“I believe you,” Andromache said. “I do not think you mad; but I do not believe your visions either.”
“Do you think I would invent such a thing? How wicked you must think me!” Kassandra cried out indignantly. Andromache held her close in an affectionate embrace.
“No, Sister; I believe that the Gods have tormented you with false visions,” she said. “No one could believe you malicious enough to pretend such things. But my dear, listen to reason. Our city is strong and well defended; we have no lack of warriors or weapons, or if it came to that, of allies; if the Akhaians should be fools enough to come chasing after this bitch in heat instead of saying ‘Good riddance to a very nasty piece of rubbish,’ why should you think they would not get more from Troy than they ever bargained for?”
Kassandra could see the good sense in that; but she moaned, clutching at her heart.
“Yes, Hector said something like that,” she murmured, “but . . .” She heard herself crying again, “It is the Immortals who are angry with us!” She fought desperately to bring herself up out of the dark waters.
“At least you know she is no more than a bitch in heat,” she said at last.
“Oh, yes; I saw the looks she cast on Hector and even on your father,” Andromache said. “And it may well be that she is a curse sent to our city by one of the Immortals; but if it is Their will, we cannot avoid it.”
Kassandra rocked to and fro in misery; Andromache’s quiet words and acceptance filled her with despair.
“Do you truly believe that the Gods would stoop to fight against a mortal city? What reason could They have? We are not wicked or impious; we have not angered any God.”
“Perhaps,” said Andromache, “the Gods do not need reasons for what They do.”
“If the Gods are not just,” Kassandra said, weeping, “what hope is there for us?”
As if in a blaze she saw the face of the Beautiful One, the Goddess who had tempted Paris successfully.
I will give you the most beautiful woman in the world. . . .
As she had thought then, she thought again: But he already has a woman!
She raised her face to Andromache.
“Where did Oenone go?”
“I did not see; I thought perhaps she went to care for her child. . . .”
“No; she saw Paris with Helen and ran away,” Kassandra said. “I will go to her.”
“I cannot see why Paris would desert her even for Helen, beautiful as she is,” said Andromache, “unless some Goddess has ordained it.”
“Such an unjust Goddess I would never serve,” Kassandra said bitterly.
Andromache covered her ears with her hands. “Oh, don’t say that,” she implored. “That is blasphemy; we are all subject to the Immortals . . .”
Kassandra raised the unfinished cup and drained it; but her hands were shaking and she almost dropped it.
“I will go and speak with Oenone,” she said, rising.
“Yes,” Andromache urged, “go and tell her we love her and we will never accept that Spartan in her place, were she Aphrodite Herself.”
Though Kassandra searched the palace everywhere, Oenone was nowhere to be found; nor was she ever again seen in Priam’s house. At last, hearing the royal party on the stairs—making ready, she thought, to solemnize Paris’ wedding, which, since Oenone was not there to protest it, could not be prevented—she left the palace and returned quietly to the Sun Lord’s house. She had no wish to hear wedding hymns sung for Helen when they had been denied Oenone. She would have been willing to rebuke them in the name of any God, if a God had spoken to her; but nothing happened, and she had no wish to make a further spectacle of herself crying out the death and disaster that she could not but see.
VOLUME TWO
APHRODITE’S GIFT
1
KASSANDRA SPOKE to no one, either in the Sun Lord’s house or elsewhere, of Helen or Paris; but she should have known that such news would never be kept silent. Before three days had elapsed, Helen’s story, and Kassandra’s prophecy, were on every tongue in Troy.
There were even those who, seeing Helen’s beauty, believed, or said they believed, that the Akhaian Goddess of Love and Beauty, Aphrodite, had come Herself to the city. Kassandra, if asked about this, said only that Helen was indeed very beautiful—beautiful enough to turn the head of any mortal man—and that in her own country she was believed to have been fathered by an Immortal.
She did not know or care whether anyone believed this; her own worry now was for Oenone. She hoped that the girl had simply taken her child and returned to the Temple of Scamander; but she did not believe it. At the back of her mind was the haunting fear that Oenone had somehow chosen to sacrifice herself and her son to the River God. If Aphrodite was indeed a Goddess of Love, why had She not chosen to guard the love between Oenone and Paris?
She wondered about this Goddess Aphrodite, who put such temptation into the hearts of men—and women too; it was not only that Paris had chosen and could not resist Helen, but Helen too, though Queen of Sparta by mother-right, had chosen to give herself to Paris—after having chosen her husband, as few women in the Akhaian world could do. If I were Queen, she thought, I should choose to be like Imandra and reign alone, taking no consort.
The Goddesses of Troy and of Colchis were sensible Goddesses, who acknowledged the primacy of the earth and of motherhood; but this Goddess who disrupted all things for a whim they called love—no, this was no Goddess she could ever consent to serve. And then one night she dreamed she stood in a strange Temple before this Akhaian Goddess who looked very much like the Spartan Queen.
So you have sworn you will not serve Me, Kassandra of Troy? Yet you have given your life to the service of the Immortals. . . .
Kassandra half knew that she was dreaming; she looked up toward the Goddess and saw that She was even more beautiful than the Spartan Helen, and for a moment it seemed that in Aphrodite’s face was the half-forgotten beauty of the vision of Apollo Sun Lord. Could she resist the call of that love?
“I am sworn to serve the Mother of All,” she said. “You are not She, and You have no part in Her worship; for You are denying Her, I think.”
Faraway laughter sounded like a chiming of bells.
You too will serve Me in the end, Priam’s daughter. I have more power than you, and more than the ordinary Goddesses of your cities. All women here shall worship Me, and you too.
Kassandra cried out, “No!” and woke with a start, to find her room empty and only the bright face of the sun at her window, like a mockery of the beauty she had seen.
How strange these Akhaians were; first they chose to worship a Goddess of marriage who would punish any woman for straying outside it; and then they chose a Goddess of passionate love who would tempt a woman to forsake the vows she had sworn. It was as if the Akhaians both feared and desired faithlessness in their wives—or perhaps they only wished an excuse for abandoning them.
Perhaps it was better that a child belong only to his mother. Maybe marriage and fatherhood were not good for men. A woman must care about the welfare of the child she had carried in her body, but siring children came too easily to men; they were pawns to be used for their fathers’ advantage. Perhaps Phyllida had the best bargain after all; a God could have as many wives as He wished and need not cast off the old when He chose the new.
This thought reminded Kassandra that she had duties in the Temple; and while she had sworn never to serve Aphrodite, she had taken an oath to serve the Sun Lord. She should go down and join the other priestesses and priests for the sunrise greeting.
They were already gathered there, from the venerable elder healer-priests to the youngest novices; she was almost the last to take her place, and Charis gave her a patient, reproving glance. The chief priest regarded them all, and said, “In the name of the Sun Lord, I ask you to welcome a newcomer among us. He served the shrine on Delos, the Sun Lord’s own isle. Give welcome to our brother, who is called Khryse.”
&n
bsp; He was well named Khryse: golden. He was unusually tall; almost as tall as Hector, although not so muscular or well-built. His fine features were covered all over with a fine dusting of freckles; his hair shone all the fairer because he was sun-bronzed. His smile was radiant, showing even white teeth, and his eyes a bright sea-blue.
When he spoke, his voice was strong and vibrant, with resonant echoes which strongly reminded Kassandra of the times she had heard the voice of the God. Well has he chosen a God to serve, she thought. Of such a mortal might the Sun Lord well be jealous.
“Whose duty is it today,” Charis asked, “to receive and tally the offerings?”
Kassandra, recalled to her obligations, started and said, “It is mine.”
“Then you will take our brother to the court and show him how they are bestowed.”
Kassandra lowered her eyes shyly, almost as if she felt Khryse might read her thoughts, which, it seemed to her, were too bold.
“I thank you for this welcome,” Khryse said; “but if I might first ask a favor of you, Lady . . .”
“Certainly you may ask,” said Kassandra sharply when it became obvious that Charis was not going to answer. “But I can promise nothing till I know what it is you wish.”
He raised his eyes so that he spoke to all of them.
“I would ask you to give shelter here to my daughter, who is motherless,” he said, and beckoned forth a young girl who was hiding among the shrubbery at the edge of the court.
At first Kassandra thought she was about eleven years old. She wore a ragged and outgrown tunic which came hardly below her knees, and her hair, the same astonishing golden color as her father’s, hung in a tangled matted mass halfway to her waist.
“I have been traveling for a long time, and it is hard for a man alone to care properly for a woman-child,” Khryse said, following Kassandra’s eyes. “May she live here in the Sun Lord’s house?”
“Certainly,” Charis said, “but she is too young to be chosen as one of Apollo’s maidens; time enough when she is grown to choose that path for herself if she wishes. But for now—Kassandra, will you take the child away and be certain she is properly cared for?”
“Then I shall be twice grateful to the Lady Kassandra,” said Khryse, bowing and smiling at her. Trying not to look at Khryse again, she stretched out her hand to the girl.
“Come with me, dear. Are you hungry?”
“Yes; but Father said I was not to ask for anything.”
“Well, you shall be fed; no one goes hungry in the God’s house,” Kassandra said, and leading the girl to her own room, she called a servant and asked her to bring bread and wine and a basket of fruit.
“First you must have a bath and some fresh clothes,” she said, for the girl’s garment was filthy as well as ragged. With the help of one of the governesses, she bathed the girl. As she was soaping the small body, she realized the child was not nearly as young as she looked; her breasts were already well formed, and there was a tangle of golden hair at her crotch. Washed clean of the dirt of the roads, she had her father’s beauty, and Kassandra, asking her name, was not surprised to hear the answer:
“My mother named me Helike at birth; but Father has always called me Chryseis.”
Golden. “The name suits you well,” Kassandra said, “especially if your hair were not so tangled.”
“I suppose it will have to be cut off,” Chryseis said.
“Oh, no, that would be a shame,” Kassandra exclaimed. “It is far too lovely for that.” She took a comb and carefully teased out the worst of the tangles; two or three of them indeed were beyond unraveling and she had to cut them. Brushed till it was smooth and glowing, the shining hair curled over the girl’s shoulders. When she was dressed in the white novice’s robe, with a woven girdle of silk, one of Kassandra’s own, tied about her waist, Chryseis touched it with awed fingers.
“I have never worn anything so pretty!”
“Now you look worthy to be one of the maidens of the Sun Lord,” Kassandra said. “Lord Apollo will be pleased with you, as He would not be with a dirty child.”
The girl still looked half starved; her hands trembled as she attacked the bread and grapes, as if she had eaten nothing for days, though Kassandra could see that she was trying to restrain herself and show good manners. She thanked Kassandra with tears in her eyes.
“While we were traveling, Father was sometimes fed at the shrines,” she said, “but he did not want strange men to see me.” Then, lest she seem to criticize her father, she added, “He saved something for me whenever he could.”
Against her will, Kassandra was touched.
“If the governesses give leave, you may sleep in my room and I will look after you.”
Chryseis smiled shyly. “And will I have duties in the Temple too?”
“Of course; no one is idle in the God’s house,” Kassandra said, “but until we find what you are skilled to do, we will give you such tasks as are suitable for your age.” She turned to the governess. “Take her to Phyllida,” she suggested, “and let her help look after the baby.”
It was still early in the day when she returned to the court where Charis and Khryse were waiting for her. The old priestess was helping him to tally the offerings left in the Temple court during the night, offerings left from simple piety by citizens who had no special petitions to ask. They were making marks on tally-sticks: one mark for a jar of oil or wine, another for a tray of flat cakes, yet another for the pair of pigeons in a woven reed cage. She told them what arrangements she had made for the child.
“That was sensible,” said Charis; “she’ll come to no harm rocking the baby, and it will free Phyllida to return to her own duties.”
“I cannot tell you my gratitude,” Khryse said. “It is all but impossible for a man to care for a girl-child; if she had been a boy I might have managed it. When she was very small, it was simpler; now she is all but grown, I must watch her night and day. Among the Sun Lord’s virgins I need not fear for her.”
“We will certainly guard her maidenhood for you,” said Charis; “but is that so important just now? I thought she was only about eleven years old.”
“So did I,” Kassandra said, “but when I bathed her, I saw she was older than that.”
Khryse considered.
“Her mother died ten years ago,” he said, “and I am sure she was not three years old. Four months ago womanhood came on her, and I did not even know what to say to a girl. It was then I decided I must leave my wandering life and settle somewhere so that she could be properly cared for. On the road I could not even keep her fed, and she was too pretty for me to let her go out as a beggar.”
“Poor motherless child,” Kassandra said. “I will care for her as if she were my own.”
“You have no children of your own, Lady?”
“No,” Kassandra said; “I am a virgin of Apollo.”
She felt herself blushing at the look he gave her and said quickly, “They are beginning to bring in offerings and to consult the shrine; I must go and be ready to speak with them.”
The first man had brought an offering of a jar of good wine; he asked, “Priestess, I wish to ask the God how I can get my sister well married; my father is dead, and I have been away from my village for many years serving in my King’s army.”
Kassandra had been asked similar questions many times; she went into the shrine and dutifully repeated the question. She did not believe it was important enough for the God to answer; nevertheless, she waited several minutes in case He had something to say. Then she returned to the waiting man and said, “Go to your father’s oldest friend and ask for his advice out of friendship for your father; and forget not to give him a generous gift.”
The man’s face brightened.
“I am grateful to the God for His advice,” he said, and Kassandra nodded to him courteously, holding herself back by force from saying, If you had used what wit the God saw fit to give you, you would have saved yourself the trouble of com
ing here; but since any sensible person could have given you such an answer, we might as well have a gift for it.
Later when Khryse asked her, “How do you know what to answer? I find it hard to believe a God would trouble Himself with such matters,” she told him that the priests had worked out proper answers to the commonest questions.
“But never forget to be silent for a few moments, in case the God has another answer to be given. Even the most foolish questions—from our point of view—the God sometimes sees fit to answer,” she warned him.
After a little, another man came, carrying a great basket of excellent melons, and asked, “What shall I plant in my south field this year?”
“Has there been fire or flood or any great change on your land?”
“No, Lady.”
She went into the shrine, sitting for a moment before the great statue of the Sun Lord, remembering how the first time she saw it as a child she had thought it a living man. When the God did not speak to her she returned and said, “Plant the crop you planted there three years ago.”
This answer could do no possible harm; if he had been rotating his crops as the headmen of most villages now advised, it would not conflict with their advice, and if he had not, it would make things no worse. As he thanked her, she felt the common exasperation; this was the safe answer for any farmer in any year, and she felt he should have known it without asking. But they would all enjoy the melons, anyway.
The morning went slowly, with only one question that gave her a moment’s thought; a man brought a fine kid as an offering, and said that his wife had just borne a fine son.
“And you wish to give thanks to the Sun Lord?”
The man shifted his feet uneasily, like a guilty child.
“Well, not exactly,” he muttered. “I wish to know if this child is mine, or has my wife been unfaithful to me?”
This was the question Kassandra always most dreaded; her year among the Amazons had taught her that a man’s suspicion of a woman usually meant that he did not feel himself worthy of a woman’s regard.
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