was calm, the water was
green glass, and the sand was as hot as white ash beneath
our feet. Oh, how we envied the Greek boys who ran barefoot
on the sun-baked shore! Though the sand scorched our
pale tourist skin, we reveled in the discomfort, because we
wanted to be like those boys, our soles like toughened
leather. Only through pain and hard wear do calluses form.
In the evening, when the day had cooled, we went to the
Temple of Artemis.
We walked among the lengthening shadows, and came to
the altar where Iphigenia was sacrificed. Despite her
prayers, her cries of "Father, spare me!," the warriors carried
the girl to the altar. She was stretched over the stone, her
white neck bared to the blade. The ancient playwright
Euripides writes that the soldiers of Atreus, and all the army,
stared at the ground, unwilling to watch the spilling of her
virgin blood. Unwilling to witness the horror.
Ah, but I would have watched! And so, too, would you
have. And eagerly, too.
I pictured the silent troops assembled in the gloom. I
imagined the beating of drums, not the lively throb of a
wedding celebration, but a somber march toward death. I
saw the procession, winding its way into the grove. The girl,
white as a swan, flanked by soldiers and priests. The
drumming stops.
They carry her, shrieking, to the altar.
In my vision, it is Agamemnon himself who holds the
knife blade, for why call it sacrifice if you are not the one who
draws the blood? I see him approach the altar, where his
daughter lies, her tender flesh exposed to all eyes. She
pleads for her life, to no avail.
The priest grasps her hair and pulls it back, baring her
throat. Beneath the white skin the artery pulses, marking the
place for the blade. Agamemnon stands beside his
daughter, looking down at the face he loves. In her veins
runs his blood. In her eyes he sees his own. By cutting her
throat, he cuts his own flesh.
He raises the knife. The soldiers stand silent, statues
among the sacred grove of trees. The pulse in the girl's
neck is fluttering.
Artemis demands sacrifice, and this Agamemnon must
do.
He presses the blade to the girl's neck, and slices deep.
A fountain of red spurts, splashing his face with hot rain.
Iphigenia is still alive, her eyes rolled back in horror as
the blood pumps from her neck. The human body contains
five liters of blood, and it takes time for such a volume to be
discharged from a single severed artery. As long as the
heart continues to beat, the blood pumps out. For at least a
few seconds, perhaps even a minute or more, the brain
functions. The limbs thrash.
As her heart beats its last, Iphigenia watches the sky
darken, and feels the heat of her own blood spout on her
face.
The ancients say that almost immediately the north wind
ceased to blow Artemis was satisfied. At last the Greek ships
.
sailed, and armies fought, and Troy fell. In the context of that
greater bloodshed, the slaughter of one young virgin means
nothing.
But when I think of the Trojan War, what comes to my
mind is not the wooden horse or the clang of swords or the
thousand black ships with sails unfurled. No, it is the image
of a girl's body, drained white, and the father standing beside
her, clutching the bloody knife.
Noble Agamemnon, with tears in his eyes.
seven
It's pulsating," said the nurse.
Catherine stared, dry-mouthed with horror, at the man
lying on the trauma table. A foot-long iron rod protruded
straight up from his chest. One medical student had already
fainted at the sight, and the three nurses stood with mouths
agape. The rod was embedded deep in the man's chest, and
it was pulsing up and down in rhythm with his heartbeat.
"What's our BP?" Catherine said.
Her voice seemed to snap everyone into action mode. The
blood pressure cuff whiffed up, sighed down again.
"Seventy over forty. Pulse is up to one-fifty!"
"Turning both IV's wide open!"
"Breaking open the thoracotomy tray--"
"Somebody get Dr. Falco down here STAT. I'm going
green glass, and the sand was as hot as white ash beneath
our feet. Oh, how we envied the Greek boys who ran barefoot
on the sun-baked shore! Though the sand scorched our
pale tourist skin, we reveled in the discomfort, because we
wanted to be like those boys, our soles like toughened
leather. Only through pain and hard wear do calluses form.
In the evening, when the day had cooled, we went to the
Temple of Artemis.
We walked among the lengthening shadows, and came to
the altar where Iphigenia was sacrificed. Despite her
prayers, her cries of "Father, spare me!," the warriors carried
the girl to the altar. She was stretched over the stone, her
white neck bared to the blade. The ancient playwright
Euripides writes that the soldiers of Atreus, and all the army,
stared at the ground, unwilling to watch the spilling of her
virgin blood. Unwilling to witness the horror.
Ah, but I would have watched! And so, too, would you
have. And eagerly, too.
I pictured the silent troops assembled in the gloom. I
imagined the beating of drums, not the lively throb of a
wedding celebration, but a somber march toward death. I
saw the procession, winding its way into the grove. The girl,
white as a swan, flanked by soldiers and priests. The
drumming stops.
They carry her, shrieking, to the altar.
In my vision, it is Agamemnon himself who holds the
knife blade, for why call it sacrifice if you are not the one who
draws the blood? I see him approach the altar, where his
daughter lies, her tender flesh exposed to all eyes. She
pleads for her life, to no avail.
The priest grasps her hair and pulls it back, baring her
throat. Beneath the white skin the artery pulses, marking the
place for the blade. Agamemnon stands beside his
daughter, looking down at the face he loves. In her veins
runs his blood. In her eyes he sees his own. By cutting her
throat, he cuts his own flesh.
He raises the knife. The soldiers stand silent, statues
among the sacred grove of trees. The pulse in the girl's
neck is fluttering.
Artemis demands sacrifice, and this Agamemnon must
do.
He presses the blade to the girl's neck, and slices deep.
A fountain of red spurts, splashing his face with hot rain.
Iphigenia is still alive, her eyes rolled back in horror as
the blood pumps from her neck. The human body contains
five liters of blood, and it takes time for such a volume to be
discharged from a single severed artery. As long as the
heart continues to beat, the blood pumps out. For at least a
few seconds, perhaps even a minute or more, the brain
functions. The limbs thrash.
As her heart beats its last, Iphigenia watches the sky
darken, and feels the heat of her own blood spout on her
face.
The ancients say that almost immediately the north wind
ceased to blow Artemis was satisfied. At last the Greek ships
.
sailed, and armies fought, and Troy fell. In the context of that
greater bloodshed, the slaughter of one young virgin means
nothing.
But when I think of the Trojan War, what comes to my
mind is not the wooden horse or the clang of swords or the
thousand black ships with sails unfurled. No, it is the image
of a girl's body, drained white, and the father standing beside
her, clutching the bloody knife.
Noble Agamemnon, with tears in his eyes.
seven
It's pulsating," said the nurse.
Catherine stared, dry-mouthed with horror, at the man
lying on the trauma table. A foot-long iron rod protruded
straight up from his chest. One medical student had already
fainted at the sight, and the three nurses stood with mouths
agape. The rod was embedded deep in the man's chest, and
it was pulsing up and down in rhythm with his heartbeat.
"What's our BP?" Catherine said.
Her voice seemed to snap everyone into action mode. The
blood pressure cuff whiffed up, sighed down again.
"Seventy over forty. Pulse is up to one-fifty!"
"Turning both IV's wide open!"
"Breaking open the thoracotomy tray--"
"Somebody get Dr. Falco down here STAT. I'm going
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