The Song of Achilles(53)

Agamemnon almost snarls his answer. Odysseus lays a restraining hand on his shoulder.

“She says the weather is not natural. That it is a message from the gods.”

Agamemnon is not pleased to hear it; he glowers and dismisses us.

A month passes, a weary month of feverish sleep and sweltering days. Men’s faces are heavy with anger, but there are no more fights—it is too hot. They lie in the dark and hate each other.

Another month. We are all, I think, going to go mad, suffocated by the weight of the motionless air. How much longer can this go on? It is terrible: the glaring sky that pins down our host, the choking heat we suck in with every breath. Even Achilles and I, alone in our tent with the hundred games we make for each other, feel winnowed and bare. When will it end?

Finally, word comes. Agamemnon has spoken with the chief priest, Calchas. We know him—he is small, with a patchy brown beard. An ugly man, with a face sharp like a weasel and a habit of running a flickering tongue over his lips before he speaks. But most ugly of all are his eyes: blue, bright blue. When people see them, they flinch. Such things are freakish. He is lucky he was not killed at birth.

Calchas believes it is the goddess Artemis we have offended, though he does not say why. He gives the usual prescription: an enormous sacrifice. Dutifully, the cattle are gathered, and the honey-wine mixed. At our next camp meeting, Agamemnon announces that he has invited his daughter to help preside over the rites. She is a priestess of Artemis, and the youngest woman ever to have been so anointed; perhaps she can soothe the raging goddess.

Then we hear more—this daughter is being brought from Mycenae not just for the ceremony, but for marriage to one of the kings. Weddings are always propitious, pleasing to the gods; perhaps this too will help.

Agamemnon summons Achilles and me to his tent. His face looks rumpled and swollen, the skin of a man who has not been sleeping. His nose is still red with rash. Beside him sits Odysseus, cool as ever.

Agamemnon clears his throat. “Prince Achilles. I have called you here with a proposition. Perhaps you have heard that—” He stops, clears his throat again. “I have a daughter, Iphigenia. I would wish her to be your wife.”

We stare. Achilles’ mouth opens, closes.

Odysseus says, “Agamemnon offers you a great honor, Prince of Phthia.”

Achilles stutters, a rare clumsiness. “Yes, and I thank him.” His eyes go to Odysseus, and I know that he is thinking: What of Deidameia? Achilles is already married, as Odysseus well knows.

But the king of Ithaca nods, slight so that Agamemnon will not see. We are to pretend that the princess of Scyros does not exist.

“I am honored that you would think of me,” Achilles says, hesitating still. His eyes flicker to me, in a question.

Odysseus sees, as he sees everything. “Sadly, you will only have a night together before she must leave again. Though of course, much may happen in a night.” He smiles. No one else does.

“It will be good, I believe, a wedding,” Agamemnon’s words come slowly. “Good for our families, good for the men.” He does not meet our gaze.

Achilles is watching for my answer; he will say no if I wish it. Jealousy pricks, but faintly. It will only be a night, I think. It will win him status and sway, and make peace with Agamemnon. It will mean nothing. I nod, slight, as Odysseus had.

Achilles offers his hand. “I accept, Agamemnon. I will be proud to name you father-in-law.”

Agamemnon takes the younger man’s hand. I watch his eyes as he does—they are cold and almost sad. Later, I will remember this.

He clears his throat, a third time. “Iphigenia,” he says, “is a good girl.”

“I am sure she is,” Achilles says. “I will be honored to have her as my wife.”

Agamemnon nods, a dismissal, and we turn to go. Iphigenia. A tripping name, the sound of goat hooves on rock, quick, lively, lovely.

A FEW DAYS LATER, she arrived with a guard of stern Mycenaeans —older men, the ones not fit for war. As her chariot rattled over the stony road to our camp, soldiers came out to stare. It had been long now, since many of them had seen a woman. They feasted on the curve of her neck, a flash of ankle, her hands prettily smoothing the skirt of her bridal gown. Her brown eyes were lit with excitement; she was coming to marry the best of the Greeks.

The wedding would take place in our makeshift marketplace, the square wooden platform with a raised altar behind it. The chariot drew closer, past the thronging, gathered men. Agamemnon stood on the dais, flanked by Odysseus and Diomedes; Calchas too was near. Achilles waited, as grooms do, at the dais’s side.

Iphigenia stepped delicately out of her chariot and onto the raised wood floor. She was very young, not yet fourteen, caught between priestess poise and childlike eagerness. She threw her arms around her father’s neck, laced her hands through his hair. She whispered something to him and laughed. I could not see his face, but his hands on her slender shoulders seemed to tighten.

Odysseus and Diomedes moved forward all smiles and bows, offering their greetings. Her responses were gracious, but impatient. Her eyes were already searching for the husband she had been promised. She found him easily, her gaze catching on his golden hair. She smiled at what she saw.

At her look, Achilles stepped forward to meet her, standing now just at the platform’s edge. He could have touched her then, and I saw him start to, reach towards her tapered fingers, fine as sea-smoothed shells.