Odysseus and Calchas studied the ailing man, careful not to breathe his air. His ordinarily olive skin was dark as strong wine, and the whites of his eyes were blood red. According to his camp mates, he’d begun feeling ill about four days prior. Since then, he’d endured fever, muscle pain, vomiting, diarrhea – almost the entire checklist of disease symptoms. About a day ago, he’d seemed to finally recover from the fever, but soon thereafter the discoloration began, accompanied by blood leaking from every orifice. Since then, he’d become so weak that he was unresponsive, and flies had begun to congregate, eager to lay their eggs in his pus-leaking lesions.
Odysseus took a moment to inspect the men he camped with, and found most of them were feeling shaky at best – two were clearly contending with a severe fever. While Calchas distributed some herbal pain relievers and fever reducers, Odysseus wiped his hands off on a rag, and left the tent to join Agamemnon in the fresh air outside.
“Well? Is it serious?” Agamemnon asked.
“Deadly serious,” Odysseus said, “and whatever it is seems to spread from man to man. It will surely claim all the men in that tent by the end of the week.”
Agamemnon set his jaw hard, “Then we shall have to burn the tent and all the bodies within it...”
Odysseus held up a hand, “Slow down Aggy; listen.”
Agamemnon held his breath to try and catch what Odysseus was after. As he focused on the sounds around them, he heard coughing from the nearest tent to his left – no behind him. No, the coughing came from both of them, with multiple voices. He heard a man retch violently two tents down. Agamemnon felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. A wave of nausea came with it, and he began to wonder if he wouldn’t soon fall victim to the strange malady himself.
“These men will die before we do,” Odysseus seemed to read his mind at times, “So we have that at least.”
“How did this happen?”
“Plagues just do,” Odysseus said, “I could discuss the finer points of pathology and disease vectors, but I know only what little I was able to ply from Apollo when we were friends.”
Agamemnon didn’t fully understand what Odysseus was saying, so he got to the point, “Can you cure it?”
“Apollo might be able to,” Odysseus said, “But there’s a reason I haven’t seen him in a long time. He’s become rather disaffected when it comes to humans. Our pervasive ignorance seems to offend him personally.”
“Did he cause it?” Agamemnon asked.
"No," Calchas said, finally emerging from the tent, "I know Apollo's work, and this is not it. His plagues are cleaner, quieter. This is violent, bloody, wild."
“Artemis, then?” Odysseus asked.
"I think so," Calchas nodded.
"Well, given Apollo's relationship with Troy, we can't expect him to intercede on our behalf," Agamemnon reasoned.
“Then we have no choice but to appeal to Artemis herself,” Odysseus said.
“She may be moved to undo her work,” Calchas said, “As goes Apollo, so goes Artemis – if he sides with the Trojans when you arrive on their shores, then you can expect her to do so as well, but a pre-emptive strike like this is not her approach. She must have some other reason to inflict this on your men now, and that may make negotiation possible.”
“How do we summon her?” Agamemnon asked.
“You do not summon Artemis, she summons you,” Calchas said, pointing down the shore. A prominent rock jutted out from a thick forest, perfectly framed by a low, full moon.
Agamemnon and Odysseus trekked down the shoreline and into the woods to reach the rock. They walked up the rock to where Artemis sat, perched like a lazy cat. When they approached, Artemis stretched her limbs, stood up, and stalked towards them, sniffing the two men.
Like Apollo, the past ten years had changed her. When they'd met at Peleus and Thetis's months long anniversary celebration, Artemis had looked like an ordinary human girl, albeit, much taller than a mere mortal. The night in the forest when she'd transformed Lycomedes, she'd garbed herself in leaves and branches for concealment, but underneath it all she was still just a fair-skinned girl.
She still wore the distinctive crescent moon crown that gave the appearance of horns, but the clothes she wore now were made of leather and fur, not spun cloth. Her hair was wild behind her crown, blending in with her fur collar and giving the appearance of a mane. Her eyes had become yellow-green, and when she smiled Odysseus could see here perfectly even white teeth had also changed, with her upper and lower canines now being much more prominent than they had been. She leaned near Odysseus and sniffed his neck and hair.
“I smell my pestilence on you,” she said simply, “but you are not ailing yet.”
“Please, mighty Artemis,” Odysseus fell to one knee and dragged Agamemnon with him, “Please tell us what slight we have made against you, that we might make amends for our errors and preserve those lives that may still be saved.”
Artemis had sent the plague into the camp to bring these men to grovel, and it had worked – she’d never been one to draw out such things, so she did not hesitate to answer Odysseus’s question.
“Your chief king,” she pointed at Agamemnon, “the leader of your Grecian pack, took his men into this forest one week ago, and hunted for game. As he may recall, he happened upon an especially rare creature…”
Agamemnon paled, “A white stag…”
Artemis glared at him, “That ‘stag’ had a name,” she whistled strangely, “and he was my son.”
“Your son?” Odysseus was genuinely confused, “I thought you never… I mean…”
“I’ve never shared a man’s bed,” Artemis said, “but like the rest of my kind I’m a shapeshifter, and there are many noble beasts in the wild lands more worthy of my attention than the weak men of Greece or Olympus.”
Odysseus put aside the disturbing notion that the wild goddess engaged with her animal subjects in that way and focused on the basics; she was a mother who’d lost her son, or at least something she thought was her son. In light of that, it was no surprise the goddess had used her considerable power to bring suffering down on their camps.
Agamemnon was quiet for a long moment. Odysseus expected him to either make some smartass remark, or to begin clutching her feet begging for forgiveness – it was always hard to guess which way the man might go. Instead, Agamemnon looked her dead in the eye – no small feat when face-to-face with a goddess, and simply said, “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” Artemis said, “That’s all you have to say?”
“I did not intend to harm you or your kin,” Agamemnon said, “I hunted as I have hunted a thousand times before, but I realize, now, that when I saw your majestic child, I should have recognized that he was special, and spared him my humble arrow. He deserved a longer life and a more noble end, than to be slain by a hungry man.”
Artemis studied him carefully. “I think you’re being sincere,” she said, “I remember you Agamemnon, Atreus son, from when we met at Peleus and Thetis’s celebration ten years ago. I did not imagine you to be the sort to empathize with a grieving woman. What has changed?”
“I’m sure you’ll recall, I married at that very celebration; my wife conceived our daughter, Iphigenia, soon thereafter. I have done my best to protect her and raise her well, and like any father, I have feared for her future many times. What you feel now is the pain I have feared I would feel since the day she was brought into this world.”
Artemis smiled, “Well, your men were not party to your transgression, so I will spare them with a trade – their lives for your daughter’s life.”
“What?!” Agamemnon’s terror was as sincere as his apology had been.
“You took my son, so you shall repay that debt with the life of your daughter. A fair trade, far better than the price you will pay if I do not rescind my curse. A third of your men will die, possibly you yourself.”
“I… I can’t…” Agamemnon said, “I… I can’t do that!”
Odysseus grabbed his arm, “You must.”
“How can you say that?” Agamemnon said, “You’re a father, how can you ask me to make such a terrible sacrifice?” He returned his attention to Artemis, “Take my life instead, please – I beg of you!”
“If I wanted your life I would have taken it already. Killing you isn’t the point – making you suffer as I have suffered, that is the justice I offer you now.”
“No… I’ll call it off… the whole invasion. We’ll break camp, tonight, leave this place…”
“It’s too late for that,” Odysseus said, “I don’t especially like you, but I respect that it’s your throne that holds the Grecian alliance together. If you turn tail now, that alliance will fall apart, and our lands will descend into chaos. Thousands will suffer.”
“You don’t know that,” Agamemnon said, “I can find a way to exit this gracefully, the right words to keep our alliance.”
“And what will happen when you send thousands of sick men home to their families?”
“No…”
“Yes. Meeting the goddess’s demands now is the only way to save Greece. Now go,” Odysseus said, “Make the arrangements to summon your daughter, and find a way to make your peace. I have more to discuss with the goddess.”
Agamemnon, weeping unashamedly scrambled away and fled back to the encampment to make the arrangements.
“What further business do we have, Odysseus?” Artemis asked after Agamemnon was well beyond the hearing.
Odysseus stood up, abandoning the pretense of humility he’d adopted for Agamemnon’s benefit.
“You will spare the girl,” Odysseus said.
“You presume to tell me what I will do?”
“It’s not a demand, it’s a logical conclusion,” Odysseus said.
“Hm, you do sound like Athena.”
“She’s part of the reason I know you will spare the girl.”
“How so?”
“I know that, whatever Athena is planning, she wants this war with Troy. If that war doesn’t happen, she will be very, very displeased.”
“So? If Iphigenia dies, the war will proceed as planned.”
“If you don’t swear to me that you will spare Iphigenia, then I will reverse my position on the matter, and persuade Agamemnon to load the men on the ships immediately and set sail for Troy. We cannot guess who will be sick in four days’ time, but the ships will quarantine the sick men and limit the spread of the disease through the army. Whole crews will be claimed, their ships falling dead in the water, their oars manned by fifty diseased corpses, but those ships that do make the lengthy crossing will carry healthy men, ready to fight.”
“And what if my plague burns slowly enough that some infected men reach that far shore; it will consume your camp – you’ll die at the gates of Troy.”
“So far your plagues seems to kill in about a week, but even if I'm wrong, it's better that your plague claim us at Troy than here in Greece, where it might spread to our families.”
“And what of the Alliance you value so greatly? What will become of Greece without it?”
“Our alliance serves to prevent the kings of Greece from turning on one another – with all of us dead, and so many of our fighting men along with us, the alliance would likely be unnecessary.”
Artemis studied him for a moment, “You’re bluffing.”
“Maybe,” Odysseus said, “But Agamemnon was right – I am a father. I fully understand what you’re asking him to do and object to it vehemently. Perhaps that gives me enough reason to sabotage this war. We mortals live such short lives anyway – what does it really matter if we die now or twenty years hence?”
“You think I won’t call your bluff?”
Odysseus paused for a moment, but eventually answered, “I don’t think you’re so cruel as you pretend to be,” he said, “I don’t think you really want an innocent girl to pay for her father’s mistake, and you need only a small reason to motivate you to do the right thing and spare her.”
Artemis quirked a sort of half-smile at him, “Agamemnon must suffer. I cannot allow this transgression to pass unpunished, and the loss of his daughter will surely teach the lesson.”
“Is that your final answer?”
“Yes.”
“Then I suppose we have no more to discuss,” Odysseus said, “Say hello to Athena for me – I’m sure you’ll have words when half her army perishes in the crossing.”
Artemis did not alter her position, so Odysseus set about the final preparations to get the fleet moving sooner than later. By the time Iphigenia arrived at the camp, many more men had succumbed to the illness – it was in nearly every corner, and Odysseus had desperately started trying to separate the men on the beach to stop the spread of the plague. He explained his plan to Agamemnon – to use the crossing to weed out the sick, but the king simply shook his head, with tears in his eyes. No one, he was sure, would make it. Over ten thousand men would die (as well as the much larger number of slaves they were taking to support the war effort), and as much as he loved his daughter, 10,000 to save one was too great a price to pay. Odysseus tried to argue that 10,000 men were ready to lay down their lives to retrieve Menelaus’s wayward wife, but it was a weak case – the risk of dying in battle was not comparable to the near certainty of dying on a plague-ridden ship, and many of the men sailed for the promise of wealth, not for Menelaus’s marriage.
Still, what Odysseus hadn’t counted on was Iphigenia’s reaction when she saw the state of the camp. She wept for men she did not know, young and old alike, and prayed intensely that the gods should step in and save the brave men of Greece. Agamemnon partly explained to the girl what had happened – he had accidentally offended Artemis, and in the course of negotiating a reconciliation the goddess had demanded that the girl be brought to her.
Odysseus was feeling feverish himself the night they took Agamemnon’s daughter before Artemis, and the girl could tell he was succumbing to the illness. Odysseus encouraged Agamemnon to tell the girl the truth as they traveled out to the rock, but the girl’s father couldn’t bring himself to say the words.
When they reached Artemis, the goddess began to speak, but Iphigenia threw herself at the woman’s feet and begged her to spare Odysseus and the other men, promising anything she demanded in return.
Agamemnon, tears streaming down his cheeks, finally explained the situation to his daughter. “Because I killed her son, the goddess has asked that justice be wrought by your blood. She’s promised that, if I kill you, she will spare these men,” he held up the long curved knife he’d brought for the occasion – he’d spent days sharpening it, obsessively, knowing that the sharper the blade, the quicker and less painful his daughter’s death would be.
Iphigenia turned to Artemis with the sort of defiant scowl only an eleven year old girl could wear so confidently, “This is not justice,” she said, “I’m sorry your son is dead, but he did not die by your hand. Asking my father to do this himself is cruel. If you want my life in trade for the lives of all these men, I will give it, but if you want justice, it must be carried out by your hand, not his.”
Artemis got down on one knee and studied the girl for a moment, then finally broke out into a cold smile. “Your case is fair and well made,” the goddess said, “You men may leave now.”
“No!” Agamemnon said, “I cannot leave my daughter to face this fate alone!”
“Were you so considerate when you murdered my son?” Artemis asked, “Or did my son not die, alone and suffering in the woods, served up as your dinner? I give you one last chance to say goodbye to your child. It’s more than I was afforded.”
Agamemnon embraced Iphigenia for a long time, his tears streaming into her hair, “I’m so… so sorry… I was supposed to protect you…”
“Ten thousand men are ready to give their lives for Greece,” Iphigenia said, “my father included. I have the chance to save them all – how could I do less for my countrymen?”
Agamemnon half sobbed, half laughed, “Why didn’t I raise you to be a selfish bastard like me?” Agamemnon said, “I wanted you to be better than me, and now you will die for that.”
Iphigenia tried to think of something strong and confident to say, but the reality of her situation was creeping upon her. Speaking of death was far easier than actually dying. She tried not to let her fear show, and urged her father to go, asking him to give her love to her mother, and tell her to remember her with pride. Agamemnon was so overcome with grief, Odysseus had to help him walk away, like a man who’d been mortally wounded, staggering to his own grave.
When at last they were alone, Iphigenia fell to her knees again and squeezed her eyes shut. She wanted to face her end bravely, to look Artemis in the eye, but it was more than she was capable of at that point.
Artemis simply sat down, cross-legged in front of her and stared at the girl until she cautiously opened her eyes.
“You’re… five generations removed from Zeus?” Artemis smiled, “But far braver.”
“Are you… are you not going to kill me yet?”
“No, not yet, and not later. I wanted justice – justice was for your father to suffer as I suffered, but that burden was not yours to carry. Or your mother’s, for that matter, but unfortunately I cannot spare her this pain.”
“But… you intend to spare me?”
“In a way. You offered me your life, and so now it is mine. Your father must think you are dead. You can never see him or anyone else in your family, ever again – do you understand?”
Iphigenia nodded, “Where will I go?”
“To another land, west of here. They know me there, but I can seldom spare the time and attention their hunters and beasts deserve. So, I will make you strong and teach you what I know, and you will go there and serve in my stead, speaking as if you were me. You will protect its beasts, teach its people, and punish those who violate nature, as if you were me. You will become a huntress, a child of the wilderness, worshipped by all who tread there, loved and feared in equal measure, and eventually I will pass my power fully to you – the brave girl who was willing to stand up to a goddess and sacrifice herself for thousands of strangers. You’ll be a god, maybe even one that’s actually worthy of the mortals’ devotion. Does that sound better than be dying?”
Iphigenia was somewhat overwhelmed by the change of circumstances, but she consented to the arrangement.
“The men of that land do trade with Greece,” Artemis said, “so you will have to abandon your given name and take on the name they know me by.”
“What shall I be called?” Iphigenia asked.
Artemis smiled, “Diana.”
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