In the silence after she had finished, Iphigeneia turned to look at her and there was something in the princess’s eyes that made her feel the prickle of tears in her own.
“You would do this for me?”
“Princess, you gave me my life, I am ready to give it back now if you will favor me and take it.”
Iphigeneia made a quick movement towards her and she found herself clasped in a close embrace. She felt a shuddering within the princess and this was transmitted to her own body and for these few moments their two bodies were a single vehicle for grief. Then Iphigeneia drew away and already her face had changed, there was a kind of sharpness in it. “But how could you be mistaken for me?” she said.
“With the makeup, the moon paste . . .”
“Even masked, it would be seen that you were not the princess.”
“But lady, how could it be seen?” It was the same objection that Macris had made. What would have been easy for her— recognizing that she could be confused with another—was hard for Iphigeneia, and this was something she had not fully taken into account. As if the princess bore a sign always about her, like a light round her head, or something like music, something everyone would recognize and know. With a firmness that came as a surprise to herself, she said, “With the mask that makes the face round and white, with the robe of the victim, with the way I will walk, everyone will think it is Iphigeneia.”
It was the first time in her life that she had taken such a tone with her mistress, and she felt a kind of alarm at her temerity. But Iphigeneia showed no displeasure, merely compressed her lips and nodded once, as if considering.
“But are you sure you can go through with it? What if you lose your nerve halfway through?”
Sisipyla felt a flood of relief at this. Not a question at all really, only a doubt. It meant that the princess would agree. She had not thought for a moment that Iphigeneia would refuse the offer of a slave’s life to save her own, fond as she knew her mistress to be of her; but she knew also that the princess had no high opinion of her powers of concentration, thinking her sloppy and unfocused—she had said so often enough. She said, “Once I step outside in the mask and the robe, once I take the first paces towards the altar, my death is certain. If they find out I am only Sisipyla, they will kill me. Why would I lose my nerve, knowing I am dead in any case?”
Iphigeneia was silent for a time that seemed long to Sisipyla. Then, in a tone in which there was no finality, only a sort of reflectiveness, she said, “So I will prepare you for the sacrifice, dress your hair, spread the moon mask on your face. You will be my substitute, you will honor the goddess in my name.”
“Yes, lady. And you will live to honor the goddess many times over.”
“The sacrifice will not be in keeping with your destiny, you have no destiny.”
“Lady, I am nothing, I am less than your shadow. This talk of destiny comes from Odysseus. He is clever but he is a bad man and he sees only what is bad in others. So he can be deceived. He will come again to persuade you. But now you will be stronger than he, you will know something he doesn’t know. It will be better if you seem to be yielding, if you let him see that he is gaining ground. Not all at once, of course. Then he will be glad, he will want to fix the time of the sacrifice as soon as possible, so as to be done with it, so the ships can sail. In that way we can be ready with our plan. They talk of Zeus, and for a sacrifice to Zeus they will come just before sunrise. We will keep the light low inside here, when they come you will hide your face, you will be Sisipyla, overcome with grief. When they have taken me from the tent you will wait a little time and then make your escape. The boat will be waiting at the edge of the camp, at that side where the rocks have fallen. Everyone will be up on the hillside, waiting for the sacrifice. Macris will take you across the water, he will keep you safe.”
6.
Amazing, absolutely amazing,” Odysseus said. “You can talk for hours, for days, and not a flicker. Then you say the same thing again in slightly different words and hey, presto, you see a change in the eyes, you hear a change in the voice, you know you are on the way, you know you’ve struck the right note, you see light at the end of the tunnel . . .”
“Breakthrough.”
“Breakthrough, brilliant, what I would do without you I don’t know. I must admit that I feel pleased about the way things have gone. Of course, I spared no effort to make her see reason, I am capable of dedication when there is need for it. I mean, this business has taken two days and half of one night and given me a sore throat. There were times when I felt irritated, times when I felt like giving her a good spanking. The heavy-burden-of-command argument was no good, for obvious reasons. The sense-of-responsibility argument, which worked so well with her father, didn’t really go down very well. I mean, she isn’t responsible for anything, is she? She doesn’t see herself as a witch, naturally. She is devoted to Artemis, it would have ruined everything to reflect on her duties as a priestess, it would have set her against us, made her more intractable than ever, lost ground already gained . . .”
“Counterproductive.”
“There you go again, brilliant. I lost a lot of time initially, talking to her about greatness, what is due to her station and so on. But she isn’t old enough to know what greatness means. It only started to have effect when I linked it up with destiny. She didn’t show any sign at that point, but I am pretty sure that’s where her resistance began to break down. Yes, our little Iphigeneia is interested in the idea of a noble destiny. Already, last night, I was getting some response. But it wasn’t until this morning that I hit upon the right connection. Believe it or not, she thinks it is her destiny to save her people. She wants to take on the burden, discharge the debt, redeem the wrongs of the world . . .”
“Messianic complex.”
“By all the gods, you are excelling yourself today. Yes, once I understood that, we got on like a house on fire. She began to confide in me—there couldn’t be a clearer sign that she was caving in. She told me the story of the blood curse on her family, which of course I already knew, but she seemed to think it was a secret. She actually thought that by marrying Achilles she could lift the curse. Now the groom she will meet will be more irresistible even than he and the salvation factor much greater. Not only the family, you see, but everything else too. She declares herself ready to die, and she means it. I know sincerity when I see it. We can notify Croton immediately and set things going. The sacrifice will take place at sunrise tomorrow. It’s odd, isn’t it? We used the same basic argument of a noble destiny with both father and daughter. It succeeded with the father because he hasn’t got any nobility, it has succeeded with the daughter because she has too much of it. I call that really neat. We must remember to keep our promises to that pretty little slave girl, what’s her name again?”
“Sisipyla.”
“I think we owe a lot to her. She’s obviously been working behind the scenes to bring her mistress round. And she gave me a clue, something I might not have thought of—we all have our limitations.”
“What was that?”
“Well, this moon-mask business. Everything is conceptual, that’s a discovery my experience of life has brought me to. I thought, you know, if it was so important for Iphigeneia to walk to the altar with the goddess, she would be open to the idea that the goddess wanted it, had always wanted it, that it was the will of Artemis that she should die.”
7.
It was still dark when Sisipyla started to prepare. The robe had been brought to them the evening before; cut from new cloth and dyed saffron by women of the camp, it had been scented and folded and kept ready for the princess’s arrival. Sisipyla put it on carefully in the dim light of the lamp and Iphigeneia adjusted the folds at the shoulders and tied the narrow sash behind. Now it was time for the mask, and here Sisipyla had to instruct her mistress, who was new to this task. First, slowly and carefully, the outline of the oval, beginning across the forehead, curving down through the temples, meeti
ng at the center of the chin. Then the filling in of the shape, smoothing the paste evenly over the brow and nose and cheeks, taking care not to go too close to the eyes and lips and nostrils. Under her fingers Iphigeneia saw the face she knew disappear and that of an immaculate stranger take its place.
“Now the hair,” Sisipyla said. “It must be dressed high on the head if we are not to cut it. It must be kept well clear of the neck.” How strange it seemed that her mistress should now be making her up, getting her ready, acting the servant. When they were small Iphigeneia used often to dress her up, tie her hair with ribbons, put various outfits on her. She had served as a live doll for a while, perhaps a year, until the princess had grown tired of it. She felt fear like a knot in her stomach, and the palms of her hands were moist. She saw or imagined a faint light straining through the canvas, contending with the lamp-light. It was not ceasing to be that frightened her, only the manner of it, the violation. She had struggled to keep the fear from her mind while she concentrated on the instructions to her mistress. Now that she was dressed and ready, the fear came at her more strongly for being held back, and she felt a quick, involuntary contraction of the throat.
Iphigeneia stepped back suddenly, putting a distance between them for the first time since the dressing-up had begun. And now, just as suddenly, through her own unchanging mask Sisipyla saw the face before her change, pass from a look of appraisal to a different kind of scrutiny, colder, somehow stricken.
“You are me,” she said. “If you are me, what am I?”
“You are always Iphigeneia.”
“They will think you are me, they will think your blood is mine.”
“Only for as long as needs be. Then you will—”
“No, the time when they think your blood is mine can never be got back again, because the blood is shed forever.”
“Lady, we must be ready, it will soon be light.”
“You are my dear companion but our blood is not the same. My blood is royal, yours is that of an Asian slave girl. You will steal my destiny.”
“Destiny?”
“Only great people have destiny, common people cannot have it. Odysseus explained this to me.”
Sisipyla felt a trembling within her as at some prophecy of ill, not believed, now fulfilled. She made an effort to overcome it. To Iphigeneia’s face there had come a radiance she knew, exalted, remote—it was the look she had worn when she spoke of marrying Achilles.
“I wanted to save my life,” the princess said. “I pretended to agree, at first I pretended, but then it was pretense no longer. When he said it is my destiny to save my father and my people I knew he was right. I said the words again inside myself and I knew he was right. It is what I was born for.”
Sisipyla’s trembling grew stronger. She tensed her body to control it. “This destiny costs you your life, it costs Odysseus nothing but breath. Where is it, this destiny? It is only a word.” She paused, struggling with unaccustomed thoughts. “It is not like love or the feeling of being grateful. It is only a word. The knife makes the same stroke, whether it is you or me or a goat or a rabbit, and the blood is the same color.”
As if she had not heard, Iphigeneia said, “I didn’t realize it, not fully, not until I saw you standing there in my gown and my mask. It was like a dream when you are doing something you don’t want to do but some force makes you go on with it. All the time it was in my mind. Sisipyla, you came from nowhere to be my friend. But how can the blood of a person from nowhere deceive the goddess? Will she not know whose blood it is? How can the blood of a person from nowhere save the name of my father and strengthen his command, how can she save this great expedition and forge the Greeks into a single nation, how can she be remembered in the songs as the savior of a whole people? She cannot. Artemis has called me to this work of salvation. I want you to make me ready for the sacrifice.”
“You are using their language. They have put their language into your mouth.”
“Do you hear me? I want you to make me ready. Take off my gown.”
Wordless now, Sisipyla obeyed. She untied the sash behind, slipped off the gown, handed it to her mistress. Iphigeneia undressed, dropping her clothes here and there on the floor of the tent. Sisipyla hastily dressed in her own things again. Her trembling had ceased now, but there was a weakness in her limbs and in the movements of her hands as she began to apply the chalk paste to the face of her mistress. She made a last effort. “Lady,” she said, “don’t believe them, please don’t believe them, it is only words, they care no more for your life than for mine.”
But Iphigeneia made no reply, holding herself stiffly, mutely offering her face for the masking. As Sisipyla spread the gray-white glutinous paste, taking the usual care to make a perfect oval, as touch by touch the known and loved face of her mistress disappeared below the featureless mask, it came to Sisipyla with a force that strengthened and steadied her that it was not she who was being abandoned, left among the playthings. She had been ready to give her life for a reason that belonged to her, a life to save a life. Iphigeneia’s reason did not belong to her, it belonged to Odysseus and the chiefs. Her throat would be severed for reasons that belonged to other people. This was to be like the straw effigies in the dark grove that had always oppressed and frightened her so, left dangling and helpless there, with no reason that belonged to them, to sway or be still as the wind bade them.
When Iphigeneia was ready they faced each other for some time in silence, mask regarding mask, all expression concealed beneath the stiffening paste. The light of early morning was coming through the canvas. There were shadows of men at the entrance, and then voices.
“Sisipyla, I thank you for the love and service you have given me. Now I leave you behind, I go to fulfill my destiny and perform the will of Artemis.” The voice was composed, without a tremor.
“My true name is not Sisipyla. That name dies with you. I had another name before, my own name. It was Amandralettes. Now I will be Amandralettes.”
These were the last words spoken between them. It was Calchas who came, haggard in the morning light, flanked by guards. Iphigeneia went forward to meet them, head held high. No one gave more than a glance to the slave girl crouching in a corner, her head averted in grief. When they had gone she waited where she was for a short while. There was no time to remove the paste, even had there been water enough inside the tent to do it. At the last moment, at the entrance, she turned back inside, took the gold shoulder clasps from Iphigeneia’s dress and the necklace of silver and ivory. These she tied up in her shawl, holding the bundle close under her cloak as she left the tent.
She met no one as she went down towards the shore. Macris would be waiting at the place arranged, but she did not take this direction. Below the camp there were always boats. No one would be guarding them now. The current would help her . . . Behind her, as she went, she heard a great shout. Then there was silence.
Calchas, accompanied by a watchful Chasimenos and two armed men from Phylakos’s squadron, himself took a boat not very much later, and according to instructions cast the bloodstained knife into the sea where it ran deepest. And as he watched the knife cleave the water and disappear from sight with only the slightest of sounds and no visible marring of the surface, his talent returned to him and he saw radiant circles spread outward from this plunge of the knife and he was at the heart of these ripples of light and at their most distant borders, together with the meanest of crawling things and the mightiest of gods. He was pierced through with the wonder of existence and everything he could think or know or experience lit up this wonder and darkened it and the light and darkness were one and the same. He trailed his hand in the water and his eyes filled with tears and he prayed for the safe passage of Iphigeneia’s soul.
And so the fleet set sail and the army landed at Troy. The war lasted ten years. Greeks and Trojans alike were borne away on that tide of metal the diviner had seen in his vision. Agamemnon returned, only to be murdered, together with his concubi
ne Cassandra, by Clytemnestra, in revenge for the killing of their daughter Iphigeneia. Not long after this, within the lifetime of some who survived the war, the power of Mycenae collapsed, citadel and palace went up in flames and the inhabitants were put to the sword. This destruction, from which the kingdom never recovered, is said to have been the work of wandering marauders called the Sea People, but who these people were and where they came from is still disputed.
The girl was remembered by a fisherman out early, who saw her cross the water. He spoke of it afterwards: a shout of many voices, then a girl in a white mask crossing the water soon after sunrise. Those who heard this story repeated it in their turn. Because of the mask it began to be said that the girl was Iphigeneia, that she had escaped or been rescued. And in the course of time a standard version found its way into the repertory of the singers. Iphigeneia had not been sacrificed, she had been saved at the last moment by Artemis and spirited far away, as far as anyone could imagine, to the northern shores of the Euxine Sea, to live among the barbarous Taurians and be their priestess.
But all this was much later, when sensibilities and habits of thought had changed, and it was no longer considered desirable that such an ugly thing as the sacrifice of the innocent for the sake of prosecuting a war should feature in the songs of the kings.
Selected Bibliography
Lord William Taylour, The Mycenaeans
John Chadwick, The Mycenaean World
A. J. B. Wace, Mycenae
Michael Wood, In Search of the Trojan War
James Hall, Dictionary of Subjects and Symbols in Art
Andrew Dalby, Siren Feasts
G. S. Kirk, The Nature of Greek Myths
Robert Graves, The Greek Myths
The Songs of the Kings: A Novel Page 27