The War At Troy

by Lindsay Clarke

  ‘Nor I,’ said Ajax. ‘Haven’t I said all along that any glory I win will be my own achievement not a mere favour from the gods?’

  Achilles nodded. ‘I stand with Odysseus and Ajax on this.’

  ‘Then you must argue with the wind, gentlemen,’ said Palamedes.

  ‘At least its sound might be cleaner in my ears.’ Odysseus scowled at Palamedes, who merely shrugged and glanced away, whereupon Odysseus got up and left the room. The wind scattered papers in his wake. Immediately Achilles got to his feet and went out after him. A moment later, Ajax and Diomedes glanced at one another, and they too stepped outside, gathering their cloaks about them.

  Agamemnon turned to Nestor, who sat with his head in his hands, staring at the floor. ‘What do you say, old friend?’

  Nestor looked back at him with haggard eyes. ‘For once in my life, I find myself at a loss for words. It seems that both sides are right in this matter. Yet how can they be? Forgive me, but I don’t know what to say.’

  Agamemnon turned his anguished gaze on his brother. ‘Menelaus?’

  ‘My heart grieves for you, brother ... but’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I am thinking of what this war has already cost us all across the years. I am thinking of the men we have left on Tenedos . . .’

  ‘And of the wife you lost, no doubt.’

  Menelaus looked away from the hot glare in his brother’s eyes. Agamemnon released his breath in a growl of pain so fierce and baleful that it made the others wince. And when the cry had exhausted itself the room was utterly silent but for the moaning of the gale outside.

  ‘Only the king himself can consent to this sacrifice,’ said Palamedes after a time. ‘It is for him to decide.’

  ‘You have no children. It is an easy thing for you to say.’

  The four men sat together listening to the wind. After a time Nestor said, ‘In such a pass as this it may be that a man can do nothing but cast himself on the mercy of the gods.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Agamemnon demanded.

  Nestor opened his hands in a hopeless gesture. ‘If the High King declared his willingness to make the offering by bringing the child here to Aulis, it might be that the goddess would be moved to take pity on her.’

  For a moment Agamemnon stared across at his friend with a glimmer of hope, but then he remembered. ‘Her mother would never consent to it,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘And you cannot ask me to drag the girl screaming to the altar from her mother’s arms. It is impossible. Hear me.’

  Again, but for the noise of the wind, silence closed down around his words.

  But Palamedes had sensed that Agamemnon’s refusal was no longer absolute, and his quick brain was at work.

  ‘Then we must look for a pretext,’ he suggested quietly.

  Old Nestor frowned. ‘Say more. I don’t follow you.’

  ‘We must find a reason that will compel the queen to bring the girl to Aulis.’

  Palamedes looked back at the king. ‘How old is your daughter?’

  ‘Twelve, thirteen? I don’t know. I can’t remember.’

  ‘But old enough to be given in marriage. Why not tell your queen that the girl is to be married? That you have decided to give her in marriage as a reward for gallant service.’ A half smile touched with admiration for his own ingenuity spread across his face. ‘Why not tell her that she is to be married to Achilles?’

  Perhaps Iphigeneia was doomed to die long before her father’s sacrilegious act of killing a hind within the grove of Artemis? Perhaps she was already doomed to die when Agamemnon killed the infant child of Clytaemnestra’s husband Tantalus? So dark are the workings of the gods that she may even have been doomed to die a generation before her own birth when Atreus slaughtered the children of his brother Thyestes. The wisest among us are only mortal, and none of us can know the answer to such questions. But this much I would claim to know: that a man cannot go to war in quest of power and wealth without doing mortal harm to some portion of his soul, and once the soul is damaged and impaired then all kinds of madness follow.

  By the time Iphigeneia arrived in Aulis, all the women were weary after the long journey from Mycenae against that gruelling wind. The servants who had accompanied the girl took her aside into the apartment that had been prepared for her. She went readily enough, filled with thoughts of the next day, wanting to bathe and rest herself so that she would be at her best, and sorry only that there had been no time to see her father, who was, she was told, busily engaged about the business of the war. But when Clytaemnestra demanded to set eyes on the bridegroom that her husband had chosen for their daughter, Agamemnon glanced uneasily away. He opened his mouth to speak and could not do so. Menelaus, who had entered the chamber at his right hand, was left to explain as best he could the hard fate that had fallen on the elder son of Atreus.

  There was a time of silence. Then the tempest that broke about the High King’s head came at him stronger and more dangerous than the storm outside. All the years of hatred and anguish that had festered since that dreadful day in Pisa were unleashed at once, and their mouths were full of curses. Even as the king’s brother pinned her arms back against the wall, Clytaemnestra was sucked deeper into the vortex of her frenzy, weeping with fury, and spitting imprecations across his shoulder. If Menelaus had not been there, using all his strength to restrain her, she would have torn the eyes out of Agamemnon’s head. As it was, the King of Men stood for a time with his head bowed like a man tethered to a flogging frame and waited for the storm to pass.

  It did not pass. There was one moment as Clytaemnestra paused to catch her breath, when he murmured, ‘Do you not think that I am as a dead man already even to contemplate this thing?’ But she had only a huge, accumulated capital of hatred and derision for the impotent appeal in his bleak eyes.

  With a voice that chilled his soul, she hissed, ‘It would gladden my heart to see you die in agony a thousand times sooner than let you touch a hair of my child’s head with your butcher’s hands.’

  And she had gone too far for him.

  If there had ever been a shred of tenderness anywhere between them, they might have found some means of escaping the trap that fate had sprung for them. They might have said, ‘Let the gods and the world do as they will, there is nothing more precious to us than our daughter’s life, so let that be an end to it.’ But there was no such tenderness, and the longer and more cruelly she railed against him, the more sullenly ready he found himself to commit the act she was determined to prevent.

  She saw it suddenly in his eyes. She read it in his hostile silence.

  Clytaemnestra sagged in Menelaus’ grip. For a moment both brothers thought that her fury must have burned itself out in despair. But as soon as Menelaus let go of her arms, she made for the door with the intention of rescuing her child.

  Outside the door the guards were waiting for her.

  There are bards who will tell you that Iphigeneia was not killed at Aulis. They say that Achilles was so outraged to learn how his name had been abused that he hastened to the girl’s protection. They say that even as Agamemnon raised the sacrificial knife, a clap of thunder rent the skies, and Achilles drew his sword at the command of Artemis, took the girl from the altar and carried her away. One of these stories says that he sent her to safety in Scythia, where man-slaying Artemis is first among the gods. Another bard claims that Achilles did marry Iphigeneia after all, and that she, not Deidameia, was the mother of his son.

  Such bards are mere romancers who dare not contemplate the cruel truth of things. Let them tell their stories. I believe what was told to me by Odysseus many years later, for he was certainly there in Aulis, and like it or not -- and he liked it not at all -- he was party to the dreadful thing that was done that day.

  Woken by the wind, Iphigeneia leapt into consciousness filled with excitement and trepidation. The palace women came to bathe her and robe her in a knee-length saffron tunic, chattering as they fussed about her clothing a
nd dressed her hair. But of her mother there was as yet no sign.

  After a time, an old man with silver hair came into her chamber and dismissed the women. He smiled at her mildly and said in a soft, slightly croaking voice, ‘You look very beautiful today, my dear.’

  ‘Are you my father?’ Iphigeneia shyly asked.

  ‘No,’ the old man smiled. ‘Don’t you remember me? I’m Nestor, the King of Pylos. I used to dandle you on my knee when I came to visit your father in Mycenae. You were always a favourite of mine. It was me who sent you the little Thessalian pony to ride . . . But it was a long time ago. Perhaps you don’t remember.’

  ‘I remember the pony. Electra had him after me. Where is my father?’

  ‘You will see him in a little while, child.’ Nestor pulled his cloak closer about him against the draught. ‘But there is something he has asked me to tell you first.’

  ‘Is it to do with my wedding?'

  ‘Yes, in a manner of speaking it has.’

  ‘Then may I ask you something first?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Is it true what Orestes says -- that Achilles is the next best thing to a god?’

  Nestor sat back in surprise, wanting to smile, but so sick at heart that the thought of smiling seemed an abomination. ‘Listen to me, my dear,’ he said after an uncertain moment. ‘You are not to be married to Achilles today.’

  Iphigeneia’s heart sagged in her breast, in part with disappointment, but mostly -- she saw it at once -- with relief.

  ‘Then when?’ she asked. ‘Must I take off this dress?’

  ‘No, you may keep on your dress because something else is going to happen.’

  Nestor glanced away across the room. It felt as though his tongue had turned to stone. What price his reputation for eloquence now? He could wish that his mouth had been stitched up with twine for ever rather than saying what he had come to say.

  ‘Does my mother know?’ the girl asked. ‘I wasn’t sure whether she was happy for me to be married or not.’

  ‘Your mother knows,’ he said. ‘But ... I was just thinking about what you said . . . about Achilles. And yes, I suppose Orestes is right -- Achilles is the next best thing to a god. And that is why what will happen to you today is better still. You are not to be given to Achilles, my dear. You are to be given to a god.’

  ‘To a god?’

  And when Nestor nodded, she said, ‘Which god is it that wants me?’

  ‘Artemis, my dear. The Lady of the Animals. It is she who wants you.’

  A smile broke across the face of Iphigeneia, ‘But Divine Artemis is my favourite among all the gods,’ she cried. ‘Am I to be her priestess then?’ And before he could answer, another swift thought stumbled from her lips. ‘Am I to be a virgin for the rest of my life?’ Nestor stared at her, nodding his head as old men do when they sit alone, pondering on the refractory nature of things. He was looking for disappointment -- even for defiant refusal -- in her face, but he found none there. Rather, this strange girl was staring upwards with an expression in her eyes that seemed close to rapture, as though some vital realization was coming clear to her, and everything had begun to make perfect sense.

  ‘I think I have always known this,’ she whispered. ‘I think this was why I wasn’t sure I wanted to be married to Achilles, even if he is almost a god.’ She looked into Nestor’s anxious eyes and smiled at him shyly. ‘Above all things I have always loved to dance for Artemis. I think I always knew that I belonged to her. ’Then, astoundingly, she gave a little laugh. ‘But why didn’t my father come and tell me this himself? Was he afraid I’d be disappointed? But then he doesn’t really know me, does he? And he needn’t have worried at all!’

  Iphigeneia walked towards the window and looked out across the town. And then another thought occurred to her. ‘In which temple will I serve the goddess? Will it be here, in Aulis?’

  ‘Yes,’ Nestor answered hoarsely, ‘it will be in Aulis.’ He closed his eyes. ‘But you don’t yet understand.’

  ‘What?’ she asked, puzzled. But his tightly wrinkled eyes stayed shut and she began to worry that he might not be feeling well. ‘What don’t I understand?’

  The words came out almost impatiently. ‘It is your life the goddess asks.’

  ‘I know that,’ she answered, smiling. ‘I do understand. Once I give my life to the goddess there will be no going back. But I’m ready for that. It will give me great joy to live just for her.’

  ‘Listen to me, child,’ he urged almost impatiently now. ‘The goddess does not want you to live for her. She wants you to die for her. You are to be made a sacrifice on her altar. It will happen today.’

  A goose-feather from her pillow lifted on the draught from beneath the door, floated for a while, then fell back to the floor. Outside, the wind barracked at the shutters. Somewhere further beyond, down by the crowded wharf, the ocean boomed.

  ‘Do you understand?’ old Nestor said.

  ‘But why?’ she whispered. ‘Why does the goddess want me to die?’

  ‘It is,’ he began, ‘ -- it has to be -- for the good of all of us. That is what your father wanted me to explain.’ He faltered, avoided her eyes, tried to gather his thoughts. ‘Do you hear the wind outside? Do you know how many weeks it has been blowing now? That wind belongs to Artemis. As long as it blows our ships cannot put to sea. Yet the whole course of this war depends on the High King returning soon to Troy. If he fails to come there in time, then all will be lost. Many men will die. Our enemies will flourish and your father will be defeated in the eyes of his men. If that happens, then it cannot be long before he loses his throne. Mycenae will fall to some other powerful prince. Your father will die and all your family -- you, your mother, your brother and sister -- will die with him. This is the terrible truth of what must happen unless that wind ceases to blow.’

  He could see the impact of this catalogue of disasters on her face, but even as he listed them he was appalled how abstract and empty they sounded beside the warm, bewildered presence of this child.

  ‘But why?’ she whispered again. ‘Why is Artemis so angry with us?’

  Again Nestor looked away from the appalling innocence of those eyes.

  ‘It is not for us to question the wisdom of the gods,’ he said at last. ‘But once we know their will, it is our duty to accept it.’ He glanced quickly back at her. ‘Your father is ready to do his duty, child. May I tell him that you are ready to do yours?’

  All the host in Aulis assembled to watch the sacrifice that day. They had raised an altar down on the quay so that it could be seen from the streets and from the cliffs above and no one need be left in doubt that the High King would discharge his debt to the goddess. Though many of the troops had been ready to mutiny only a few days before, they waited there in solemn throng, and not a man among them murmured as the warlords gathered by the altar where Calchas was already burning incense and invoking the presence of the goddess. Each alone with his own thoughts, they watched.

  Agamemnon stood among them, cloaked against the wind, with Menelaus at his side. He was staring out beyond the ships at the race of breakers hurtling off the strait. The island of Euboea was a mere blur across the water, and Troy lay a further two hundred miles away across that impassable horizon. Around his head, the turbulent sky was loud with the tinkling of mast-heads and the creak and groan of yards and timbers as the wind plucked and buffeted his ships.

  Under the gaze of thousands of men, each of whom might one day lay down his life for him, Agamemnon knew himself to be the loneliest man alive.

  They brought Iphigeneia in procession from the temple to the altar, with priests and priestesses swinging censers and carrying the holy things before her under their covers. She was accompanied by young men and women singing the hymn to Artemis, though the girl herself, whose singing voice had been known to make men weep, was silent now. They sang about the way the strong heart of Artemis quickens to the chase among the mountain shadows and on the summits of the
wind. They sang how, when the goddess has taken her quarry, she unstrings her bow, and goes to the house of her brother Apollo and takes first place among the dancers when the dance begins. And as they approached the altar, the hymn ended and there was only the noise of the wind.

  Iphigeneia had been given a cloak to keep her from the cold, but one of the women unfastened it now, and they saw how the skin of a fawn had been tied about her shoulders, and her hair was bunched and piled at the crown of her head so that her neck stood clear and white. When Odysseus spoke of that day he said that the girl had been almost smiling as she walked steadily through the throng with her head tilted. He thought at first that it was because, in her innocence, she was content to lay down her life on behalf of all the great heroes of Argos, and the thousands of men around her. Later, however, he wondered whether she had, in fact, been listening to the voice of the goddess.

  Whatever the case, in the moment when her cloak was removed, Iphigeneia saw the altar and began to tremble, and Odysseus saw in her eyes that it was as much with fear as from the cold.

  Immediately, Agamemnon dropped his own cloak and stood before the girl in all his golden regalia. He was so evidently the High King that Iphigeneia looked up at him shyly and said in a voice so slight that it could hardly be heard above the wind, ‘Are you my father?’

  Trembling now himself, Agamemnon nodded. For a stricken moment, he gazed down into the beautiful young face that gazed back at him in expectation of an embrace or a fatherly kiss. But he must have felt that the thing he was about to do revoked all rights a man might have to such consoling gestures of affection. He turned his head away, darting his eyes at those who stood ready to help him. Two men stepped forward; Iphigeneia let out a startled cry as they swept her off her feet and spread her body across the altar. Someone pushed a horse-bit into her open mouth and gagged it with his hand. Another man pulled back her head so that the chin was raised. Agamemnon cried out, ‘Great Artemis, accept the offering,’ and with a swift stroke of the knife that had been slipped into his palm, he cut the breath out of his daughter’s throat.