No one was there to greet us. I was surprised at this. All that was before us was a long stretch of tents that spread across the plains as far as I could see. Behind us, the horses snorted and scuffed their hooves in the dust, whickering for water. The herald who had escorted us, he who had brought us Agamemnon’s decree, scurried past me, and before I could speak, he was lost among the maze of tents.
The whole of the Greek army was here somewhere, but it was eerily quiet. No shouts or chatter, or any other noise that would have betrayed the presence of thousands of soldiers, broke the stillness. Perhaps it was the heat – the terrible, deadening heat – and the strange flatness of the air that subdued them.
We waited, my daughter and I. At length, I saw a moving shape among the tents, and, as I watched, it resolved itself into a man, short and broad of stature. Recognisable to me in moments.
‘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.