Troy
Page 4
As the sword arcs in a death-blow, and I flinch against the certain sprays of blood, a white hand catches Achilles’ arm and averts destruction. Stay your hand, Achilles, son of Thetis!
His face is set for war, for the brutal triumph of death, but as his eyes light on the golden hair, the upturned face, the ancient eyes, I see the quiver of some greater truth grapple with his desire to protect. It cannot be love—gods, dare I hope for that, even now?
Her white hand holds aloft his arm with the long sword. She cannot stay his hand for long; her slender strength will not support it. But as he looks upon her face, he lowers his weapon until the point scrapes across the sand. If you wish it so, my lady.
Her hand remains on his, seeking to mend a broken moment, but he turns his face away from her. In the stillness of the ocean night I can see his grief transform into respect and as the moon rises over Boeotian waters I think I see love.
Achilles
Rage floods my mind, red, coursing across muscles and tendons until it consumes all. The seer’s hand flies from her head, his hand a curse, not the blessing for which we foolishly hoped. For what wedding got up in secret, hidden from even the bridegroom until the last moment, can wish for good auspices? My sword whirls in my hand, slicing in glittering arcs towards the seer. He shrinks beneath my onslaught, dazzled by the deadly latticework of swordplay.
At last he is cornered, the miserable false prophet, and as he raises his hands in supplication, arrogance stripped in the final fleeting moment, I drive my blade downward to separate soul from body—
A flash of white arrests my movement as a hand stays my wrist. With a wrench I twist my sword, a breath’s space between the blade and the seer’s blackened heart. The point skitters uselessly to one side, the seer cowers, still living, at my feet. I cannot control my snarl as I turn on she who thwarted my blade.
Her face is stern, set, and her hand is strong against my arm. She ought to have been a queen—she ought to have been my queen.
Stay your hand, Achilles. I recognize the power in her quiet words, a command that expects to be obeyed because it is confident of the respect allotted to it, if it is not assured of the love.
I drop the tip of my sword to the sand, eyes blazing. My throat is tight as I advance on her. He betrayed you, Iphigenia!
Her dignity is not corrupted by my words, and, tactician that she is, she does not retreat a single step. No one has betrayed me, Achilles. To do the will of the gods is not betrayal.
Who can say what the will of the gods is? The words burst from me, thoughtlessly, the burden of a heart bitterly deceived. We have blindly believed in the gods and in their seers; they do not hear us.
For the first time, the veneer of her dignity cracks, and I have the perverse satisfaction of seeing her desolated. If there were not men to read the will of the gods through the mystic signs, how should we know how to act? Who would tell us when to make war or peace, when to wed or abstain, when it is our time to die and when we may walk free?
The will of the gods is no more than the will of weak and wicked men.
Her hand plays false against the remnants of composure, pressing against her lips to stifle their trembling. I draw closer to press my onslaught, but in the air that lies between us I realize there is nothing more to say. In this space there are no gods, no madness of rage. We are mortal and will die.
How can you disbelieve the gods, Achilles, son of Thetis?
Her words cut me to the quick, and I am vulnerable, disarmed. The son of Peleus is at war with the son of Thetis, and the gods have not dictated this battle.
A single life is no cause to deny the gods.
She hides her face in shadow, and I cannot reach her. I have cruelly thrust the burden of sacrifice solely into her arms, refusing to shoulder any of its bulk. But I cannot leave her utterly alone for the last vigil, the first grief.
As I touch her shoulder, words of anguish on my lips, she starts and her eyes are lustrous with all that must remain unspoken. My tongue falls heavy in my mouth, for we are not given to these words of suffering. Her shoulder hovers, uncertain, under my fingers for a moment, and then she is gone into the wastes of the night.
Agamemnon
Each step toward the mouth of the tent seems thunderous, eternal. I will never escape this shrinking prison, never be free from the wondering gaze of my daughter as she looks past me into sacred flames.
Beyond the tent walls the moonlight is damnably cold, condemning me with her stern eye. I wander, cowed beneath her silent accusations, until I reach a blank fire pit at the edge of our camp. The ashes are silver in the light, silver flecked with the ugliness of charcoal. I had thought to sit and collect myself in this space beyond, but I find that I cannot still my body. It jerks impatiently, pacing around the old sand and ash until its nervous energies flicker out with a rush of fire.
I have done what is right, I have done all that I can. For days I prayed to the gods for wind, and they did not answer. What else could I have done but consult the holy man, the seer Calchas? I have only done as the gods commanded. And Calchas, may the wrath of the gods be on his head if he has wrongly interpreted the will of the gods! It is not for kings or generals to speak for the gods. He is responsible for the sacrifice, not I!
So I say as my legs carry me around the ashes with their anxious steps. But as the force which drove me out of the tent leaves, I am consumed by fear and shame. Have I really done right? Have I heard that which I wanted to hear, chosen a way out that preserves me by putting the decision in my daughter’s noble hands? My heart quails within me. I have crawled on my belly out of the horror of the wind, shielded behind the breath of a girl who has no choice at all. There is no one to blame but the gods and my own miserable fear.
Who is to say that the speaker of the gods voiced truth? I have seen his cunning, the slyness of the gods. Perhaps he has lied to undermine the house of Atreus. His greed gluts itself on his power, fattening his unquestioned authority. And though we question now, though Achilles son of Thetis blazes with rage against his own lineage, we cannot deny the will of the gods. For we are mortals, ignorant unless a prophet guides us through the miasma of holiness.
With these words I tamp down my guilt, the double indemnity of a father and a king. I stoop to sit on the logs that ring the fire pit, the moon’s face softening. A soft caress of air touches my cheek, stirs the ashes at my feet. Perhaps we have found favor with the gods, after all.
A white figure crosses my vision, well outside the boundary of my ashes. She does not realize that I am here, in the darkness, as she escapes from the confines of the camp. Past the old fires she walks, past the low hillocks of sand that mark the first dunes of wilder beach. She is the moonlight on the waves, she is the stars above, caught into the bosom of heaven untouched by clouded bronze. She is ashes, white in the face of the full moon.
A dune snatches her from my gaze, as though I do not deserve a last glance at my daughter, my beloved child. The breeze of the gods trails a thin, cold finger down my back, and my legs twitch and pace again as I am overwhelmed with doubt.
Iphigenia
The moonlight is cold, full beams throwing each grain of sand into harsh relief. From beyond the camp I watch the black water lick the sand, each wave crushing his brother before him. I am not afraid of waves that devour each other, for they know not what they do. It is men who slaughter their own who go against the bonds of nature, men and their condemning gods. But I cannot deny the will of the gods, these ancient gods in whom I believe.
A single fire burns behind me, though all the rest are guttered in these small hours. Even my mother sleeps, drenched in her tears. But Achilles feeds his fire through the night, a grim silhouette that I know too well. That flame is a constant reminder of his companionship, so briefly enjoyed, and the morrow, so irrevocably approaching.
The moon reflects on the water, large and luminous. I turn my eyes to the heavens, tracing the stars with newly acquired knowledge. If I had but lon
ger, I might know the paths of heaven before I tread them!
Is it better to live for oneself or to die for one’s country and one’s gods? Involuntarily I look to the comfort of Achilles’ fire. One man, of the thousands who tomorrow may gain wind, keeps watch through the night. Better to choose that fire or the greater one of Aphrodite? If I choose Achilles’, what consequences shall we all suffer?
They must have wind. My mind, cooled by the white moonlight, reasons. It is the will of the gods. Sacrifice yourself to save your father, your mother. Sacrifice yourself to prevent the deaths of mutinous thousands, slain treacherously by each other’s hands. Your death alone can prevent the bloodbath that will surely occur if there is no wind.
A mutineer trusts no one. Father and mother slain by treason, I protected by Achilles—for how long? How long?
Grief tears through my innermost being, clawing through my limbs and settling in my chest. But I must not weep, for if I weep I will not be strong enough to make this sacrifice.
The moon is low in the heavens when I make my way back to the camp, eyes fixed on that single burning point. My feet drag on the beach, savoring the slough of skin on sand. Touch is most important on this night, my last night on earth.
Achilles broods over his fire, alone in the darkness. This is the isolation of sacrifice: No longer the bride, set apart for her husband, but the doe, struck down before the eyes of strangers. I know that he too feels the weight of this burden as he offers his cloak and a seat beside him at his fire. I dare to meet his gaze only for a moment, for it is full of that which would undo me. How can a man come to respect—to love—a woman he has known for a breath in the span of life?
He speaks: I will fight and die for you, should you wish it.
The bitterest word to say: No.
In the silence he looks at me, face proud with respect and grief. Then, because tomorrow I shall die and we care for nothing anymore, he folds me in his arms and I weep.
Achilles
Dawn comes quickly against thin eyelids, as though she knows the grief of this day and, in her kindness, does not prolong its waking. My body is stiff and angular, hunched into the space between sky and sand. The coals of my fire, guttered to glowing embers, are dull upon the whiteness of beach, the crystalline water.
My arm shields something precious, fleeting, caught for an instant between death and life in the folds of my cloak. As the rise of Aurora stirs me, her breathing changes and her cheek lifts from my shoulder, flushed. In the first light, before the reproving eye of Phoebus sees, we are vulnerable to each other. Her face is that of one who sees the dawn often and always finds it wondrous.
As her long golden hair falls around her, her face grows grave and I am fearful that she will weep. My heart rebels at the thought, a clench of fear, for if she, my proud princess, stoops to weep, then the truth of this day will unfold and she will be lost, lost. I ache with the knowledge of losing, knowledge that creates these moments and poisons them.
Her skin is rosy with sleep, the blush of her cheek tinting the neck that curves into yesterday’s crumpled white gown. I savor her warmth through the cloak, holding the impression of her as long as possible in my arm. I, who have never longed for peace, would give all my glory to return to Aegina unharmed with this woman as my bride.
The sun lifts free from the sea, Apollo’s chariot ponderous in the weight of the morning. Her eyes follow its movements, and she catches her breath as a thread of sky appears between light and water. In that moment she moves beyond me, soul winging on the breath of dawn to that slender ribbon of blue.
I tighten my grip around her shoulders, lest I lose her physicality to the brutality of morning. With my free hand I touch her hair, her fingers, anything to recall her from the edge of eternity. As Apollo’s horses climb, pulling clear of the rippling water, her face is illuminated in radiance. The streak of blue blurs, widens. Her fingers suddenly close around mine, and I fear her touch.
She says, It is time.
Clytemnestra
I wake from tumultuous dreams into a world hazy with yellow light. Through fragmented rays I find a blanket tangled around my legs, binding me to this world of shifting surf, pastel sand.
As the coolness of waking gathers around me, I recall a great evil lurking in the darker shades of morning, but the memory of water breaks it with its glassy depths. Waves sigh on broken sand, the hiss of arrival and leaving. Iphigenia.
With a gasp I am caught in the fine fringe of the waves, dragged from the sand into the pulsing embrace of the sea. A curtain of water beats across my eyes, scored by splinters of restless dawn. Why must the morning come and steal from us our last refuge?
I turn away from the light toward the softer gloom of the west. In the dimness of the tent, a figure with golden hair stands. It is Aphrodite in all her glory. I clutch my hands to my chest to protect my babe from her, but the sea has snatched her away, stolen my child. I cry out, pleading with the goddess to release my daughter. Iphigenia!
She is there, whispering soft words, her hand stroking the hair off my brow as I weep. Great goddess, spare my own child, my baby, gods, why…
When grief has spent itself in long rolling waves, she withdraws to the far side of the tent. Through salted eyes I see the fineness of her gown, her ornaments. Sweeping her long hair off her neck, she stoops over a carved chest and draws something away in her hand. Then, as I watch her through the transparency of stranded tidal pools, she begins to braid her hair.
Her face is hard with suffering in this quiet moment, when she thinks she is not observed, and the hands that twine her hair so efficiently are thoughtful, as though she knows why she is doing this and wishes she could pretend otherwise, just for a while. As she finishes the braids, she curls them against her head and I know what she has taken from the chest. A flash of faceted light assures me: they are jeweled hairpins, treasured from my own wedding day for hers. She settles the last one in her hair along with my gold diadem, and, as the floods wash over me again, I know it is right. She, who will never have a wedding day, should wear them when she goes to meet the gods.
It is not my Iphigenia who kneels over me but a queen, a beautiful woman on her wedding day. Come, Mother, they will be wanting us soon. But the current is too strong, the tide too high. I cannot push against it; I am not strong enough.
Her lips sweep over my forehead, and I wish I could anoint her with one tear, the blessing of a mother. But I cannot rise, and the water bears me down deep. I imagine her eyes filled with disappointment, pain, reproach.
When I lift my eyes again she is at the mouth of the tent, her glory framed by Aurora. I want to call her back to my embrace one final time, Iphigenia, my princess, but she is gone.
Agamemnon
She is unfamiliar to my eyes in her regalia, dressed as the loveliest of brides. Her lips are set, and she does not smile when she sees me. Nor does she embrace me, as a bride might her father—but I must remember that she is not a bride, and no father would do this to his child.
The altar lies on the edge of the camp, and we walk there, apart. It seems to me that although I must guide her along this foreign path, it is not she who follows. I trail along beside her, cringing in the wake of her nobility, unable to beg the boon of a word of forgiveness. The chill breeze of the gods runs along my neck, and I am afraid.
The path is broad and shallow, and she has no difficulty finding the bronze altar with its long stone steps. We carried the bronze with us, sacrificing space that might have been used for food and water for its holy bulk. The slabs of stone leading up to its exalted girth were torn from the land, a common base supporting the sacred as the common man upholds the priest.
Torches flare in the barren sand although the sun is fully risen, because fire is of the gods and this place is holy. She glides between the smoking flares, graceful in the face of destruction. The consecrated guards, dedicated to the protection of the holy man and the sacred rites, ring the altar with menacing armor and weapons. The
choice is made once her foot crosses their circle; she will never leave alive.
I stumble across the sand as their ranks part for her. They do not part for me—again she is accorded the respect that she has won in a day. I could slave a year and never earn what she gains so effortlessly. The guards scowl at me, faces frowned in holy condemnation. But she is my daughter, I whisper, guilty.
Not anymore, they reply.
Achilles takes her hand, guides her up the steps. That ought to have been me, leading her to her bridegroom! But I have sold that right for wind, for the breath of the gods in our sails that we might make war on miserable Troy. She does not look back at me; why should she? And yet I feel the death-knell in my chest, the loss of my last hope. She looks to the one she loves, and it is no longer me.
I cannot stand by and watch her be slaughtered! In a paroxysm of guilt and love I throw myself at the guards, prepared to battle any and all to reach my daughter and save her. No wind is worth the life of my child, my beautiful girl! Iphigenia!
But she does not even turn her head, and Calchas’ guards beat me down with the butts of their spears. I am not even worth the edge of the blade, so foul is my sin. It is the will of the gods! I cry, but which of us it is meant to justify I do not know.
Achilles places her on the altar, warrior’s hands gentle for his bride. My eyes sting with tears—let all know the weakness of Agamemnon!—as he bends over her for a final word. Even this is not sacred, this last comfort, for Calchas creeps up the altar, blade in hand, and no sooner has Achilles moved than the bronze knife drops—
I cannot bear to see her blood spurt onto the altar. As the world holds its breath and the gods thunder in righteous condemnation, I flee.
Achilles
Her face is pale beneath her intricate hair, but her step is sure. I search behind the elaborate clothes and ornaments for the woman I know and find her in deep eyes, in the set of her mouth. She extends her hand to me, a bride to her bridegroom, and the fine linens of our ceremonial garments collect us, sanctify us.