Did nothing ever change? I could see the end of this awful story as clearly as if it were painted on a wall in front of my eyes. Why were the Gods so cruel?

‘Finish it, Agamemnon,’ I said.

‘One day I was with my wife and the baby when Klytemnestra happened to remark that Iphigenia was the most beautiful creature in all of Greece – more beautiful, she said, than Helen. Before she was done saying it, I knew Artemis had put the words into her mouth. The Archeress wanted my daughter. Nothing less would satisfy her. But I couldn’t do that, Odysseus. We expose babes at birth, but ritual human sacrifice has not been practised in Greece since the New Religion drove out the Old. So I prayed to the Goddess and begged her to understand why I couldn’t do as she wanted. And as time went by and she did nothing, I thought she had understood. Now I see that she was only biding her time. She demands what I cannot give her, the life she let begin and insists upon ending while it is still virgin. The story of my daughter is come full circle. But I cannot permit human sacrifice!’

I hardened my heart. My son was lost to me: why should he keep his daughter? He had two others. His ambition had separated me from all I held dear – why shouldn’t he suffer as well? If lesser men were compelled to obey the Gods, so too should the High King, who was everyone’s representative before the Gods. He had promised, then withheld the promise for sixteen years only because it affected him personally. If the most beautiful thing born that year in his kingdom had been the child of any other man, he would have made the offering with a clear conscience. So I looked into his face with deliberate intention, my chest filled with the ache of exile, and succumbed to the urging of some daimon which had taken up residence within me the day that my house oracle had pronounced my fate.

‘You have committed a terrible sin, Agamemnon,’ I said. ‘If Iphigenia is the price Artemis demands, then you must pay it. Offer up your daughter! If you do not, your kingdom will collapse in ruins and your enterprise against Troy will turn you into the laughingstock of all time.’

How he hated being a laughingstock! Not the dearest member of his family could mean as much to Agamemnon as his kingship, his pride. I watched the conflict march across his face, the despair and grief, the vision of his own miserable descent into ignominy and ridicule. He turned to Nestor, hoping for support.

‘Nestor, what should I do?’

Torn between horror and pity, the old man wrung his hands together and wept. ‘Terrible, Agamemnon, terrible! But the Gods must be obeyed. If Almighty Zeus instructs you to give the Archeress what she demands, then you have no choice. I am very sorry, but I must agree with Odysseus.’

Weeping desolately, our High King appealed to each of the others; one by one, white-faced and grave, they sided with me.

I alone kept an eye on Kalchas, wondering whether he had made a few discreet enquiries into Agamemnon’s past. Who could forget the hatred and vindictiveness in his face the day the storm had begun? A subtle man. And a Trojan.

After that, it was a matter of simple logistics. Agamemnon, reconciled, convinced – thanks to me – that he had no other alternative than to sacrifice his daughter, explained how difficult it would be to get the girl away from her mother.

‘Klytemnestra would never permit that Iphigenia be brought to Aulis as a victim for the priest’s knife,’ he said, looking old and sick. ‘As Queen, she would go to the people, and the people would uphold her in this.’

‘There are ways,’ I said.

‘Then describe them.’

‘Send me to Klytemnestra, Agamemnon. I’ll tell her that, thanks to the storms, Achilles has become very restless and talks of taking himself and his Myrmidons back to Iolkos. I’ll tell her that you had the bright idea of offering him Iphigenia as his wife provided he remains at Aulis. Klytemnestra won’t question this. She told me that it was her ambition to marry Iphigenia to Achilles.’

‘But it’s a slur on Achilles,’ Agamemnon said doubtfully. ‘He would never consent. I’ve seen enough of him to know that he goes straight. After all, he’s the son of Peleus.’

Exasperated, I cast my eyes skyward. ‘Sire, he will never know! Surely you don’t intend to tell the whole world about this business? Each of us here today will gladly take an oath of secrecy. Human sacrifice wouldn’t win any hearts among our troops – they’d start to wonder who might be next. But if no rumour of it leaks out, then no harm is done, and Artemis is appeased. Achilles will never know!’

‘Very well, do it,’ he said.

As we left I took Menelaos to one side. ‘Menelaos, do you want Helen back?’ I asked.

A wave of pain flooded into his face. ‘How can you ask?’

‘Then help me, or the fleet will never sail.’

‘Anything, Odysseus!’

‘Agamemnon will send a messenger to Klytemnestra ahead of me. The man will warn her to take no notice of my story and instruct her to refuse me custody of the girl. You have to intercept him.’

His mouth set into a thin, hard line. ‘I swear, Odysseus, that you’ll be the only one who speaks to Klytemnestra.’

I was satisfied. For Helen he would do it.

It was easily done. Klytemnestra was delighted with the match she thought Agamemnon had arranged for this beloved youngest female child, and it suited her to wed the girl to a man about to embark for a foreign war. She adored Iphigenia; marriage to Achilles would enable her to keep the girl with her at Mykenai until Achilles returned from Troy. So the Lion Palace rang with laughter and rejoicing while Klytemnestra packed boxes of finery with her own hands, spent time with her daughter to initiate her into women’s mysteries and marriage. She was still beside the litter talking to Iphigenia when it passed through the Lion Gate, her nubile yet unwed elder child Chrysothemis weeping in frustration and envy. Whereas Elektra, the oldest one of all, a thin, dour and unattractive replica of her father, stood on the ramparts with her baby brother, Orestes, clasped tenderly in her arms. There was no love lost between her and her mother, I had noticed that.

At the foot of the path Klytemnestra reached inside the curtains to kiss Iphigenia’s wide white brow. I shuddered. The High Queen was a woman given to passionate loves and hates; what would she do when she learned the truth, as eventually she must? If once she brought herself to hate Agamemnon, he would have good reason to fear her vengeance.

I hurried as fast as the bearers could carry the litter, anxious to reach Aulis. Whenever we stopped to rest or to camp Iphigenia chattered away to me artlessly – how much she had admired Achilles when she stole secret glances at him in the Lion Palace, how ardently she had fallen in love, how wonderful it was that she would marry him, for it was the desire of her heart.

I had steeled myself to feel no pity for her, but at times that proved difficult; her eyes were so innocent, so happy. But Odysseus is a man stronger than any others in that part of a man which gives him endurance, victory in adversity.

After night had fallen I brought the litter with its curtains drawn into the imperial camp and bundled Iphigenia straight inside a little tent near her father’s. I left her with him, Menelaos hanging on doggedly for fear the sight of her would break down Agamemnon’s resolve. Deeming it wiser not to draw attention to her advent, I posted no guards around her tent. Menelaos would have to make sure she stayed there.

11

NARRATED BY

Achilles

Each day in the rain and cold I exercised my men, warming them with hard work. Other commanders might let their troops grow slack, but the Myrmidons knew me better than that. They revelled in the conditions under which they lived, liked the rigid discipline and enjoyed a sense of superiority over other soldiers, knowing themselves more professional.