‘Odysseus,’ I greeted him. I held myself as tall and straight as I could, though I felt rumpled and dirty from travelling. I gave Iphigenia a surreptitious poke to stop her slouching. However thirsty and exhausted we felt, we were royal women, and our dignity was everything.
Odysseus bent his head briefly to us. When I had seen him last, his eyes had danced continually with merriment, with the glee of knowing that he was always several steps ahead of any opponent. His face looked shadowed; grey and grim. I wondered if it was the strain of missing his newborn son and his clever wife. It could be months before he saw them again.
‘Clytemnestra,’ he said. ‘I hope your journey has been comfortable.’ He turned to Iphigenia. ‘And you, my lady,’ he went on, ‘we have all eagerly awaited your presence here.’
‘Where is my husband?’ I asked. I could sympathise with his sombre mood on the eve of war, but this was the day before my daughter’s wedding, and I wanted to feel some cheer, some sense of celebration to lift our spirits.
‘King Agamemnon talks of strategy with his advisers,’ Odysseus said smoothly. ‘War tactics, and so on. Come, I will show you to your quarters so that you can rest before tomorrow. The ceremony will take place at sunrise,’ he added, ‘and we hope to sail shortly afterwards.’
A jumble of questions jostled in my mind. Why was Odysseus, the wiliest man in Greece, not participating in a meeting of strategy? Why an early morning wedding? If they were to leave so early, having the wedding this evening would make more sense, to allow us all time to celebrate. How strange, to conduct the ceremony and then leave for war immediately afterwards. I glanced at Iphigenia. She looked so young, standing in this strange place. Perhaps I should be grateful to Agamemnon that he had arranged it thus, so that her husband would sail to Troy and leave her untouched – for as long as he was away, at least.
‘I hope a fair wind blows tomorrow, then,’ I remarked. ‘You will not sail far if the day is like this.’
‘We have had many days of calm,’ Odysseus answered. He had turned to lead the way, and we started to walk through the rows of tents. It was then that I saw the men, the soldiers taking rest in the shade. Their eyes followed us as we walked. I felt the intensity of their stares boring into us. ‘But the gods will smile on us after tomorrow morning. I trust our ritual will bring the winds we need to see us swiftly on our way to Troy.’
Was this it, then? They hoped the gods would smile upon the marriage and grant them their passage? I did not like the idea of Agamemnon bargaining our daughter to the immortals in this way. I hoped it was not the case.
‘Your tent,’ Odysseus told us. It was set aside from the others, and I hoped for some respite from the heat as we entered. With still no breath of wind to give us even the faintest breeze, however, it was even more stifling within than without. I glanced at Iphigenia. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes heavy.
‘Is there water?’ I asked, dizziness seizing me. There was a wide pallet made up with soft fabrics, for us to sleep upon, I presumed, and I sat hurriedly on its side. Our trunks had been unloaded and were already placed in the corner, beneath the billowing sag of the slanted roof.
‘The men have drawn it from the spring for you today,’ Odysseus answered. I saw the jugs set out on a low table, one brimming with water and the other sweet with wine. ‘You should have all you need for tonight; all you will have to do is rest.’
His courtesy was immaculate, but it felt odd, stilted. I could sense his desperation to be away from us, and I could not fathom why that should be. I got the impression that he had not wanted the job of greeting us, that any vestige of friendship from the days we had briefly spent in each other’s company in Sparta had dissolved entirely. I could not complain that we were not treated with respect, but I had not expected so muted a welcome as this.
‘And my husband?’ I asked, my head clouded from the heat, the confusion, the strangeness of it all. ‘He will be here when he has concluded his business with his advisers?’
Odysseus’ words came smoothly, his face still wiped so carefully blank of feeling. ‘He may be talking late into the night, so do not wait for him. I must withdraw; I am required at his side. But fear not: there are guards all around your tent. You will be safe tonight.’
He was gone before I could ask another question. Iphigenia and I shared a look of mutual confusion. ‘I am sure your father will be here as soon as he can,’ I offered weakly.
She went to pour some water from the jug into one of the cups, which she handed to me. I took it gratefully, hoping it would clear some of the buzzing in my head.
Where was Achilles? He should have been here to greet us, to lay eyes on his bride. I knew there was a war to fight, but could he not shrug it aside for one night to give us the most meagre offering that courtesy demanded?
Iphigenia had crossed the tent to unbuckle the thick leather straps on the wooden trunk we had brought with us from Mycenae. She yanked at the bonds and loosened the lid. As she raised it, the fragrance of crushed petals rose up and suffused the tent with their rich, intoxicating scent. She pulled out the saffron-yellow robe folded carefully within, shaking out its creases. The fine-woven linen was vivid as an egg-yolk, slipping through my daughter’s hands in rippling folds. Carefully, holding it with reverence, she draped it over the high back of one of the two chairs, and looked it over with a glimmer of pride shining in her eyes. She will be a thing of beauty tomorrow morning, I thought. When she stepped out before the soldiers, before her distracted father and mysteriously absent husband, she would take away their breath and make them regret their dismissive treatment of us tonight.
As the sun dipped and the rectangle of sky visible through the entrance to our tent slowly darkened, we could smell the fires burning across the camp, soon followed by the fragrance of roasting meat. The evening air brought no respite from the relentless heat, but I was a little revived by the wine and the water and the chance to rest. I stood up and peered out of the tent.
Ranked around us were indeed the guards that Odysseus had promised. They stood to attention, half a dozen of them flanking our tent. Each held a tall ash spear, its point glimmering sharp in the emerging moonlight. None looked at me.
From what danger did Agamemnon seek to protect us here? Surely, he did not trust his own soldiers so little as to think his wife and daughter at risk from attack in his very camp? But why else would he put an armed guard outside our tent?
‘When will we eat?’ I asked, directing my question at any of them, since none would catch my eye.
The foremost of them dipped his head. ‘Your meal will be brought to you,’ he answered.
‘And will your king be joining us?’ I asked, irritation fraying my voice.
He did not answer. I fumed for a moment, feeling all at once foolish and impotent as I stood there. At home, I had grown used to giving orders and having them obeyed. Here, in this strange place, with no sight of a familiar face or even one that seemed happy to see us, I felt wrong-footed and uncertain.
I let the tent flap fall, shrouding us again, and sat back. As promised, food did appear, a tray of meat and bread and fruit, brought to us by another silent and anonymous face. No sign of Agamemnon. I bit back my impatience, not wanting to cause Iphigenia any more upset.
‘We never eat alone together,’ she commented. She smiled at me, soothing my annoyance and the faint drumbeat of concern that pulsed away in the back of my mind. ‘No Chrysothemis, no Elektra, no servants . . .’
‘A rare occurrence,’ I agreed.
‘I wonder who will be my dining companions in Phthia,’ she said.
‘There is a war to be fought before that happens,’ I offered weakly. I did not like to think of her so far away, but when Achilles returned, he would inevitably claim his wife.
‘What do you know of him?’ she asked me. Her voice was low.