The Firebrand

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  Yet she accepted the offering calmly and went into the shrine. Sometimes this question was actually answered, apparently at random, If you are not certain, expose the child at once. But there was no answer, so she gave the suitable answer for such occasions. “If you can trust your wife in other ways, there is no reason to doubt her in this.”

  The man looked enormously relieved, and Kassandra sighed and told him, “Go home now, and thank the Goddess for your son, and forget not to make apology to your wife for doubting her without reason.”

  “I will, Lady,” he promised, and Kassandra, seeing that there were no other petitioners awaiting consultation, turned to say to Khryse, “At this hour we should now close the shrine, and rest until the sun begins to decline; it is the custom to take a little bread and fruit before we return to see anyone who comes.”

  He thanked her and added, “The Lady Charis told me you are the second daughter of King Priam and of his Queen. You are nobly born, and as beautiful as Aphrodite; how is it that you serve here in the shrine when every prince and nobleman on this coast and southward to Crete must have been seeking you in marriage?”

  “Oh, not so many as that,” she said, laughing nervously. “In my case, the Sun Lord called me to His service when I was younger than your daughter.”

  He looked skeptical. “He called you? How?”

  “You are a priest,” she said. “Surely He has spoken to you.”

  “I have had no such fortune, Lady,” he said. “I think the Immortals speak only to the great. My father—he was a poor man—pledged me to the God’s service when my elder brother was spared from the fever which raged in Mykenae a score of years ago. He thought it a fair bargain; my brother was a warrior, and I, he said, fit for nothing.”

  “That was not right,” Kassandra said vehemently. “A son is not a slave.”

  “Oh, I was willing enough,” Khryse said. “I had no talent for becoming a warrior.”

  Kassandra laughed a little. “Strange; surely you are stronger than I, and I was a warrior for a year among the Amazons.”

  “I have heard of the women warriors,” he said, “and I have heard also that they kill their lovers and their boy children.”

  “Not so,” she said, “but men dwell apart from women there; male children are sent to their fathers as soon as they are weaned from the breast.”

  “And had you a lover when you dwelt among them, beautiful Amazon?”

  “No,” she said softly. “As I told you, I am sworn as a virgin to the Sun Lord.”

  “It seems a pity,” Khryse said, “that so beautiful a lady should grow old unloved.”

  “You need not pity me,” Kassandra said indignantly. “I am well content with no lover.”

  “That seems to me the pity of it,” Khryse said. “You are a princess, and beautiful, and you are kind, too—so you showed yourself to my daughter; yet you live alone here and give yourself to these wretched petitioners and serve here as any lowborn maiden might do . . .”

  Abruptly he pulled her close to him and kissed her; startled, she tried to push him away, but he held her so tightly she could not escape. Her mouth was surprised at the warmth of his lips.

  “I mean you no dishonor,” he whispered. “I would be your lover—or your husband, if you would have me.”

  She pulled away frantically and ran from the room, flying up the stairs as if pursued by demons, her heart pounding and the sound of her own blood beating in her ears. In Phyllida’s room she found Chryseis rocking the baby and singing to him in a small, thin voice. Phyllida was sleeping, but she sat up as Kassandra burst into the room.

  Kassandra had been ready to pour out the whole story; but looking at Chryseis, she thought: If I complain of him they will send him away; and then this child will be again at the mercy of the chances of the road.

  So she said only, “My head aches from the sun; Phyllida, will you exchange duties with me this afternoon, and take the offerings in the shrine, if I care for the baby? I can send someone to fetch you when he needs to be fed.”

  Phyllida agreed gladly, saying she was weary of staying indoors with the child, and it was really time he should be weaned anyhow. When she had gone, Kassandra put the baby to play in the sunshine, and sat down to think about what had happened to her.

  She had panicked foolishly, she was sure; no priest of Apollo would have raped her in the God’s shrine.

  Surely he had meant no real harm; she had felt no such revulsion as against the tribesman who had tried to ravish her when she rode with the Amazon band. If she had not run away, what would he have said or done? She would not have wanted to kill him; but would he have pushed matters that far?

  She did not really want to know; she liked Khryse, and felt no real anger, only a sense of helplessness. This was not for her. She felt within herself the surge of dark waters, and knew this was not what the Goddess willed for her, either.

  2

  FOR SEVERAL DAYS Kassandra managed to avoid the duty of taking the offerings; but she heard from others that Khryse was making himself popular among the other priests and priestesses. Not only was he familiar with the secret craft of bees and the art of taking their honey (though she had been told that in Crete this work was forbidden to men and allowed only to special priestesses), but he was familiar with many of the arts known in Crete and Egypt as well.

  “He has traveled in Egypt,” Charis told her, “and has learned the art there of marking tallies; and he has said that he will teach anyone who wishes to learn. It will greatly simplify our keeping of records, so that we can know at once what is in our storehouses without counting—even counting tally-sticks.”

  Others told of his friendliness, of his many tales of his travels and of his devotion to his daughter; so that she began to feel she had behaved like a little fool. A day came when she returned to her ordinary duties, and when she entered the shrine and found Khryse there to work with her, she was ashamed to lift her eyes to his.

  “I rejoice to see you again, Lady Kassandra. Are you still angry with me?”

  Something in his voice strengthened her resolve, told her that at least she had not imagined what had happened between them. Why should I be ashamed to meet his eyes? I have done nothing wrong; if there was any trespass, it was his, not mine.

  She said, “I hold no grudge; but I beg you, never touch me again.” She was annoyed with herself, for she had spoken as if she were asking a favor, not demanding her right to refuse an unwanted touch.

  “I cannot tell you how much I regret offending you,” he said.

  “There is no need for an apology; let us not speak of it again.” She drew nervously away.

  “No,” he said, “I cannot leave it at that. I know I am not worthy of you; I am only a poor priest, and you are a King’s daughter.”

  “Khryse, it is not that,” she said. “I am sworn to belong to no man save the God.”

  He laughed: a short, bitter sound.

  “He will never claim you, nor be jealous,” he said.

  “As for that, I should not be the first—”

  “Oh, Kassandra,” he said, laughing, “I believe you innocent, but you are surely not innocent enough—or child enough—to believe those old tales!”

  She interrupted him. “Let us not speak of such things; but whether it be true or false that the God may claim His own, I am not for you.”

  “Do not say that,” he pleaded. “Never in all my life have I desired any woman as I desire you, nor did I think I could ever want any woman so much, until I beheld you here.”

  “I will believe you if you say so,” she said, “but even if it is true, never speak of this again to me.”

  He bowed his head. “As you will,” he said. “Not for worlds would I offend you, Princess; I am indebted to you for your kindness to my daughter. Yet I feel that Aphrodite, She who is mistress of desire, has bidden me to love you.”

  “Such a Goddess sends only madness,” Kassandra said, “to men and women; I would never love any
man at Her bidding. I am the Sun Lord’s own. And now say no more of this, or we shall quarrel in truth.”

  “As you will,” Khryse said. “I say only that if you deny the power of the One whom all women must serve, it may be that She will punish you.”

  This new Goddess is created by men, Kassandra thought, to excuse their own lechery; I do not believe in Her power. Then she remembered her dream, but she shrugged. I have had it so much on my mind, it is like dreaming of thunder when one hears the rain on the roof.

  “There are worshipers in the Temple, and we must take the offerings; will you teach me your new method of tallying them in writing? I have seen the picture writing of Egypt, but it is very complicated, and once, years ago, an old man who had lived there told me that Egyptian scribes must study all their lives to learn it.”

  “That is so,” Khryse said, “but the priests of Egypt have a simpler writing which is not so difficult to learn, and the Cretan style is simpler still, for each mark is not a picture or an idea, as on the tombs of the Kings, but a sound, so it can be written down in any language.”

  “Why, how clever! What God or great man created this system?”

  “I do not know,” Khryse said, “but they say the Olympian Hermes, the messenger God who travels on the wings of thought, is patron God of writing.” Khryse took out his tablets and tallying sticks. “I will show you the simplest signs and how to write them down; and then they can be copied on clay tablets, so when they dry we will have a record that will never perish and does not depend on any man’s memory.”

  She learned quickly; it was as if something in her were crying out for this new knowledge, and she soaked it up as the parched ground absorbed rain after a long drought. So well did Kassandra learn the Cretan writing that she threatened to be quicker at it than Khryse; and then he insisted she must learn no more.

  “It is for your own good,” he insisted. “In Crete no woman may learn this writing, not even the Queen. The Gods have ordained that women are not to be taught these things, for it will damage their minds, dry up their wombs, and the world will become barren everywhere. When the sacred springs are dry, the world thirsts.”

  “This is foolishness,” she protested. “It has not harmed me.”

  “Would you be able to judge? Already you have refused me, or any lover; is this not an insult to the Goddess, and a sign that already you have refused womanhood?”

  “So you refuse me this out of pique at what I refused you?”

  He looked bitterly wounded.

  “It is not me alone that you have refused; it is the great power of nature which has ordained that woman is made for man. Women alone have that sacred and precious power to bear . . .”

  It seemed so ridiculous that Kassandra laughed in his face.

  “Are you trying to tell me that before the Gods and the Goddess gave men wisdom and learning, men could bear children, and that because man created other things he was denied that power? Even the Amazons know better than that. They do all manner of things forbidden to women here, yet they bear children as well.”

  “Daughters,” he said scornfully.

  “Many Amazons have borne fine sons.”

  “I had been told that among the Amazons they kill male children.”

  “No; they send them to their fathers. And they know all the arts which in tribes of different customs are reserved to men. So if women in Crete are not allowed to read, what has that to do with me? We are not in Crete.”

  “A woman should not be able to reason like that,” Khryse protested. “The life of the mind destroys the life of the body.”

  “You are even more of a fool than I thought,” Kassandra retorted. “If this were true, it would be even more important to teach no man, lest it destroy him as a warrior. Are all the priests of Crete eunuchs, then?”

  “You think too much,” Khryse said sadly. “It will yet destroy you as a woman.”

  Her eyes glinted with mischief.

  “And if I should give myself to you, it would save me from that dreadful fate? You are kind indeed, my friend, and I am ungrateful that I do not appreciate the great sacrifice you are willing to make for me.”

  “You should not scorn these mysteries,” said Khryse soberly. “Do you not believe that because the God has put desire for you into my heart, it is a message from the God that I should have you?”

  Raising her eyebrows with scorn, Kassandra said, “Every seducer has spoken so since time began, and every mother teaches her daughter not to listen to such false nonsense. Would you have me teach your own daughter this kind of thing, that because some man desires her it is her duty to give herself?”

  “My daughter has nothing to do with this.”

  “Your daughter has everything to do with this; my conduct is to be a model to her of virtue. Would you wish her to give herself to the first man who pleads that he desires her?”

  “Certainly not, but—”

  “Then you are a hypocrite as well as a fool and a liar,” said Kassandra. “I liked you once, Khryse; do not complete the work of destroying all my goodwill toward you.”

  She walked away from him and out of the shrine. All the while they had worked together, he had not for a single day ceased his importuning. She would endure it no longer; she would go to Charis, or to the chief priest, and tell him she would no longer work with Khryse, for he had but one use for her, and that she would not allow.

  It would be simpler to leave the Temple myself. But should I let such a man drive me away?

  It was twilight; trying to soothe her own exasperation, Kassandra moved down the hill toward the enclosure where the priestesses were housed. As she passed by the building, a small sound in the shrubbery disturbed her; she turned and saw two figures, melted together in the shadows. On impulse she moved toward them, and the man broke away and bolted. Kassandra had not recognized him and did not really care. The second figure was another matter; Kassandra moved swiftly and caught young Chryseis’ arm.

  The girl’s dress was mussed, tucked up almost to her waist, leaving her crotch bare; her mouth was swollen and bruised; her face reddened and sleepy. Shocked, Kassandra thought, But she’s a child, a baby! Yet it was clear that in what they had been doing—and there was certainly no doubt about that—the girl had been an all-too-willing participant.

  Sullenly the girl pulled her dress down and rubbed her arm over her face. Kassandra finally burst out, “Shameless! How dare you stand there like that? You are a virgin of Apollo!”

  Defiant, Chryseis muttered, “Don’t look at me like that, you sour, dried-up spinster; just because no man has ever desired you, how dare you reprove me?”

  “How dare I?” Kassandra repeated, thinking, And it was because I was concerned for this girl that I concealed her father’s offense! There is no need to speculate how she came by her behavior.

  She said quietly, “Whatever you may think of me, Chryseis, it is not my conduct at issue, but yours; this is forbidden to the maidens here. You sought refuge in the Sun Lord’s Temple; you must then obey the rules under which the other maidens live.”

  Perhaps, she thought, it would be wisest to send forth the worthless daughter and father together from the house of the God.

  “Go into the house, Chryseis,” she said, as gently as she could, “and change your dress and wash yourself, or it will not be only I who chides you.” The girl had been placed in her care; somehow she must manage it that Chryseis was not a disgrace to the Sun Lord’s house, or to Kassandra’s teaching. As Chryseis went indoors, she thought, It seems now that I am to be at the mercy of Aphrodite; will Chryseis too complain that she is under the influence of that Goddess whose business is to lure women into unruly and lawless love?

  She raised her eyes to the face of the sun high in the heavens.

  “We are in Your power, Lord Apollo,” she prayed. “Surely You are in charge of Your house and the hearts and minds of those who have sworn their lives to You. I mean no disrespect to any Immortal; but cannot You
keep order in Your own place and Your own shrine?”

  3

  THERE WAS no immediate answer to her question; but she had not expected any. For several days she avoided the shrine, pleading illness; it seemed as if the Sun Lord’s house, once so happy, had turned hostile, for Khryse was everywhere. At last she climbed the hill to the very height of the city, and there she offered a sacrifice to the Maiden, patron Goddess of Troy; her thoughts were in turmoil, and she asked herself if this was disloyalty to the Sun Lord, whose priestess she was. Yet she had been called to Earth Mother and made a priestess there too.

  When she had offered her sacrifice, she felt calmer, though the Goddess did not speak directly to her. She returned to the Sun Lord’s house and presented herself at the evening ceremonies, and when she saw Khryse among the priests and he smiled at her, she did not seek to avoid his gaze. It was not she who had done wrong; why should she feel ashamed?

  That night her dreams were confused and dreadful; it seemed to her that a storm raged over Troy, and that she stood in the highest part of the city, at the citadel of the Maiden, somehow seeking to call the lightning bolts to strike her first, that they might not fall on those she loved. The Thunder Lord of the Akhaians strode across the great giant-builded walls, shaking His fists. The Earth Shaker, Lord of Troy, who had been called to be consort to Earth Mother, was striving and struggling to protect His city. There were the other Immortals too, and somehow she, Kassandra, had angered Them. But I have done nothing wrong, she protested, in confusion. If anyone had trespassed, it had been Paris. She called out to the Sun Lord to save His city; but He frowned and hid the brightness of His face, saying, They worship Me also among the Akhaians, and she woke with a cry of dread. When she was fully awake, she realized the absurdity of the dream—surely the Gods, who were all-wise, would not punish a great city for the foolish transgressions of a single man and a woman.

  After a time she slept again; and again she began to dream. She thought she held Phyllida’s baby at her breast; and she felt again the mixture of melting tenderness with horrible revulsion and despair. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. She struggled to consciousness. The touch on her breast was still there, and a dark shape bent over her, save where the light of the full moon glinted on the golden mask of Apollo. But she recognized the touch of the hand on her breast, and she opened her mouth to cry out.