The Firebrand (20 page)

“As soon as Kassandra is able to ride, and Andromache prepared to return with her to Troy,” answered the Amazon Queen.

“Be it so,” Imandra said. “I have readied Andromache’s dower, and many to travel with her. And for our young kinswoman, the priestess, I have a gift.”

The gift was a serpent; a small green one very like Imandra’s own, but no longer than her forearm and about as thick as her thumb. Kassandra thanked her, tongue-tied.

Imandra said softly, “A suitable gift from priestess to priestess, child. She is hatched from an egg of one of my own serpents; and besides, what else should I do with her? Give her to Andromache, who would flee from her? I think she will be happy to travel south with you in that beautiful pot, and to serve with you at the shrine in Troy.”

That night Kassandra lay long awake, troubled at the thought of what she might dream; but when she fell asleep she saw only the rain-washed slopes of Mount Ida, and the three strange Goddesses; and it seemed that They struggled with one another not for Paris’ favor, but for hers, and for Troy.

THEY SET FORTH in carts as clumsy and slow as the tin-bearing wagons had been, laden with Andromache’s bride-gifts and dowry and with gifts from the Queen to her Trojan kindred from the treasures of Colchis: weapons of iron and bronze, bolts of cloth, pottery and gold and silver and even jewels.

Kassandra was unable to imagine why Queen Imandra was so eager to have her daughter allied with Troy, and even less able to imagine why Andromache was willing—no, eager—to comply. But if she must return to Troy, she was glad to have with her something of the wide world she had discovered here.

Also, she had come to love Andromache; and if she must part from Penthesilea and the women of the tribe, at least she would have with her one true friend and kinswoman in Troy.

The journey seemed endless, the wagons crawling day by day at a snail’s gait across the wide plains, moon after moon fading and filling as they seemed no nearer to the distant mountains. Kassandra longed to mount and ride swiftly at the side of the Amazon guards, leaving the wagons to follow as best they could; but Andromache could not, or would not, ride, and fretted at being alone in the wagons. She wanted Kassandra’s company; so, reluctantly, Kassandra accepted the confinement and rode with her, playing endless games of Hound and Jackal on a carved onyx board, listening to her kinswoman’s simpleminded chatter about clothing and jewelry and hair ornaments and what she would do when she was married—a subject which Andromache found endlessly fascinating (she had even resolved on names for the first three or four of her children), till Kassandra thought she would go mad.

On her outward journey (it seemed to her that she had been immensely younger then), Kassandra had never realized the enormous distances they had covered; only when summer arrived again and they were just beginning to see the distant hills behind Troy was she fully aware of how long this journey had been. In Troy, Colchis was popularly regarded as being halfway around the world. Now she was old enough to take account of the many months of travel; and of course with the wagons, they were traveling more slowly than the riding bands. She was in no hurry to see the end of the journey, knowing that her arrival in Troy would close the walls of the women’s quarters around her again, but she wondered how things fared in the city, and one night while Andromache slept, she reached out in her mind to see, if not Troy, at least the mind of the twin brother whom she had not visited for so long. And after a time pictures began to form in her mind, at first small and faraway, gradually enlarging and becoming all of her awareness. . . .

FAR To the south on the slopes of Mount Ida, where the dark-haired youth called Paris followed his foster-father’s bulls and cattle, on a day in late autumn, a group of well-dressed young men appeared on the mountainside, and Paris, alert to any dangers to the herd he guarded, approached them with caution.

“Greeting, strangers; who are you, and how may I serve you?”

“We are the sons and the servants of King Priam of Troy,” replied one of them, “and we have come for a bull; the finest of the herd, for it is a sacrifice for the Funeral Games of one of Priam’s sons. Show us your finest.”

Paris was somewhat troubled at their arrogant manner; nevertheless, his foster-father, Agelaus, had taught him that the wishes of the King were law, and he did not wish to be thought lacking in courtesy.

“My father is Priam’s servant,” he said, “and all that we have is at his disposal. He is from home this day; if it will please you to await his return, he can show you what we have. If you will rest in my house out of the heat of the noonday sun, my wife will bring you wine, or cool buttermilk; or if you prefer, mead from the honey of our own bees. When he returns, he will show you the herds and you may take what you will.”

“I thank you; a drink of mead will be welcome,” replied one of the newcomers from the city, and as Paris led the way to the little house where he lived with Oenone, he heard another one whisper, “A handsome fellow; and I had not thought to find such manners so far from the city.”

As Oenone, bright and pretty in her working-day tunic, with her hair tied up under the cloth she wore mornings for sweeping the house, fetched mead in wooden cups, he heard the other muttering, “And if nymphs as lovely as this are in abundance on the mountainsides, why should any man stay within city walls?”

Oenone looked sidewise at Paris, as if wondering who these men were and what they wanted; but he knew little more than she, though he had no desire to say so in their hearing. “These men have business with my father, my dear,” he said. “Agelaus will return before the noon hour, and then they can settle it with him, whatever it may be.” If they had wanted goats or even sheep, he would have felt qualified to deal with them himself, even if they were specially wanted for sacrifice; but the cattle were his father’s special pride and joy. So he sipped at the mead Oenone had poured and waited, finally asking, “Are you all King Priam’s sons?”

“We are,” replied the elder of them. “I am Hector, Priam’s eldest son by his Queen, Hecuba; and this is my half brother Deiphobos.”

Hector was unusually tall, almost a head taller than Paris himself, who was not a small man. He had the broad shoulders of a natural wrestler, and his face was strong-featured and handsome, with brown eyes set wide apart over high cheekbones and a stubborn mouth and chin. He bore at his waist an iron sword which Paris at once coveted, although until recently he had thought there could be no finer weapon than the bronze dagger Agelaus had given him as a special gift when he had gone out into a late-winter snowstorm and brought back a dozen weakling lambs who all would otherwise have perished.

“Tell me about these Funeral Games,” he said at last. He noticed the way Hector was looking at Oenone and did not like it. But he also noticed that Oenone was taking no notice whatever of the stranger.
She is mine,
he thought;
she is a good woman and modest, not one to go about staring at strange men.

“They are held every year,” Hector said, “and they are like any other games at festivals. You look strong and athletic; have you never competed in such games? I am sure you could carry off many prizes.”

“You mistake me,” Paris said. “I am not a nobleman like yourselves, with leisure for sport; I am a humble shepherd and your father’s servant. Games and the like are not for me.”

“Modestly spoken,” said Hector. “But the Games are open to any man not born a slave; you would be welcome.”

Paris thought about it. “You spoke of prizes . . .”

“The major prize is a bronze tripod and caldron,” Hector said. “Sometimes my father gives a sword for special valor.”

“I would like that prize for my mother,” said Paris. “Perhaps if my father gives me leave I will go.”

“You are a grown man; you must be fifteen or more,” said Hector, “quite old enough to come and go without permission.”

And as Paris heard the words, he thought it must be so indeed; but he had never gone anywhere without Agelaus’ leave and had never thought he would. He noticed that Hector was staring at him fixedly, and raised questioning eyebrows.

Hector coughed nervously. “I am wondering where I have seen you before,” he said. “Your eyes—they seem to remind me of someone I know well, but I cannot remember where.”

“I go sometimes to the marketplace on errands for my father or my mother,” Paris said, but Hector shook his head. To Paris it seemed that a curious shadow hung over him; he felt an instinctive dislike for this large young man. Yet Hector had been in no way offensive, but had treated him with perfect courtesy, so he did not understand it.

He rose restlessly and went to the door of the house, peering out. After a moment he said, “My foster-father has come home,” and after a few moments Agelaus, a small, slight man who still moved quickly despite his age, came into the room.

“Prince Hector,” he said, bowing, “I am honored; how is it with my lord your father?”

Hector explained their errand, and Agelaus said, “It’s my boy can help you with that, my prince; see, he knows the cattle better than I do, does all the cattle-judging at fairs and such. Paris, take the gentlemen out into the cattle-field and show them the best that we have.”

Paris chose the finest bull of the herd, and Hector came and looked into the beast’s face.

“I am a warrior and I know little of cattle,” he said. “Why choose this bull?”

Paris pointed out the width of the bull’s shoulders, the breadth of its flank. “And his coat is smooth without scars or imperfections; fit for a God,” he said, and inwardly thought:
He is too good for sacrifice; he should be saved for breeding. Any old bull will do to strike off his head and bleed on an altar.

“You know more than I of these matters,” Hector repeated. “So I accept your word that this bull is the fittest for sacrifice to the Thunder Lord; now I must have a virgin heifer for the Lady, His consort.”

Instantly Paris saw in his mind the fair and stately Goddess who had offered him wealth and power. He wondered if She bore him a grudge that he had not awarded Her the apple; perhaps if he chose for Her the finest creature in all the herd, She would forgive him.

“This heifer,” he said, “is the finest of all; see her smooth brown coat, and her white face, and see how beautiful her eyes are; they seem almost human.”

Hector patted the little animal’s smooth shoulder and called for a tie rope.

“You don’t need it, my prince,” Paris said. “If you’re taking the herd bull, she’ll follow you like a puppy.”

“So cows are not unlike women, then,” Hector said with a crude laugh. “I thank you, and I wish you would reconsider coming to the Games. I am sure you would carry off most of the prizes; you look a natural athlete.”

“It is kind of you to say so, my prince,” Paris said, and watched Hector and his entourage as they descended the mountain toward the city.

Later that evening, when he went with his foster-father to fetch the goats for milking, he mentioned Hector’s invitation. He was not at all prepared for the old man’s response.

“No; I forbid it! Don’t even think of it, my son; something terrible would be sure to happen!”

“But why, Father? The prince assured me that it did not matter that I was not nobly born; what harm could there be? And I would like to have the caldron and tripod for Mother, who has been so good to me and has no such things.”

“Your mother don’t want no caldrons; we want our good son safe here at home where nothing could happen to you.”

“What could possibly happen to me, Father?”

“I am forbidden to tell you that,” the old man said seriously. “Surely it should be enough for you that I forbid it; you have always been a good and obedient son to me before this.”

“Father, I am no longer a child,” Paris said. “Now when you forbid me something, I am old enough to know the reason.”

Agelaus set his mouth sternly.

“I’ll have no impudence and I don’t have to give you no reasons; you’ll do as I say.”

Paris had always known that Agelaus was not his real father; since his dream of Goddesses, he had begun to suspect that his parentage was higher than he had ever dared to believe. Now he began to think that Agelaus’ prohibition had something to do with this. But when he put the question, Agelaus looked more stubborn than ever.

“I can’t tell you nothing at all about that,” he said, and stamped off to milk the goats. Paris, following his example, said no more; but inside he was fuming.

He said nothing that night; but early the next morning, he put on his best holiday tunic (it was in fact coarse enough, though Oenone had woven it of their finest wool and dyed it with berry juice to a soft red color) and went to bid her farewell. She looked at him, her mouth contorted in distress.

“So you are going? In spite of your father’s warning?”

“He has no right to forbid me,” Paris replied defensively; “he is not even my father, so it is no impiety to disobey him.”

“Still, he has been a good and kindly father to you,” she said, her lip quivering. “This is not well done, Paris. Why do you wish to go to their Games anyway? What is King Priam to you?”

“Because it is my destiny,” he retorted hotly. “Because I no longer believe that it is the will of the Gods that I sit here all my days keeping goats on the mountainside. Come, girl, give me a kiss and wish me good fortune.”