The Gates Of Troy (53 page)

He took a step forward, but immediately a strong hand seized his arm and pulled him back into the undergrowth. ‘You can’t just run out there in full view of everyone,’ Odysseus hissed. ‘It’ll mean your own death as well as the girl’s.’

‘She’s my daughter!’ Eperitus retorted, shaking off Odysseus’s hand. ‘And don’t forget, if she dies your hopes of returning to Penelope and Telemachus will die with her.’

‘Eperitus is right,’ said Antiphus. ‘He can run out and fetch her in the middle of this storm and nobody will even notice.’

‘Don’t be foolish,’ Odysseus said, catching Eperitus by the wrist as he stood again. ‘Can’t you see something’s happening? This is no ordinary storm.’

‘Look!’ said Arceisius.

He released Polites’s arm and pointed to the opposite side of the clearing, past the stooping Greeks and the scattered debris from the tents to where a lone figure had emerged from between the trees. He wore no helmet or armour and his blond hair was blown wildly by the wind, but he stood tall and unbent by the gale, a long sword held in his hand. It was Achilles.

His eyes roamed across the chaos before him – sneering briefly at the sight of Agamemnon and Calchas cowering behind the central altar – until he saw the terrified figure of Iphigenia. Without hesitation, he strode through the midst of the other kings and princes towards her.

‘Come, girl!’ he shouted over the gale and the endless rumbling of thunder. ‘This is no place for you.’

Suddenly, a shaft of lightning stabbed down into the carefully stacked pyre of logs behind him. The wood that Agamemnon had intended for Iphigenia’s body burst into orange fire, the flames licking outwards in every direction. Achilles staggered backwards, throwing his arm across his face for protection. Then, to the amazement of all watching, the flames turned blood red, stretching up to a height above the treetops. In their midst, barely discernible at first but taking shape rapidly, was the figure of a woman. She was tall – twice as tall as Ajax, who alone among the gathered leaders had remained on his feet throughout the storm – and in her hand was a bow of the same height. She stepped out of the fire and even Achilles and Ajax fell to their knees before her.

‘Artemis,’ Antiphus whispered, his eyes wide with fear and awe. ‘It was her arrow that killed Galatea.’

Eperitus stared at the goddess and despaired. Her face was young and beautiful, with pure white skin and golden hair, but her eyes were black; filled with a terrible darkness and power that were not tempered by reason or compassion. The heavy sheets of rain and the blustering wind seemed to pass over her without effect, and as her fierce gaze swept across the men many threw themselves face down on to the ground or covered their heads with their cloaks. Inevitably, her eyes fell upon Iphigenia and the doe that was still clutched in her arms.

‘The girl is mine!’ she declared, and even the clamour of the storm gave way to the sound of her clear, booming voice. ‘Only her blood will appease the offence done to me.’

Eperitus watched his daughter look up at the goddess, but there was no fear in her eyes any more. For days she must have lived in the shadow of her impending death, hoping and praying that she would be released from her doom. Briefly, as she felt Galatea’s hand slip into hers, she must have thought the Fates had spared her. But now there was no escape, and letting go of the comforting warmth of the doe, she rose to her feet. Released from the girl’s arms, the animal sprang away towards the trees, but a moment later it lay dead in the thick grass, one of Artemis’s gold-tipped arrows protruding from its side.

‘Rise, King of Men,’ Artemis commanded, ‘and take up your dagger. The time to pay for your insult has come.’

Agamemnon staggered to his feet and fell back against the altar, staring up at the goddess. Behind her the clouds continued to churn in torment as the thunder and lightning growled and flickered through their grey innards. The carved ivory handle of the dagger was still clutched in his palm and he looked down at the curved blade in surprise. As Eperitus watched, he prayed to Athena that Agamemnon’s mind would be filled with memories of the girl he thought was his daughter, and that any love the king still possessed for her would somehow deter him from the task that had been laid on his shoulders. Even now, the choice was still his to make: if Agamemnon desired it, he could deny the will of Artemis and let the storm continue. But as this last desperate hope of a reprieve dared to reveal itself, Eperitus knew how empty it was. Agamemnon did not love Iphigenia – she was only a girl, and unlike Orestes she would never be able to inherit his throne. What was more, Agamemnon was half-crazed with ambition. He knew the chance to unite the Greeks would not come again, and never under his own command. If he spared Iphigenia, he would no longer be the King of Men, leading a great army to renown and riches in Ilium; instead, his power would fade and he would be remembered as a gutless fool who did not have the strength to rise to his destiny. And as Eperitus guessed at Agamemnon’s truest desires, the king’s lip curled back in an angry sneer and he reached down to seize Calchas by his mud-stained robes.

‘Calchas!’ he shouted, hauling the priest to his feet. ‘Fetch the girl. Now!’

Calchas stared at him for a moment, his eyes wide with fear. Then he came to his senses and lurched through the mud towards the child, who was standing expectantly in the rain, her hair swept back from her face by the wind, her eyes blank. Achilles, whose mind had been filled with debate as he knelt before the goddess, now stood and moved across the path of the Trojan priest.

‘Don’t provoke me, Achilles,’ Artemis warned. ‘Your allotted time has not yet come, otherwise I might be tempted to kill you where you stand. But this is no affair of yours; Agamemnon insulted my honour before he did yours, and I will not allow you to interfere with my revenge.’

Achilles frowned up at her for a moment, before lifting the point of his sword defiantly towards Calchas. ‘Let the girl alone,’ he ordered. ‘Agamemnon used my name as a ruse to bring her here, so it’s up to me to put that right.’

Suddenly the weight of the sword began to increase in his hand. His muscles reacted against the strain, struggling to hold the weapon up as it grew heavier and heavier, until he could no longer support it. He tried to release his grip on the handle as the sword pulled him to the ground, but his fingers could not move and he was forced to his knees, the great power of his arms helpless to free himself from the weapon.

Calchas ran past him to where Iphigenia was waiting. Though he expected to have to use force, she shrugged his hands from her shoulders and walked slowly towards the altar with her head held high. One by one, the kings and princes stood and formed a crescent around the high plinth, many of them throwing their hoods over their faces so they did not have to look at the terrible figure of the goddess. Instead, they watched in silence as Calchas lifted the girl onto the marble slab for a second time. Above the clearing the unending thunder grew in a crescendo, while the lightning that flashed around the edges of the wood now formed a curtain of flickering light, repeatedly blasting the all-consuming gloom and yet unable to defeat it. The torrents of rain cascaded from the heavens so that the Greeks stood ankle-deep in water that seethed beneath the ceaseless downpour. Iphigenia, shivering with cold under the sodden robes that stuck to her skin, looked into Agamemnon’s face as he approached the side of the altar. The dagger gleamed in his hand and his icy blue eyes were hard and devoid of emotion, as if his soul had been sucked out and only the shell of his living body remained. Iphigenia closed her eyes and every muscle in her body tensed.

Then a shout erupted from the tree line and Eperitus ran out. With Galatea dead and even Achilles’s unexpected attempt to save the girl stopped, he could no longer restrain himself. The leaders of the expedition, whose distaste at the sacrifice had not quenched their collective thirst for war, turned in surprise as he sprinted towards them. They saw that he was unarmed, but none came forward to stop him. They did not need to. Artemis bent her gaze upon the lone man, then thrust out her palm towards him. It was as if he had hit a wall: Eperitus fell back into the mud as Iphigenia stretched out a hand towards him and whispered ‘Father’. Behind her, the gigantic figure of the goddess faded and was gone. The flames of the pyre disappeared also, leaving only a trail of white smoke as the blackened stumps of wood hissed in the rain. Then Agamemnon raised the dagger above his head in both hands and brought it down. Iphigenia screamed, and a sudden silence followed.

Eperitus lay sobbing on his side in the waterlogged grass, his body aching and his muscles heavy. His daughter lay still on the altar, and as Agamemnon buried his face in her robes, his shoulders shaking, a line of blood appeared over the edge of the slab and trickled down to the ground. The thunder and lightning had ceased and all about the wood the clouds were rolling away, taking the rain and wind with them. Soon the circle of sky above the clearing was a pale blue, and for the first time in weeks the face of the sun could be seen above Aulis. It bathed the glade in alien light, as if to welcome Iphigenia’s soul, and its heat caused steam to rise from the grass and the sodden clothing of the bent figures that stood or knelt there. But Eperitus cursed it. While the storm had raged, his daughter had lived. Now that it was gone he knew she had departed with it, to become a phantom in the halls of Hades. And soon many more would follow her, Trojans and Greeks alike, to the land of mourning and forgetfulness.

book

FOUR

Chapter Twenty-eight

T
HE
C
HOICES OF
E
PERITUS

E
peritus raised his eyes to the marble altar, a bright smudge in his tear-filled vision, and saw the white-robed body lying still and lifeless on top of it. Iphigenia, his daughter, was gone. He had failed her.

Struggling to his knees, he forced his heavy limbs to crawl towards the plinth, determined to claim the child’s body and take her back to her mother in Mycenae. Then a shadow fell across him and he felt a strong hand underneath his arm, pulling him to his feet and taking the weight of his body.

‘Not that way,’ said Odysseus, his voice gentle and kind as he hooked Eperitus’s arm over his shoulder and steered him towards the edge of the clearing.

‘No, Odysseus. I’ve got to go to her.’

‘Iphigenia is dead, Eperitus. There’s nothing more we can do for her now.’

The king beckoned to Antiphus, who ran over and took Eperitus’s other arm. Together they forced him against his will from the clearing, and though he struggled at first, twisting to look over his shoulder at the body on the altar, his limbs were too weary and eventually he allowed them to take him into the shadow of the wood. The last thing he saw was Polites lifting Galatea’s body in his arms and, accompanied by Eurylochus and Arceisius, walking into the trees on the opposite side of the glade.

Long staves of yellow light penetrated the gloom of the wood and birds were singing in the blue skies overhead, but the three men were silent as they crunched through the debris of fallen twigs and leaves. Eperitus, now walking unsupported, was too desolated by the loss of his daughter to talk. It seemed to him that a dream of hope and joy had opened up before him, only to be snatched away again with terrible brutality; and in the wake of that brief dream the world to which he had returned now seemed more forlorn and colourless than ever. It was as if a great light had entered his life, and its snuffing out had left a darkness so deep it devoured all the purpose and beauty from living.

As they walked down the slope towards the eaves of the wood – beyond which they could see the tents of the Greek camp gleaming white in the sunshine – they heard a loud call and turned to see Achilles, sword in hand, striding through the undergrowth towards them.

‘Welcome back, Odysseus,’ he said, shaking the Ithacan’s hand and slapping him on the arm. ‘And you, Eperitus. I wasn’t expecting to see either of you up there.’

‘We’ve only just returned from Mycenae,’ Odysseus explained. ‘We headed to the clearing as soon as we heard the sacrifice was underway, but by the time we got there it was almost over. The first thing we saw was the goddess and in his excitement Eperitus ran straight out . . .’

‘Save your imagination for the more gullible,’ Achilles said, holding up a hand and smiling. ‘I expect you were watching from the edge of the clearing all along. And I’ll wager my armour it was
you
who sent that girl out to fool Agamemnon – it has all the marks of one of your tricks. I’d only just reached the clearing myself, determined to stop the sacrifice, when she came striding out with her arrogant swagger, just like a real goddess. Who knows, she might have even walked away with the child if Artemis hadn’t appeared in person.’

Odysseus, knowing it was pointless to continue with his attempted deception, shrugged his shoulders and glanced at Eperitus for the first time since they had left the clearing. ‘It was a forlorn hope at best, but I admit I hadn’t accounted for the possibility of divine intervention.’

‘You did the best any man could do,’ Eperitus said. His eyes were pained with deep sadness, but a glimmer of his normal, resolute spirit had returned.

‘Then you
were
trying to save the girl,’ said Achilles. ‘But why?’

‘We could ask the same question of you,’ Eperitus replied.

Achilles smiled. ‘Then come to my tent and eat with me – we can ask each other all the questions we want there. You’re welcome, too, friend,’ he added, nodding to Antiphus. ‘Now, by your leave, I’ll run ahead and get some meat over the coals. And don’t delay; I’m as hungry as a boar, so I won’t wait too long.’

With that, he ran off through the trees, leaping a fallen trunk and several thickets of fern that were in his path. As he reached the edge of the wood, Odysseus called his name and the young warrior turned.

‘What about your sword?’ Odysseus shouted.