by Hannah Lynn
“Please, gods!” she screamed up to the sky as she ran. “She is only a child! Please! Take me! Take me instead!”
She stumbled again. Her hands bled, as she clawed at the rocks and gravel. Behind her, she could hear the voices of Achilles and Patroclus calling her, asking her to wait. But she would not. She could still get there in time. She had to. She would not let it happen. Not again.
As she neared the temple door, a man stepped out from the shadows. Agamemnon. And in his hands, a knife, the blade gleaming red.
A pain tore through her heart, as the thousand scars that had never truly healed reopened in a blinding agony.
“No! No!” She pummelled his chest.
“I said you were to wait in the town.”
“You murdered her! You have murdered our daughter! My child! You have done it to me again!” She didn’t know what she was doing. She was only aware of the agony that seared through every part of her being, as she clawed at her husband. She reached up on her toes, and spat squarely into his face.
He grabbed her arms, pinching her skin cruelly.
“You had no life before me, My Queen!” he snarled. “Remember that! I did what had to be done!”
“No life? You stole my life! And you have stolen it from me again!”
“You ungrateful bitch!”
His words fell on deaf ears, as she writhed back and forth. Her arms were already bruising from his fierce grip, as his fingers inflicted the same injuries as they had a hundred times before. Still she did not give in. With almost superhuman strength, she shook him off and pushed past him.
There, on the altar, was the crumpled figure of her daughter.
“Iphigenia!” Tears streamed down her cheeks, as she climbed up onto the slab and pulled the limp body into her arms. Her skin was still warm to the touch and her lips still glowed pink but the saffron robes, which had shone so brilliantly in the sun only an hour earlier, were now stained deep red, as her blood seeped away.
“My darling. My darling, darling girl. I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry. He will pay for this. I promise you. He will pay.”
The moment seemed as if trapped behind glass. A tarnished mirror that offered only the darkest of reflections. How could she live with this? How could she survive this again? She squeezed her daughter tighter, as if by doing so she might somehow imbue her with her own life force. Then, as she clung to her, she recalled with sudden clarity the knife she had bought in the market. Lowering Iphigenia gently back down, she pulled the blade from her bag. The metal glinted in the candle light. New, unused. Sharp enough to skin an animal. Her eyes turned back to the doorway, where Agamemnon stood staring out with his back to her. Her pulse soared. This was it. It would be the only chance she would ever get.
Fixing the knife in her grasp, she dropped quietly from the altar. Her heart hammered in her chest as she darted towards her husband. Despite the years of idleness, her muscles now responded quickly, but the attack was ill timed. She was still an arm’s length away when he turned, with a look oh so familiar. There was not the smallest flicker of humanity in his eyes, nor any finesse in his movement as he backhanded her viciously, connecting directly with her jaw. Even in her youth, she would have struggled to maintain her balance against such a blow. Now, with her heart and will totally broken, she collapsed to the floor, eyes watering with the physical and mental pain. Sneering, he glared down at her, just as he had all those years ago.
“Bury the girl,” he ordered. “The winds have returned. It is time I left.”
Chapter 6
Clytemnestra remained at the temple until the blood on her hands and the floor had congealed to a deep red. Iphigenia’s eyes were closed and her lips tilted up, as if in a slight smile, although all the colour had drained from them now. Shadows formed and lengthened as the time passed. Birdsong rose and fell but, for her, time had ended.
She wouldn’t have known what was about to happen, she told herself. Agamemnon would have granted her that mercy, surely. He was a huntsman. He knew how to kill cleanly and swiftly. Her daughter would not have realised what was coming.
The image played over and over in her mind. Her daughter kneeling to pray, full of thoughts about her upcoming nuptials, her wedding night. She would have been at peace, joyous even, when he struck. That smile, that lifted her eyes and made them shine brighter than Helios, was all her mother could see. That beautiful smile and then …
As birdsong was replaced with the night-time chorus of the cicadas, a chill breeze blew through the temple pillars, fanning the fabric of her robe and cooling the air around her, but she did not feel it. She did not feel anything.
Taking a damp cloth, she was wiping the blood from her daughter’s face, when a small cough caught her attention. Stumbling to her feet, she turned to see a young woman dressed almost identically to Iphigenia. A priestess.
“I wished to let you know that we can bury her here, in the grounds.” She kept her head lowered as she spoke. “She will be at home with the Goddess that way.”
The words took a moment to register.
“With the Goddess?” Clytemnestra lifted her head. “The Goddess is the one who did this to her. The Goddess and her father.”
The priestess nodded slowly.
“The Goddess is wise. Her decisions are those of divine knowledge. We, as mortals, cannot know their meaning.”
The Queen, who had been as cold as ice for hours, now felt a raging heat rising within her.
“Their meaning?” She took a step towards the priestess. “This is an act of barbarism! It has no meaning!”
“You must have faith.”
“Faith?”
“It is not for us to question the Goddess.”
“The Goddess is a selfish whore!”
The priestess flinched at the outburst, but Clytemnestra was not done. She marched towards the woman, her body now burning with fury.
“The Goddess took my daughter, who had done nothing wrong! Nothing! She was innocent!”
“And that is why it is the greatest gift. Of all the children, the Goddess wanted yours.”
“Well, I want her too. I want her back!”
“The Goddess—”
“Damn your Goddess.”
The priestess turned pale and looked up, muttering under her breath. Clytemnestra cared not a jot. Whatever wrath Artemis would feel for her, what did it matter anymore? What was the worst she could do to her now? With a sickening jolt, she realised. Of course there was more horror the Goddess could inflict. She had taken one child, but there remained three more. They must be protected!
“I must get home now,” she said, turning back to the altar. She bent to scoop Iphigenia’s body into her arms.
“What are you doing?” The priestess hurried to her side, pushing her away from her dead child. “You must leave the girl here. She was a sacrifice to the Goddess.”
“And the Goddess has her now. What remains is coming with me.”
The priestess shook her head, looking around for someone who might come to her aid, but they could both see that there was no one. Most likely they were all at the blessing of the fleet that Agamemnon had murdered his daughter for.
“We are leaving now,” she said.
The priestess grabbed an edge of Iphigenia’s robe, pinning it to the altar. “This is not what we do. She must stay here.”
Stepping back, she surveyed the girl with all the patience she could muster. How old was she? the Queen wondered, and how far was she prepared to go to please her Goddess? She might be about to find out. With her eyes locked on her, she reached into her satchel and withdrew the knife once more.
“Just try to stop me.”
A look of fear flashed across the priestess’ face. Clytemnestra took a step forward. “I have no quarrel with you. I just want my child.”
The priestess opened her mouth, but made no discernible sound. A chorus of voices floated in from outside. Distant voices, but of people close enough to hear her scream now, if
she chose to. Fear switched from one woman to the other.
“Please. Please.” Clytemnestra grabbed her arm. “She is my daughter. She is my child. The Goddess has her blood and her soul. Please let me take her body home. This is all I have left of her. This is all I have.”
The voices grew louder and the panic within her surged.
“I do not want to hurt you, I really do not, but I will not leave without her.”
Still clinging to Iphigenia’s robe, the priestess’ hands trembled. One scream and there would be more bloodshed in the temple that night. Clytemnestra readied the knife, her knuckles shining white. The priestess, now so afraid that her whole body was shaking, finally dipped her chin in a nod.
As she stepped past her and lifted Iphigenia into her arms, the young girl fell to her knees and wept.
Outside, the Goddess had made good on her promise. A wind had sprung up with such force that it was shaking the leaves from the trees, sending them dancing in spirals above her head. A jarring cold swept in from the sea and the evening sun was disappearing over the horizon. The fading light caused her to stumble, as she tried to locate the path. She had nothing to light her way and couldn’t even use her hands to support herself, as she clung to her daughter’s body. It would be in the lap of the gods if she made it down the hill in one piece.
Peering into the shadows, she finally located the pathway. The adrenaline that had kept her going earlier had evaporated and exhaustion had taken its place. Only then did she realise the extent of the task ahead of her. The route was so narrow, so winding, it was no wonder she had struggled to maintain her footing on the way up. And now she had to return in near darkness, her arms bearing the weight of her dead child. As she considered her situation, one of Iphigenia’s hands fell limp at her side, brushing her arm as it did so. The cold of her skin caused her muscles to seize. She would not abandon her daughter. She would take her home and bury her in the grave circle, among the trees and the birds of the citadel that she had loved so much. It could take her a week to get down the hillside for all she cared; she was not giving up now.
Holding onto Iphigenia for all her worth, she picked her way gradually down the hillside. When the wind gusted stronger, she lowered herself to the ground and waited for it to pass, before heaving herself back up and continuing. Time and time again her muscles trembled and her legs shook, but she waited for the moment to pass, then carried on. One slow step at a time. One step and then another. It was all she could do.
The moon was shining brightly when she finally reached the town. The daytime trinket stalls had been replaced with hawkers selling all manner of food. Thick smoke, full of the aromas of salted meats and barbecued fish, filled the air. Her stomach growled but she felt no hunger. Eyes turned towards her. Conversations stopped. Whispers rose and people parted, shuffling backwards, creating a path for her. Only now did she consider how she must look, with blood covering her clothes and hands and the body limp in her arms. The whispering grew louder, the looks more pointed, yet no one approached her. Nor did anyone she passed ask if she needed aid. Instead, they retreated from her, as if she were something to be frightened of or, worse still, pitied. Pitied for her failure as a mother who could not save her child. Well curse them all, she thought as she met every stare. They knew nothing of her or her daughter. Nothing of what she had been or could have become. As she walked the cobbled stones, past the hawkers of Aulis, she promised herself one thing: she would never again seek anyone’s help to keep her children safe.
The days shortened. Migrating birds passed overhead on their way to warmer climes. The sun rose and then set and then rose again.
No matter how many times they asked, she found it impossible to answer her children’s questions with anything that came even close to making sense to them. Of course they knew that their sister was dead. They had been present at her burial, when they had taken her body to the grave circle of their ancestors, placed coins on her eyes and bade her a safe passage to the underworld.
There would be no one there she would recognise, Clytemnestra realised, as she attempted to drown the images of her dead daughter in wine. Her grandparents had passed over the river Styx, but she had never met them. And a brother she had not even known existed. It should be a parent’s job to go first, to welcome their children to the next stage of existence. But as much as she thought about joining her daughter, she knew she still had three children left in the world to protect.
As the first week had bled into the next, the whole of Mycenae was rife with rumours of what had happened to Iphigenia in Aulis.
“They must not leave the palace grounds,” she ordered Orrin, as she paced up and down the steps of the throne room. “You are to place guards on every entrance. They are not allowed out. Not with anyone. You understand?”
“I do, My Queen.”
“And they are to meet with no one, unless I am with them. You understand that too? No one!”
“I understand.”
Not all of her servants were to prove quite so biddable.
“You need to tell them, My Queen,” Laodamia said one evening, as she prepared a cup of wine for her mistress.
Two weeks had passed and the children had not so much as stepped out on the veranda without her present, for fear of what words could drift in on a breeze. Chrysothemis and Electra were arguing about something on the other side of the courtyard, while Orestes bounced on his mother’s knee.
“They will hear one way or another. It is best it comes from you.”
“They are too young to know the truth.”
“I believe that they are too old to be lied to,” Laodamia replied. “It is for you that I fear, My Queen. If they hear by some other route …” she left the sentence hanging in the air. Clytemnestra swallowed a mouthful of wine. She knew it was true. Rumours had a way of squeezing themselves through the smallest of gaps into the most unwelcome of places. But she needed more time.
“Not tonight. I have a headache. Besides, I am with them. There is no chance they will hear anything.”
“Then tomorrow? Would you like me to prepare a room for you?”
“We shall see.”
Placing Orestes down next to her, she sipped again at the wine and waited for her servant to leave. Laodamia had been there the very first day she’d set foot in the palace and the Queen confided in her more than any other person in Mycenae. But it was not a friendship, and should she need to be reminded of that, Clytemnestra was ready.
“Chrysothemis, Electra, what are you arguing about now? Come here, the pair of you.”
Across the courtyard, the girls ceased their bickering, and ran to join their mother.
“It is her fault…” Electra began and a small smile played on the Queen’s lips. At least some things never changed.
Despite her desire to keep the truth of Iphigenia’s death hidden, the subject came up at their meal. Unexpected rain had forced them into one of the dining rooms, where silver platters and glazed, ceramic bowls were spread out along a marble-topped table. The stonework had stunned her when she had first arrived. Marble slabs and obsidian pillars. Marble thrones and colonnades. So much space and the endless reflections—not surprising for one as vain as Agamemnon. Oh, how she had hated it! These days, she barely even noticed. Tall, beeswax candles were lit the length of the table. She had requested these years ago. She had found candles made of tallow emitted a scent so pungent that it affected her appetite. Yes, there was something pleasing about a good candle and its delicately dancing flame. So much more captivating than the oil lamps that burned nightly throughout the rest of the citadel.
Lost in the amber flames, she watched as the molten wax rolled down each slender pillar, fraction by fraction, until it puddled on the holder beneath it. One drop, then another, then another. Soon it would all be gone. The remaining wax could be used again, of course, melted down and reformed. But the original candle would be gone forever.
“She was a sacrifice,” she said suddenly, breaki
ng into the children’s conversation without warning, surprising even herself. “She was a sacrifice to the Goddess Artemis, so that the wind would return and the fleet could leave for Troy.”
Her two daughters turned to look at her. Chrysothemis spoke first.
“Iphigenia?”
“At the temple. She was sacrificed at the temple.”
Disbelief stunned them into silence for a moment.
“I thought… You said there was an accident.”
“No, there was no accident.”
“But… but it makes no sense. A sacrifice? Why?”
Orestes continued to play with his food, oblivious to what was going on around him.
Dropping the bread from her hand, Chrysothemis shook her head. “There must have been some other way. We have animals. We should have used them. They could have had all the animals.”
“The gods did not want animals,” Electra snapped, speaking for the first time. “If they had wanted goats and sheep, they would have asked for them. They must have wanted Iphigenia.”
Tears now streamed down her face, as Chrysothemis looked to her mother, pleading for an answer. “But, surely, they could have tried another way?”
“That is not how it works. If the gods ask for something you do it. You have no choice.”
“But surely—”
“They wanted Iphigenia,” repeated Electra.
“Be quiet, Electra!” Chrysothemis covered her mouth, trying to stifle her shuddering sobs. “Mother, please, why? Why did they need her?”
The Queen shrank back into her seat, her throat tightening, as she willed the question away. Why? Had she not asked herself the same thing every moment since that day in the temple? What answer could she give them that they deserved? There was none. She picked up her cup and quickly drained the contents, before they could see how fiercely her hand shook.
“You should finish up now,” she said, standing. “There is a storm on the way.”