Trojan Women- The Fall of Troy

by Byrne Fone

  Sometimes in the mornings as I sip my wine, too early perhaps in the day, I can hear the soft and mocking sibilance of the younger women who serve me. If I drop my mirror from my unsteady hands, or stumble a bit, or my Trojan is slightly mispronounced when I ask for another goblet to steady me, I see contempt in their eyes. They make little comments just enough out of my hearing so I distinguish no words. But the tone is clear. I know that the moment I turn in anger or reproach they will assume again that servile mien they are taught to adopt, and approach me in that half-crouch that Trojan servants use before their mistress, this foreign queen for whom their country has been brought to such a pass. At times like this I sit at my table of unguents and powders and as I am prepared by their hands for some new ceremony, I stare at my image in the polished mirror that one or the other holds for me, wondering where beauty went and why love died.

  Now all I can do is secretly send for the handsome boy who attends me at the ceremonies, or sometimes the guard at my door (I am guarded always), or some stable boy to satisfy me when I need it. Perhaps it is no secret that I do so. There are no secrets in this labyrinthine palace. Perhaps today they will give me a handsome youth with strong loins and legs and sun-burnt arms to solace me, out of pity.

  Chapter 23

  Hecabe

  Everything terrifies me. I sleep badly. I lie staring into the darkness after I retire. Then I doze off, but it is not for long. I come out of a restless sleep gasping for breath, in the early hours and unsure of where I am. It seems sometimes as if a creature of nightmare squats on my chest, choking off my breath. I fall back to sleep but my dreams are troubled. I think I hear the clatter of soldiers clambering up the parapet wall outside my window. Or is it Kassandra shrieking from her tower?

  Then I awake again, for Antiope, who has served me for years, has came into my room. “My Lady,” she says gently, touching my shoulder. I opened my eyes. I must have drifted off. I saw that the water clock showed that it was still early morning; the gray dawn had just begun to show through the closed shutters. Antiope is clearly frightened. “Lady, please, to the window.”

  Exhausted from another sleepless night, I go to the window. I can breath some chill morning air to clear my head. Before it all began I used to love to look out from this vantage across the fields where grain waved golden and horses grazed, across the silver strand of the Scamander to the high ridgeline that rises sharp and rocky against the horizon and beyond which is the sea—our pathway to the world. It calmed me to see it, the world all in order. This morning there was no tranquility. The rising sun showed me the terrible spectacle. Coming down from the ridge, pouring out through the gates of their camp, snaking in columns across the river and to the plain before our walls, our enemy came.

  Now, after all these years, has the end come at last? But is it more terrible now than when they first appeared an eternity ago? Then I woke to hear the great bell from the Ilios tower sounding a deep tolling alarm. People were running through the corridors. I hurried to the door of my chambers and outside Antiope was gathered with others of the servants. They were, oddly I thought, ranged in front of my door, as if to protect it. “My lady,” Antiope said, “quickly back inside where it is safe. The Achaeans have come.” Just then a detail of the household guard came marching up and formed a rank in front of the door. The captain saluted. “Your majesty,” he said, “you must remain inside till the king assesses the situation.”

  It was assessed quickly enough. The Achaeans indeed had come. Priam came to me shortly. We were invaded. Because of that woman. Agamemnon had come with all of Achaea and with his brother Menelaus to get her back. We had heard rumors, of course, of a great fleet of ships. But then reality outran apprehension; there they were: the ships; the men, the horses, chariots. Then the tents, the cook fires. From every window facing the sea, from the rooftops, the balconies, from the heights of the Ilios tower, everyday when we looked out, that is what we saw.

  In the beginning I implored Priam to let her go. But Priam would not have it. It was a matter of pride and policy, he said. Paris bought her here but she came of her own will, he insisted. What can the Achaeans do anyway, he argued. “We are impregnable. Troy’s walls have never been breached. They will soon see that. The Achaeans are rabble, upstart barbarians; they are no match for us. You wait,” he said. “They will soon slink away with their tail between their legs. All our allies are marshaled; the army is strong. “And,” he said, “you must not meddle in such things Hecabe, my dear. Let the men decide. That’s as it should be. ”

  But they did not slink away. They despoiled the southern cities. One by one they fell and the Achaeans ranged like locusts over the land, taking everything they could. Then Andromache’s father, King Eetion was killed when Thebe was burned.

  We held a great state funeral for Eetion and his seven sons in the Temple to speed them on their way. We wailed and made offerings to all the gods for their souls. But we had no bodies to burn. Andromache, who I love as if I had borne her, had been married only a short time to my sweet Hector when the news came. She went nearly mad with grief. She had lost a father and all her family to the barbarian Achaeans. At the funeral she sat with the family in front of the chanting priests as a hecatomb of cattle were slaughtered. Her face was mask of agony; she clutched Astynax, my grandson just born, to her breast. Looking at this suffering I decided that it was right that we keep the woman Helen. She and her Achaeans must pay for this outrage.

  But time has dulled our pain. Year after year has gone by. The Achaeans have not been able to mount an assault on the walls. Time is on our side, the king says, and he may be right. He says that food is scarce for the enemy. And now I hear with delight that plague has struck them too. The gods look with favor on us. I pray to the Great Mother for strength.

  And so we have settled in. The war has become a way of life. Things are not quite the same as before the Achaeans came, of course. Like them we are deprived of some food, and of grain from the south. But our northern and eastern borders are, for now, secure. We have rich farmland there, trade continues from the ocean onto the northern ports, though I have heard lately that some merchants fear to come to Troy. It is not secure they argue. We have water enough from the springs that feed the cisterns, dug by Heracles some say, beneath the city walls. We could hold out long if need be. Though for how long? That is the question. But I sense that the edges are beginning to fray.

  Life goes on in the city as always, for there is nothing else to do but go about our business. I oversee my women, see to it that they card wool and weave it; or I plan a banquet with the chamberlains. I see Andromache every day and play with Astynax. He still suckles from her breast and it is lovely to see them, she holding him closely while he greedily eats. Someday he will be king, if we survive. Ceremonies continue, for Priam dearly loves them. Processions wend through endless and ancient corridors, priests chanting, stately lords in gorgeous robes pacing slowly, the king carried on his throne. The court gathers every week; every day some event is celebrated, some ritual enacted, oracles are taken, emissaries received. Births occur, marriages and deaths. Court clerks bustle about in the chancery, adding up accounts, tallying up grain stores, making entries into the archives. The nobles of the court busy themselves with gossip and intrigues—the latest story going around, giving much mirth to everyone, is that Helen’s Menelaus was without—how shall we say--finesse in love. Made a few grunting sounds, then when he was done, rolled off her like a fat satisfied goat. They say Helen admitted this to her maid because she needs to gossip with someone since no one will talk to her. Well, I say no one, Priam seems to be willing to spend time with her. I suppose that is all that matters to her.

  Chapter 24

  Kassandra

  Every day my father sends a priest to spy on me and report to him my “ravings,” as he no doubt says. Ravings! If they are ravings why does he want to know them in such detail? Every day he comes, this priest, and spends time with me, pretending that he comes mer
ely to gossip and indulge in aimless chatter. He claims to come as a comfort, to be a window, as he always likes to say, through which I can see the world outside. But I know why he is there. He listens carefully and tells my father all I say. Far from being a comfort he is in fact my jailer. He is always deferential-“My lady this,” and “My lady that.” “Yes, Princess; No Princess.” But I see the pity in his eyes and sometimes fear.

  Occasionally it amuses me to alarm him. In the midst of some gossip about court doings that he initiates so as to draw me out--what great lady has set her cap on a moment’s dalliance with what handsome captain; what handsome boy has become the momentary favorite of what great officer of state. Or he tells some delicious anecdote making the rounds from serving maid to mistress about the despicable Helen. I pretend to go all-stiff and roll my eyes back in my head as if seized by some divine presence. I mutter something portentous, if incoherent. He always starts in alarm, his knuckles grip the chair arm, and he looks at the door as if contemplating a quick escape from the madwoman in case she becomes violent. But remembering his errand, he bends forward and listens intently, hoping to catch some useful “raving” to carry back to the king, my father. These things I do to pass the time, to break the monotony of my sojourn here high above the city, kept away from all eyes save those that are allowed to see me. This is my sport, for they say I am mad. Of course I am not, though my heart is filled with rage. And so as this witless priest babbles on, imagining that I am deceived by his prattle and that I do not know why he comes every day, it calms and pleases me to play my own small game. For though I am powerless I can, if for just a moment, wield power—gain a little victory--over this priest who locks the door when he leaves.

  I do not rave. I am not mad, though none believe me. My visions come from heaven. I know that. But when the true vision comes upon me I am never ready for it. Then there is no pretense. I move suddenly from the waking daylight into the mist and darkness. Long vistas open and a presence truly divine seizes me. A voice calls and echoes in my head, one I have heard all too often before. I only know what has happened after I wake again. My maids are gathered around fanning me, pressing cool cloths soaked in rosewater to my forehead, holding a cup to my lips so I can sip a bit of warmed wine and hone I swim up into the light, my head pounding, weak, nauseated and exhausted.

  Nowadays the whirlwind in my brain comes upon me here in my tower where I am alone, save for those who care for me, shut away from the curious eyes of strangers or the desolate look of my kin. But before they locked me up, it could be at any time, and too often in public, with people watching. In fact whenever I came into a room in the royal procession, walking behind my father Priam and Hecabe and Andromache and Hector, I was sure I heard them whispering about me. Out of the corner of my eye I caught knowing glances passing from one courtier to another, as if they were waiting, eagerly perhaps, for me to cause another spectacle. Coming to my place near the throne, I was sure I could hear a woman, face painted in chalk white, cheek decorated with stars in deep red rouge, waist cinched tightly in, breasts exposed and tipped with rouge, her hair in twining snake locks in the latest fashion, turn to another and whisper into her companion’s ear as they both looked at me through eyes, heavy lidded and dark with kohl: “She was bitten by the sacred snake in the sanctuary of Apollo when she was celebrating her coming of age. That’s what’s driven her mad.” Did the second lean close, lips to the ear of the other and reply: “Yes, but did you know that it was the queen and our lord king who left her there alone, forgot her entirely, because they had, shall we say, a bit too much of the pleasures of the festival? Of course we all know what really happened. Of course you know what they say? Her brother Paris was there as well. But…. Bitten by a snake? What a quaint way of putting it, my dear. Well I hope that she doesn’t have another fit today. It must be so painful for her poor mother knowing that what happened was her fault. And my dear, so embarrassing for all of us. Really they should lock her up.”

  And lock me up they did because once too often in crowded rooms of state I screamed and fell. Once too often in the midst of some stifling ceremony, with ambassadors prostrate before my father’s throne, the presence came upon me. Or once too often when at dinner among my kin, the drum-beat in my head began. I see Hector reclining by my side, Andromache bending toward me about to speak, my mother, Hecabe offering me a savory dish of figs and lamb, my father at the head of the table in deep conversation with some visiting foreign prince. Then without warning I see horror on all their faces and I know that the darkness has come again. As through a mist I see my mother, hand to mouth, pain in her eyes, drop the dish of figs and move to cradle me in her arms as Andromache turns her head away and buries it in the folds of Hector’s cloak while he looks grimly on. I am told that I stiffen, choke, emit a strangled scream and sink back into my pillow, eyes rolling and shriek out words, words, words—sometimes meaningless, sometimes all too coherent, striking those who hear them with terror or with the certainty that I am mad. Too often it happened thus, and so to end the scandal and the embarrassment my father decreed that I should be kept out of sight, lodged here in this tower, a pyramid built upon the highest rampart of the citadel.

  And here I am served by a retinue of maids, tended by slaves, ensconced amidst silken hangings and gold and lapis lazuli, in rooms perfumed with costly frankincense, surrounded by costly objects, polished mirrors of reflecting bronze, tables of rich dark wood, gilded chairs, and beds soft with fleece and velvet. Here in these royal chambers. I, Kassandra, am a princess, but a prisoner nevertheless.

  But the horror is this. Though I am never prepared for it, and know nothing after the light fails, once I have passed from the other world back to this, I always remember what I have seen in those travels into the darkness. I remember what I have said and what I have prophesied. For this is my gift: to see the future and to tell it plain and true. And this is my curse: no one will believe me. And thus they call me mad.

  It began after the ceremony that marked my coming of age when all the court had drunk deep of sweet dark wine and my mother and father—younger then—left me alone in the sanctuary of Apollo’s temple because love called them to their bed. Then the god came to me. As I stood in prayer before his altar, dedicating myself as we of our house do to the service of our ancient name and the city that we rule, around my feet twined the huge and ancient snake that slept behind the statue of the god. I knew that it was a sign, for the snake is sacred and the god is in him. And then, to my mingled joy and later sorrow, Apollo came to me and transformed me from girl to woman, but in so doing gave me an eternal gift and eternal sorrow.

  His kiss was like a fire from heaven, searing me through and through. I was young; my womanhood had begun to open like a rose at dawn. As if the sun had descended into my arms he came. Handsome and golden he was, his eyes as blue as the bluest deeps of the sea. His skin was fair and soft and glittering as if covered with gold dust.

  He spoke to my heart, not in words but in music, loud and strong. “Be with me forever,: he said, “lie with me throughout all eternity and I will give you all the world to see, the future and its meaning will be in your hands, and with it you can rule the world.”

  “Oh yes,” I said, “Oh yes, Lord. Yes. Give me that gift, for then the world will know me and love me. My father will love me and hold me and protect me, my mother will always care. I will be mistress of Troy.” I said “Yes, lord give me the gift. Take me.” His touch was warm and sensuous and he covered me with his body: his god-head enveloped me and his manhood entered me like a white-hot sword thrusting home, a pleasure as intense as pain. The music engulfed me, its rhythmic pulse faster and ever faster, its melody rising high and higher as it whirled through me, a throbbing drumbeat and a chorus that rose to wild crescendo. But I was suddenly filled with terror and screamed, “No, no let me go, I can bear it no longer.”

  I struggled to resist and to escape, but in his fury he pressed his lips to mine and like the heat from the ragi
ng altar flame that consumes in a moment the victim’s tender flesh, I felt the knowledge of all the ages flow into me, and envelope me and the words echoed everywhere: “No mortal rejects the God.” Then all was ended; the music faded with a dying fall and there was no more light. I could just hear his voice, coming from a great distance and echoing as if from some deep cavern in the earth: “Take your gift, but know that though you will always bear witness to the truth, all men will always doubt you.”

  And so it has been. Do I still believe? How could I do otherwise?

  Will my story one day be painted upon the royal wall where the ancient stories of our race appear? I fear that it will not. There will be no image of a trembling girl and an angry god, rendered in somber colors and static pose, newly set there, by a nameless artist, next to others of my kin. Row upon row of them stand there, kings and sons and grandsons of kings. There will be no image of my father, nor of Hecabe my mother, who bore Paris, nor of Hector and Andromache and their son Astynax. Nor even if the city were to survive in spite of what I have seen to be its fate would there ever be one of Helen.