Cassandra

by Hilary Bailey

  Menelaus had ordered eight strong men to carry the tree, four on either side, and as they took their first run at the massive gates, a warrior, behind the main party for some reason, fell ten yards from the gates, with a spear in his stomach. He lay, screaming and writhing on the ground. Menelaus and his sergeant Diocles unhesitatingly ran to him, in a hail of arrows, and dragged him to safety. Idas, standing against the wall, heard the injured man, screaming. To his left the eight men ran towards the gate with their battering-ram, thudded it against the wood, stood jarred for a moment, then retreating again, readied themselves for another attack.

  Agamemnon had moved his men back, well out of range, now that the diversion had succeeded. A silence fell, broken by the groans of the wounded man, the regular thud of the battering-ram against the gates, the pause as the men steadied themselves after the shock, then the next assault. Idas looked away from them across to the horizon. A line of red lay across the darkness, the sea was silvering. Suddenly his brother was beside him, looking in the direction of the dawn. On an ordinary day, Idas thought, they would be bundling out of bed, going to the big table in their hall to find bread, to the well for water. Within minutes they would be off about their morning tasks – milking the goats, finding eggs, perhaps plucking ripe apples from their four ancient trees. And instead here they were against the walls of Troy, chilled by sea wind, with the dawn coming up and nothing, not even the sound of a bird, but the jingle of horses’ harnesses, the shouts of the men of Troy aloft in the palace, the steady bang of the battering-ram against the gate – again, and again, and again.

  An apathy crept over Idas, as though nothing had ever happened, or ever would: he would stand like a ghost against this wall forever. He felt the sergeant’s hand on his shoulder. ‘You two have done well so far,’ he said. ‘Keep your eyes peeled – watch the other gate. That’s where they’ll come from, if they come out of the city to attack us.’ He nodded down the length of the wall towards the Dardanian Gate. He passed on, saying, ‘I knew your father. He would be proud.’ The words put some strength into Idas. Their father had been killed two years before in a sea battle with a Phoenician ship, attacked in the hope of booty.

  The injured man screamed as they pulled the spear from his guts. Voices trying to sound reassuring said, There – we’ll bind it now. Hold on – stay calm. You’ll be all right now.’ The man said, ‘Water…’ They told him, ‘Yes – in a minute –’ There came a noise, like choking, then silence. Then a voice, muttering a blessing.

  Idas gazed out to sea. The light was coming. He knew as the men became more visible their position was more dangerous. A voice from above called, in fractured Greek, ‘You won’t knock that gate down. It’s stood for a thousand years. You can stay here all week. That gate will hold.’

  Menelaus called back, ‘What will you be doing? Weaving at your looms? Giving suck? Baking bread?’ There was a laugh at this. Agamemnon called, ‘Come out and fight like men.’ A hail of arrows came down. None hit him. He shook his spear angrily, ‘Come down and fight,’ he bellowed. It was partly panic. If the gates did not yield to the battering-ram early on, then the Greek soldiers would be stuck there all morning, into the heat of midday, into the afternoon, into the next day, perhaps, while the Trojans stayed inside their walls and laughed. The expedition would fail.

  Menelaus ordered eight fresh men to relieve the others. ‘The men have no water,’ said Menelaus’ sergeant. His face was expressionless. The gate was not yielding. It was tougher than they had thought. The danger was that at any moment the Trojans might come flooding out of the Dardanian Gate to attack them. Worse if they waited until midday, when the troops had been at the city walls since before dawn; worse still if the sun was hot and the men thirsty. Why were there no men at the other gate to take the first brunt of the attack? He called to Agamemnon, ‘Set men at the Dardanian Gate.’ Haughtily, Agamemnon did nothing. What was he supposed to do, Menelaus wondered? Send a messenger running to him through arrows to whisper a message in his ear? He ordered his own men to sit down. No point in standing, listening to that incessant thud of wood striking the obstinate gates. They might as well rest. He prayed for the gates to yield. Or even for the Trojans to come pelting out in fury and at least turn the affair into a battle. With luck and skill, they might then carry the day. But why should the Trojans, safe inside their strong city, do anything? He could smell the smoke of the fires they were lighting, hear voices, hens clucking.

  So the morning wore on. The men on the walls called down insults, succeeded by the women, which was worse. From inside the city came the normal sounds of the day – the blows of the blacksmith at his anvil, a baby crying, people talking. Smells of baking fish, meat and bread came to them. The Greeks sent up taunts, sang and chanted, partly to cover, for their own sakes, the sounds of that futile battering at the gates.

  Idas sat dozing next to his brother against the wall. ‘Wake up, boy, and fetch water,’ came the voice of the Cretan sergeant Idas stared up, startled, into his smooth face. The Cretan had found a bucket at the washing troughs near the river where the women went to do their laundry. Idas could hardly believe he was being asked to run to the river through the spears and arrows from the walls. The trip back with a full bucket would be worse. But he was not being asked to do this. The order was for his brother. ‘I’ll go,’ he said.

  ‘He goes,’ said the sergeant Teucris stood, took the bucket, measured the distance from where he stood to the river, three hundred yards away. The journey out involved running downhill so that most of the way he would be covered by the hill and invisible from the city ramparts. The uphill journey back, with a full bucket, would be extremely dangerous.

  ‘Better than later – now the sun’s in their eyes,’ Diocles said impassively. He did not like giving the order. He did not like the position they were in, that Idas guessed, as he stared at him pleadingly, wanting to beg him to send someone else, and knowing he could not. Meanwhile Teucris said farewell to him and they embraced, briefly. It was hardly any different from any other day, when Teucris went to get water at their well at home. Teucris went off like the wind, running down over the turf with his bucket swinging. Soon he was out of sight. Nothing hit him. Idas watched the spot where he had disappeared. His chest felt like lead. He felt tears in his eyes. ‘And all for a bucket of water,’ he heard a voice inside him saying. ‘And all for a bucket of water.’ Then he saw his brother come back over the ridge. The Trojans, yelling, shot arrows and threw stones. Idas’ brother set off at a slow run, trying not to let the bucket swing. Idas stood still and sent him a silent message urging him to drop the bucket and run, downhill, if necessary, to join Agamemnon’s troops; but he knew he would think it a dishonour. Fifty yards away, an arrow caught him. He fell, the bucket beside him. He twitched and was still. A howl of triumph came from the Trojans on the walls, a low moan from the Greeks. Arms went round Idas, who sobbed, ‘He may be alive. I’ll go out and fetch him.’

  ‘And die yourself – that would please your mother,’ said Diocles. And Menelaus called to the men with the battering-ram, ‘Get to work again.’ Idas heard the thuds start up again and stood, tears running silently down his cheeks, gazing at his brother’s body only a hundred yards off.

  An hour later Agamemnon called off the attack. Idas heard the cry, men moving around him, but it was not until a hand shook him by the shoulder that he came to his senses. ‘We’re going,’ said Menelaus, no expression in his voice. ‘You run like a goat to the ships, my boy, or your mother may lose another son.’

  Idas burst out, ‘Why did you send him?’

  ‘Never mind that now,’ said Menelaus roughly. ‘This is a war. This is what war is like. Now, move! Do you want me to carry you?’ And Idas, behind the others, began to run, stumbling, downhill. The two parties, chariots ahead, carrying too many men, horses fiercely whipped, united in a mass and began to run helter-skelter down the hillside.

  Behind them ran the Trojans, who, seeing the retreat begin, had rac
ed out of both gates whooping, shouting and yelling. Though the chariots and half the Greek force were almost at the beach, the rest, Idas among them, were cut off by a scissor movement of the two Trojan parties. ‘Fight!’ yelled a Greek voice. Idas was gazing into foreign eyes, under a huge foreign helmet, coils of bronze ending in a point. He sensed rather than saw the man’s spear poised to strike into his chest. All around him there was the clash of swords, hisses of effort. The Trojan’s shield was to one side as he prepared for the spearthrust. Idas dragged his sword from his belt and threw it, his own weight behind it, at the other man’s chest, armoured only in a light coating of bronze. The sword went in. The Trojan, struck, staggered and fell, taking Idas with him. Someone helped him up, pulled the sword from the fallen Trojan, pushed it back into his hand. All round spears came down on shields raised against them, sword struck sword as the Greek force, no more than forty, fought shoulder to shoulder slowly down the hill. Idas, whose spear had now gone, hurled with insufficient force at a tall man in a plumed helmet, who had dodged it easily, bashed aside the painted shield of a young man little older than himself and stuck his sword in the other’s throat Blood spurted everywhere. The young man’s brown eyes were astonished, and he fell. Idas was blinded by his blood, tripped and was caught by Agamemnon’s one strong hand as the other took a slice from a Trojan’s arm. Agamemnon dragged him towards the boats. Then Idas’ feet struck water. The Greeks turned and raced, splashing and stumbling, through the waves, swam the last feet effortfully and were hauled aboard their ships – all but those caught, at the last moment, by the pursuing Trojans. Idas, lying on the deck, breathing heavily, saw Agamemnon leap from the deck, run through the water, haul a Greek warrior from the very arms of a captor, carry him back to the ship, throw him aboard.

  When the different accounts had been given and the numbers taken, they had lost thirty men, dead, or left behind wounded in the retreat Idas sat on deck unwashed, refusing food, mourning his brother. Agamemnon came to weep with him and said, ‘The young man you killed was a son of Priam’s – your brother is avenged.’

  The wind dropped and the exhausted men had to row for what remained of the day. That night they slept over their oars, or stretched out on deck, armour beside them, as the ship moved slightly, at anchor in the dark Aegean waters. Below, the brothers, Menelaus and Agamemnon shouted at each other about the disaster, the plan, the execution, the muddle of the retreat Idas, son of Paimonides, lay, bloodstained, on deck in a chilly, uncomfortable sleep, waking briefly from time to time to remember he had lost a brother.

  Ten

  Troy

  We buried Pammon, my half-brother, with much mourning after the Greek attempt to take our city. As we wept for the seventeen-year-old boy, half our grief was for our own futures and the future of the city. Five others died in the pursuit of the retreating Greeks, including old Themon, who was forty-five and should not have been in the attack force. We had been forced to act quickly and had not picked and chosen among the warriors. Later, another man had to have his leg taken off by the doctor-women, because a wound had mortified. He survived the operation.

  My half-brother was the first of Priam’s sons to be killed by the Greeks. He was the son of a Lydian woman. She herself had died when the boy was nine and for that reason they had taken him early into the men’s room where because of his youth, his joking and his lovely flute-playing, he became something of a mascot to the men. We wept bitterly as we buried this innocent boy, who had never harmed anyone. As we wept, his dog howled and barked. This dog sat on the burial mound for three days and nights. As we mourned, unwashed and not eating, so did he. Later, none of us had time to mourn, seeing our dead decently into the lovely meadows of Paradise. Later still, of course, there was no mourning. We died and lay there like offal thrown in the streets. But at that time we could. And when the time was over, I crept out and rescued the dog which they called Smiler, because, though a long, lean, ugly animal, he had the trick of standing in odd places staring into space, wagging his tail and seeming to smile at nothing at all. So I enticed him back into the city with food and thereafter he became my dog. The men had given him to Pammon when he had entered their room, still weeping for his mother – well, the dog outlived his master and many of the rest of us.

  Along with the mourning, as I say, was sadness, somehow, for a world that had passed. We were growing accustomed to our battles with the Greeks, especially the warlike men of Mycenae. They had raided the coastal towns for years. They attacked our ships; we attacked theirs. We had, indeed, carried out raids at Pylos, and once burned their harbour. Sometimes a man died, or several men, always cause for sadness, but we were accustomed to the raids and battles as, after many years, you are used to a bad neighbour. But this seemed very different Achilles was on Tenedos. The surprise raid on our very city by the ferocious brothers was bolder. They had no mines, no products, their lands were infertile; they were away from all the mainland trade routes. However, they had all the wealth they had taken from others, a passion to take what they wanted and now, we knew, we were their target

  They said the people on Tenedos were terrified of Achilles and his retainers and neighbours, Myrmidons from the bare Thessalian hills, stocky men, quick and ruthless under their tall and unpredictable leader. They were considered strange and barbaric by the other Greeks. I did not know then I would finish finding asylum in Achilles’ remote hills. Then we called Achilles ‘The Madman’, because his speed, strength and wilfulness made him seem like one of those lunatics who, when the fit is on them, show a cunning, understanding and strength beyond the normal. We did not know him then, apart from the accounts of others on our coast who had experienced his raids. We heard of looting, burning, men dead, families weeping for ravished or captured daughters. After these raids the councils would repair what they could, strengthen their walls, train more men and matters would resume their normal course. Then Achilles took Miletus and held it. Looking back I see that our desire to continue trading and living contentedly, as if nothing was happening, was weak. If we had joined together and raised an army then, the worst might not have occurred. After Miletus, Achilles took the island of Tenedos. We did not know what his intentions were. He made few statements of his intentions, we later learned. He was a law unto himself.

  With Achilles on Tenedos, as we thought (being his father’s only child he had in fact returned to Thessaly to keep him company), and with a surprise attack on Troy barely beaten off, we knew our position was worsening. ‘If they’d sent more men,’ my father remarked bitterly, ‘they might have taken the city. They’re like wolves in a hard winter now. They’re sneaking up in darkness, hoping to catch us as we sleep. And they call themselves warriors.’

  Many bad looks came my way. I had predicted all this and it was as if I’d somehow caused the disaster. I was used to this from early childhood, as was Helenus. We’d taken many blows from Adosha, as she knew that some kind of visionary fit of ours concerning, say, a fire, or a dead bird, often preceded an event such as a brazier overturning or disease striking all our hens. In the heat of the moment she would take our confused dreams and visions not as predictions, but as successful, childish curses. I was accustomed to being unable to refrain from the truth, and for being blamed when predictions turned out to have been true.

  After the battle and the mourning for Pammon the council assembled. I, the unattended girl, crept in and sat under a long table against a wall. They discussed attacking Tenedos and taking it back from Achilles, and decided the prospect of losing ships and men was not worth it. This, in view of what happened later, was a mistake. We resolved instead to do the obvious – to further strengthen the fortifications, double the watch on the city and patrol the bay by night. There were recriminations – what had the watch been doing to allow a contingent of Greeks even to land unobserved, still less to creep uphill to the city? There were suspicions – had the guards been bribed, the dogs drugged? No one cared to blame my mother for giving the Greeks rich gifts
to persuade them to leave, and apparently only whetting their appetites for more. Though this may have been a mistake, it was only one of the many we made.

  In the end it was decided to send two separate groups, one to Agamemnon in Mycenae and the other to his brother in Sparta, in an effort to make permanent peace. My father suggested that it might be wise to hint at a possible alliance between ourselves and the Greek brothers to evict Achilles from Miletus and Tenedos. As he said, quite rightly, it was doubtful who the various Greek rulers hated more – their enemies or each other. If we had to ally with one of our possible attackers, to attack another, then, so be it

  The plan should have worked – but for Paris. He was away in a trading ship carrying wool and some ponies into Sidon. Most unfortunately, as he was loading for the return trip, another Trojan ship docked at Sidon. He heard about the envoy to Sparta. This began the disaster. Paris should have come slowly back along the coast home. He did not He claimed later, truly or untruly, that he had spotted three Greek pirate ships off Rhodes. Believing they would attack his vessel he headed into open sea in the direction of Crete. Their pursuit and unfavourable winds, he said, had driven him off course and he’d been forced to land at Pylos. Whatever the truth, the upshot was that long after he was expected back in Troy he had, without anyone knowing, met the ship carrying the Trojan envoys to Greece in the harbour at Pylos. How fortunate, he declared. He would join the diplomatic embassy to Menelaus’ court. Anchises, leader of the party, did all he could to prevent Paris from going to Menelaus – and Helen – but he had no authority over him. Paris was determined.

  It was a full week before Paris’ ship returned without him. Even on arrival, the captain, not understanding the importance of what had happened, did not hurry to inform us. When he had eaten, bathed and dressed in good clothes, he came up to the palace with his report I heard the news first I had been hanging about waiting for Paris and when the captain came through the Scaean Gate I asked where he was. I was dumbstruck when he told me he was at Menelaus’ court. I could see this meant no good. I told him to hurry and tell my parents. Then I went to the smithy and listened to the smith grumbling about overwork and offered to fetch him some fried fish and bread, an offer he accepted. I must have been crouching in the back of the smithy, watching the big man beating our horse-shoes like a madman, and enjoying the sparks, the warmth and my portion of fish, when the storm broke.