“Then Priam said, ‘So, Menelaus, you have had your answer.’ ”
“And what said Menelaus to that?” Kassandra asked.
“He made matters worse by saying, ‘Will you listen to what an unfaithful whore wants? I tell you, she is mine, and I will take her,’ and he tried to grab her wrist and drag her away.”
“And did he?” Kassandra asked, thinking that if Menelaus had indeed acted with so much resolution, it might have impressed even Priam.
“Oh, no,” Andramache replied; “Hector and Paris both jumped forward and grabbed him, and Priam said, ‘Thank your own Gods, Lord Menelaus, that you are my guest, or I would let my sons have their way with you; but no offense shall be offered to any guest under my roof.’ And Menelaus began to stammer—with rage this time—and said, ‘Guard your tongue, old man, or you will have no roof from which I need to drag her.’ Then he said something filthy to Helen—I would not repeat it in these sacred precincts,” added Andromache with a superstitious gesture, “and flung down the cup he was drinking from and said he wouldn’t accept hospitality from a—a pirate who sent his sons out to steal women.”
Kassandra’s eyes were wide; she had never seen anyone except his own sons defy Priam.
Andromache went on, “Then Priam asked, ‘No? Then how do you Akhaians ever get wives?’ Menelaus swore at him and said I don’t know what all, and yelled to his servants and stormed out, saying perhaps if Priam would not listen to him he would listen to Agamemnon. And Paris had the last word . . .” Here Andromache began to giggle.
“Priam said, ‘Yes, when I was a boy I sometimes told someone who teased me that my big brother would come and beat him up.’ And Paris said, ‘If it comes to that, Menelaus, I have a big brother too; would you or your brother care to have a word with Hector?’ Then Menelaus stormed out, cursing all the way back to his ship.”
Kassandra, overwhelmed, had hardly heard the last few sentences; all she could think was It has come. Already she could see the harbor blackened with foreign ships, the world she knew torn asunder by war. She could not stop herself from interrupting Andromache to cry out, “Pray to the Gods! Pray and sacrifice! I told my father he should have nothing to do with that Spartan woman!”
Andromache’s voice was very gentle, ignoring the interruption. “Don’t trouble yourself so, Kassandra, my dear.”
So even she thinks that I am mad.
“What makes you think that we will not drive the Akhaians back to the islands they hold? It was one thing for those folk to defeat the simple shepherds and landless men who held their islands . . . but quite another for them to come up against the whole might of Troy! What I say is let those Akhaians look to themselves! Are we to let them think that they can go on stealing our women unpunished, but if we touch theirs, they can punish us?”
“Andromache, are you blind too? Can’t you see that Helen is only the excuse? Agamemnon has been trying to find some such reason to come against us in war for many years, and now we have walked straight into his snares. Now we will have these iron-wearers trying to take all the lands that lie to the south of here. He will muster the full might of all these warlike people to . . . oh, what does it matter?” Kassandra sank down on a bench. “You can’t see it because you are like Hector . . . You think war leads only to fame and glory!”
Andromache knelt beside Kassandra and put her arms around her, saying, “Never mind. I should not have frightened you; I should have known better.”
Kassandra could almost hear her thinking, Poor thing, she is mad; Apollo has cursed her after all.
There was no way to argue with that, so she abandoned her warning and asked Andromache, “What of Oenone?”
“She has returned to the mountain, and taken her child with her,” Andromache said. “Paris wished to keep the babe—his firstborn son, after all—but Oenone said he could not have it both ways; if it was his son, and he chose to acknowledge it, then she was his lawful first wife and this foreign woman only a second wife or concubine.”
“And serves him right,” Kassandra said. “It seems that Paris has neither honor nor decency; Father should have left him on Mount Ida with his sheep, if they’d have him.” She was deeply disappointed in her brother; she wanted Paris to be regarded as the people of the city regarded Hector: their champion, their hero, as much for his goodness and honorable behavior as for his handsome face.
“I must return to the palace. But tell me, what will we do if there is a war, Kassandra?” Andromache asked her.
“Fight it, of course; even you and I may be glad for our weapons, if as many Akhaians rise against us as Agamemnon intends,” Kassandra said, despairing.
Andromache embraced her and took her leave. After she was out of sight, Kassandra went out the highest gate of Apollo’s house, climbing higher and higher, toward the Temple of Pallas Athene. As she went, sweat soaking through her tunic in the heat, she tried helplessly to form a prayer. But nothing would come, and she went on climbing.
She looked down toward the harbor, black with ships as she had seen it so many times before this. She did not know whether the ships were really there or not, but this time it did not matter. If they were not there now, they would come soon enough.
Lord Apollo! Sun Lord, beloved! If You cannot withdraw the gift and take from me this unwanted Sight, at least do not curse me that I shall never be believed!
She went up into the high Temple of Pallas Athene, at the very summit of the city, and into the shrine. Recognizing her either as Priam’s daughter or as a priestess of the Sun Lord (or perhaps both), the guardians drew aside, letting her into the shrine, before the great image of the Goddess, shown as a young woman wearing the unbound locks and garland of a virgin.
Maiden, You who loved Troy, You who brought us Your priceless gifts of grape and olive, You who were here before those arrogant Thunder-worshipers and their Sky Gods and their weapons, protect Your city now.
She looked at the drawn curtains of the innermost shrine, which contained the image of Pallas, drawn from heaven, ancient and crude, and remembered the Goddess of the Amazon women.
You who are virgin like the Maiden Huntress, I come to You a maiden who has known injustice from the Sun Lord; am I to go on serving Him in this manner when He has cast me off and derided me?
She had not truly expected an answer, but deep in her mind she felt the surging motion of the dark waters of the Goddess.
Obscurely comforted, she went away down the hill to the Temple, to take up her duty of tallying the offerings.
Khryse was there as usual, marking his symbols on wax tablets, noting numbers of jars of oil, of grains—barley and millet; offerings of wine or honeycombs, of hares and pigeons and kids. She was still unwilling to look at him, although she told herself it was not she who should be ashamed.
A jar carried by one of the younger priestesses had been let fall and had broken another, so that a heap of barley and the sticky contents of a honeycomb lay intermingled, and the efforts of the young girl to clear it away had only made a worse mess; Kassandra sent her for a twig broom and a water jar, and herself took over the task of cleaning it up. She was directing the girl to get a cage of pigeons out of the way, when she heard the familiar and hated voice.
“You should not be doing this yourself, Lady Kassandra; this is work for a slave.”
“We are all slaves in the eyes of the Immortals, you as well as I, Khryse,” said Kassandra, her eyes on her broom.
“A correct statement; but when was the Lady Kassandra anything but correct—whatever it may cost her or anyone else?” said Khryse. “Kassandra, we cannot go on like this, with you forever afraid to look at me.”
Stung, she looked up angrily into his face.
“Who dares to say I am afraid?”
“If you are not, why do you always avoid my eyes?”
Her voice was caustic. “Are you so fair an object that you think I should find pleasure in looking at you?”
“Come, Kassandra,” he said, �
�can there not be peace between us?”
“I bear you no particular ill will,” she said, still not looking at him. “Stay away from me, and I shall return the courtesy, if that is what you want from me.”
“No,” Khryse said, “you know what it is I want from you, Kassandra.”
Kassandra sighed. “Khryse, I want nothing from you except that you leave me in peace; is that plain enough for you?”
“No,” the man said, clasping her hands in his. “I want you, Kassandra; the image of you is in my mind day and night. You have bewitched me; if you cannot love me, then at least free me from your spell.”
“I do not know what to say to you,” she said, dismayed. “I have cast no spell on you; why should I do such a thing? I do not desire you; I do not like you at all, and if I had my way you would be in Crete, or in one of the hells, or even farther away than that. I do not know how I can make it any plainer to you, but if I could think of a clearer way to say it, I would. Is that understandable?”
“Kassandra, can you not forgive me? I do not seek to dishonor you. If it is your will, I will go, humble poor priest that I am, and ask your father for your hand in marriage. You must feel some kindness for me, for you have been kind to my motherless child—”
“I would be just as kind to any stray kitten,” Kassandra interrupted. “For the last time, I would not marry you if you were the last man the Gods ever made. If the alternative was to live virgin all my life or to marry a blind beggar lying in the marketplace, or even a—an Akhaian, I would choose him before you.”
He stepped away, his face as white as the marble walls of the shrine. He said through clenched teeth, “Someday you will regret this, Kassandra. I may not always be a powerless priest.”
His face was drawn; she wondered suddenly if he had been drinking unmixed wine so early in the day. But the wine at the priests’ table was always well watered; nor did he have the flushed look he would have had in that case. His breath did not seem to smell of wine—but there was a strange scent that seemed to cling to his clothing. She could not identify it, but supposed it was some medicine the healer-priests had given him for his seizures.
She turned away, but he caught at her hand and pulled her close, backing her against the wall. His body pressed hard against hers, and one of his hands gripped both of hers painfully hard. With his free hand he tried to wrench apart her gown, his mouth jamming hard against hers.
“You have driven me mad,” he gasped, “and no man can be blamed for punishing a woman who has driven him to frenzy!”
She struggled and would have screamed; finally she bit down into his lip. He jerked back and she thrust at him with both her hands, so that he tripped and fell. She stumbled as he clung to her, wrenched her hands furiously free of his, and ran. He tried to raise himself and she kicked him in the ribs. She ran from the shrine and did not stop running till she was safe in her own room.
5
KASSANDRA AWAKENED from a dream of fire sweeping up the hill of Troy toward the palace to a smell of smoke and voices clamoring in the halls of the Sun Lord’s house. It was the darkest part of the night, when the moon is down and the stars are going out; but there was the smell of torches. Snatching up a cloak to cover the short tunic in which she slept, she ran out into the courtyard.
Far below in the harbor she could see dim lights from ships, and torches, presumably carried in human hands, making their way up the hill.
All she could think was It has come. She cried out, and then she heard the clamor of the alarm, a great wooden rattle sounded from Priam’s keep. It called for women and children and the old to take refuge in the main citadel and the soldiers to turn out. She stood watching the lights moving through the city below her, and hearing the clash of weapons seized, and at last the loud voices of officers ordering soldiers to their posts.
She felt a gentle tug on her sleeve and found Chryseis standing beside her.
“What is it, Kassandra?”
“It is the Akhaians; they have come, as we foresaw,” she said, and was astonished at how calm she felt. “We must make ready to take shelter in the citadel.”
“My father—”
“Hush, dear; he will have to go with the soldiers. Go quickly and dress.”
“But he has the falling sickness—”
“If the Akhaians take him, he will have something worse. Quickly, child.” She took Chryseis’ hand, and led her within, dressing her quickly in a heavy tunic against the night chill, fastening her cloak and binding sandals on her feet. As soon as Chryseis was dressed, they went into the courtyard. Charis was gathering the women around her, and telling them to go down toward the main keep of the palace.
Kassandra, the girl’s hand in hers, walked quickly down the steep road. It seemed wrong to be going toward the torches and the clash of arms; surely the Akhaians would never come so high as this: what they sought was in the palace, not up here in the Temple. Now she could hear the chilling war cries, and the bellowing of Hector as he rallied his men.
The other women crowded around them as Kassandra led the way through the palace gates. The guards and soldiers were hurrying the women inside, each one then taking up a spear from a huge pile stacked at the entrance to the armory.
Kassandra thought of taking a spear and going down with the soldiers; but Hector would be angry. All the same, a time may come when he does not despise my skill at arms. For the moment, she decided to go with the women. They were a disheveled crew, most of them half-dressed, having been roused from sleep. Many of them had not troubled to dress, or do more than clutch a blanket over their nakedness, like their children; and babies howled or fretted in the arms of mothers or wet-nurses. Kassandra and the other priestesses of Apollo were almost the only ones who were properly dressed for public appearance, or who kept their composure. Most of the women were tear-stained or crying, keening and shouting for explanations or for help.
Helen too stood composed among the hysterical women. Every lock of hair was in place, and she looked as if she had this moment come from the hands of her bath-attendant. She was holding a small boy of five or six by the hand; he was neatly dressed, his hair combed into place, and though his knuckles were white as he clung to her fingers, his face was scrubbed clean, and he was not crying.
She looked across the room with great composure, and her eyes met Kassandra’s. Then she crossed the room, threading her way quietly through the crowding, wailing women, and came toward Kassandra.
“I remember you,” she said; “you are my husband’s twin sister. It is good to see someone who is not turned foolish with terror. Why are you not weeping and screaming like everyone else?”
“I don’t know,” Kassandra said. “Perhaps I am not as easily frightened; and perhaps I prefer not to cry until I am hurt.”
Helen smiled. “Ah, good. Most women are such fools. Is there danger, do you think?”
“Why do you ask me?” Kassandra countered. “Surely they have not neglected to tell you that I am mad.”
“You do not have the look of a madwoman,” Helen said. “In any case, I prefer to make up my own mind.”
Kassandra frowned a little and turned away. She did not want to like this woman or to find anything admirable in her. It was bad enough that when she looked at her she saw something of what Paris saw.
“Then you can make up your own mind as to whether there is danger,” she said curtly. “I know only that I was awakened by the watchman’s rattle, and I came down here to obey. I suppose, since I saw Akhaian ships in the harbor, that it has something to do with you; and so, though there may be something for us to fear, there is certainly nothing for you to be afraid of.”
“You think not?” Helen said. “Agamemnon is certainly no friend of mine; his only thought would be to turn me over to Menelaus, and he would certainly stand by to see that I did not escape unscathed.”
The unnaturally neat little boy clinging to Helen’s hand flinched; Helen felt it, and looked gently down at him. Kassandra di
d not know why this surprised her; why had she thought that the Spartan woman could not also be a tender and concerned mother?
She asked, “How old is your son?”
“Five years old at Midsummer,” Helen said, and beckoned across the crowded room to a thin, aristocratic-looking woman dressed in the full skirt and low-cut bodice of a Cretan woman. “Aithra, will you take Nikos and put him down somewhere to sleep, my dear?” She kissed the child, who clung to her; but she said gently, “Go now and sleep, like a good boy,” and he went without protest, trotting along obediently at the tall woman’s side.
“Is that Menelaus’ son?” asked Kassandra.
“Perhaps you would say so,” Helen said indifferently. “I say he is my son. In any case, I do not choose to leave him with his father; I do not like the way he treats his children. It will not harm my daughter, Hermione, to be nothing but his precious gilded toy; but the only thought in Menelaus’ mind is to make Nikos over in his own image—or worse yet, in the image of his wonderful brother. I sent Nikos away because someone unwisely said in his hearing that if his father came after us, he would kill us both; and Aithra also has cause to fear.”
“Aithra looks more like a Queen than a waiting-woman,” said Kassandra.
“She is a Queen,” said Helen, “she is the mother of Theseus, and he sent her to me. I think somehow they quarreled. Aithra prefers to remain with me, and she treats my son as her own grandchild—which she would not do for the son of the Horse Queen,” Helen said. “Now that the child is safe, I would like to know what is going on.”
Kassandra said, “There is no danger here, not now; I think it would have been more sensible to leave the women of the God’s house up there. Surely the invaders will not get higher than the palace keep.” At Helen’s side, she went into the courtyard, which looked down over all of Troy and the harbor.
The sun was just rising; Kassandra could see men fighting upward through the city.
“Look,” Helen said. “Your Trojan soldiers under Hector have cut off the upward path to the palace; and now the Akhaians are looting and burning in the lower city. That is one of Agamemnon’s ships, and I doubt not that Menelaus is with him.” The indifferent tone in which Helen spoke fascinated Kassandra; had she no feeling whatever for her previous husband?
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