Sisipyla felt a trembling within her as at some prophecy of ill, not believed, now fulfilled. She made an effort to overcome it. To Iphigeneia's face there had come a radiance she knew, exalted, remote – it was the look she had worn when she spoke of marrying Achilles.

'I wanted to save my life,' the princess said. 'I pretended to agree, at first I pretended, but then it was pretence no longer. When he said it is my destiny to save my father and my people I knew he was right. I said the words again inside myself and I knew he was right. It is what I was born for.'

Sisipyla's trembling grew stronger. She tensed her body to control it. 'This destiny costs you your life, it costs Odysseus nothing but breath. Where is it, this destiny? It is only a word.' She paused, struggling with unaccustomed thoughts. 'It is not like love or the feeling of being grateful. It is only a word. The knife makes the same stroke, whether it is you or me or a goat or a rabbit, and the blood is the same colour.'

As if she had not heard, Iphigeneia said, 'I didn't realize it, not fully, not until I saw you standing there in my gown and my mask. It was like a dream when you are doing something you don't want to do but some force makes you go on with it. All the time it was in my mind. Sisipyla, you came from nowhere to be my friend. But how can the blood of a person from nowhere deceive the goddess? Will she not know whose blood it is? How can the blood of a person from nowhere save the name of my father and strengthen his command, how can she save this great expedition and forge the Greeks into a single nation, how can she be remembered in the Songs as the saviour of a whole people? She cannot. Artemis has called me to this work of salvation. I want you to make me ready for the sacrifice.'

'You are using their language. They have put their language into your mouth.'

'Do you hear me? I want you to make me ready. Take off my gown.'

Wordless now, Sisipyla obeyed. She untied the sash behind, slipped off the gown, handed it to her mistress. Iphigeneia undressed, dropping her clothes here and there on the floor of the tent. Sisipyla hastily dressed in her own things again. Her trembling had ceased now, but there was a weakness in her limbs and in the movements of her hands as she began to apply the chalk paste to the face of her mistress. She made a last effort. 'Lady,' she said, 'don't believe them, please don't believe them, it is only words, they care no more for your life than for mine.'

But Iphigeneia made no reply, holding herself stiffly, mutely offering her face for the masking. As Sisipyla spread the grey-white glutinous paste, taking the usual care to make a perfect oval, as touch by touch the known and loved face of her mistress disappeared below the featureless mask, it came to Sisipyla with a force that strengthened and steadied her that it was not she who was being abandoned, left among the playthings. She had been ready to give her life for a reason that belonged to her, a life to save a life. Iphigeneia's reason did not belong to her, it belonged to Odysseus and the chiefs. Her throat would be severed for reasons that belonged to other people. This was to be like the straw effigies in the dark grove that had always oppressed and frightened her so, left dangling and helpless there, with no reason that belonged to them, to sway or be still as the wind bade them.

When Iphigeneia was ready they faced each other for some time in silence, mask regarding mask, all expression concealed beneath the stiffening paste. The light of early morning was coming through the canvas. There were shadows of men at the entrance, and then voices.

'Sisipyla, I thank you for the love and service you have given me. Now I leave you behind, I go to fulfil my destiny and perform the will of Artemis.' The voice was composed, without a tremor.

'My true name is not Sisipyla. That name dies with you. I had another name before, my own name. It was Amandralettes. Now I will be Amandralettes.'

These were the last words spoken between them. It was Calchas who came, haggard in the morning light, flanked by guards. Iphigeneia went forward to meet them, head held high. No one gave more than a glance to the slave girl crouching in a corner, her head averted in grief. When they had gone she waited where she was for a short while. There was no time to remove the paste, even had there been water enough inside the tent to do it. At the last moment, at the entrance, she turned back inside, took the gold shoulder-clasps from Iphigeneia's dress and the necklace of silver and ivory. These she tied up in her shawl, holding the bundle close under her cloak as she left the tent.

She met no one as she went down towards the shore. Macris would be waiting at the place arranged, but she did not take this direction. Below the camp there were always boats. No one would be guarding them now. The current would help her... Behind her, as she went, she heard a great shout. Then there was silence.

Calchas, accompanied by a watchful Chasimenos and two armed men from Phylakos' squadron, himself took a boat not very much later, and according to instructions cast the blood-stained knife into the sea where it ran deepest. And as he watched the knife cleave the water and disappear from sight with only the slightest of sounds and no visible marring of the surface, his talent returned to him and he saw radiant circles spread outward from this plunge of the knife and he was at the heart of these ripples of light and at their most distant borders, together with the meanest of crawling things and the mightiest of gods. He was pierced through with the wonder of existence and everything he could think or know or experience lit up this wonder and darkened it and the light and darkness were one and the same. He trailed his hand in the water and his eyes filled with tears and he prayed for the safe passage of Iphigeneia's soul. And so the fleet set sail and the army landed at Troy. The war lasted ten years. Greeks and Trojans alike were borne away on that tide of metal the diviner had seen in his vision. Agamemnon returned, only to be murdered, together with his Trojan concubine Cassandra, by Clytemnestra, in revenge for the killing of their daughter Iphigeneia. Not long after this, within the lifetime of some who survived this war, the power of Mycenae collapsed, citadel and palace went up in flames and the inhabitants were put to the sword. This destruction, from which the kingdom never recovered, is said to have been the work of wandering marauders called the Sea People, but who these people were and where they came from is still disputed.

The girl was remembered by a fisherman out early, who saw her cross the water. He spoke of it afterwards: a shout of many voices, then a girl in a white mask crossing the water soon after sunrise. Those who heard this story repeated it in their turn. Because of the mask it began to be said that the girl was Iphigeneia, that she had escaped or been rescued. And in the course of time a standard version found its way into the repertory of the singers. Iphigeneia had not been sacrificed, she had been saved at the last moment by Artemis and spirited far away, as far as anyone could imagine, to the northern shores of the Euxine Sea, to live among the barbarous Taurians and be their priestess.

But all this was much later, when sensibilities and habits of thought had changed, and it was no longer considered desirable that such an ugly thing as the sacrifice of the innocent for the sake of prosecuting a war should feature in the songs of the kings.