The Songs of the Kings

'What do you mean?'

'If she could be allowed to honour Artemis by wearing the moon face when she goes to the altar, that is a white paste we make from gypsum and use at home when we offer sacrifices at the time of full moon. More than anything else I can think of this would help the princess see the way she must go.'

'And you have this paste?'

'Yes, we had thought it might be needed for the wedding. We use it sometimes in powder to whiten the face so that the red colouring on the cheeks will show up better.'

Odysseus glanced at Agamemnon, who nodded with eyes averted. He himself could see nothing wrong with the idea. If it could reconcile Iphigeneia to her lot, and avoid unseemly and ill-omened behaviour on her part, so much the better; and he felt sure it would please Croton and the fundamentalists, who now formed a considerable faction in the camp. Like all people interested in power, Croton understood the importance of symbols. The moon-mask would bring the princess into the semblance of the goddess, it would seem to the mob that the goddess herself was being put to death for daring to compete with all-powerful Zeus.

'We have no objection to that,' he said. 'In fact it strikes me as a very good idea. You are a girl with a lot between the ears. I can prophesy a bright future for you.'

5.

From first light Macris had been waiting and watching not far from Iphigeneia's tent, himself closely observed in turn by two men from Phylakos' squadron. He saw Sisipyla escorted from the tent by a guard. He saw her return alone some time later. Then Odysseus entered the tent and almost at once Sisipyla emerged again.

He went forward to meet her. The scarf she wore over her head came down low enough to shade the eyes, but her face looked ghastly in this morning sunlight, drained of all colour. Her ma

'Very well.' Even in the anguish of his spirit he was impressed by this directness and the unfaltering gaze of her eyes; impressed and in a certain way almost taken aback. He could not remember exchanging words with her before, his attention had all been for the princess. Now this slave girl did not look at him or talk to him as if his permission for anything might be needed.

The sea was calm, there was a light breeze from the land. They walked for a while in silence. Then Macris could contain himself no longer. 'I have no following here,' he said. 'The people from our lands are with my father at Mycenae, making up the garrison. The six I brought are with me to a man, but six is very few. The tent they are keeping her in is in the middle of the lines, surrounded on all sides. We would have to get her out, kill the guards without making any sound at all, then bear her away through the camp to some safe place. We would need horses. There are six men on guard, changed every four hours. And there are others at a greater distance, keeping watch. It would have to be done in darkness.'

He walked along in silence for a while, then something between a sigh and a groan came from him. 'There would be some danger to her life,' he said. 'But that is not the main thing – they would avoid harm to her if they could. It is that even with the advantage of surprise the odds are heavily against us. And if we fail we die, and her last hope dies with us.'

It was what she had expected. She heard it in his voice. He would not make the attempt, the chances of success were too slight. In the night, in the desolation after her weeping, this knowledge had come to her, sum of what she sensed and surmised about him. He was brave enough and resolute, and he wanted Iphigeneia; but he would always be one to weigh up the odds. He would take a calculated risk, but he would not stake everything – for Iphigeneia or anyone. She had intended him to begin, she had hoped for this note of discouragement. It would make him the more ready to listen to her, perhaps remove some of the distrust he might feel for the plan of a servant. She had arranged this conversation carefully in her mind, lying near her mistress through the terrible sleepless hours. She said, 'Iphigeneia and I have the same height and the same figure. The general shape of the face is the same in both of us. When we were little we were so alike, everyone remarked on it. It was the reason I was given to her. Over the years there have come differences, but the general likeness is still there.'

'It's true, there is a likeness,' Macris said, it seemed reluctantly.

'You won't have been so aware of it because you see royalty in her face and you see your desires mirrored in it. This gives a different cast to the features. Forgive me, I speak in a way that I shouldn't, but I want you to see that the likeness is closer than you have been used to thinking. At a distance, dressed in the same way, it wouldn't be possible to tell us apart. Walking to the altar, wearing the robe of the victim, everyone would believe it was Iphigeneia.'

Macris stopped dead and turned to look down at her from his considerably greater height. 'What are you saying?' His tone was angry almost, and a kind of wondering surprise had come to his face.

'It wouldn't be Iphigeneia, it would be me.'

'You would die in her place?'

There was disbelief in his voice; and Sisipyla saw suddenly now that her first task would not be, as she had thought, to convince him that her plan was sound, but to persuade a man who thought first of the odds that she was firm enough of purpose to carry it out.

She turned to look out across the water, at the low hills that rose above the opposite shore. They were paling as the sun climbed overhead, every day the noon sun stole their colour and gave it to the sky, a deep burning blue now, cloudless to the horizon. Above them, in the coarse sand above the shingle, there were thistles with pale blue flowers that stirred as she watched in a sudden breeze, soon spent. She saw tiny, new-born crabs, the colour of ci

'I was given to her,' she said. 'My life belongs to her. Everything I have and am I owe to her. My life has no meaning without her. How can I explain? If I die she continues to be Iphigeneia. If she dies there is no person called Sisipyla.' For the first time her voice trembled and her eyes were threatened with tears.

Macris nodded but there was no real comprehension on his face. He could not imagine the fear of abandonment, of being left alone in a dark place, like the straw children, the eyeless doll in the box of old playthings. A simpler explanation would work better with one who had never questioned his right to exist. 'I am her slave, she is my mistress,' she said. 'She became the owner of my life when she became the owner of my body. It is only right that I should save her body with my own.'

'Yes, you are right, it is your duty,' Macris said. Duty he understood well, and also that it could take different forms. 'They will know it is not the princess,' he said. 'All eyes will be on her. Those nearest the altar will know her face well. Calchas, who makes the cut, he knows her. Chasimenos also. Her own father... Before you ever get to the altar people will see through the deception. A royal princess has a way of walking, a carriage of the head.'

'Do you think I have not seen Iphigeneia walking? I walk behind her every day. She keeps her head up and her back straight and any girl who is not ill-made can do the same.'