by Hannah Lynn
Iphigenia laughed. “I would like to be there when you ask her,” she said.
As the hot sun gave way to a cooler dusk, they went below deck to try and get some sleep, before the ship made port in Aulis. After all, the next day promised to be full of excitement.
Chapter 4
The pair were sleeping when the messenger came to tell them that Aulis was in sight. They dressed hurriedly and headed up on deck.
“Is that Father’s fleet?” Iphigenia asked, as she stepped outside. The view had changed from distant, craggy mountains, to a horizon of ships. Hundreds upon hundreds of them, sails furled, floated motionless beneath the morning sky like a tableau. No wonder Agamemnon was worried. Even with others at his side, Menelaus would have no hope of bringing back Helen with this many men prevented from joining him.
“Yes. We will arrive in Aulis soon,” Clytemnestra replied. “Your father will be waiting to take us to the celebrations. Go quickly and change.”
The sails on their own ship were also now obsolete and the crew rowed them the rest of the way to shore. The change was palpable. It was not only a lack of wind, but an uncanny stillness. It was almost as if the Goddess were controlling everything around them. There was not so much as a ripple on the sea.
When her daughter next appeared, she was dressed in a robe of glittering saffron. The material flowed in perfect pleats, as the silken gown glimmered and glinted in the early light, a bold contrast to her freshly oiled hair. The only thing that outshone the beauty of the outfit, was Iphigenia herself.
“Do you think this will be all right? Do you think he will like me? Do I look like I would make a good wife?”
Stunned to silence, she stifled the tears that threatened to fall.
“If he does not see that you are the most beautiful woman in the world, then he is a fool. And do not forget, this is your day too, my love. He may be the hero but you are his reward. The one the Goddess picked for him. Never believe yourself to be worth less than him, or any man for that matter, because thinking it is the start of it becoming true.”
Iphigenia’s eyes sparkled and Clytemnestra felt fit to burst. There was something about her that was so pure, it was as if the very sunlight converged on her.
“You know you have always been perfect,” she said, a stray tear finally escaping.
“Mother.”
“It is true. You never whinged. Never cried at night. You were the kindest child I have ever encountered.”
“You have to say that, I am your daughter.”
“I do not. I say it because it is true. You are the prize here, Iphigenia. You.”
The two held each other in yet another fond embrace and, while Clytemnestra wished it could have lasted longer, the young woman broke away in excitement.
“Look Mother, there is Father. He is waiting, as you said he would be.”
It did not take her more than a moment to pick out Agamemnon, standing on the dockside with a crowd of soldiers and servants gathered around him. Her eyes went first to his attire, a plainer ensemble than she would have predicted. But the off-white silk, with golden amulets and bracelets, made him look every bit the king, yet a father not wishing to outshine his daughter before the Goddess. But beyond the smart clothes, there were signs of stress. His shoulders hunched a little and he had lost weight, too. Although she could not be sure from a distance, she suspected his tight curls had greyed from the worry of the lack of wind. As he spotted them standing on the ship, his mouth rose in a yellow-toothed grin, only to immediately fall again. She was not the only one who noticed.
“Is Father all right?” Iphigenia asked. “He looks worried.”
Clytemnestra felt her stomach knot. “He will be fine. It is just the look of a man realising he is going to be handing over his little girl to another, that is all.” Then, hoping she was right, she turned to her and squeezed her arms, before smoothing down the dress. “Remember, you are the prize,” she said again.
In as stately a manner as possible, they made their way down the gangplank.
Agamemnon’s attention went straight to his wife.
“My King,” she said.
“What are you doing here?” he growled. “I told the messenger he was to bring the girl by herself.”
The girl! She gritted her teeth and forced her face into a smile. Even now, with the honour of a Goddess bestowed upon their daughter, he still failed to see her for what she was worth. He always failed to acknowledge any of them, except Orestes. She swallowed, controlling her anger.
“I left the other children at home. Electra and Chrysothemis are under orders to keep Orestes out of trouble, no matter what. Believe me, they were disappointed. Surely you could not imagine that I would miss the wedding too? Of my eldest daughter? To Achilles, no less?”
His eyes flitted between them. “You dressed her in Artemis’ colours. That is good. We will go there now.” Without another word, he turned on his heel.
Clytemnestra grabbed Iphigenia’s hand, holding her to the spot. “The messenger said there would be a feast first and then the ceremony.”
Jaw locked, he spun back around to face them. “Then the messenger got it wrong. I am to take her straight to the Temple of Artemis.”
“Why?”
“To pray.”
Still she refused to loosen her grip on her daughter.
“It is all right, Mother,” Iphigenia turned to face her. “I can go to pray at the temple. I believe it is the right thing to do, given all the blessings she is to bestow on me.”
“See. The girl understands.”
That word again. Girl. Like she was not of his blood. As if he could not even be bothered to recall his own daughter’s name. Her grip tightened.
“I spoke to the messenger at length,” she said. “He recalled everything you told him with great clarity.”
“Clearly, that is not the case.”
“Do not lie to me, Agamemnon!”
Her voice resonated around them. Several of the servants and soldiers who had been waiting shifted uneasily. She might have played the role of obedient wife well enough all these years, but she was still the daughter of the King of Sparta and had recognised her husband’s lies from the very start. He was not taking this child from her until he told her the truth.
A look of sheer venom flashed in his eyes, but she countered it with one of her own.
“You have not greeted your wife. You have barely said two words to me and now you wish to whisk Iphigenia off to a temple, without so much as a word about the wedding arrangements. You can barely look me in the eye, Agamemnon. What is it? What are you not telling me?”
The rancour was still there, but it was now clouded by something she recognised all too well. Guilt.
“As the gods are my witness, I will put her straight back on that ship if you do not tell me!”
A muscle was now twitching in his face as the King ground his teeth together. The straggling hairs of his beard no longer hid his pitted, yellowing skin. She despised that beard, just as she hated everything else about him. With a wave of his hand, his minions moved a short distance away. He stepped to her side and lowered his mouth to her ear.
“It was me,” he hissed. “I am the one who angered the Goddess. I am the one who is responsible for my ships bobbing here uselessly, like legless ducks on a pond. I have brought this upon my men and upon Menelaus. So I am sorry if I seem brusque to you, Clytemnestra. I am sorry if my way of greeting you was not how you had envisioned so fancifully in that florid imagination of yours, but I have many things playing on my mind. And, right now, my priority is to appease the Goddess. Given how much she clearly thinks of our eldest, I felt it would be prudent to pray at her temple, before the feasting or the ceremony begin.”
A small pang of guilt stirred within her. Whatever she thought of Agamemnon, she prided herself in her wisdom. Of knowing how to behave appropriately in any situation. Growing up in Sparta had taught her that. Tantalus had given her that.
“I will come with you,” she said, releasing her daughter’s hand. “We will pray together.” She took a step forward, only to find her path blocked.
“No,” he said. “Iphigenia and I will do this alone.”
Chapter 5
A thousand emotions swept through Clytemnestra, as she meandered through the bustling port market. In a few hours, another of her children would be gone from her life. But this one was different. Iphigenia was simply getting married. She would not be truly gone. Not like Alesandro.
The thought of him stung sharply and she hurried to quash the feeling, before any other memories surfaced to join it. She had been doing so well these past few years. Besides, Iphigenia would know in an instant if something was wrong with her mother and she refused to let her grief overshadow her daughter’s wedding day.
The market was a hive of activity and a feast for the eyes. A myriad of trinkets and treasures, many of which she had not seen at home, in Mycenae, glinted on the stalls. Her eyes wandered from jewellery to fabulous materials, to crockery and even birds, colourful and flightless, tethered with string to wooden posts. She would have to take back presents for the children, she thought, as she continued to amble over the cobblestones. Not that they needed anything, but it was never about what they needed.
Still thinking of gifts, she made her way to a stall selling daggers and picked out a small knife. The handle was inlaid with mother-of-pearl and the shaft engraved with a simple filigree pattern. Boys just a few years older than Orestes would use such a tool to skin rabbits, although she suspected that even in another five years he would still rather use it to cut plants to feed them. Perhaps it would be a more suitable present when he was older. Leaving the knife where it was, she continued her stroll. The breeze was warmer than at home and the air had a salty tang to it. A mix of different accents buzzed around her, with men and women in all forms of dress. It would be an exciting place to live, she thought, if only for a short while.
For Chrysothemis, she bought a necklace of garnets, set in silver. Her middle daughter’s tastes were far from her own, but the general rule was that if something sparkled, then she would like it. Still looking at the gems and bracelets, she considered what to buy Electra. Such raw beauty would be set off wonderfully with a bright stone—an emerald or citrine perhaps—but any time she had bought her youngest daughter jewels, they had lain abandoned at the bottom of a drawer, or else been pilfered by Chrysothemis, to go with some outfit or another. And so, she returned to the stall with the knives and picked one out for Electra.
Aromas of salt fish and dried meats wafted around her as she slowed her pace trying to absorb it all. There was a freedom that came with ambling around a foreign market, where no one knew who she was. A freedom that came with no guards hovering nearby. In Mycenae, traders would drop their prices ridiculously low, or else simply give her their wares if she so much as expressed the slightest interest in something on their stall. But here, whilst Agamemnon was a well-known figure, she was not. As such, they treated her like any other rich foreigner, hiking their prices up to at least double what something was worth, which made her smile rather than offending her.
As she wandered, her focus shifted back to the wedding, now just hours away. Given that it was to happen in Aulis, it would seem fitting that she wore something to pay her respects to the town. And then there was Achilles. Agamemnon should have already arranged a suitable wedding gift for the pair but given how preoccupied he was, the thought might have slipped his mind. What did you buy the world’s greatest warrior who was about to wed one of the world’s greatest beauties in a union arranged by a Goddess? Somehow a vase or amulet didn’t feel appropriate.
She was rifling through a selection of silks, feeling the fineness of a particularly pretty one as it ran over her fingers, when a voice on a nearby stall caught her attention.
“You cannot be serious, Patroclus. I cannot wear something like that.”
“I think it would suit you.”
“Do you know me at all?”
Patroclus. The name stirred somewhere in her memory. Abandoning the fabrics, Clytemnestra walked towards the pair, the hubbub of the market lost to her the closer she came. The two men were sharing a wistful smile. At a glance, they appeared similar in age; a little younger than herself, most probably. Both were dressed in fine clothes, both deeply tanned from hours spent in the sun but while one of the men was, by common standards at least, attractive enough, the other could have been a god. With his chest swathed in folds of deep maroon, he stood a half-foot taller than his friend and would have made most of the men in Sparta look like runts by comparison. She could not help but admire his physique, from his neck to his arms and all the way down to his calves, which rippled with muscle. At his waist was sheathed a small blade, although she could not conceive of a situation in which he would need to draw it. She couldn’t imagine that even the bravest man would dare to challenge him.
“Achilles?” she said, interrupting their conversation. The gaze between the two men broke and as the taller of the men―Achilles, she was certain—lifted his hand as if to dismiss her, his eyes caught sight of the gemstones on her fingers and a crease formed between his brows.
“Do I know you?” he asked, placing the sandals in his hand back on the table in front of him.
“I am Clytemnestra,” she said.
The crease remained, deepening as he tried to place her name, but his companion had no such problem.
“Your Highness,” Patroclus said, bowing. “We were not expecting to see you.”
“Of course.” Achilles followed suit. “Clytemnestra. Agamemnon’s queen. You do us a great honour being here.”
Now embarrassed by his delayed response, he held his bow low, until she reached her hand out and beckoned for him to rise, smiling demurely when his eyes finally met hers. She hoped that his manners were not an act. It was difficult to tell but, as far as first impressions went, she considered this one to be fair. At least he was not spending the hours before his nuptials drinking. Realising a somewhat awkward silence had developed, she smiled again.
“Agamemnon’s queen, yes, I am she. But soon I am to be more than that to you, of course.”
“You are?” The furrow between Achilles’ brows reformed. “I am sorry. I do not understand. Are you to come with us to Troy? I heard that you were a fearsome swordswoman when you were younger.”
“No, no. I wish.” She laughed at his geniality. “But it is today, is it not, that you are marrying my daughter?”
A rumble of laughter caught in Patroclus’ throat, although it was so quickly stifled that she did not hear it. Achilles shot him a look.
“I am sorry, My Queen, I think there has been some misunderstanding. You believe I am to marry one of your daughters?”
She blinked and shook her head. Either his confusion was in earnest, or he was one of the most gifted actors that she had ever come across.
“Agamemnon sent a messenger. I was to bring Iphigenia, my eldest, here. The union has been blessed by the Goddess Artemis. She has commanded it. You are to marry my daughter today, and then the winds will return.”
The frown was still there, but had now changed to one of concern, rather than confusion.
“I am sorry, but if such a bargain had been struck, I am sure that I would know of it. Today? You say I am to marry her today? No, there has to have been some mistake. Even Agamemnon would not make such an assumption as to commit me to my own betrothal without consulting me first.”
Though he sounded certain, his red-tinged cheeks suggested he was not completely convinced. Agamemnon could easily pull such a stunt and they both knew it. It was Patroclus who spoke next.
“Let us go and find him. I am sure we can clear this up in no time. Where is he now? Is your daughter with him? Iphigenia, is it? I have heard the most favourable reports of her. Of all your children.”
“He has taken her to the temple.”
The words had barely left her lips, when her wo
rld began to tilt. The noise of the market disappeared. The warmth of the day evaporated. Nothing remained but an icy cold that was filling her veins. She had been right all along. Gods did not delight in human happiness. They would not see a wedding as atonement for an offence. Gods sought retribution. And if it was Agamemnon who had wronged the Goddess, as he had said it had been, then it was he who would have to pay the price.
“The Temple of Artemis,” she gasped. “Where is it? Where is it?”
“The Temple of Artemis? It is just at the top of the hill. We will take you there.”
He looked towards Achilles for confirmation, but Clytemnestra was already racing away.
“Move! Move!” she screamed at the crowd.
The sight of Achilles in the market had caused quite a gathering around the three of them. With all her might, she pushed past one person and then another.
“Move! Move!” she yelled again. “Get out of my way!” Her heart raced. Tears blurred her vision. Finally, she escaped the throng and was out into the open, but there was still so far to go. The temple was at the top of the hill, as Patroclus had said. She could see it gleaming white, above the trees.
“I am coming! I am coming!” she called out. “I am coming for you, Iphigenia!”
Her feet moved faster and faster as she strode out. No, she told herself. He wouldn’t. It couldn’t be possible. She must have got it wrong. But, in her heart of hearts, she knew the truth. As she fought her way up the steep hillside, her muscles began to burn. Damn her legs. Damn her pathetic body. Why had she allowed herself to become so unfit? Her muscles had grown weak and her mind weaker still as she’d wasted her days just sitting around talking, or on her useless weaving. How had she not seen this coming? How had she not read the signs?
“I am coming, Iphigenia!” she called again as she ran. She had promised her children a thousand times that she would keep them safe. She had promised, too, that Agamemnon would protect them. And now she had delivered her daughter to be slaughtered at his hands.