The Firebrand (66 page)

She helped him to buckle the final strap on his breastplate; the rest of his armor would be donned in the field. The trumpet which blew at dawn to summon the men had not yet sounded; and this morning it was uncertain whether it would be heard at all. Only those who were competing in Patroklos’ funeral games need rise or go out this day, although a careful watch would be kept in case the Akhaians attempted to break the truce.

“Come, kiss me, love; I must go,” he said, holding her tight in a last embrace; but she protested, “Not yet; shall I find you some bread and a little wine?”

“I must breakfast with the soldiers of my mess, sweet-heart; don’t trouble yourself.” He hesitated and held his face against her cheek. “May I come to you again tonight?”

She did not know what to say, and he mistook her silence. “Ah, I should not have . . . your brothers are my friends, your father my host . . .”

“As for my father or brothers, there is no man in all of Troy to whom I must account for my doings,” Kassandra said sharply. “And your wife, my sister, said to me when we parted that she begrudged you nothing that would make you happy.”

“Creusa said that? I wonder . . . Well, I am grateful to her, then. I could have told you that, but better you should hear it from her.” Impulsively he caught her to him again. “Let me come,” he begged. “We may not have much time . . . and who knows what may happen to either of us? But these days of the truce . . .”

All over Troy, she thought, women fresh from their men’s beds were fastening on armor, using these last little delaying moments and kisses, trying not to think of the vulnerability of the flesh they had caressed.

Aeneas stroked her hair. “Even with Aphrodite I now have no quarrel—for it was She, I think, who brought you to me. I shall sacrifice a dove to Her as soon as I can.”

There were doves enough in Apollo’s shrine; but Kassandra felt a certain reluctance to suggest he buy one of them. Aeneas in one way had stolen something belonging to Apollo—though she did not know now and had never known why it should have belonged to anyone but herself. Then she told herself sharply not to be foolish; she was certainly not the first of the Sun Lord’s maidens to take a man to her bed, and would hardly be the last. She stood on tiptoe to kiss him and said, “Until tonight, then, my dearest love.”

She went to the high railing to watch him as he went down through the city. It was hardly full light yet; the clouds were blowing across the plain before Troy, and there were only a few figures astir in the streets: soldiers, gathering for the morning meal.

She was weary; she should go back to bed. But she wondered how many of the women in the city who had just sent their lovers or husbands to battle—or, today, the mock-battle of the games—could calmly go and sleep. She went into her room, finding Honey still buried in her blankets, and dressed herself swiftly. She did not want to walk about the courts; for some reason she was certain that she would encounter Khryse, and she felt that he would be instantly aware of what had happened and that she could not endure his gaze. She had lately allowed Phyllida to take over the care of the serpents, so there was no reason to go to the serpent court.

With surprise she realized that what she felt was loneliness; she had always been so solitary, and in general so accustomed to that state that it was rare for her to crave company. Then she remembered that there was now one person in the Sun Lord’s house to whom she could actually say all that was in her heart.

A few of Penthesilea’s women had been assigned a room not far from Kassandra’s; the mass of them were in a courtyard nearby, where they were sleeping on rolled blankets. One or two were awake, and breakfasting on bread and the harsh new wine that was made within the Temple. Penthesilea, as befitted their Queen, was in a little room alone at the far end of the hall. Kassandra traversed the ancient mosiac of seashells and spirals, tiptoeing quietly so as not to wake the sleepers. She tapped lightly at the door; the old Amazon opened it and pulled her inside.

“Good morning, dear child. Why, how worn and sleepless you look!” She held out her arms, and Kassandra went into them, weeping without knowing why.

“You needn’t cry,” Penthesilea said. “But if you
will
cry, I would say you have reason enough; I know you left the banquet with Aeneas last night. Has that rogue seduced you, child?”

“No, it is not like that at all,” Kassandra said angrily, and wondered why Penthesilea smiled.

“Oh, well, if it is a love affair, why do you weep?”

“I—don’t know. I suppose because I am a fool, as I always knew women were fools who play these games with men, and talk of love, and weep . . .”
And now,
she thought,
I am no better than any of them.

“Love can make fools of any of us,” Penthesilea said. “You have come later to it than most, that is all; the time for weeping over love affairs is when you’re thirteen, not three-and-twenty. And because when you were thirteen you were
not
weeping and bawling over some handsome young slab of manhood, I thought you would be such a one as would seek lovers among women, perhaps . . .”

“No, I had no thought of that,” Kassandra said. “I have known what it is to desire women,” she added thoughtfully, “but I thought perhaps it was only that I had seen them through Paris’ mind and his eyes.” She remembered Helen and Oenone and how deeply she had been aware of them; something in her, whatever happened, would always feel a strong affection for Helen. This was something altogether different and not at all welcome; it enraged her that she could make such a fool of herself over a man to whom she could never even seek to join her life.

She was crying again, this time with rage. She tried to put something of this into words; but Penthesilea said, “It is better to be angry than to grieve, Kassandra; there will be time enough to grieve if this war goes on. Come, help me arm, Bright Eyes.”

The old pet name made her smile through her tears.

Kassandra picked up the armor, made of overlapping boiled and hardened leather scales and reinforced with plates of bronze; it was decorated with coils and rosettes of gold. She pulled it over the old Amazon’s head, turning her gently to fasten the laces.

“Should any harm come to me in this war,” Penthesilea said, “promise me my women will not be enslaved or forced to marry; it would break their hearts. Pledge me they will be free to leave unharmed, if your city survives.”

“I promise,” Kassandra murmured.

“And should I die, I want this bow to be yours; see, I even have a few Kentaur arrows, here at the bottom of the quiver. Most of my women now use metal-tipped shafts, because they can pierce armor like mine; but the arrows of the Kentaurs—you know the secret of their magic, Kassandra?”

“Aye—I know they use poison. . . .”

“Yes: little-known poisons brewed from the skin of a toad,” said Penthesilea; “and they will kill with even a slight wound. Few of your foes will wear armor head to toe, even among the Akhaians. They are—shall we say—a way of evening the disadvantage that we women have in the way of size and strength.”

“I shall remember that,” said Kassandra; “but I pray the Gods I shall not inherit your women nor your bow, and that you shall bear your weapons till they are laid in your grave.”

“But my bow will do no good in my grave to anyone,” said Penthesilea. “When I am gone, take it, Kassandra; or lay it on the altar of the Maiden Huntress. Promise me that.”

THE AKHAIANS made no effort to break the truce during the seven days of funeral games for Patroklos, nor during the next three days, which were devoted to a feast at which the prizes were distributed. Kassandra attended neither the games nor the feast, but heard about them from Aeneas. He won the javelin-casting, and gained a gold cup. Hector was disgruntled because he had entered the wrestling, and he had been beaten by the Akhaian captain called Big Ajax, but was a little comforted by the fact that his son, Astyanax, won the boys’ footrace, though he was smaller than any other boy in the contest. “What did he win?” Kassandra asked.

“A silken tunic from Egypt, dyed crimson; it’s too big for him, and too fine to be cut up for a child, but he can wear it when he is grown,” Aeneas said. “And at the end of the feast, they thanked us for our company at the games and said they’d meet us on the battlefield in the morning. So let us sleep, love, for they will blow the horn to rouse us an hour before daylight.”

He stretched out and drew her into his arms, and she put her own around him joyfully. But after a moment she asked, “Was Akhilles there?”

“Aye; Patroklos being killed has made him even more angry than any insult from Agamemnon,” Aeneas said. “You should have seen him look at Hector; it was as though he were the Gorgon and could turn your brother to stone. You know I’m no coward, but it’s just as well it’s not my fate to go up against Akhilles.”

“He’s a madman,” Kassandra said with a shudder, then stopped further talk by pulling Aeneas’ head down to her own and kissing him. They fell asleep in each other’s arms; but after a time it seemed to Kassandra that she woke and rose . . . no, for, looking back, she could see herself still in the bed, still lying entwined in Aeneas’ arms.

Light as a ghost, she drifted through the Temple, hovering where the Amazons still sat wakeful in their rooms, sharpening their weapons; drifted down to the palace, into the rooms where Paris and Helen lived, Paris sleeping heavily, Helen with tear-stained cheeks wandering through the room where her children had been killed.
She still has Paris; but is this enough? If we are defeated, what will become of her? Will Menelaus drag her back to Sparta, only to kill her?
For a moment it seemed to Kassandra that she saw the Akhaian captains casting lots for the conquered women, dragging them on board the black ships which filled the harbor so full of filth and dread . . .

No; that was no more than a dream; it might never happen after all. The death of Patroklos and the return of Akhilles had changed some tide in the currents of what might befall, she knew that; now even the Gods must make new plans. The night appeared to sparkle with glimmers of moonlight, and it seemed, as she drifted ghostlike down toward the Akhaian camp, that great Forms drifted through the dark. No mortal thing, she knew, could see her in her present guise, but the Gods might catch sight of her as she spied in this world of ghosts. . . .

She had no idea where she was going, but for some unknown reason a firm sense of purpose drove her on. She lingered a moment in Agamemnon’s tent, where he lay sleeping. He was not really larger than life-size—only a narrowly built, mean-looking man with a troubled look on his face. This man was married to Helen’s sister, and had offered his own daughter as sacrifice for a fair wind. . . . Did the Gods of the Akhaians truly demand such hideous things, or did they have priests who said so to suit their own corrupt purposes? She supposed that an evil man was evil everywhere, and among the Akhaians it must be easier. As she lingered, he rolled over on his back and opened his eyes; it seemed to Kassandra that he could see her—and perhaps if he was dreaming, he could.

He said in a whisper—though she did not think he actually spoke—“Have you been sent to tempt me, maiden?”

She replied, “You are only dreaming I am here. I am the spirit of the daughter whom you sent to death, and may the Gods send you evil dreams.” She drifted through the wall of the tent, but behind her she heard him wail in sudden terrified waking. She would not wish to be he this night.

She moved on and found herself in the tent of Akhilles. The Akhaian prince was awake, stretched on his back, his eyes wide open; and lying on a stretcher at the other side of the tent lay the body of Patroklos. Kassandra did not understand; he should surely have been burned, or buried—or even exposed to the great scavenger birds, as was the custom of some of the tribes of the great steppes. Yet the body had been embalmed, and Akhilles kept vigil beside it. His strange pale eyes were swollen as if he had been weeping for a long time, and he was crying audibly.

“Oh, Mother!” he cried out through his sobs, and Kassandra had no idea whether he was invoking his earthly mother or calling upon a Goddess, “Oh, Mother, you told me that Zeus Thunderer had promised me honor and glory, and look what has happened to me: taunted by Agamemnon—and now my only friend is gone from me!”

She thought,
You should have been the kind of person who could have more than one friend in a lifetime.
She heard him moan wordlessly again and then cry out to Patroklos: “How could you leave me? And what shall I say to your father? He told you to stay at home and mind the affairs of your own kingdom; but I pledged to him that no harm would come to you, and that I would bring you home covered with honor and glory! Aye, I will bring you home—but there is no honor or glory for you now.” His sobbing became uncontrollable.

For a moment Kassandra almost pitied the Akhaian prince’s grief; but she had heard too much of his mad battle-lust. He killed without mercy, inflicting as much suffering as he could; but when it came his turn to suffer he had little bravery. If he had come out and fought for himself, this would never have happened; Patroklos had been killed for being where Akhilles should have been. Suddenly she knew what she had come to do.

“Akhilles,” she called softly, imitating the accent she had heard in the Akhaian camp.

He sat up, staring around him, his eyes rolling with terror.

“Who calls me?”

“Ghosts have no names,” she said, deepening her voice. “I am numbered among the dead.”

“Is it you, Patroklos? Why have you come to haunt me, my friend? Why do you stay here rather than passing to your rest?”

“While I remain unburied I cannot rest; my spirit remains to haunt those who compassed my death.”

“Then go and haunt the Trojan Hector,” Akhilles cried in terror, his eyes almost starting from his head. “It was his sword cast out your life, not mine!”