for murdering his own daughter. I could not see anything beyond the spatters of blood on his face and hands. Iphigenia’s blood. No wonder he had not bothered to visit before the wedding. But what could he stand to gain by killing his daughter?
I struggled for breath and realized that Elektra’s arms were locked tightly around my neck. I could feel the child trembling,and knew with horrified clarity that she had seen everything. I had not even thought to cover her eyes.
Talons dug into the meat of my arm, and a voice hissed in my ear. ‘Don’t run, but move quickly.’
It was Clytemnestra. I glanced back towards the dais where Iphigenia’s limp form lay, but my aunt’s nails dug more deeply into my arm. ‘There is no help for her,’ Clytemnestra said, dragging me away.
Elektra clung to me like a burr as I made my way across the sand. Around us I noticed the soldiers from Ithaka, wide-eyed with drawn swords. They were not unaffected by the madness sweeping the assembled troops, but they stuck to their duty to protect us. I was dimly aware that they were forced to draw blood more than once during our retreat, which passed in a distant blur.
I looked back once we reached the entrance to the women’s tent and was stunned to see that a celebratory atmosphere had come over the camp. I could not make sense of it. Some of men had dispersed for a round of rotgut or a game of dice, but others were loading ships, fighting, and shouting at one another. Still others were practising that terrible sport my people callpankration, anything-goes wrestling.
I could see the dais, empty except for a single limp form. Iphigenia.
A wind began to blow through the camp, cooling the sweat on my brow and shaking the cloth of the tent. The pervasive miasma lifted. The sails of the Greek ships billowed out, causing them to tug at their anchors like eager ponies. The wind had returned, a fair wind to blow the fleet to Troy.
Later, some would insist that Iphigenia was a sacrifice to Artemis, offered by her father to replace the sacred stag. I disagree. By killing the goddess’s own priestess on her wedding day,I think that Agamemnon intended to send a threat. He wished to show his troops that he did not fear gods or men, that the walls of Troy were nothing to him. The warriors who already adored Agamemnon loved him even more for this, and those who disliked him began to fear him. Despots of every age know that fear is better than love.
Why Artemis permitted the winds to blow is less clear to me. Perhaps she simply dropped their reins in shock when she saw what Agamemnon had done.
Iphigenia’s corpse, when it was finally returned to us, was far smaller than she had ever seemed in life. I found that the task of preparing the body for burial was easier if I pretended it was a clay doll with Iphigenia’s face, if I tried not to think too much about the cold hands that still bore my imperfect henna designs from the night before.
Clytemnestra and I rinsed off the blood as best we could, though the knife wound gaped like a second mouth at her throat. Clytemnestra sewed it up with unsteady fingers, but there was only so much she could do. The Messenian slaves brought buckets of cold seawater to assist with the washing, though I do not know how they managed to make their way through the crowd.
The camp outside was in disarray. I could hear the sounds of men and horses beyond the tent, almost as though we stood on a battlefield. Agamemnon must have taken advantage of his men’s enthusiasm, ordering them to ready the ships.
There wasn’t enough wood for a pyre on this desolate beach, and besides, I could not stand the thought of flames consuming my beloved cousin. Let the soft earth welcome her instead. Someone helped us dig a grave just outside our tent, but I cannot remember who it was. Odysseus appeared at one point,and I vaguely recall him saying something as his hands gripped my shoulders, but I could not hear his words. Then he was gone too.
By the time we were ready for Iphigenia’s burial, the Greek army had dissipated. Not a man remained on that windswept beach, only piles of strewn debris and the blackened ruins of firepits. A small band of attendants was there, including the Messenian slaves who had been tasked with seeing us women back to Mycenae.
The distant white of the sails were visible on the horizon. Agamemnon did not have the time to see to anything so paltry as the funeral of a daughter.
Clytemnestra and I wrapped Iphigenia in the cleanest linen we could find and laid her in the earth, placing a coin on her tongue to pay the ferryman in the Underworld. I said the words that would guide her soul down into the realm of Persephone and Hades, since by that time Clytemnestra was no longer capable of speech and Elektra was too young to know the verses.
We covered Iphigenia with round stones smoothed by centuries of ocean currents so that the crows and wild dogs would not devour her. A carved inscription would have been the next step, but there was no time for that. Perhaps we could have painted Iphigenia’s name on one of the rocks so that anyone who passed by would know who laid here, but that would not last beyond the next rain.
After we buried Iphigenia, Clytemnestra turned towards the sea. She picked her way through the silent ruins of the camp, striding numbly into the water until her gown was soaked to the knees. She clutched her skirts and let loose a howl of pure anguish.
The sheer cliffs beyond the beach echoed with the sound. Istiffened, prepared to spring up if Clytemnestra tried to drown herself, but my aunt merely swayed knee-deep in the surf.
