The Firebrand

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “Did you get him?” Andromache asked.

  “No chance, Lady; we sent a good few arrows whizzing round his head, though, and he lost his balance and slid down. Then his archers returned our fire and covered him while he showed us a good pair of legs back to their camp,” the soldier replied. “Shame we missed him; if he’d wound up with an arrow through his gullet, maybe Akhilles would get discouraged and take off home.”

  “Never mind,” Andromache said; “you did the best you could. And at least he didn’t get into the city.”

  “Begging your pardon, Lady, best we could won’t be good enough for Prince Hector,” said the soldier pessimistically. “But I reckon you’re right: nothing to do about it now, and no use worrying about what we can’t mend. Maybe he’ll give us another chance one day and we’ll pick him off.”

  “May the War-God grant it,” said Andromache. The women looked out over the wall again; the chariots had withdrawn now from the camp and were racing back toward the gates of Troy; Kassandra, though she could not at this distance distinguish one chariot from another, counted them and noted that they were all there. The raid on the ships, then, had been a total success.

  Below them the watchman shouted, “Ready there to open the gates!” and they heard the creaking of the ropes that opened the great gate. Helen and Andromache went down the stairs to greet their husbands; the other women remained behind.

  Hecuba approached Kassandra, and she asked, “The King was not with the chariots?”

  “Oh, no, Kassandra,” said her mother; “his hands no longer serve him to drive. The healer-priests have treated him with their healing oils and spells, but every day it grows worse. He can hardly tie the laces of his sandals.”

  “I am sorry to hear it,” Kassandra said; “but for old age, Mother, there are no healing spells, even for a King.”

  “Nor, I suppose, for a Queen,” Hecuba said, and Kassandra, looking sharply at her, realized how frail her mother was, her back stooped and so thin that her bones seemed to protrude from the skin. Her complexion had always seemed fresh and bright; now it was grayish and sallow, and her hair a dirty streaked yellowish-white. Even her eyes seemed to have faded.

  “You are not well, Mother.”

  “Well enough; I am much more troubled about your father,” Hecuba said. “And Creusa; she is pregnant again, and there is likely to be a scarcity of nourishing food in the city this winter. The crops were not good, and the Akhaians burned so much of what there was.”

  “There is food enough in the Sun Lord’s house,” Kassandra said. “What is shared out for me and for Honey is always more than we can eat; I will try to see that Creusa has enough.”

  “You are good,” Hecuba said gently, reaching out to stroke her hair; her mother had rarely caressed her since she was a very small child, and Kassandra felt warmed.

  “We have not only food but healing herbs in plenty; you must always come to me if anyone at the palace is ill or in want,” she said. “It is taken for granted that we’ll share what we have with our families. I will send some herbs for Father, and you must steep them in hot water, and soak a cloth, and apply the hot cloth to his hands. It may not cure him, but it will ease his pain.”

  Hecuba looked past her to Honey, who was sitting on the wall, playing with some pebbles. Kassandra remembered a similar game when she was very small; she and her sisters, the other daughters of the royal house, would choose nice round little stones and set them in niches on the wall to bake, as if they were buns or loaves, examining them every few minutes to see if they were cooked enough. She smiled at the memory.

  The chariots were inside the walls now, and the gates closing. Hecuba asked, “Will you come and dine at the palace? Though you will surely be better fed in the Sun Lord’s house . . .”

  “I think not tonight,” Kassandra said, “though I thank you; I will send the herbs down by a messenger. I hope they do Father good—we cannot spare his strength in these days. Not even Hector is fit to rule Troy, even if he should survive his father.” She stopped herself, but Hecuba had heard and stared at her in shock.

  She did not speak. Kassandra knew what she was thinking:

  So she believes that Hector may die before his father, old and ill as Priam is. What more has she seen?

  The charioteers had left their chariots; Hector and Paris, accompanied by their wives, came up the stairs, and Aeneas joined Creusa. Kassandra picked up Honey; if she did not intend to join them this night at the palace, it was time to take her leave.

  Creusa came to her and said, “I will walk with you to the Sun Lord’s house, Sister.”

  “I would be glad of your company; but the sun is still high in the sky. I need no escort,” Kassandra protested. “You should not tire yourself with that long climb.”

  “I will come,” Creusa insisted. “I would like to speak with you.”

  “Very well, then; as I said, I am glad of your company,” Kassandra said. Creusa gave her small daughter to a servant, instructing the woman to take her home, and to feed her if Creusa had not returned by her suppertime; then she joined Kassandra, who was tying on Honey’s broad-brimmed hat against the sun.

  “She is well grown for her age,” she said. “How old is she now? When was she born?”

  “I am sure Mother has told you that I am not certain,” Kassandra said, “but she cannot have been more than a few days old when I found her, and I left Colchis near the middle of last winter.”

  “Nearly a year then; she must be close to my own daughter in age,” Creusa said; “yet she is taller and stronger, and already walking beside you like a big girl. Little Kassandra still crawls on all fours like a puppy.”

  “Well, those who know children best say that each one walks and talks when the time is right for her—some early, some late,” Kassandra replied. “Mother says I was early to walk and talk, and I remember things that must have happened no later than my second summer.”

  “That’s true,” Creusa said. “Astyanax did not walk or even talk till he was past two years old; I know Andromache was beginning to wonder if he had all his wits.”

  “That must have been very worrying,” Kassandra agreed. She felt confused; surely Creusa had not undertaken this long climb to speak with her about the growth and feeding of little children, when the palace was filled with so many nurses to consult.

  Whatever it was, Creusa was finding it hard to come to the point; but just as Kassandra was beginning to wonder if Creusa had somehow found out what she had said to Aeneas (but how? some spying servant? She would swear they had not been overheard) and to feel vaguely guilty, Creusa said, “You are a priestess and they say you are a prophetess; it was you who gave warning of the great earthquake, was it not?”

  “I thought you were there when I gave the warning,” Kassandra said.

  “No; Aeneas came and told me not to sleep under a roof that night, and to take the children outdoors,” her sister said. “What have you foreseen?”

  Creusa knows as well as I do that I have seen death, and the destruction of Troy, she thought, but she was sure her sister had some reason beyond the ordinary for asking. She said, hesitating, “Are you sure you want to know? Priam has forbidden anyone to listen to my prophecies. It might be better not to anger him.”

  “Let me tell you, then, why I ask,” said Creusa. “Aeneas told me that you prophesied that he would survive the fall of Troy.”

  “Yes,” said Kassandra, embarrassed. “It seems the Gods have work for him elsewhere; for I have seen him departing unharmed, and behind him Troy in flames.”

  Creusa’s hands flew to her bosom in a strange gesture. “Is this true?”

  “Do you believe I would lie about it?”

  “No, no, of course not; but why should he be chosen to be spared when so many will die?”

  “I do not know; why were you and your children spared when Helen lost three sons in the great quake?”

  “Because Aeneas heeded your warning and Paris would not.”

/>   “That is not what I meant,” Kassandra said. “No one can say why the Gods choose one to die and another to live; and perhaps those who live may not be the most fortunate.”

  I wish I were sure that only death awaited me, she thought, but she did not say so to Creusa.

  “Aeneas has ordered me to leave the city as soon as I can, and take the children,” Creusa said. “I am to go, perhaps, to Crete, to Knossos or even farther. I was thinking I should refuse to go, to say that my place was at his side, come war or death; but if it is true that he is certain to survive, then I can understand why he wants me to go . . . so that we may meet in safer country when the war is over.”

  “I am sure he is thinking only of your safety.”

  “He has been strange lately; I wondered if he had found himself another woman and wanted me out of the way.”

  Kassandra said through a dry mouth, “Even if it should be so, would it matter? Since almost everyone in the city is to die in its fall . . .”

  “No, I suppose not; if one of them can make him happy for a little time,” Creusa said, “and they are all going to die anyway—why should I care? So you think I should go?”

  “I cannot tell you that; I can say only that there are few who will survive the city’s fall,” Kassandra said.

  “But is it safe to travel with a child so small?”

  “Honey could not have been more than a few days old when I found her, and she survived and thrived. Children are stronger than we think.”

  “I thought only that perhaps he wished to be rid of me,” Creusa said. “But you have made me understand why it is best that I should go. Thank you, Sister.” Unexpectedly, she put her arms around Kassandra and hugged her hard. “You too should forsake the city before it is too late. You did not make this war with the damned Akhaians, and there is no reason you should perish with the city. I will ask Aeneas to arrange that you too be sent away.”

  “No,” Kassandra said; “it seems that this is my destiny, and I must abide it.”

  “Aeneas speaks well of you, Kassandra,” Creusa said. “He told me once you were more clever than all of Priam’s officers together, and that if you were in command we might even win this war.”

  Kassandra laughed uneasily and said, “He thinks too well of me, then. But you must go, Creusa; gather together your possessions and be ready to depart whenever he can find you a ship, or whatever means he may find to take you and the children to safety.”

  Creusa embraced her again. She said, “If I am to depart soon, we may not meet again. But wherever destiny may take you, Sister, I wish you well; and if Troy truly does fall, I pray that the Gods may preserve you.”

  “And you,” Kassandra said, kissing her cheek; and so they parted. Kassandra watched her sister out of sight, knowing in her heart that she would never see Creusa again.

  5

  SINCE THE BATTLE when five of the Akhaian ships had been burned to the waterline and others greatly damaged, the Akhaians had drawn their blockade so tight that—as Hector said—a crab could not have crawled into the city. For that reason, Aeneas made no attempt to get Creusa away by sea; she was sent in a cart around to the landward side, and along the coast for many miles past the blockade, where a ship would take her first to Egypt and then to Crete. Kassandra watched her depart, and thought that if Priam had any sense he would order all the women and children out of the city. However, she said nothing; she had done her best to give warning.

  Even the landward side of the city was no longer completely safe. A wagonload of iron weapons from Colchis was intercepted and brought into the Argive camp with great celebration. Soon after, a small army of Thracians, coming overland to join Priam’s forces, was waylaid by Akhaian captains—rumor said by Agamemnon and Odysseus themselves: all the horses were stolen, and the Thracian guards murdered.

  “This isn’t war,” Hector said; “this is an atrocity. The Thracians were not yet part of Troy’s armies and Agamemnon had no quarrel with them.”

  “And now he never will have,” said Paris cynically.

  This touched off another attack by the Akhaians, led by Patroklos, who again climbed the walls at the head of his own men; the Trojans managed to repel them, and Patroklos was reported wounded, although not seriously.

  At Kassandra’s earnest petition, the people of the Sun Lord’s house built an altar and sacrificed two of Priam’s finest horses to Poseidon. Another earthquake could pull down every wall and gate of Troy and leave the city open to the besieging forces of the Akhaians. This was now Kassandra’s only fear; she knew it must come, but if the Trojans put all their efforts into the placating of Poseidon, He might still hold His hand.

  The Akhaian forces fought without their greatest warrior; Akhilles still remained in his tent. Now and again he would come forth—not dressed for battle—and walk about the camp, morosely alone or in company with Patroklos, but what they talked of, no one could say. Rumors brought by spies said that Agamemnon had gone to Akhilles and offered him first choice of all the city’s spoils for himself and his men, but Akhilles had answered only that he no longer trusted any offer Agamemnon might make.

  “Can’t blame him,” Hector said. “I wouldn’t trust Agamemnon as far as I could heave him with one thumb. Damned convenient for us, though, this quarrel in the enemy camp; while they’re fighting each other, we have time to repair our walls and get our defenses together. If they ever make it up, and decide to work together, then God help Troy.”

  “Which God?” Priam asked.

  “Any God they haven’t already bribed to be on their side,” Hector said. “Suppose Aeneas and I got into some sort of fight, and refused to work together?”

  “I hope that we never find out,” Aeneas said, “for I suspect that on that day we would have doomed ourselves more quickly than the Gods could doom us.”

  Priam pushed restlessly at his plate, on which were only a sparse assortment of vegetables and some coarse bread.

  “Perhaps we might arrange a hunt on the landward side,” he said. “I would be glad of some venison or even rabbit.”

  “I had not thought I would hear you say that, Father. We were glutted with meat for so long when the goats had to be slaughtered for lack of fodder; we kept only a few for milk for the smallest children,” Hector said. “The pigs can eat what is left from the tables, and there are still some acorns in the groves; but now there is little left. Perhaps we can hunt. . . .”

  “I think the pigs should be killed too,” said Deiphobos. “This winter we will need the acorns for bread; we should set all the young people not old enough to fight to gathering them and laying them away. It will be a hungry winter, whatever we do or do not do.”

  “What is being done in the Sun Lord’s house?” asked Aeneas. “You sit there so still and wise, Kassandra. What says Apollo’s wisdom?”

  “It does not matter what you do.” Kassandra spoke without thinking. “By winter Troy will have no more need of food.”

  Paris took one great stride toward her. He roared, “I warned you, Sister, what I would do if you came here again peddling your evil news!”

  Aeneas caught his arm in midswing.

  “Strike someone your own size,” he snarled; “or strike at me, for I asked the question which prompted the answer you do not want to hear!” He added gently, “Is it so bad, Kassandra?”

  “I do not know,” she said, staring helplessly at them. “It might even be that the Akhaians will be gone, and there will be no more need to hoard food. . . .”

  “But you do not think so,” he said.

  She shook her head; they were all staring at her now. “But things will not go on as they are now for long, that I know. A change will come very soon.”

  It was growing late; Aeneas rose. “I will go and sleep in the camp with the soldiers,” he said, “since my wife and children have gone.”

  Hector said, “I suppose I should send away Andromache and the boy, if there is so much danger here.”

  Paris said, “N
ow you see why I feel that Kassandra should be silenced at any cost; she is spreading so much hopelessness inside Troy that before we know it all the women will have gone; and then what are we to fight for?”

  “No,” Helen said, “I will not go; for better or worse I have come to Troy, and there is no longer any other refuge for me. I will remain at Paris’ side as long as we both live.”

  “And I,” said Andromache. “Where Hector has courage to remain, there will I remain at his side. And where I remain, my son will remain.”

  Kassandra, remembering that Andromache had been reared as a warrior, thought that perhaps Imandra would be proud of her daughter after all. I wish I had her courage, she thought, then remembered that Andromache did not know what lay before them. Perhaps it was easier to have courage when you could still believe that what you feared would not come to pass. In her ears were the thunders of Poseidon, and she could hardly see across the room for the fires that seemed to rise.

  Yet the room was quiet and cool, and all the faces surrounding her were kind and loving. How much longer would she have them around her? Already she had lost Creusa; who would be next?

  She knew she should stay inside the Sun Lord’s house; but she could not keep away from the palace, and every day she watched with the other women from the wall, so that she was one of the first to see the people exploding into the spaces between the houses so swiftly that for a moment she wondered if it was another earthquake. Then the cry went up.

  “Akhilles! It is the chariot of Akhilles!”

  Hector swore violently and ran up the stairs to the lookout point on the walls.

  “Akhilles has come back? The worst news we could have—or is it the best?” he said roughly, hastening to where the women stood watching. “Yes, right enough, that is his chariot”—and he shaded his eyes with his hand. Then he turned away, scowling.