'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 ship'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 shining 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 shivered, 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.

Agamemnon let the dagger fall to his side and looked across at the woman who had emerged from the cover of the trees, carrying an empty bow in her left hand. She was tall and beautiful, but despite the girlish ponytail of jet-black hair and the white, thigh-length chiton, her stern face was filled with authority and power. At her side was a pure white doe, which followed her on its leash as she walked towards the circle of altars.

'Stop the sacrifice at once,' she ordered. 'The girl's life is to be spared.'

As she approached, the downpour faded to a fine drizzle and the strangled half-light of the clearing brightened a little, giving the jewelled necklace about her neck and the golden bangles on her wrists a dull gleam. The n.o.bles fell back before her, confused and stunned by her unexpected appearance. On the altar, Iphigenia sat up and wiped the rain from her eyes to stare at the elegant but commanding figure, standing like a light at the edge of the nightmare in which she was trapped. Beside her, Calchas released a sharp squeal of pain as he pulled the arrow from his palm and fell to his knees. Clutching his wounded hand under his armpit, he looked up at the woman with an angry glimmer in his eyes.

'How dare you interrupt a sacred ritual?' he hissed through gritted teeth as he felt the waves of pain bite. 'You'll pay for this with your life, woman.'

Then, to the astonishment of the gathered leaders, Agamemnon stepped around the altar and fell to his knees at the woman's sandalled feet, bowing his head in silence before her.

'You have not been chosen to lead the Greeks for nothing, Agamemnon,' she said. 'You alone among your peers have recognized that I am an immortal. While their stiff necks refuse to bow before me, you have shown me the respect that is my due.'

With this, she looked about at the kings and princes until one by one they knelt in the mud and lowered their heads. Her voice was clear, proud and authoritative, and even if some exchanged questioning glances with each other, they felt obliged to follow Agamemnon's lead. Eventually only Palamedes remained standing, scrutinizing the woman with disbelieving eyes.

'How do we know you're one of the immortals?' he challenged her, his fists on his hips. 'What proof can you give?'

Her face darkened with anger and she pulled an arrow from the quiver that hung at her hip. Fitting it to her bowstring, she aimed it directly at Palamedes's face.

'I am Artemis,' she snarled. 'And you can choose to kneel willingly before me, or I can bring you to the ground with an arrow through your eye. Either way, I have no intention of proving my divinity to a mere mortal.'

Reluctantly, Palamedes fell to one knee and bowed his head slightly, without removing his eyes from the female archer. Galatea breathed a mental sigh of relief and, lowering the bow, turned to Agamemnon.

'I am the one who demanded this sacrifice of you, King of Men, and now I am relieving you of the task. You have proved your willingness to obey me and that is enough you have pa.s.sed the test. I will ask Aeolus to call off the winds at dawn tomorrow, leaving only a westerly breeze to fill the sails of your galleys and take you to Troy. As for your daughter, she is to come with me to serve as a priestess in my temple at Tauris. You will sacrifice this white doe in her place.'

Galatea knelt by the animal that Antiphus and Arceisius had trapped the previous evening, noticing to her horror that the powder Odysseus had used to whiten its fur was already beginning to run in the constant drizzle. If the ruse was to work, she would have to act quickly. Patting the doe on its hindquarters and shoving it gently towards the central altar, she held her other hand out towards Iphigenia and beckoned her to come. The girl slid her legs over the marble slab and jumped to the floor, then with agonizing slowness her eyes filled with awe walked cautiously towards the tall white figure. All the time, Galatea could sense Palamedes's eyes upon her, watching for some c.h.i.n.k in her facade of divine authority and making her wish she had shot him when she had the chance. As it was, she reminded herself that she was a G.o.ddess, without mortal equal, and raised her chin disdainfully as she bent her gaze forcefully upon him. After a moment he lowered his eyes to the mud.

Then the thunder returned, closely pursued by a splash of lightning that flashed off the wall of trees. Galatea looked up, sensing a sudden change in the atmosphere, and within moments the clearing was filled with driving rain mixed with sleet and hail. It blew cold against her cheeks and forehead as she beckoned urgently to Iphigenia. The girl quickened her pace and reached out to take Galatea's hand. She felt the woman's warm fingertips grasp her palm, and at the same moment there came another change in the air about them. Then there was a loud tw.a.n.g and a gold-tipped arrow pa.s.sed through Galatea's neck. She was dead in an instant, dropping into the mud at the child's feet.

Iphigenia stepped back and screamed. Behind her the Greeks rose to their feet and looked about themselves in panic, sensing that a terrible presence was upon them. The clouds above the clearing began to move with an unnatural speed, twisting and contorting as if the skies themselves were in pain. Peals of thunder followed one upon another, forcing many of the men below to throw themselves to the ground in fear. Great columns of branched lightning struck again and again around the perimeter of the wood, and then with a great howl the wind began to rage through the glade. It plucked the sail from over the pyre and tossed it up into the clouds, where it was torn violently and carried away over the treetops; the two tents followed and their spa.r.s.e contents were scattered across the long gra.s.s and into the trees while the guards fled for cover.

As Galatea fell, Polites had sprung up from his hiding place in the trees and only the quick reactions of Eurylochus and Arceisius had prevented him from running out to her body. Even then, it took all their strength and the help of Antiphus to restrain the muscle-bound giant and pull him back into the cover of the undergrowth. Eperitus, too, had risen to his feet, looking anxiously at Iphigenia as she cowered at the edge of the circle of altars, her arms thrown around the neck of the fretful doe as the storm grew in ferocity about them. Odysseus's ruse had failed at the last moment and now there was only one way to save Iphigenia.

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 n.o.body 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 G.o.ddess 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 compa.s.sion. The heavy sheets of rain and the bl.u.s.tering wind seemed to pa.s.s 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 G.o.ddess, 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 gra.s.s, 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 G.o.ddess. 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 G.o.ddess, 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 G.o.ddess. 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 sh.e.l.l 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 G.o.ddess 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 gra.s.s, 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 gra.s.s 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.

THE CHOICES OF EPERITUS.

Eperitus 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.