Warrior’s Prize
: Part 1 – Chapter 22

“I was blinded and Zeus took away my sense…”

—Agamemnon, Iliad, Homer,

Book XIX (Rouse’s translation)

Agamemnon turned me around to face him, devouring my body with his eyes. “Fair, very fair!” His hands slid down my back and caressed the curves of my hips. I backed away in revulsion, but he only gestured to a board with goblets. “Fetch yourself a cup of wine ’n drink it with me. Then we’ll see if you’re woman enough for the king!”

I poured myself a cup. Despite his brother’s warning, I also refilled his goblet. Drink, I urged him silently as he sat down and took it from my hand. Drink until you fall down. The thought gave me hope. I sat down on my stool as far from him as possible and glanced at the square of darkness showing through the hole above the hearth. A few stars shone. How long would it take Achilleus to ready his fleet?

He will come, I told myself. But a terrifying chasm opened in my heart.

“Move closer,” Agamemnon ordered. “Drink your wine.” I slid my stool a hand span nearer and took a sip. I choked. It was sour, full of dregs—and it hadn’t been mixed with water. I set my goblet down. Unmixed wine was said to lead to madness, but Agamemnon drained his cup in one gulp and wiped his chin with the back of his hand. There were purple spots of spilled wine on the front of his tunic. His eyes had a glassy, unfocused look, and his lips smiled gloatingly. As he leaned toward me, I flinched from his fetid odor.

“I wish I could’ve seen Achilleus’s face when they took you. The gods curse his arrogance!” He belched. “But I showed him who’s stronger.” He drew himself up. “Zeus himself honors me—speaks to me, sends me dreams ’n visions—lets me have what I want.” He nodded sagely. “Look at you! You’re much lovelier ’n Chryseis. I was meant to have you. Who’d’ve thought, when I sent Achilleus on that raid—”

“You sent him?”

Agamemnon laughed. “Oh, but he went willingly! Always the first to volunteer. Thinks it adds to his glory. I’ve put him to good use over the years. Look how rich I’ve gotten!”

He made a sweeping motion around the room. The firelight was reflected everywhere in gold: goblets, vessels, richly worked armor. Plundered wealth surrounded him. Even his chair, a tall, high-backed throne, cushioned with sheepskin and decorated with silver studs, must have belonged to some fallen king. Gold masks hung on the walls, eerie, hollow eyes staring out accusingly. I saw in their black depths the ghosts of my people. I clenched my hands and held my body taut.

“What d’ you think, my dear?” he said. “Does my treasure please you?”

It was bought with blood. The words wanted to burst from me. But I bit my lips and lowered my eyes. He was looking at me, clearly waiting for a response. At last I whispered, “These things were stolen on raids.”

“Aye! And Achilleus went on all those raids. He slew your husband, din’ he?”

“But not for greed! He did not despoil Mynes—he gave him a funeral.”

Agamemnon threw back his head and laughed. “A funeral! He’s always making these grand gestures—to make me look bad! It doesn’t matter. I’m more royal.” He enunciated the word with care. I said nothing. His fist struck the arm of his chair. “I’m king of Mycenae, son of Atreus. No one of our line’s ever been afraid of bloodshed. It’s made us rich and mighty.”

He poured more wine. Once again, his eyes crawled over me. “What a lovely body you have!” Extending his arm, he curved his fingers around my cheek, down my neck. His hand dipped into the front of my gown. I shot back, but my chair stuck on the gritty floor. I longed to push his arm away and leap to my feet, but dared not. Under that groping hand, that degrading touch, I sat very still and focused on the stars that shone through the opening above the hearth. They were numerous now, hard, cold jewels thrown across the night sky.

I must replace a way to stop this drunken king, for if he despoiled me, Achilleus might never have me back. Yet how did he expect me to hold off Agamemnon’s advances?

I remembered what he had said to me: You have the heart and courage of a warrior.

Then I must fight Agamemnon, I thought. I must not fail.

The king’s filthy, loathsome hand crawled over my neck and breast. My face heated. I held myself very still and strained to hear the noises from outside—the sound of a door closing, the bark of a dog, an occasional voice. Normal night noises. He put his arm about me and drew me tight against him, holding my head immobile. His mouth came down over mine—suffocating, loose-lipped, foul with sour wine. I recoiled.

He took another swig from his goblet, tossed it aside, and groped to his feet. “Come to bed,” he muttered thickly.

His arm on my neck, he pulled me into the inner chamber, where a lamp flickered in a sconce. As I passed his chair, I managed to grab the wineskin. How much more was needed to render him senseless? “Have some more, Sire,” I offered, handing him the wineskin. “I’d like some myself.”

He guided the purple stream into his mouth, slopping some onto his tunic, then handed it to me. I took a deep draft for courage. “Enough.” He snatched it back impatiently and slung a clumsy arm over my shoulder. Half leaning on me, he took fumbling steps toward the huge bed.

I ducked under his arm—headed toward the door to the outer room. But his hand shot out and seized me roughly, knocking me onto the bed.

Slobbery lips touched my cheek as he bent over me.

I shrank back. “Sire, I—I have my courses,” I lied.

“What do I care?” His movements slow and heavy, he pushed me down and slid on top of me, crushing the air from my lungs. He was very drunk, but not drunk enough. His hand fumbled between my legs. “C’mon, spread your thighs, how often ’ve you been mounted by a king?”

He was suffocating me, trying to pull aside my gown. I turned my face away and gasped for air. “Sire!” I cried, desperate. I remembered Menelaus’s warning: Iphigenia, the forbidden subject. But what did I have to lose? “Sire, the gods will be offended if you lie with me thinking I’m your daughter!”

He stopped, lifted his head. “What—?”

“Iphigenia,” I said clearly.

Rage flashed in his eyes. His body went still. His flesh seemed to shrink. Then abruptly he sat up. His lust left him, and something far more menacing took its place. “You’re not fit to speak her name.” His voice was deadly quiet. He sounded coldly, frighteningly sober.

“But, Sire. Your daughter— What happened to her?“ I wanted only to keep him distracted, keep him talking.

He glared at me, and the hatred in his eyes made me wince. “Very well. If you would know of Iphigenia, I’ll tell you.”

When he wasn’t looking, I moved as far away from him as I could. My eyes were on the door. Achilleus, come now! I prayed. Zeus deliver me! Agamemnon sat on the corner of the bed. The wineskin was propped against the wall. He stared straight ahead, his eyes sightless. All the lines of his face sagged, and his shoulders slumped. “Oh, my beloved daughter!” His back was turned to me now. “I summoned you. If only you hadn’t come!” I started—then realized he was speaking not to me but to his long-dead daughter. He gave a gulping sob.

“Tell me, Sire—”

He turned to me savagely. “Aulis! Does the name mean anything to you? It was Aulis where the fleet gathered to sail for Troy. We’d sent out the call to arms to help win back Helen, Menelaus’s faithless wife, from the Trojans. To regain our honor and sack that arrogant city.” He reached for the wineskin. For a long moment he was silent, pouring wine down his throat before resuming. “And they’ve come from all over Achaea. A thousand ships, thousands of men. They’ve chosen me as their leader!” Ice crept down my spine. He spoke as if these events were happening now. “No man before has ever commanded such a force.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“But the wind won’t blow—at least no favorable wind. How can we sail?” He mopped his brow. “It’s so hot and dry. The dust clogs our mouths, our nostrils. And we’ve scavenged the land for miles around. There’s not much left to eat. We must sail soon or the men will lose heart.” His blood-shot eyes looked at me without seeing. “We’ve been stranded for weeks.”

I sat still, afraid to move, almost afraid to breathe. “Weeks?” I whispered.

He got up slowly, began a shuffling pace around the room. “The men are restless. The army—slipping from my grasp! We’ll lose this war without ever fighting it. Then Kalchas the soothsayer, that vile, false prophet, tells me—” He paused, swallowed hard. “Tells me how to right things. It seems I’ve offended the goddess Artemis. On the hunt I slew a stag, a beast sacred to her.” He stopped before me, and his eyes looked through me. “In return for a favorable wind, she demands a sacrifice, a virgin. My first-born daughter!”

I went cold. Among my people, the gods had not exacted human sacrifices since time beyond memory. I shook my head. “Such a thing could not be.”

His eyes were suddenly full of fury. “That’s how it is!”

“Surely you did not obey—”

“I have other daughters at home,” he answered brutally. “But I could never again command such an army. I can keep the power I hold if I slay Iphigenia. I’ve sent for her. But I can’t say, ‘Come be sacrificed.’ So instead, my message is, ‘I’ve arranged a great marriage for you—to Achilleus.’”

The name burned like a flame. I made a choked sound. Agamemnon’s eyes focused on my face. Then he began to laugh. A demonic sound, growing in volume until he rocked with it, out of control. Tears ran down his face. “Of all the chieftains I could’ve chosen! I didn’t know him then. Any other would have been loyal to me. But he—stubborn, arrogant fool! He’s angry that I’ve used his name without asking his leave. Says he’ll marry her anyway and save her from death. Thinks he can defy me, turn the army against me, take my own daughter from me—but he can’t! She’s mine—she loves me more!”

He drank wine. Once again he paced the room, his eyes roaming about wildly. He stumbled. Stopping before the wall where the weapons hung, he took down a long, silver-handled knife. He looked at it thoughtfully, running his finger along the flat side of the blade.

“Iphigenia!” His mood shifted again, and he addressed his dead daughter in a tender whisper that chilled my bones. “You’re mine, are you not? My own flesh and blood. You’ll do this for me, give me your life because I need it to appease the goddess, to control the army. To show Achilleus who’s master.”

And suddenly he turned. He grabbed my hair, pulled my head back, stretching and exposing my neck. “Then you begged me for your life.” He was breathing in gasps. “You wept, you pleaded. I never dreamed it’d be so hard. But I’d no choice. I had to—had to— Your soft white neck, blood flowing on my hands.” He gave a terrible, sobbing cry. He placed the knife over my throat. “You have to die! So the winds can blow—”

Everything froze in me. With another shift, he pulled me up hard and turned me around. He was standing over me, forcing me to kneel on the bed with my back against him. His arm around my neck was crushing my windpipe. The other hand held the knife. “Kneel, hateful woman! Beg me for your life as she did!”

His knee pressed into me, arching my back painfully. Dark spots danced before my eyes. I gagged on wine fumes, acrid sweat, the hot reek of rage and madness.

“She was pure and beautiful. You’re vile—you were his!” His face was so close to mine that his spittle sprayed my cheek. “I hate you as I hate him! Why should you live when I had to kill my Iphigenia?”

I could get no air. I felt his muscles tightening. I clawed at his arm. Blood pounded in my ears. Everything blurred and went dark.

All at once he gave a snorting breath, as if something had occurred to him. “You think the great Achilleus ’ll save you!” He gave an ugly laugh. “But your life means nothing, not even to him.” His arm slackened infinitesimally, and I caught a breath—another. I hardened my mind against his words and concentrated on the feel of his arm. There was a slight tremor in it. The wine was weakening him. At any moment he might let down his guard, and I must be ready. I gripped his arm with both hands, pressing my nails into his flesh.

“He said he’d sail for home. Even now,” the thick voice continued, “he’s probably launching his ships, the deserter, leaving you behind.” A thought struck him, and he laughed with malice. “But perhaps he’d like to have you back!” His arm jerked tighter again. “I’ll send him your body—” Laughter shook him. I held myself still, breathed in slowly under the pressure of his arm. I tightened my finger-grip.

“A farewell gift.” His voice rose to a mocking falsetto. “Wait, Achilleus, don’t go yet! I’ve something for you!”

He drew the knife back, his muscles taut and quivering, the blade ready to plunge.

I made myself limp. Then with all my strength I pushed his arm away and slid out of his slackened grasp. I scrambled to the far corner of the bed.

He lunged—missed. I pulled myself onto my hands and knees. He came after me, grabbed me. Flung me onto the bed—fell on top of me. His body crushed me. I lay prone. I couldn’t move. I waited for the knife to plunge.

But it didn’t. He’d lost it somewhere in the bedding.

Rasping breaths came from him. I was trapped, my hands stuck under me, held immobile by his weight. My face was turned to the side. In the dim light of the lamp’s flame I saw him grope slowly for the knife.

A faint red gleam shone along the blade. His fingers closed around the handle.

At that moment, he slumped against me, his body a dead weight, his breathing heavy.

He was unconscious.

Pinned under him, I could barely breathe. I was afraid to make any sound or move that might awaken him.

If Achilleus came now, he would never believe that I had not yielded.