Iphigenia’s Passion


Now I know.

When I left Mycenae through the Griffin Gate, I was not to return.

Nervous was I then with the thought of becoming a bride, and not any ordinary bride but one that was to wed Achilles, the mightiest of them all.

I remembered the reassuring hand of my mother on my shoulder, the sweet talks into my ear of the best possible match chosen by a father who had doted on me since birth.  Had I not been his favorite one over my siblings, including even Orestes, his only son? Had there been any occasion when his eyes did not sparkle at my sight, his arms wide open to swing me into mid-air so that I could laugh in my short flight?
Could a more loving father be found, a High King of the Greeks, and one is the same as the other? And who but the best would such a father choose for the most precious princess of the land?

Despite all these, my heart had still fluttered.

Deep inside me, an uncomfortable feeling stirred.  I told myself it must be the reluctance of leaving my beloved Mycenae, which despite its raw and rugged terrain, had been my cradle of growth since birth, the sadness of leaving my parents.  I would have believed it if not for the cruel cries I heard inside me.  

“How little do you know, little dove?’ the voice kept on repeating.
Clytemnestra must have her doubts too. Why would Agamemnon, her husband instructed that she was to stay inside their palace and send me unaccompanied to Aulis, where the armies had gathered.  Could a husband deny the joy of a mother to witness her own daughter’s sent off as a bride, despite the sorrow of parting?

My mother defied his words, as could be expected.  She was never the type who would submit to high-handed ruling, being a princess herself before marrying my father and no less than a sister of my now infamous aunt, Helen of Sparta, for whose elopement with the Trojan prince was the cause of the gathering of arms.  Apparent cause, that is.  For it was common knowledge that co-existence between Trojans and Achaeans was as possible as joint leadership of two male wolves in a pack.  The elopement provided the last link to be hammered into position.  A thousand ships had gathered at Aulis, ready to sail and my father, as High King, would lead.  

If there was anything that could compete with his love and adoration of me, it would be the dream of conquest of that hated city.  It was his ladder to immortality, so to speak. His name would be remembered and sung throughout the ages long after all of us had turned to dust.  

But there was more than that.  As his daughter, I knew more than anyone else what was eating his heart.  If it was not Menelaus, his own brother, who had won Helen for his bed, I wonder what Agamemnon was capable of doing.  Marrying Helen’s sister was a poor consolation. After all, they said that Helen was actually a daughter of Zeus and Leda, my grand-mother while my own mother, Clytemnestra was merely sired by old King Tyndareus. Perhaps that was why he treasured me as a priceless pearl in his hand.  They said I took more after my grandmother than Clytemnestra and hence had a close resemblance to my aunt.

“A few more years, and you may even compete with her,” he had once silently said beside my bed, thinking I had gone into deep slumber.

As I grew, he became ever more doting, his embrace ever tighter, his eyes ever more sparkling wherever I came into his sight.

I told myself that this was a love from a proud father for his first-born.  But I knew it was more than that.  I thought he would never marry me away.  At least, he would delay such as long as possible.  Hence, his letter announcing that I was to be Achilles’ bride surprised me to the state of shock.  

How could he?

I knew the man whom he had chosen for me though I had never met him in person. His fighting skill was unmatched and he was said to be immune to weapons.  No one had said anything about his look being hideous and so, it could be assumed that he looked at least average or even pleasing to the eyes.  Becoming the Queen of the Myrmidons would command respect and awe. It could be the dream marriage of any maiden, even for a princess of Mycenae.  But I knew I harbored a secret resentment, not against my chosen groom-to-be, but for my father’s giving me away just like that, as if in a whim.

Was I not his treasured pearl?  Had I reached the age that marrying me off could no longer be delayed?  Had he tired of my being close to him?  Was I not the love of his life, as he had half-jokingly repeated time over time?

Of course, now I knew.

My being summoned here was for a very different altar.

O Artemis, goddess of Hunt!  Had I not revered you all these years?  Why was my blood equated to the that of a deer? Was there no mercy to spare the agony of a father who was made to sacrifice his beloved daughter?

It was then I heard her laugh.

“HE HAS A CHOICE!”

I shuddered.

Yes, he had a choice: the wind that would fill the sails of his fleet or the life of his daughter.

No, it was not the wind.  Nor was it his duty as their High King.

It was the life of his daughter versus the vanishing of his life ambition!
Without the wind, the gathered army would eventually disperse.  His dream would die!

Alternatively, someone would have to die: I, Iphigenia, his daughter, the love of his life!

And he had chosen.

Clytemnestra had tried to fight him. Orestes, my little brother who had accompanied me here, had begged him.  Even Achilles, whose name had been used as a bait without his knowledge, had threatened to defend me against all odds.
All was in vain.

No, it was not easy for him.  I felt his agony.  I understood the heavy pressure exerted from all sides: from the warriors who temper had been frayed by the seemingly ever-lasting squander on this beach, their ambition and greed for booty denied, by his brother Menelaus, eager to avenge his honor and lust for a runaway wife and the ambitious Odysseus who talked sweet, hiding the venom of a viper in his words to incite discontent and hopefully rebellion against the High King.

But, HE HAD A CHOICE.  

And he had chosen.

“Flee!” a voice inside me called out.

But where can I, like a hunted deer, hide from a hundred-thousand predators shouting for my blood?  

And what good would it do?  

If my own father had chosen me to appease Artemis, where else would I find sanctuary?  

I shut my eyes and imagined myself standing next to the altar, my virgin body made naked as the chiton was pulled down. Would he gasp at my exposed breasts as he positioned the sacrificial dagger at my neck?  How long would I have to endure the coldness of the blade before it was plunged into my tender flesh, drawing blood to damp the altar and end my life?  Would I be able to make one last scream, a final protest against such cruel act and betrayal of trust?  Would he weep for what he had done or would he breathe with relief that it was finally done, that at the far shore, his lone pined glory was waiting?  Had he ever nursed the wish, or fear,  that I could somehow escape the snare and lived?

No!  I will oblige him.

If he wanted immortality, he would have it, not only as a conqueror, but as a father who had his hands deep in the blood of his own daughter.  Before his name would be associated with the coming conquest, it would be stitched to another tapestry: that of a daughter betrayed in return for fair wind to fulfill the ambition of a father.

Ironically, I would achieve immortality too, as the beginning chapter of the conflict a scale people had never seen before.  Once my blood was spilt, these ships that I am staring down at the bay could be put to the high sea towards glory and slaughter.

I looked at the sky, my tears running down my face.  I might run a poor second to Helen in beauty but now, she was not the only one whose face launched a thousand ships.  Or to be precise, it took her face and my blood to accomplish it.

“Artemis! Take me!” I cried out.

And then, I took my steps down the knoll where I had been hiding towards the waiting men and altar.