Orpheus
I have set my face to the sunlight, my feet in the river Alpheus which flows along Avernus. Behind me comes the sibilant whisper of dead souls, numbed by Lethe to emotion and curious about my presence. A murmur skitters across the darkness, and a rush of cool air pools around my ankles. The shades flank me, a long gauntlet, envious of my path. I cannot hear Eurydice for their noise, and I fight the urge to turn my head.
Neither to the left nor the right. This is the price of love. Hades’ words dog my steps as the valley becomes steep. The sunlight, closer now, makes a twilight of this dim world, and the shades die away as the glow increases. Still I cannot hear her steps behind and I wonder if Hades has lied to be rid of me.
The sun is setting as I reach the lip of the valley, burning the last shadows of Hell from my skin. As my foot crosses the threshold of life, my heart leaps. At last I shall behold Eurydice!
I turn. There, but a step away from daylight, I can make out her pale cheek, her lilting step, a white finger! Eurydice!
Her eyes snap open at the sound of her name, and a look of despair and horror overtakes her face. Slowly, slowly, she is drawn backwards into the darkness. Eurydice!
I lunge for her hands, a last look, a touch, but she is spinning away from me, faster and faster. The Alpheus splashes about me, throwing stinging drops against my skin. Her eyes are luminous, like falling stars, and I watch them plummet from the heavens into death.
Charon
He has been here for seven long days, this man, with harp unstrung and hair unkempt and white rags his only covering. I have seen him before, when his voice was not raw with screaming and his eyes not blurred with tears. I gave him passage, though he was not dead, because his heart was overwhelmed with love so cruelly snatched from him.
He rages against me, but I turn him with a soft word. Favors cannot be given twice in this world; I have already earned eternal damnation for his crossing. But even I could not have denied him love.
I urge him to sing again, to restring his harp and comb his hair and put off his white clothing for new garments. But the voice of Orpheus will not delight the depths of Hell again, until the appointed time when he comes bearing two silver coins—one for him, and one for his lady-love, Eurydice.
On quiet nights, when his weeping has worn him into silence, a gentle breeze stirs the river. It smells of flowers and grain: one of the last gifts Persephone retains below. He is soothed by this breeze from across the river, and it seems that it alone allows him the release of sleep.
While he slumbers, the breeze plucks vainly at his clothes and hair. He stirs but does not wake as the softest of whispers falls on his unlucky deaf ears: Orpheus.
It is Eurydice.
Orpheus
Thus, I retreat, to lick my wounds with bitter tears and drink gall until my heart bursts within me. Love damns us to the pit of Hell—ever-reaching, yet never touching our beloveds. What exquisite torture, dreamt up by gods for Tantalus himself!
No longer shall I lie to you and sing of love’s beauty and radiance; she is cold, and shines with the light of jewels: bright, but unfeeling. No! I will expose her callous fripperies and show her, naked, to the sun.
Hear, the, my tale of a thrice-accursed city named Troy, and of the face which wrought its destruction.
Iphigenia
Based on Euripides’ Iphigenia at Aulis
Agamemnon
The wind does not blow.
Day after day, we languish at Aulis, sails and jaws slack, faces flat as the sea. Not a breath of air stirs the heavy canvas, the sand of the Boeotian shores. My brother’s face grows tighter every day, stretched against the distance that unfurls between him and Helen. He stalks up and down the deck, silent, and his eyes flame whenever he thinks of Paris. His right hand strokes his sword, contemplating a greater destruction, and now and again reveals his rage through white knuckles gripping bronze.
I am afraid. In this battle of honor, I am the general, and the rank sits ill with me when the wind does not blow. The murmurs of a thousand lips flutter against straight sails, against bitter ears, against the war and those who lead it. But the hot breath of restlessness does not bloat the flat stomachs of the sails. I cover my ears, but tendrils of evil doubt snake through my fingers. Perhaps this war is not of the gods. Perhaps Agamemnon has got us here under false pretence—not for the gods at all, but for his own selfish gain! And now the gods are punishing him. Perhaps we ought to punish him too. I tremble against these whispers, for the words which creep, unspoken, round the edges of man’s hearing are more deadly than those shouted in harsh challenge. We ought to kill Agamemnon, unrighteous king who dared to speak for the gods.
My brother paces the deck, countenance closed and wrathful; my own brother, for whose sake I gathered the armies of Argos, for whose faithless bride lives will be sacrificed. But I never wanted to give my life for Helen!
His foot treads heavy over aging boards as I pray to the gods: If ever you loved us, give us wind! But they do not answer.
What will he do if the wind does not blow? What will he do when the water runs dry, when our fleet is no longer supplied for the voyage to Troy?
I am afraid because I am alone, and it is not only my men who have turned against me. The rage of Menelaus is cold and roving, seeking a wretch on whom to satiate its appetite. I am his brother, confidante of his youth, forced into failure by the power of my position. Even now I feel the wet breath of his anger, the prickle of its claws, waiting to devour one who, unlike Paris, is at hand and defenseless.
I have prayed to the gods to bless our journey, our war. I have begged for wind, staking even our victory against this limbo. Anything to move on from here.
The gods turn a deaf ear to my entreaties. Perhaps it is I, and not the gods, who is to fault. I am not holy enough for the gods to listen. As my brother walks his well worn path across the deck, I know it is time. We must have wind.
I must speak to Calchas.
Calchas
He comes to me, the veil of evening hiding his shame. Even the great Atrides must come to me to commune with the gods.
His foot hesitates without the glow of my fire. He knows, with the ignorance of a provincial man, that mysteries lurk here, rapport with grander and more terrible beings, dark magics which cause the simple soul to tremble in blind unknowing. He is no holy man, Agamemnon.
My smile is thin in the knowledge of my power. Why do you pause, Agamemnon? What spirit brings you here tonight?
His eyes are wide, the pitiable fool, when I name him unseen. Is the mind so narrow that it does not observe a habit, a motion, a step? For the general hesitates often these days.
The whispers of the gods nibble at the edges of my consciousness. I know why he is here: Ah, you wonder why the breath of the gods has left your sails. Agamemnon starts, like a man caught from a dream into cruel waking.
My lord, if I have done anything to anger the gods—if any man has done aught, I will severely punish him to appease the gods—only tell me, Calchas, why there is no wind!
I pass my hand across the sacred objects, waiting for the gods to tell me their desires. They are silent as my fingers pass over the scrying glass, the bones, the soft-feathered doves. As my hand approaches the deer, snared so carefully by the skilled hunters, the flicker of the gods’ voices swells in my ears, and when I touch the ceremonial knife, I am overwhelmed by the gods. They roar dense across my vision, palling sand and crouching general in their radiance, freewheeling across my gaze. I reel as they release me back to the sands of Aulis. The gods demand blood. With one motion I slit the throat of the deer. Its unsuspecting eyes are full and dark, sullied with blood as I drop the carcass and open the belly, revealing the gut of the gods. I will read the entrails, may the gods bless the truth.
My fingers tangle in the winding tissue, and the gods’ words flash against my mind, wheels of fire. Blood—the folly of the house of Atrides—atonement for the sin of this house—
Whose
sin, my lord?
The voices of the gods oppress me, I cannot see his face for the blinding words. Helen’s sin.
But she is not of our house—
The rashness of Menelaus and the waste of lives.
A war of honor—
Your sin, Agamemnon, your cowardice, your fear.
He quails against the firelight, shrinking from the gods’ cold honesty. What would the gods have me do?
The entrails writhe under my scrabbling fingertips. The gods demand blood, the blood of a royal virgin with Helen’s golden hair... A name blazes, hot and white against the blackness of night. Iphigenia.
The blood drains from his ruddy face, and Agamemnon sags farther into the sand. Oh gods, no, Zeus, no, something else, there must be something else…
The gods leave me abruptly, a mere mortal, helpless against his despair. Iphigenia?
Tears gather in his eyes, unexpected nakedness from the weak, posturing king. She is my daughter.
Agamemnon
In the darkness of night, a hundred fires burn, etching sibilant tongues against the blackness. As I stumble down the broad path toward my tent, it seems to me that every blaze is sacred, heaped upon a cold altar while charred hair and flesh rise upward in holy smoke.
How can one give the child of one’s body to the knife and flames? Calchas’ parting words ring in my ears: If she does not, then you shall surely die for disobeying the gods.
There is no choice; there is no choice to be made. I will die that my daughter may live. But the thought of cold bronze plunged into my breast chills my soul, and I am afraid. I will surely die for disobeying the gods, and the war will go onward, trailing slaughter in its wake. And without their general, who knows how many deaths will pass unneeded? Under the hasty hand of Menelaus, not a soul will return to Argos.
Conniving logic wheedles faultless fingers through my fear: The death of one or the death of many? Really, there is no choice. Your daughter for a thousand mothers’ sons—no choice indeed. Sinless Agamemnon, save yourself that you might save others.
In the darkness of night, a thousand voices whisper: Death to Agamemnon, whose sin bleeds the wind from our sails.
Justification, blind to her own flaws, absolves me of my guilt and doubt. I will summon my daughter, the first of the innocents led to the slaughter in this war against Paris, and through her death save us all.
In my tent, I light a lamp and find a blank parchment. A letter to her mother—in this way I will call my child. My fingers shape sloppy letters against the page, splaying erratic spills of ink in their fear. When she reads this letter, my wife will think it was written in haste, dashed off in joy so pressing that I hardly had time to write it with all the preparations underway. But it is a lie.
How to summon Iphigenia to Aulis? No easy task, for I cannot tell her the truth and rely on her piety and honor to bring her. What I ask is too great a price, even from a maiden as pure as Iphigenia. No, instead I will ensnare her through guile, I will write to my wife and tell her of a marriage arranged between our daughter and the great Achilles. He is a noble man, proud, but with good reason, a fierce warrior and the pride of the Myrmidons. We should be honored that such a man desires our daughter, such a son-in-law! My hand can hardly shape the words. How can I enact this fatal deception against my own daughter, my Iphigenia?
Without my prompting, so it seems, words course over the page, well-chosen words, the lines to win Clytemnestra’s consent and send her across the waves with our child. My signature appears, then my seal, affixed unconsciously across the parchment. A voice other than my own issues from my throat and commands a messenger to go post-haste and deliver this letter to Clytemnestra and no other. Then he is gone, and I cannot undo what I have done.
Worry gnaws at my innards, preying on the softness of my flesh. Should one defy the gods and save one’s child? The gods will not bless such selfishness. But wind at the price of my daughter, my firstborn—
To gain wind, blood must be shed. Thus say the gods.
Iphigenia
The wind hums in my ears, not the singing of swift sails but the throb of oars dipped in translucent waters. If the sky is the path of the gods, then the water is their gift to mortals, that we too may enjoy the gods’ ecstasy.
I know our voyage in knots, in the path of the unseen stars, in the rush of tides against our ship. The prow of the ship strains against my touch, yearning for a destination where it can never be satisfied, for the heart of a ship is in its journey, not its port. For a moment, I too am freed of our common destiny, caught up in the joy of motion and transience, the contained boundlessness of a ship on the sea. We are borne towards Aulis on the wings of fathoms and opaque depths.
Even my mother sees a shard of the freedom that is upon us, though her cloistered women’s world of regulations shutters much of it from her gaze. I am not hers, a child cast from a different mold and metal, but for a breath we are one, on the waters before Aulis. Impulsively she stoops to embrace me and, though our dignity forbids such displays, I return her affection. We both know there is not much time left for these forsakings of control, but it is for the happiest reason known to mother and daughter: I am to be married.
The captain calls for the oars to be put up for the night, for the men are tired and, though my father urges haste, it is better to treat one’s men well than to achieve speed. After all, it is only a wedding. The captain carefully takes the ship’s bearings from the lowering sun and the pale stars that shyly illuminate the quickening night. Though our voyage is short, I too would learn to read the stars.
But that time must wait until the first watches of the night, for my mother lays a heavy hand on my shoulder. The weight of flesh draws me downward, to this body in the prow of the ship, to the singular isolation and attention that burdens a bride. Never again shall I be truly alone, and my soul aches at the thought.
The sun is heavy on the bosom of the sea, turning water to bronze. As Apollo’s horses complete their circuit, I doff the fleeting girlhood of afternoon and resume the burgeoning burden of promise. My mother sweeps the long hair off my back and plaits it, weighing different effects against my face. My hair is my bridal headdress, unbound until the day of marriage. The braid lies heavy against my neck, swollen symbol of potential. My future, decided, is the desolation of the unknown.
As the sun sets and I am refreshed by the cooler draft of the stars, my mother draws her fingers through my hair, loosing the braid and returning me to myself. I am pledged but not wed, I am leaving but not gone. I am I, for one day more.
Until we reach Aulis.
Clytemnestra
My daughter is radiant against the sea and sky, pensive in the dark bow of the ship. The morning sun kisses her virginal face, and I can just see the planes of her cheek in the new light. Her happiness is betrayed only in the softest of caught breaths, the slightest curve of a smile in the face that I know so well. Today we reach Aulis.
Pride wells in my chest, for I am the mother of this noble maiden. He will not be ashamed to receive Iphigenia as his wife, this beautiful and dignified lady. Strange to think of my daughter in such terms—but then, the refinement of years has driven us apart, her natural dignity blossoming under my husband’s tutelage. It is he from whom she has learned, a future queen garnering understanding of the state, learning politics and its careful language, honing her quiet wit and biting acumen into the wisdom of kings. She has been a dutiful daughter to me, and I ought not complain, for she has turned her hand at the spinning wheel and loom and learnt childcare with her brother and sister. But my Iphigenia was crafted for statesmanship and the efficient management of a household, not for demonstrations of love. And so I have honored her wishes, burying the inevitable disappointment of motherhood deep within me. For what mother is not secretly discontented when her child chooses her own path?
Her shoulders stiffen, silhouetted against the waking day, and as the captain approaches her to bid her good morning, she points to a smudge o
n the horizon, low voice thrilling with a question. Yes, he nods, that is Aulis. Though his words are quiet, they carry on the sea, a knell tolling out our last moments as ourselves. I cannot stay the thought that marriage is the bedmate of death, stealing our children as irreparably, but crueler for its winsome guise.
I wish these last few hours could be spent in the company of my daughter, but she desires knowledge of the overseeing of a ship and will be with the captain, learning, always learning. In my heart I know that our time passed long ago, and the last vestiges vanished last night when my thoughtless fingers unraveled her braid.
Agamemnon
The ship glides into shore, expertly beached by Argive sailors. They are a good cohort, culled from the finest that could be spared, as befits a royal guard for a princess bride. Mechanically I return the captain’s salute. Smooth voyage, sir. No complications.
Thank you, captain. My gaze roams absently from his face, searching the small ship for a bright head. There, at the stern, the golden head shimmers in the sun. Her face is intent as she speaks with a crewman, gestures indicating that she has learnt seamanship as a matter of course and is now discussing the proper beaching technique. Every occurrence is an opportunity to add to her knowledge, the better to prepare her for her royal inheritance. But she will never claim that right, now.
Her face glows as her eye finds mine. With a graceful word, she excuses herself from the sailor and walks quickly down the gangplank. She does not run, this daughter of mine, and her carriage is quite erect despite the narrowness of the plank. The captain offers his hand for the last perilous steps, and she accepts magnanimously. When her foot touches the sand, she embraces me with warmth amplified by separation. My hands tremble as I hold her. Deception has rendered me unworthy of this daughter. Can she sense my lie with her sharp intuition? But no, her first words are only tangentially about me.
Troy Page 2