The Songs of the Kings

It was a beautiful and stately stranger that was at last revealed to view. Aware of her finery she bore herself more deliberately, and she seemed taller to Macris, waiting below, because of the high chignon on the crown of her head, rising above the rows of small curls before and behind the silver headband. Seeing her thus, dressed and scented and painted for another, he felt a thin phlegm of bitterness rise in his throat; he did not speak the compliments that had risen to his mind and after a moment or two he moved away into the waist of the ship.

The light was failing when they came within sight of the Greek ships lying at anchor, and it was dusk when they disembarked, Iphigeneia carried on her litter by four men through the placid shallows, Sisipyla wading with the others, raising the hems of her narrow skirt. Waiting with lighted torches on the shore was a group of men, no more than a dozen, their faces not yet distinguishable.

Macris offered his arm to the princess as she descended from the litter, and remained at her side while she stood there, motionless on the dark beach, waiting, with a sure instinct of dignity, for those meeting her to advance. The flickering light of the torches still made vision difficult. A man detached himself from the group and came some paces forward, followed closely by one of the torch-bearers. He bowed and straightened himself and the light fell on his dark-eyed, handsome face. 'Welcome, princess,' he said. 'Achilles sends deepest apologies at not being here to meet you. He has been delayed at the hunt.'

'Who are you?'

'I am Patroclus.'

'And my father? Why is he not here to meet me?' Iphigeneia spoke calmly, without haste. Perhaps only Sisipyla, standing close behind, knew the effort this cost her.

'An unfortunate indisposition. An attack of colic that came upon him suddenly.'

Iphigeneia took a step forward. 'I will go to him.'

'No, no, he is in some pain, he would not wish to receive you in that condition. He expects to be recovered by morning. It is late, you will be tired, our orders are to escort you to your quarters.'

'Your orders?' Macris said. He too, for quite different reasons, found it difficult to keep his voice on an even keel. Iphigeneia's beauty and loneliness in the torchlight, the wasted splendour of her dress, something too brusque in the ma

'And who may you be?' Patroclus said.

Macris left the princess's side to move forward, so that his face could be clearly seen. He was close to Patroclus now, and looked directly into his eyes. 'I am Macris, son of Amphidamas.'

He continued the close regard and for some moments it was like the game he remembered from childhood, played with sticks instead of swords, the game of who strikes first at the signal; and he knew he would win this contest against the man before him, whether it was in play or in earnest. He said, 'You must have sighted our ship in early morning. Lord Achilles did not think of foregoing his sport on this day, when his bride was arriving?'

'Macris, you go too far and too fast, as usual,' Iphigeneia said. 'I have not asked you to quarrel on my behalf.'

'This one is always ready to quarrel,' Phylakos said, and he came forward, crossed to the group with the torches, passed into the shadows beyond them. Macris saw now that of those who had landed with the princess there only remained the women and himself and the six he had brought with him. 'He is a boy that needs a lesson,' Phylakos said from somewhere in the shadowy haze beyond the lights.

Macris suppressed the retort that rose to his lips. He would have been ready enough to quarrel with Phylakos too, for all the older man's strong build and the tricks he had picked up in years of battle. All his suspicion, his sense of the general wrongness of things, first felt at Mycenae, was redoubled now at this scrambled reception, at the rudeness to himself when he stood by the side of the princess as her escort. Patroclus had not even bothered to find a convincing form of words. How could Achilles convey regrets when he was still somewhere out in the countryside?

'Permit us to accompany you to your quarters,' Patroclus said. 'We have made everything ready for you.'

'I will need my women with me.'

'There is no need. There are women here who will be within call.'

'Women of the camp?'

'Lady, we are far from the luxuries of the palace here. There would not be room for people in constant attendance.'

Iphigeneia had been allowing herself to be guided forward, but now she stopped. 'I will keep Sisipyla with me,' she said.

'You can send for your slave girl at any time you need her, but our orders–'

Iphigeneia remained motionless. 'I am not interested in your orders,' she said, and there was the faintest quiver in her voice. 'Perhaps you didn't hear me properly. Macris, will you make my wishes plain to this man?'

Without needing instructions the small squadron under Macris' command had formed in close order round the princess, and Macris now positioned himself directly in front of her, right arm resting loosely across his body. He said, 'The princess desires that her companion Sisipyla should follow her and remain in attendance. If this desire is not met, she will return under our escort to the ship.'

For some while nobody stirred or spoke. They could hear the faint hissing of the water as it moved among the pebbles. Somewhere inland a dog barked and others joined in. Macris watched Patroclus come to the only possible conclusion. He could sense the calculation going on behind the other's eyes: better to yield in lesser matters... Why did they want to isolate her?

'Lady, by all means keep the girl with you. Forgive me, I had not realized that it mattered so much.'

On this, Iphigeneia moved forward once again with Sisipyla beside her. Macris, following close behind, saw the lighted tent that they were led to. He had hoped for a word of farewell, or even just a glance, but none came. Iphigeneia had not looked at him or spoken to him again after that one request. Six armed men had been stationed round the tent. Light fell on the faces of the two at the entrance as they stood aside for the princess to pass, and Macris recognized them as members of Agamemnon's palace guard. Six seemed a lot; but of course the King would want to give his daughter what state and consequence he could in the rough conditions of the camp. Surely Agamemnon would take it amiss, as a slight upon himself, that the husband-to-be had failed to be present at his betrothed's arrival?

The two girls moved here and there inside the tent and their shadows were cast on the canvas wall. Macris tried to distinguish between them, tried to determine which one was Iphigeneia, but they were identical in form and movement, it was impossible to tell which was the princess and which the slave. Then they vanished altogether as the two passed into the central part of the tent where the woven hangings blocked the light.

Sick at heart, he turned away, turned his back on the lighted chamber where Iphigeneia would wait for Achilles. He dismissed his men with orders to find quarters in the Mycenaean lines and report to him next day at sunrise. He had no desire for rest; in the agitation of his feelings even the thought of remaining still was intolerable to him; he had no gift for passivity, no saving instinct to seek shelter from unhappiness by retreating into the self. It was dark outside the confines of the camp, the light of fires and torches making the world beyond seem vast and featureless. He would walk along the shore until he felt tired enough to think of sleeping.