by Stephen Fry
Thetis took Achilles to the island of Skyros, whose ruler LYCOMEDES was an old friend. His most significant act in history up until this point had been his killing of the hero Theseus.fn88
‘I think I know how to hide your boy,’ Lycomedes said to Thetis. ‘I have, as you know, eleven daughters.fn89 Achilles can be dressed up as a girl and live amongst them. No one will ever think to look for him in their company.’
A most fetching girl Achilles made too; but he soon proved that he had crossed the threshold into full masculinity by fathering a child by DEIDAMIA, the most beautiful of the king’s daughters. They called their baby son PYRRHUS, after the name Achilles had taken as a girl – Pyrrha, which means ‘girl of flame’ – on account of his red-gold hair.fn90
This, then, was the situation when, some years later, Agamemnon sent Odysseus and Diomedes out from Aulis to scour the Greek world for the lost son of Peleus and Thetis. It was unfortunate – as far as Thetis and her hopes of concealing Achilles were concerned – that Skyros was so close to Aulis, for the island was one of the very first places that Odysseus decided to look.
The moment Odysseus arrived at the palace of King Lycomedes the wily Ithacan’s suspicions were aroused. He was a hard man to deceive, and Lycomedes was not an accomplished liar.
‘Achilles?’ said the king doubtfully, as if the name were unfamiliar to him, which in Odysseus’s view seemed unlikely. Even in Achilles’ youth, his fame had spread far and wide. ‘Nobody here of that name, I assure you.’
‘Really?’ said Odysseus. ‘I am talking about Achilles, son of Peleus and Thetis. Your friend Thetis,’ he added meaningly.
‘You’re welcome to look around,’ said Lycomedes with a shrug. ‘No one here at the palace but my twelve lovely daughters.’
Diomedes and Odysseus entered the large open courtyard where the princesses spent the day. Some were bathing, some strumming on stringed musical instruments, some weaving, some combing their hair. A fountain played. Songbirds sweetly warbled in their rush cages. It was the very picture of feminine tranquillity. Diomedes remained awkwardly on the threshold, uncertain where to look, but Odysseus took his time in surveying the courtyard with narrowed eyes. He turned to Diomedes.
‘Go back to our ship and return with twenty of the fiercest and ugliest of our men,’ he said. ‘Charge in here with them. Storm the place. No warning, swords out. Make to attack the girls. Be terrifying. Yell and beat your shields.’
‘Seriously?’ said Diomedes.
‘I mean it,’ said Odysseus. ‘And don’t hold back. All will be well. Trust me.’
When Diomedes had gone, Odysseus stepped forward and quietly laid his sword on the stone edge of the fountain. Then he stepped back, folded his arms and waited.
Diomedes may have been puzzled by Odysseus’s request, but he played his part perfectly. He and twenty huge, hairy, musclebound soldiers burst violently into the courtyard, swords drawn, yelling the most blood-curdling war cries. The princesses screamed and fell back in alarm – all except one of their number, a pretty, redheaded girl, who snatched up the sword at the fountain’s edge and brandished it with a snarl and a roar.
Odysseus stepped forward, smiling. ‘Hello, Achilles, son of Peleus,’ he said.
Achilles, sword in hand, breathing hard, looked from Odysseus to Diomedes and the twenty men and back again. Then he laughed and put down the sword.
‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘Odysseus, son of Laertes?’
Odysseus bowed.
‘My mother warned me that if anyone were able to find me it would be you.’
‘Are you willing to join us?’ Odysseus asked. ‘To go back to Phthia, bring your Myrmidons and win glory for Greece? Our honour is at stake, and your presence will surely guarantee victory. Agamemnon, Menelaus, your cousin Patroclus and a great navy await you at Aulis.’
Achilles smiled. ‘Sounds like fun.’
IPHIGENIA AT AULIS
The arrival of Achilles and his Myrmidons put great heart into the expeditionary force. They all knew the prophecies. Achilles would assure victory. He would be their champion, their totem. The boost to Greek morale that his presence gave was much needed: tens of thousands had been languishing in Aulis, kicking their heels while they awaited the order to depart for Troy.
Agamemnon welcomed Achilles with as much cordiality as he could summon. ‘Now at last we can set sail and get this thing done.’
But they could not set sail. No fleet, no matter how mighty, can sail without wind and there was none. Not a breath. Not enough to move a toy boat across the waters of a pond. Not enough to wave a single blade of grass. The vessels that carried the food, arms, staff, servants and all the provisions necessary for the war required wind to move. It would be an impossible folly for the warriors to row the penteconters to Troy without their supply ships sailing in support.
‘Calchas!’ roared Agamemnon. ‘Somebody find me my damned seer.’
Calchas bowed low before his king, but was reluctant to speak.
‘What’s the matter with you? Just spit it out, man. Why no wind? Or don’t you know?’
‘I know, your majesty, only … perhaps if I were to tell you later … in private?’
‘In private?’ Agamemnon looked around. His senior staff – Menelaus, Diomedes, Ajax, Odysseus and King Nestor of Pylos were all present. ‘No secrets here. Out with it.’
‘I … it … it has been revealed to … that is to say … the goddess Artemis … it is she …’
‘Artemis?’
‘She has commanded Aeolus, divine keeper of the winds, to calm the breezes, King of Men.’
‘But why? Who has offended her?’
‘Well … it seems … that … that …’
‘Will you stop opening and closing your mouth like a damned fish and come out with it. Who has been mad enough to offend divine Artemis?’
The distress on Calchas’s face was evident and its meaning clear to at least one of the group.
‘I think,’ said Odysseus, ‘that Calchas is finding it difficult to say your name, Agamemnon.’
‘Mine? You dare to suggest –’
‘He can hardly dare to suggest anything if you thunder at him like that,’ said Odysseus. ‘Either you want him to speak or you want to terrify him into silence. You can’t have both.’
Agamemnon waved his hand testily. ‘You may speak freely, Calchas, you know that. Bark much worse than bite.’
Calchas took a breath. ‘Do you remember last week, my lord king, you went hunting in the grove southwest of here?’
‘What of it?’
‘I did mention at the time, if you recall, King of Men, that the grove was sacred to the goddess …’
‘Did you? Don’t remember. What of it?’
‘You … you shot a stag that day. An excellent shot but … but it seems the stag was also sacred to the divine Huntress. She is angry, sire.’
Agamemnon gave an exaggerated sigh, the sigh all leaders give when they wish to express how they are surrounded by fools and eternally burdened with problems that would break lesser men.
‘All right. I see. And I suppose we need to make some sort of sacrifice to placate her, is that it?’
‘Your majesty is correct.’
‘Well, give the orders then! Do I have to do everything myself? Sacrifice what, exactly? What would be appropriate? Another stag? A bull, a goat, what?’
Calchas twisted the hem of his cloak and looked in all directions but towards his king. ‘She really is very angry, sire. Very angry indeed.’
‘Ten bulls? Twenty? A whole bloody hecatomb?’fn91
‘It … it is worse than that, majesty … The goddess requires nothing less than the sacrifice of’ – the seer’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper and tears sprang to his eyes – ‘the sacrifice of your daughter.’
‘My daughter? My daughter? Is this a joke?’
Calchas’s anguished face put the answer beyond any doubt. There followed an icy silence. Agamemnon broke it with
another question.
‘Which daughter?’
Calchas twisted the fabric of his cloak even more tightly. ‘Only the offer of your eldest will propitiate the goddess.’
Menelaus, Odysseus and the others turned to look at Agamemnon. His wife Clytemnestra had borne him three girls. Electra and Chrysothemis were still children, but Iphigenia was approaching early womanhood. She was said to be intelligent, pious and good-natured.
‘No,’ said Agamemnon after a long silence. ‘Never.’
‘Now just a moment,’ said Menelaus. ‘We are all sworn to this venture.’
‘Then sacrifice your own daughter!’
‘The treacherous Trojan brat has already stolen my wife and my son Nicostratus,’ said Menelaus. ‘I have sacrificed enough. Remember your oath.’
‘What has Iphigenia ever done wrong?’
‘I know it’s a hard thing to ask, Agamemnon, but if Artemis demands it …’
Agamemnon was not to be persuaded. ‘There are other gods. Athena, for one. She favours Odysseus and will always smile on anything he does. Poseidon is on our side too. And Hera. They will persuade Zeus to intervene. Artemis cannot hold up our fleet for ever. If we wait long enough all will be well.’
But days passed without a hint of a breeze. The hot, stale conditions at Aulis became a breeding ground for disease. As rumours began to circulate amongst the Greeks, many came to the conclusion that the vengeful Artemis had gone so far as to shoot her plague arrows into their camp. Weeks went by without the wind springing up or the contagion dying down.
Finally Agamemnon yielded to the pressure mounting on him from all sides. ‘Sail to Mycenae,’ he said to Odysseus.
‘Sail? The whole point is that we …’
‘Row! Row to Mycenae. You damned well know what I mean. Swim if you have to, but get there. Tell Clytemnestra that you are commanded to bring Iphigenia to us so that she might marry.’
‘And who is to be the fortunate husband?’
‘Achilles,’ said Agamemnon.
‘Really?’ Odysseus arched an eyebrow. ‘And how does the young prince himself feel about this?’
‘No reason to bother him with it,’ said Agamemnon with a wave of the hand. ‘They’re not really going to marry. Whole thing’s just a … just a … What’s the word?’
‘Pretext? Excuse? Deception? Lie?’
‘Don’t question my orders. Just go.’
‘But you don’t feel,’ said Odysseus, ‘that it is almost inevitable that –’
‘That what?’
‘Well … don’t you feel that perhaps a better reason might be found for bringing your daughter here?’
‘Nonsense. My plan is perfect. What could be better than betrothal to Achilles? He’s the world’s darling.’
‘It’s only that …’ Odysseus cast about for the right way to express himself.
‘No more prevarication. Go!’
As Odysseus’s ship rounded the southern headland of Attica on its way to the Peloponnese, he pondered the quirks and inconsistencies of his fellow men. He could not doubt that Agamemnon was the most brilliant military commander alive. One could only admire the speed, audacity and resolve with which he had conquered and combined the disparate city states, kingdoms and provinces of the Argolid and turned Mycenae into the great power it unquestionably was. Yet how could such an able general be so foolish when it came to questions of personality, emotion and feeling? It was surely inevitable that Agamemnon’s wife Clytemnestra would insist on accompanying Iphigenia to Aulis for the wedding. What mother wouldn’t be there for the most ordinary betrothal, let alone a union as glorious as that which was being held out? How could Agamemnon, who was capable of second-guessing the finest enemy commanders in the field, not see this? How would Clytemnestra react when she discovered that she and her daughter had been lured to Aulis under false pretences – and for the most unspeakable purpose? And how would the impetuous Achilles respond to the use of his name in such a deception?
Ah well, not for Odysseus to question, only for Odysseus to watch with his usual air of ironical detachment.
His assumptions were borne out on arrival at Mycenae. The moment ‘marriage’ and ‘Achilles’ were out of his lips the palace was thrown into an uproar of preparation. Iphigenia was overcome with happiness and Clytemnestra with pride. There was nothing Odysseus felt he could say to stem the tide of their inevitable excitement. His facial muscles ached from the fixed smile he forced onto his features. Yes, wasn’t it the most marvellous marriage imaginable? Achilles was quite as handsome as report had put out. Weren’t the bride and groom the luckiest young people alive? A triumph for Mycenae and for Phthia and all Thessaly. How very clever of Agamemnon to conceive of such an auspicious notion prior to setting off to rescue poor, darling Helen.
It was some time before Clytemnestra had supervised to her satisfaction the loading onto her ships of what she judged to be the appropriate number of slave girls, musicians and cooks and enough silverware, fine cloth and wine to create a wedding feast fit for so golden a couple. Odysseus had been forced to wait fully two weeks before her flotilla was ready to follow his ship to join Agamemnon and the becalmed Greek fleet.
But the moment she stepped down onto the Aulis quay, Clytemnestra knew something was wrong. In the hot, still air the harbour smelled appalling. The expressions on the faces of those gathered to greet her presented looks of either dread, hostility or inexplicable sympathy.
Agamemnon was genuinely surprised to see his wife. ‘No need for you to have come, my dear,’ he said, kissing her on each cheek.
‘No need for me to come? You silly man. Odysseus said the same thing. What nonsense! As if Iphigenia would not want her mother on hand for the wedding. Why on earth is everyone looking so distraught?’
Within half an hour she knew everything, and a chastened Agamemnon had once more changed his mind about the sacrifice.
‘It’s no good,’ he told his senior staff. ‘The queen is quite right. The killing of such an innocent would be an obscenity. The gods cannot possibly want it.’
Menelaus opened his mouth to protest, but before he could do so Achilles had burst into the meeting.
‘You dared use my name to lure that poor girl here to her death?’ he said, choking with rage. ‘You dared? Send her back at once.’
‘I will not have my decisions questioned by a mere boy,’ said Agamemnon.
The two men approached each other breathing heavily, but before they could square off Odysseus interposed himself.
‘Now, now …’ he said, ‘let’s not lose our self-control.’
Achilles spat onto the ground and departed without a word.
Odysseus was grateful not to be the supreme commander of this expeditionary force. He knew that leadership brought with it nothing but headaches and heartaches. In this case it was clear that, no matter what Agamemnon did, he would suffer. It was natural that all his instincts as a father and husband should revolt violently at the thought of his daughter’s death. Yet by now the whole alliance, down to the meanest slave, had learned the details of his killing of the sacred deer and what Artemis had demanded as recompense. Everyone, even his brother Menelaus, was calling on Agamemnon to yield. Iphigenia must die or the whole project to rescue Helen from Troy would fail. What was one life against the honour of so many Greek kings and princes? What was one life against the rising tide of mortality from the sickness infecting the fleet at harbour? What was one life against the prospect of all the Trojan treasure that lay in wait for their victorious armies?
That night even Achilles had overcome his fury at being the unwitting instrument in bringing Iphigenia to Aulis and had added his own voice to the chorus clamouring for her death. He felt deeply sorry for the girl, but his Myrmidons were in no mood to loiter in Aulis for a day more than was necessary. Two of his commanders, EUDOROS and PHOENIX, had come to see him that afternoon to make him understand the mood in the Myrmidon ranks.fn92
‘They love you, Prince Ach
illes,’ Phoenix had said, ‘but they will not hear of Agamemnon defying the wishes of the goddess.’
‘It is true,’ said Eudoros. ‘Artemis is implacable. My mother Polymele was once a votary of hers.fn93 She does not forgive. The Huntress must be appeased. There can be no way out. Unless Iphigenia is sacrificed, this whole enterprise will have been in vain.’
In the end it was Iphigenia herself who broke the deadlock.
‘I will lie on the sacrificial stone and gladly give my life for Greece,’ she said to a horrified and disbelieving Clytemnestra. ‘This sacrifice is my enduring monument; it is to me marriage, motherhood and fame, all those in one. And it is right, mother …’fn94
And so it was that, before them all, she was laid out on the altar stone.
Calchas raised a silver knife high in the air – his expression and speed of movement betraying, to Odysseus’s mind, rather too much enthusiasm – and called out to the goddess to accept the sacrifice.
Clytemnestra sobbed. Achilles looked away. Agamemnon screwed his eyes shut.
Calchas brought the knife down. But he did not stab Iphigenia, for Iphigenia had disappeared. In the same instant that the knife descended, she vanished. A stag took her place, and it was that creature’s hide that the blade penetrated, not the pale skin of Iphigenia.
The stag’s blood erupted in a great fountain. Without missing a beat, the blood-spattered prophet turned to the crowd with a shout of triumph.
‘Behold the mercy of the Huntress. She spares the girl! She smiles upon us!’
A muted cheer went up. Had Iphigenia truly been spared by the goddess, or was it some kind of trick cooked up by Agamemnon and his priest? But even as the crowd was deciding, Calchas pointed to the trees that fringed the site.
‘Look!’ he cried out. ‘She sends us a wind!’
It was true, the air all around was suddenly in motion.
‘Zephyrus!’ cried Calchas.
Not just a wind but the West Wind … the wind they needed for the speediest passage east to Troy.
‘Zephyrus!’ cried the Greeks. ‘Zephyrus! Zephyrus! Zephyrus!’
In the thrill and fever of preparations, Agamemnon never noticed the departure of Clytemnestra and her party.