the-song-books.yossr

A FEW DAYS LATER, she arrived with a guard of stern Myycenaeans —older
men, the ones not fit for war. As her chariot rattled over the stonyy road to
our camp, soldiers came out to stare. It had been long now, since manyy of
them had seen a woman. Theyy feasted on the curve of her neck, a flash of
ankle, her hands prettilyy smoothing the skirt of her bridal gown. Her brown
eyyes were lit with excitement; she was coming to marryy the best of the
Greeks.
The wedding would take place in our makeshift marketplace, the square
wooden platform with a raised altar behind it. The chariot drew closer, past
the thronging, gathered men. Agamemnon stood on the dais, flanked byy
Odyysseus and Diomedes; Calchas too was near. Achilles waited, as grooms
do, at the dais’s side.
Iphigenia stepped delicatelyy out of her chariot and onto the raised wood
floor. She was veryy yyoung, not yyet fourteen, caught between priestess poise
and childlike eagerness. She threw her arms around her father’s neck, laced
her hands through his hair. She whispered something to him and laughed. I
could not see his face, but his hands on her slender shoulders seemed to
tighten.
Odyysseus and Diomedes moved forward all smiles and bows, offering
their greetings. Her responses were gracious, but impatient. Her eyyes were
alreadyy searching for the husband she had been promised. She found him
easilyy, her gaze catching on his golden hair. She smiled at what she saw.
At her look, Achilles stepped forward to meet her, standing now just at
the platform’s edge. He could have touched her then, and I saw him start to,
reach towards her tapered fingers, fine as sea-smoothed shells.
Then the girl stumbled. I remember Achilles frowning. I remember him
shift, to catch her.
But she wasn’t falling. She was being dragged backwards, to the altar
behind her. No one had seen Diomedes move, but his hand was on her now,
huge against her slender collarbone, bearing her down to the stone surface.
She was too shocked to struggle, to know even what was happening.
Agamemnon yyanked something from his belt. It flashed in the sun as he
swung it.
The knife’s edge fell onto her throat, and blood spurted over the altar,
spilled down her dress. She choked, tried to speak, could not. Her bodyy
https://books.yossr.com/en