Read Online The Girl From Ithaca by Cherry Gregory - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cherry Gregory
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attendants screamed and perhaps I did too. Rhea and Io darted towards the altar and I ran after them, swerving away from hands that tried to stop me. I glimpsed Io kicking out at the soldiers who dragged her away, but Rhea made it to the altar and stood in front of Iphigenia. She turned to face Agamemnon, her eyes wide with terror as she used her own body as a shield. Achilles raced past me and leapt upon Agamemnon like a mountain lion, snarling and knocking him onto his back. Then a black mass of Mycenaean soldiers tumbled onto the young prince and tried to pull him away. I slipped past the swirling tangle of arms and legs and reached Iphigenia.
“Get to Phoebus’ chariot, by the cart!” I cried, tugging at her arm.
Someone grabbed my hair and yanked me backwards. A bony hand hit me across the face. “Quiet, Ithacan bitch.”
It was Palamedes. I twisted round and stabbed blindly, catching his arm in a lucky swipe. Another hand covered my mouth. I bit down hard and felt the crunch of bone. The hand fell away and I dashed back towards the altar. Agamemnon was on his feet again, knocking Rhea to the ground.
Screaming with rage, I ran from behind and rammed the knife into his back. The blade jarred against his armour. He swept his sword in an arc towards me.
Different hands seized my arm and pulled me sideways. I crashed to the ground. One man knelt near my face, shouting at me. I snatched my right arm free and hit him on the mouth like Lysander had taught me. Then I slid my hand under his chin and pushed his head back.
“Stay still, sister. You’re about to break my neck.”
I froze. Odysseus? It was Odysseus. And Phoebus with him.
“He’s killing her. Stop him, why aren’t you stopping him?”
“We can’t fight the entire army. Stay still or he’ll kill us too.”
“I don’t care. We’ve got to stop him.” I looked at Phoebus. “Phoebus, please!”
Phoebus shook his head and they held onto me while the rasping voice of the priest finished the prayer. “We ask that the West Wind replaces the North, and guides our ships to Troy.”
I heard Iphigenia pleading with her father and then the final, terrified scream. I closed my eyes and the large crowd of men seemed to groan as one. Then all was quiet. Odysseus loosed his grip and I got to my feet. Phoebus stood with his hands over his face. Rhea knelt on the ground, sobbing. I saw Agamemnon, his back to me, obscuring my view of the altar, but blood dripped down the sword he held.
No one spoke while the priest moved back and forth along the stone slab, muttering some sort of prayer in a high-pitched voice. Then Agamemnon turned to walk away. I saw his face splattered with her blood and his arms and breast plate crimson. What could I fear in Hades after seeing such a face, the face of a man who killed his own daughter? I wrenched myself from Odysseus and ran to the altar.
Iphigenia’s small body lay on the stone, almost as if she was sleeping. But her face shone with the whiteness of alabaster, the purity only interrupted by the cruel, gaping wound across her neck and the blood that turned her white bridal gown red.
Achilles stood there too, gently touching Iphigenia’s hand. He opened her clenched fist and found the ivory lion.
“A gift from her mother,” I sobbed, staring at the small crouching lion. “It was meant to protect her.”
My legs felt numb and refused to move. Odysseus guided me away and I stumbled across the sand, gasping for breath. There were voices all around, but they made no sense, and the next thing I knew I was curled up on a bundle of fleeces while Odysseus mixed herbs with a watered wine.
“This will help you sleep, you’ve seen too much today,” he said.
I took the wooden cup and sipped the sweet tasting drink. Its warmth spread through my body and Odysseus’ face blurred. He unlaced my sandals and covered me in a sheepskin blanket. His voice sounded far away and although I fought to listen to his words, everything
“Get to Phoebus’ chariot, by the cart!” I cried, tugging at her arm.
Someone grabbed my hair and yanked me backwards. A bony hand hit me across the face. “Quiet, Ithacan bitch.”
It was Palamedes. I twisted round and stabbed blindly, catching his arm in a lucky swipe. Another hand covered my mouth. I bit down hard and felt the crunch of bone. The hand fell away and I dashed back towards the altar. Agamemnon was on his feet again, knocking Rhea to the ground.
Screaming with rage, I ran from behind and rammed the knife into his back. The blade jarred against his armour. He swept his sword in an arc towards me.
Different hands seized my arm and pulled me sideways. I crashed to the ground. One man knelt near my face, shouting at me. I snatched my right arm free and hit him on the mouth like Lysander had taught me. Then I slid my hand under his chin and pushed his head back.
“Stay still, sister. You’re about to break my neck.”
I froze. Odysseus? It was Odysseus. And Phoebus with him.
“He’s killing her. Stop him, why aren’t you stopping him?”
“We can’t fight the entire army. Stay still or he’ll kill us too.”
“I don’t care. We’ve got to stop him.” I looked at Phoebus. “Phoebus, please!”
Phoebus shook his head and they held onto me while the rasping voice of the priest finished the prayer. “We ask that the West Wind replaces the North, and guides our ships to Troy.”
I heard Iphigenia pleading with her father and then the final, terrified scream. I closed my eyes and the large crowd of men seemed to groan as one. Then all was quiet. Odysseus loosed his grip and I got to my feet. Phoebus stood with his hands over his face. Rhea knelt on the ground, sobbing. I saw Agamemnon, his back to me, obscuring my view of the altar, but blood dripped down the sword he held.
No one spoke while the priest moved back and forth along the stone slab, muttering some sort of prayer in a high-pitched voice. Then Agamemnon turned to walk away. I saw his face splattered with her blood and his arms and breast plate crimson. What could I fear in Hades after seeing such a face, the face of a man who killed his own daughter? I wrenched myself from Odysseus and ran to the altar.
Iphigenia’s small body lay on the stone, almost as if she was sleeping. But her face shone with the whiteness of alabaster, the purity only interrupted by the cruel, gaping wound across her neck and the blood that turned her white bridal gown red.
Achilles stood there too, gently touching Iphigenia’s hand. He opened her clenched fist and found the ivory lion.
“A gift from her mother,” I sobbed, staring at the small crouching lion. “It was meant to protect her.”
My legs felt numb and refused to move. Odysseus guided me away and I stumbled across the sand, gasping for breath. There were voices all around, but they made no sense, and the next thing I knew I was curled up on a bundle of fleeces while Odysseus mixed herbs with a watered wine.
“This will help you sleep, you’ve seen too much today,” he said.
I took the wooden cup and sipped the sweet tasting drink. Its warmth spread through my body and Odysseus’ face blurred. He unlaced my sandals and covered me in a sheepskin blanket. His voice sounded far away and although I fought to listen to his words, everything
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