Part 27 (1/2)

'Don't touch that!' the crone ordered, hobbling back towards him. 'It's the only water I've got and the nearest stream is a good walk away on the other side of that ridge.'

Ignoring her, Odysseus poured the water over his head and wiped the dust from his face.

'Recognize me now?' he asked, after drying his face on the blanket that had covered the array of weapons.

The old woman pulled the hood further down across her face. 'Never seen you before in my life. Now, why don't you take the weapons and leave me in peace. And may the G.o.ds curse you for your wickedness, stealing from a helpless crone and all.'

'You're neither a crone nor helpless,' Odysseus replied, seizing her arm and pulling her to her full height, then throwing the hood back from her head. It was Galatea.

'This is your dagger, Eperitus,' Antiphus announced, bending down to pick up the weapon. 'And your helmet, Polites.'

'Where's my sword, woman?' Eurylochus demanded.

'And my spear?' Arceisius added.

Galatea shrugged off the heavy cloak from her shoulders and stood before them in a plain woollen dress. Her suntanned skin shone with sweat and her grey eyes gleamed with defiance.

'They went not that I got much for the old junk. The only reason I couldn't get rid of that dagger was because n.o.body could afford my price, and I certainly wasn't going to give it away. As for that oversized helmet, I couldn't find a soldier with a head as big as a horse to take it from me.'

Polites looked hurt, but remained silent as he gazed in awe at the beautiful thief.

'Well, you can at least give Odysseus those gold bangles back,' said Eperitus.

'No,' said Odysseus, who had been watching Galatea in thoughtful silence. 'No, I'm going to let you keep them.'

The scowl fell from Galatea's face and everybody looked at Odysseus in astonishment.

'Keep them?' repeated Eurylochus.

'Yes keep them,' Odysseus confirmed. 'And what's more, Eurylochus, when we reach Eleusis we'll get the girl fine clothes and jewellery fit for a G.o.ddess. What do you say, Galatea?'

Galatea could not stop her face breaking into a bright smile, but she crossed her arms and stared at the Ithacan king with her head c.o.c.ked to one side. 'Keep what I took from you and get more on top? Not without something in return, no doubt. What's your price?'

'Come with us to Aulis,' Odysseus replied, patting the flank of his horse and smiling cryptically. 'I'll tell you what I've got in mind on the way.'

Chapter Twenty-seven.

ARTEMIS.

Agamemnon had ordered the leaders of the Greek factions to gather in the wood overlooking the army's camp, in the glade where the altars to the G.o.ds had been placed. The kings and princes arrived one by one, unaccompanied by their captains or advisers, to find two white tents standing on opposite sides of the clearing, their canvas heavy and sagging with the ceaseless rain. Each tent was guarded by one of Agamemnon's bodyguard, but the King of Men was nowhere to be seen.

At the centre of the clearing was a single plinth, longer and wider than the marble altars encircling it and gleaming white in the heavy gloom. A wooden pyre stood not far from it, built to the height of a man and covered by a s.h.i.+p's sail stretched between four wooden posts to keep it dry. The canvas flapped noisily in the strong north-easterly winds that whistled through the trees and tugged at the sodden cloaks of the Greek leaders. There were more than two dozen of them now, standing in silence amidst the curtains of rain that swept the clearing. A few blinked up at the skies above, where billowing clouds twisted and curled in different shades of grey, constantly blending and separating in an endless metamorphosis. It was as if Aulis had been sewn into a shroud of endless shadow, where day pa.s.sed into night and night into day without a glimpse of the sun a Hades for the living, where every moment was an intolerable drudge and there was no hope of escape. But as they gathered for the sacrifice that Calchas had promised would lift the storm, the leaders' spirits fell to their lowest ebb. Being warriors, primed for war, they longed for nothing more than to sail to Troy and reap a great victory; but when the awful nature of the sacrifice had been revealed to them there was not one who did not baulk at the horror of it. The cold looks of the men as they pa.s.sed through the camp on their way to the gathering told them what the common soldiers thought about the price of Agamemnon's war, even if it was the King of Men's own daughter who had to die.

And yet they came as they had been commanded, their faces half hidden by their hoods as they formed a circle around the central altar. Menelaus hung his head and avoided the eyes of the others about him. He had known Agamemnon's intentions from the beginning, but because of his longing for Helen had not discouraged them; he was complicit in Iphigenia's death, and the girl's blood would be as much on his hands as his brother's.

Beside him, standing tall and aloof, was Diomedes. His handsome face was held high, but his stern brown eyes looked with disdain at the altar before him, openly declaring his condemnation of the act that would soon take place. Nestor, on the opposite side of the circle, shared the Argive's distaste, but, as he stood with his hands behind his back, watching the raindrops explode off the marble altar, he knew the will of the G.o.ds could not be denied. The other leaders knew it too Palamedes, Idomeneus, Menestheus, Teucer, Little Ajax and the rest and had come to the clearing without protest. Even Great Ajax was there, towering above them like a standing stone in the torrents of rain. When it came to battle, his faith was in his own strength rather than the whims of the Olympians, but he knew the storm could not be fought with muscle and bronze alone. It was an unnatural thing sent by the G.o.ds, and if Artemis could be appeased only with the death of a young girl then her price had to be met.

Only two of the highborn Greeks were absent. The first was Odysseus, who had still not returned from Mycenae, and the other was Achilles. On discovering his name had been used to lure Iphigenia to Aulis he had flown into a rage at Agamemnon, reproaching him for his deceit and promising to have no part in the sacrifice. Since then the Phthian prince had remained shut in his tent with Patroclus, refusing all summons from the King of Men. Even Nestor and Diomedes, after being welcomed with the hospitality that befitted their rank, were politely but firmly refused when they asked Achilles to put aside his anger and attend the sacrifice. Agamemnon may have been elected leader of the Greeks, they were told, but he needed to be taught that Achilles would not tolerate the misuse of his name.

As the group of men awaited the appearance of Agamemnon, a great peal of thunder split the clouds above them. They felt it in the air and the ground beneath their feet, and a moment later sensed the flicker of lightning inside the swirling belly of cloud over their heads. Instinctively they grew uneasy, some of them glancing upwards or across at the tents on either side of the glade. Then, as if in response to their anxious looks, the guard on one of the tents reached across and pulled open the heavy cotton and flax canvas. A moment later Agamemnon stepped out, wearing his lion's pelt and his breastplate of gold, tin and blue enamel. As he stared at the circle of leaders from beneath the lion's upper teeth, they could see that his face was set in a fierce grimace and there was an almost fanatical gleam in his eyes. Then, stepping forward, he stumbled and clawed at the guy ropes to steady himself. The soldier reached out to help, but Agamemnon pushed him away irritably before continuing across the clearing. His steps were wavering and unsteady, though he tried to walk with his back straight and his head high, and when he reached the altar he gripped the edge of the plinth to keep himself from falling. He looked around at the gathered kings and princes and, to their surprise, he was smiling a desperate grin that was halfway between amus.e.m.e.nt and derision.

'Where's Achilles?' he demanded.

'He won't come,' Nestor answered. 'As a point of honour.'

'Honour?' Agamemnon scoffed. 'Honour! There's no honour in this for any of us; why should he remain aloof from it all?'

'Because he's the only sane one among us,' said Diomedes. 'This isn't right, Agamemnon. It will put a curse on all of us.'

'It's the will of the G.o.ds!' Agamemnon retorted, leaning across the altar towards him, the slurring of his words more p.r.o.nounced now. 'Even Achilles in his pride won't remain untouched. He can hide away in his tent, declaring I've offended his honour, but we're all part of this. The stain of it will fall on him, too.'

There was another deep roll of thunder followed by a flash of lightning, forking down from the clouds beyond the wood and momentarily sundering the oppressive gloom. Agamemnon threw both fists up at the sky and howled with anger, then drawing a dagger from his belt struck again and again at the marble plinth, sending showers of sparks to join the spray from the rain. But the blade refused to break and, his anger expended, the king slumped across the altar and lowered his head.

At that point, the guard at the other tent lifted the canvas and Calchas walked out, pulling Iphigenia behind him. She wore a brown cloak that fell almost to her ankles, and her feet were bare as she staggered forward into the ferocious rain, looking confused and fearful. A crown of small yellow, blue and white flowers had been plaited into her hair, reminding the onlookers of the summer that had been driven away from Aulis by the storms, and which would only return when the girl's life blood had been spilled.

Iphigenia looked across at the circle of hooded men and the hunched figure of Agamemnon, and her eyes darkened with anger. Suddenly she began to struggle against the pull of Calchas's hand, digging her heels into the mud and leaning backwards as she tried to wrench herself free of his fierce grip. The priest turned and threw both hands about her wrist. The black hood slipped from his head as they fought and his bald pate gleamed white and bulbous through the sheets of rain. Eventually the combined strength of his thin arms succeeded and the girl was pulled onto her knees.

'Why are you doing this to me?' she screamed. 'I don't want to die!'

Agamemnon lifted his head from the plinth and gazed across at the girl he believed to be his daughter, kneeling in the mud with her arms stretched suppliantly towards him. For a moment the strength seemed to drain from his body, and if it were not for the altar he would have slumped to the ground. Then, though his arms were weak and numbed by the cold marble of the plinth, he pulled himself up and looked again at the weeping girl, her face now hidden in her hands. With his thoughts and senses dulled by the incessant rain, he tried to remember how Iphigenia had looked as a baby, and then as she had grown into a girl. But the memories would not come: all he could see was the face of his son, Orestes; it was as if Iphigenia was a stranger to him, a mere acquaintance flitting in and out at the edges of his life.

A clamorous boom ripped through the skies above, followed by a great flash of light. In its wake, he heard a voice in his head, telling him he did not love the girl. The voice belonged to Calchas and as Agamemnon looked across at the priest, standing now patiently at Iphigenia's side, it seemed to him the man knew his thoughts. He stared at the faces of the kings and princes around him. Their eyes were hard, disapproving, but expectant. He was their elected leader the self-styled King of Men and if he was to take them to Troy he must carry out the edicts of the G.o.ds, however cruel. Finally he looked again at his daughter. Her face had lifted now and there was a scornful look on her young features, a look that reminded him of her mother. Suddenly she struggled to her feet, slipping in the mud, and raising her face to the heavens began to shout: 'Eperitus! Eperitus! Help me!'

Agamemnon rose to his full height, throwing off the chains of lethargy that had bound him to the altar. With an angry frown, he thrust a finger towards Iphigenia.

'Silence her!' he commanded. 'And bring her to me.'

Calchas clapped his hand over Iphigenia's mouth, but she bit into the soft palm and he pulled away with a yelp of pain.

'I'll come freely,' she declared, glaring angrily at Agamemnon. 'I won't be dragged to my death like a dumb beast.'

With that, she took a deep breath, brushed the wet strands of hair from her eyes, and approached the altar. The circle of hooded men parted before her, and as she pa.s.sed between them she saw Menelaus and Diomedes on either side of her. Diomedes could not hold her gaze and hung his head, but Menelaus held out his hands pleadingly and opened his mouth to speak.

'You are not to blame, uncle,' she said, then with a smile walked past and stood before the marble plinth, facing the man she had thought of as her father until only a few days ago. The dagger was still clutched in his hand and for a moment her eyes lingered on the beads of rain as they ran down the s.h.i.+ning blade and dripped to the ground. Agamemnon looked at her with hard eyes and his mouth set in a firm line.

'The altar is too high, my lord,' she said, bitterly. 'You will have to help me up.'

Agamemnon looked at Calchas, who had followed the girl into the circle of men. He stepped up behind her and unfastened the cloak from around her neck. It fell to form a dark pool about her feet, revealing the white sacrificial robes beneath. For a moment it seemed to the onlookers that a pillar of light had been uncovered before their eyes, then Calchas placed her arm about his neck and, lifting her from the ground, laid her on the great stone slab. Iphigenia turned her eyes from the falling rain and s.h.i.+vered, though whether it was with the cold or with fear, no one knew.

Agamemnon gave another nod and Calchas stepped back, shrugging the heavy cloak from his shoulders to reveal the white priest's robes beneath. Lifting his face to the heavens, he stretched out his arms and began a low, unintelligible chant. His voice grew steadily louder and the onlookers could hear him calling on the G.o.ds to witness the sacrifice, singing their names and many t.i.tles in a wavering tone that was both hypnotic and chilling. As he sang the name of Artemis, the virgin huntress, G.o.ddess of the moon, Agamemnon took the dagger in both hands and lifted it above his head. He looked down at his daughter's chest, rising and falling rapidly, clawing at the last moments of life, and she looked back at him, wide-eyed but silent. Then there was a loud crash from above as if the sky had split asunder, followed by a keen whistling and a cry of pain from Calchas. A flash of lightning followed and for an instant the priest seemed frozen, his right arm lifted above his head and the fingers of his hand splayed wide. Through the centre of his palm was an arrow, stuck fast in the flesh and bone.

'Stop!' commanded a high, strong voice.