The Sacrament of Iphigenia
A Daughter’s Ultimate Sacrifice
Princess Iphigenia stood before the tall bronze mirror, trembling at the sight. Head to toe, the beloved daughter of High King Agamemnon was gowned in white silks imported from beyond the furthest eastern lands. Her gown was gathered at her waist with a golden thread, tied in an elaborate knot that ran around her narrow waist and up, over her slender shoulder, to cross themselves around her developing breasts. The long-flowing skirts spilled down, around her shaking legs and slim ankles to pool at her slippered feet. Her body-slaves were anointing her pale flesh (made even paler with a generous application of white lead) with the fragrances of distant Egypt. Her great round eyes were highlighted with charcoal and olive oil. Her thin lips made fuller with red iron and beeswax. Her young body had already been cleansed with honey and oil, and stripped free of any impurities. She was as pure, as ready, as any girl heading for the altar could hope to be.
A great chorus of aulos sang out to the accompaniment of drums, the cheerful tunes carried on a growing breeze outside the tent. One of her father’s warriors scratched at the entrance and was admitted by Iphigenia’s slaves. The older man, a veteran of so many of her father’s conquests, stood tall and grim, his scarred face locked in stone. “They are ready, princess,” he said with a voice as gravelly as his face.
Iphigenia smiled and drew her veil low, to hide the eager and unhumble smile on her lips. Of all the husbands her mighty father could have chosen, noble Agamemnon had selected Achilles. The princess could not help a light tremble rising through her middle. The great warchief of the Myrmidons; Achilles the Undefeated. The greatest warrior in Hellas, perhaps the world. Everyone knew that her future husband would be a leader of the coming war, a great fighter who would claim many spoils and honors. Iphigenia would be the wife to one of the greatest kings in the world. She would be queen to a strong and growing nation, and mother to a line of mighty warriors. What care for traitorous Helen or humble Penelope? The singers would tell of loyal Iphigenia!
The princess took the offered arm of her father’s man and stepped outside her tent. Agamemnon’s entire army had gathered to witness this event. A host of Hellas’ greatest warriors had assembled and now looked at her with something, a mix of fear and regret. Of course they feared her, the eldest daughter of their leader. And of course they regretted, none of them had been worthy enough for her father to choose them. Iphigenia lifted her head as the daughter of the High King; she would not bow to others, they would bow to her. And, indeed, as she passed, the great war-host did bow and look away. The music played a minor tune, unusual for a wedding march but appropriate for the departure of a beloved daughter of Hellas. This country would soon lose her to their Myrmidon allies, and so they should mourn.
Ahead, the princess spied her great father, standing at an altar to Artemis. An odd choice, Iphigenia thought, to dedicate her wedding to the goddess of free maidens. Still, her father certainly knew best. He had, after all, been trying to gain the goddess’ favor for weeks, needing Artemis to send a wind and allow the war-host to depart for Troy. Perhaps, the princess thought, this was her father’s latest attempt to appease the angry goddess. So like him, Iphigenia thought, to mix the joy of his daughter’s departure with necessary politics.
Odder still, Iphigenia did not see her future husband. Where was Achilles? Her father had summoned the princess here, to this rocky atoll where his army had gathered. Rather than bringing his future son-in-law to his house, as appropriate, Agamemnon had insisted that his beloved daughter travel to them. And now, on the day of her assumption, Iphigenia could not see her husband-to-be. Still, she looked to her father with trust and devotion, as a good daughter should. The High King knew best, certainly.
One last question filled the princess’ mind. Where was the sacrifice? Where was the virgin doe that Artemis required in sacrifice? The altar stood empty, clean of blood. There was her father, dressed in his priestly robes for the sacrifice, and there was the knife, the great blade that would slit the sacrifice’s throat in dedication to the angry goddess. But where was the foal?
Iphigenia paused in her approach to the altar and looked to her father. Agamemnon meet his daughter’s eyes with firm resolution. The veteran beside her placed an unbreakable hold upon her arm and whispered, “It must be, my princess.”
End