The Firebrand (63 page)

“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.

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, “Now 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.

“By the Battle-God! That is not Akhilles, but somebody else wearing his armor! Akhilles’ shoulders are twice that wide! Maybe that boyfriend of his. The armor doesn’t even fit him. In the name of Ares, what is he playing at? Does he really think he can deceive anyone who has ever seen Akhilles fight?”

“I suppose it is a ruse to hearten Akhilles’ men,” said his charioteer, young Troilus.

“Whatever it is,” Hector said, “we’ll make short work of him. I might hesitate to face Akhilles, even on a propitious day; but the day has never dawned when I would be afraid to face Patroklos. Perhaps, youngster, I should put my armor on you and set you in my chariot and send you out to take him on.”

“I will do it gladly if you will allow it,” said the boy eagerly, and Hector laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “I daresay you would, lad; but don’t underestimate Patroklos as much as that. He is not at all a bad fighter; not in my class or Akhilles’, it’s true, but you’re not ready for him yet; not this year and probably not next year either.”

He called his armorer, who came and strapped on his best armor; then the others heard the creaking of the gate as Hector rode out.

“This frightens me,” Andromache said, hurrying to the best vantage point for watching. “Great Mother, how that wretched boy drives his chariot! Has Hector taught him neither caution nor good sense? They will both be flung out in a moment!”

The two chariots rushed together like rutting stags coming together in the height of the season. Troilus was kept busy with the Myrmidons who rushed against the chariot. He fought back one after another while Hector awaited the champion. Then he sprang out along the axle of the chariot, leaving Troilus to defend it, and faced the man decked out in the brilliant gold-decorated armor of Akhilles.

Hector’s sword swung up to meet the Akhaian, who rushed at him, swinging. One swift step and Patroklos was down; but as Hector rushed in to finish him off, the youth scrambled up as if the heavy armor were a feathered cloak, and backed away. The men exchanged a flurry of blows so rapid that Kassandra could not see that either of them had the least advantage. A small shriek from Andromache told her that her husband had taken a wound; but when she looked, she saw that Hector had recovered himself at once and was thrusting violently enough that Patroklos was retreating toward his chariot. His sword drove hard into the place where the armor met the armpiece, then came free in a shower of blood. Patroklos staggered back; one of the Myrmidons caught him around his waist and lifted him bodily into the chariot; he was still standing, but swaying and white-faced. His charioteer—or was it Akhilles’ charioteer?—slapped at the horses, and they galloped back toward the beach and the Akhaian tents with Hector in hot pursuit.

Troilus loosed an arrow which struck Patroklos in the leg, and he lost his balance and fell; only the quick grab of the charioteer kept him from being flung out of the chariot. Hector motioned to Troilus to abandon the pursuit; Patroklos was either dead or wounded so gravely that it was only a matter of time before he died. Hector’s chariot turned back toward Troy; Andromache started to dash down the stairs as she heard the creaking of the ropes that opened the great gate, but Kassandra held her back and they waited until Hector came up the stairs. His arms-bearer came and began to help him out of his armor, but Andromache took his place.

“You’re wounded!”

“Nothing serious, I assure you, my dear,” Hector said. “I’ve had worse wounds in play on the field.” There was a long gash in his forearm, which had not injured the tendon; it could be dealt with by cleansing with wine and oil and a tight bandage. Andromache, not waiting for a healer, began at once to care for it, and asked, “Did you kill him?”

“I’m not sure whether he’s dead yet, but I assure you, nobody really ever recovers from a thrust to the lungs like that one,” Hector said, and almost at the same minute they heard a noise from the Akhaian camp: a great howl of rage and grief.

“He’s dead,” Hector said. “That’s one in the eye for Akhilles, at least.”

“Look,” said Troilus—“there he is himself.”

It was indeed Akhilles himself, wearing only a loincloth, his great shoulders bare and his long pale hair flying. He strode from his tent and toward the walls of Troy. Just out of bowshot he paused and, raising his clenched fist, shook it at the walls. He shouted something, lost in the distance.

“What did he say I wonder?” Hector asked.

Paris, who was unarming close by, said, “I suppose some version of ‘Hector, son of Priam’—with a few choice remarks about your ancestry and progeny—‘come down here and let me kill you ten times over!’ ”

“Or, more likely, ten thousand times,” agreed Hector. “I couldn’t quite make out the words, but the tune is clear enough.”