“For I get out so seldom, and Hector is always very troubled if I go out alone; but he cannot refuse me the chaperonage of his own sister,” she said discontentedly. “I often walk with Helen, but she did not come today: Paris took a small wound in the last fight—nothing to worry him, but enough to give him a good excuse to stay indoors and be cosseted. Otherwise I am sure she would have come to greet you.”
After a short distance they parted, Andromache returning down to the palace and Kassandra turning up toward the Sun Lord’s high house.
She had started across the courtyard to check on the snakes when she encountered Khryse. He looked weary and worn; there were new lines in his once-handsome face, and lines of dull silver in his fair hair. It was hard to realize that there had been a time when in this Temple there had been those who considered him nearly as handsome as the Sun Lord Himself.
He recognized her at once, and cried out in welcome.
“Kassandra! We have all missed you,” he exclaimed, and came quickly to embrace her. She would have recoiled, but it was not unpleasant to see a familiar face and to know herself so welcomed; so she allowed the embrace, but at once regretted it, and managed to twist her face so that his kiss fell only on her chin.
Quickly disentangling herself, she retreated out of reach.
“It seems that all has gone well with you while I was absent,” she remarked. “You look well and thriving.” Not for worlds would she have told him that it was his face in an oracle which had prompted her to return to Troy.
“But that is not true,” he said. “Never again shall I have health or joy until the Gods choose to restore to me my poor dishonored child.”
“Khryse,” said Kassandra gently, “is it not near upon three years that Chryseis has been in the camp of the Akhaians?”
“I care not if it is a lifetime,” Khryse said passionately. “I will mourn and protest and cry out to the Gods—”
“Cry, then,” Kassandra said, “but expect not that They will hear. It is your own pride you mourn and not your daughter,” she went on sharply. “I saw her this morning in the Akhaian camp; she seems well and happy and content, and when I asked if I should try to arrange for her exchange, she told me to mind my own affairs. I truly think she is content to be Agamemnon’s woman, even if she cannot be his Queen.”
Khryse’s handsome face grew dark with wrath.
“Have a care, Kassandra; you say this to hurt me, and I believe not a word of it.”
“Why should I wish to hurt you?” she asked. “You are my friend, and your daughter was like my own child. Think only of her happiness, Khryse, and leave her where she is. I warn you, if you press further in this matter, you will bring down the wrath of the Gods upon our city.”
His face twisted in anger.
“And I am supposed to believe you have my good at heart? You care nothing for me—I who have so long loved you . . .”
“Oh, Khryse,” she said, holding out her hands to him in absolute sincerity, “please, please, don’t begin to talk of this again. Why must you think I wish you ill because I do not desire you?”
“Then what would you do if you did wish me ill? When you have destroyed any kindness I might have in my heart . . .”
“If such kindness is destroyed, why do you say it is my fault? Cannot a man take any woman seriously unless she is willing to lie with him?” she asked. “I speak to you in all friendship, Khryse; do not press this matter.”
“You are willing to see my daughter disgraced, and insult offered to Apollo—”
“In the name of all the Gods, Khryse, the question is not what you feel, but what your daughter feels,” she said in exasperation, remembering Chryseis’ proud look when Patroklos had turned to her for help in translation. But she did not wish Khryse’s anger to make more trouble; there was already enough bitterness, and this could only make it worse. She spoke with what friendliness she could summon. “If you do not believe me, why not go down to the camp of the Akhaians—they will honor Apollo’s truce for His priest—and ask her for yourself if she feels disgraced. If she wishes to leave Agamemnon, I swear to you, I shall go to Priam and leave nothing undone to have her released or exchanged. But if she is happy with Agamemnon and he with her . . . Believe me, she is no prisoner; they were calling upon her to translate when they took my waiting-women from me, and they are elderly women who truly do not wish to remain in the camp of the Akhaians. But I promise you: if Chryseis wishes to return, I shall do everything I can before the King and the Queen.”
“But the disgrace—my daughter to be Agamemnon’s concubine . . .”
“Cannot you see that you are unreasonable? Why is it so disgraceful for her to be Agamemnon’s woman? And if this makes you shudder so with shame, why were you so eager to convince me that it would do no harm if I should be yours? Is it different for your daughter than for Priam’s daughter?” she asked harshly, losing patience at last. Now he was really angry, and she was just as well pleased; it meant she need no longer fear that he would try to grab at her.
“How dare you mention my daughter as if she were like you?” he charged her angrily. “You do not care what happens to my daughter. As long as you can follow your own unnatural ways and refuse to give yourself, to humiliate a man—”
“Humiliate you? Is that what you think?” she said wearily. “Khryse, there are hundreds of women on this earth who would be happy to give themselves to you. Why should you choose one—perhaps the only one—who does not want you?”
“I did not choose to desire you,” he said, glaring at her, “but I find I wish for no other. You have bewitched me, out of some evil wish to humble me; I . . .” He stopped, gulped and said, “Do you think, sorceress, that I have not tried to break this spell you have cast on me?”
For a moment Kassandra almost pitied him. She said, “Khryse, if you are under a curse, some other has done it and not I. I swear by Serpent Mother and by Earth Mother and by Apollo Himself, whom we both worship, I bear you no malice and no evil will, and I will entreat any God to free you from any such spell. I want no power over you, and I would bless your manhood, provided you find some other woman on whom to exercise it.”
“So you still have no pity on me? Even knowing what you have brought me to, you still deny yourself to me?”
“Khryse,” she said, “enough. I am awaited above, and I must show myself to Charis and to the priestesses. I wish you good night.”
She turned away, but he muttered between his teeth, “You will be sorry for this, Kassandra; even if I die for it, I swear you will regret this.”
I traveled all the way to Colchis and back to escape this man’s bitterness; and I return no better off than I left, except that his wrath has had two years to grow.
Lord Apollo, was it Your will that I give myself to this man I dislike so much? And she wondered, almost frightened at her own thoughts, Even if Apollo demanded it, would I have given myself to Khryse?
But He had not demanded it. And Khryse—he was always a troublemaker; must she be part of his troublemaking?
20
KASSANDRA LAY awake much of the night, mentally going over her argument with Khryse, wondering what she should have said. Surely he would at last have seen reason, had she been able to find the right words.
Finally she decided that in his current state he probably was not capable of reason at all. Was any man, when a woman was concerned? Certainly, Paris had not shown much reason when it was a question of Helen . . . and he already had a virtuous and beautiful wife who had given him a son, and from what she had heard, that was what men wanted most.
But it certainly was not only men; women themselves seemed to lose all reason when men were concerned. Even Queen Imandra, who was strong and independent, and Hecuba, who had been brought up as an Amazon, had shown little reason when it was a matter of their men. As for Briseis, or Chryseis, Kassandra thought, almost with contempt, they are like puppy dogs, rolling over with all four feet in the air if their master but give
s them a pat.
Perhaps the question is not why they do so, but why do I feel no desire to do so?
She shifted her weight on the bed to make room for the serpent which coiled slowly around her arm. It was good to be sleeping in a bed rather than on the hard floor of the cart; and with her last thought she reminded herself to check the cart and make certain which of Imandra’s gifts, if any, had survived the Akhaian soldiers. Their fear of serpents might have kept them from exploring the depths of the cart.
She woke at sunrise. Honey was playing at the foot of the bed, letting the serpent flow around her waist and down along her arms. She bathed the child and found her some breakfast, then went to the top of the Temple where the first rays would strike the heights of Troy. She thought she should go up to the Temple of the Maiden today, and greet her friends among the priestesses there, and perhaps offer thanks for her safe return to Troy. But before she had a chance, she noticed Khryse among the assembled priests come to greet the sunrise. He looked even worse than the night before, his features swollen and his eyes reddened as if he had not slept. Poor man, she thought, I should not taunt him or expect him to be reasonable when he is in so much misery. It may not make sense for him to suffer like this; but when did that ever stop anyone from suffering?
Charis was speaking with him; she saw Charis point to one and then another of the priests, saying, “You, and you, and you—no, not you, you cannot be spared.” As Kassandra approached them, Charis beckoned to her.
“I understand from what Khryse says that you actually saw his daughter in the Argive camp yesterday when you passed through. Are you certain it was really Chryseis? It has been some years, and she was a growing girl when she—left us.”
“When she was cruelly stolen from us, you mean,” Khryse added savagely.
Kassandra said, “Why, yes, I am sure; even had I not recognized her, she recognized me; she addressed me by name and warned me against angering Agamemnon.”
“And did you say this to her father?”
“I did; but the message made him angry,” Kassandra said. “He as much as accused me of inventing it to torment him.”
Khryse said sullenly, “You know she has always had a grudge against me.”
“If I were going to invent a tale to annoy Khryse, I could make up a much better one than that,” Kassandra said. “I tell you, it happened exactly as I have said.”
“Well, then, you had better go with them to the Akhaian camp,” Charis said. “He is resolved to go down and in Apollo’s name demand the return of his daughter from the Akhaians; they too have priests of Apollo and observe His truce.”
Since this was exactly what she had suggested that he do, she was not surprised, except that he had not done it months or years ago. But she supposed that he had first exhausted all other remedies, whatever they might have been.
There were a good three dozen of them in the ceremonial robes and headdresses of the Sun Lord when at last they started down the long streets and arrived at the great gates of Troy. The guard was unwilling to open the gates, but when Khryse explained that they wished to parley with Agamemnon to arrange a prisoner’s return in the name of Apollo, the guard sent a herald to arrange a meeting. Then they stood in the hot sun for the best part of an hour, until they saw a tall, strongly built man, with thick black curly hair and an elaborately curled beard, approaching them with long, purposeful strides.
Kassandra had been as close as this to Agamemnon before; as always, horror and revulsion flooded her body. She stared at the ground and never raised her eyes, hoping he would not notice her.
He did not. He stared belligerently at Khryse and said, “What do you want? I am not a priest of Apollo; if you wish to arrange a festival truce or some such matter, your business is with my priests, and not with me.”
Khryse stepped forward. He was taller than Agamemnon, his head imposing even with his blond hair faded, his features strongly carved. His voice, deep and strong, rang out imposingly: “If you are Agamemnon of Mykenae, then my business is indeed with you. I am Khryse, priest of Apollo; and you are holding my daughter prisoner in your camp; she was taken three years ago at spring planting.”
“Oh?” Agamemnon inquired. “And which of my men is holding this woman?”
“Lord Agamemnon, her name is Chryseis; and I believe it is you who are holding her. In Apollo’s name, I declare myself ready to pay such ransom as is suitable and customary; and if you do not wish to release her, then I demand you pay me her bride-price and that we see her married with all proper formality.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” Agamemnon retorted. “I wondered what you wanted, all dressed up for ceremony. Well, Khryse, Priest of Apollo, listen here: I intend to keep her myself; and as for marrying her, I can’t, because I’ve already got a wife.” He gave a great sarcastic bellow of laughter.
“So I suggest you and your friends march right back inside Troy before I decide that I could use a few more women in the camp.” His eyes swept across the ranks of priests and priestesses. “Most of your women seem to be too old for bedding; I seem to have the only pretty one. But we could use a few cooks and wash-women.”
“You deliberately persist, then, in this insult to Apollo Sun Lord? You continue in this insult to His High Priest?” Khryse demanded.
Agamemnon spoke slowly, as if to a young child or a simpleton.
“Listen well, Priest,” he said. “I worship the Sky Thunderer, Zeus, and the Earth Shaker, Poseidon, Lord of Horses. I will not interfere in the affairs of Apollo; He is not my God. But by the same token, your Apollo would be well-advised not to interfere with me. This woman in my tent is mine, and I will neither release her nor pay a bride-price; and that is all I have to say to you. Now go.”
Controlling his anger, Khryse replied, “Agamemnon, I lay my curse on you; you are a man who has broken the sacred laws, and no child of yours shall honor your grave. And if you do not fear my curse, then fear the curse of Apollo, for it is His curse I lay upon your people, and you shall not escape it. His arrows shall fall upon you all, I so declare.”
“Declare anything you like,” Agamemnon said. “I have heard the rage of my foes before this, and it is of all sounds the most welcome to my heart. As for your Sun Lord, I defy His curse; let Him do His worst. Now get out of my camp, or I shall tell my archers to use you all for target practice.”
“So be it, my lord King,” said Khryse; “you shall see how long you can scorn the curse of Apollo.”
One of the archers cried out, “Shall I shoot the insolent Trojan, Lord Agamemnon?”
“By no means,” Agamemnon said in his rich, deep voice. “He is a priest, not a warrior. I do not kill women, little boys, eunuchs, nanny goats or priests.”
The laughter from the ranks of archers robbed Khryse’s exit of much of its dignity, but he strode firmly away without looking back; one by one the priests and priestesses followed him. Kassandra kept her eyes lowered, but she could feel, for some reason, Agamemnon’s eyes on her. It might only be that she was the youngest of the women from Troy, almost all the other priestesses chosen being well past fifty; but perhaps it was something more. She knew only that she did not want to meet Agamemnon’s glance.
And Chryseis went to this man—willingly!
They climbed through the city to the balcony of the Sun Lord’s house, which looked down upon the plains before Troy. Khryse had disappeared briefly from among them; when he reappeared, he was wearing the golden mask of the God, and bearing the ritual bow. Suddenly it appeared that he grew taller, more imposing; the eyes of all the Akhaians below were lifted to where he stood. Khryse raised his bow and cried out, Beware, you who have offended My priest! and Kassandra realized Who stood there beneath the mask, and the voice, strong and resonant and more than human, rang throughout Troy and to the farthest corner of the Akhaian camp below:
This is My city, Akhaians; I solemnly warn you.
My curse and My arrows shall smite every man among you, if to My priest you return
not the one so unlawfully taken.
Beware of My curse and My arrows, I warn you, you chieftains impious!
Even Kassandra, who was familiar with the voice of the God, was paralyzed with terror. She could not have moved a muscle nor spoken a word.
Quickly the form who at once was and was not Khryse shot three arrows into the air. One of them fell directly upon the roof of Agamemnon’s tent; another before the tent of Akhilles; the third into the very center of the camp. Kassandra watched, feeling a dreadful stillness, as if she had watched all this before. It was as if she were very far away, and a thick wall of glass, or the weight of an ocean, rippled before her, cutting off what she saw and heard.
Apollo’s curse! It has come upon us, O Sun Lord!
Was this a curse on the Akhaians alone?
But yet, she thought, if the Akhaians are cursed, somehow we will suffer for it; we are at their mercy. I wonder whether Priam realizes that. If he does not, I am sure that Hector does.
Then slowly she began to be aware again of what was going on around her: the glare of midday, the light reflected off the city walls and the plain below, the laughter and jeers of the Akhaians. They seemed to think this a charade, a gesture; it never occurred to them that perhaps Apollo Himself had cursed their people and their army.
Or did I dream it?
Whatever the truth, there were things to be done. She went to the Temple and was set to the task of accepting and tallying the offerings. After an hour of counting and tallying up flasks of oil and wheaten loaves she felt as if she had never been away from Troy.
She worked till sunset. When she had finished with the offerings, she went to care for the serpents and to see what places had been found for them. Then she went to Charis, the most senior priestess, and told her that alone she could not easily care for so many snakes if she had other duties as well; she asked for someone to train to help her with them and learn serpent-lore. Charis asked if Phyllida would be satisfactory to her.
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