The Firebrand (67 page)

“Alas,” Kassandra wailed, “I remain here for I was killed in your armor, and in that place which should have been yours in battle—” And then, with sudden inspiration: “Do you love me no more because I have passed the doors of death?”

Akhilles wailed, “The dead have no more place among the living; reproach me not, or I shall die of grief.”

“I do not reproach you,” Kassandra moaned in the sepulchral voice. “I leave that to your own conscience; you know I died the death that should have been yours.”

“No!” Akhilles cried out. “No! I will not hear this! Help! Guards!”

What the devil!
she thought.
Does he truly believe that his guards can cast out a ghost?
Four armed men rushed into his tent.

“You called us, my prince?” asked the first of them, avoiding looking at the body of Patroklos where it lay.

“Search the camp,” Akhilles commanded. “Some intruder has entered unseen and spoken dreadful things to me in the voice of Patroklos. Find him and drag him here, and I will have his eyeballs on sticks to roast! I will tear out his gizzard and fry it before his eyes! I will—but find him for me first!” He shook his fist, and the men rushed out.

Her mission finished, Kassandra drifted after them, and heard one of them say, “I knew it. He’s been mad since he shut himself up in his tent, and it’s driven him further out of his senses, it has.”

“Do you think there’s a spy?”

“I wouldn’t wear meself out looking, lad,” said the first speaker cynically. “Inside his poor sick brain, that’s where ye’ll find yer intruder.”

Kassandra would have laughed if she had been capable of it. Like a wraith of fog she moved up the long hill to the windswept heights of Troy, and silently slipped downward and merged with her body, still wrapped in Aeneas’ arms.

She slept without dreams.

NOW THAT she had a man among the warriors, Kassandra felt more strongly than ever the impulse that sent the women down to the wall to watch the fighting. She left Phyllida to care for the serpents, and the other priestesses to the task of healing the wounded. This morning the line of chariots seemed more brilliantly painted and polished, weapons shining with a more terrible menace than ever before. Hector was leading, flanked by Aeneas and Paris, armored and imposing as if they were the Gods of War in person. Behind the line of chariots came long lines of foot soldiers in their polished leather armor, with their javelins and spears. She thought, if she were among the Akhaians and saw this formidable host approaching, she might well run away.

The Argive troops, already lined up along the earthworks they had built between the plain and the shoreline where their ships were beached, did not flinch even when Hector gave the command to charge, and the Trojan war cry rang out. The chariots thundered forward, toward the unbreaking Argive line. The Akhaians loosed a flight of arrows and, in one concerted movement, the Trojan shields went up; most of the arrows fell harmlessly on the roof thus formed by the shields of the Trojans. A second flight of arrows quickly followed the first; one or two soldiers in the ranks fell, or stumbled out of line back toward the walls; but this did not interrupt the charge of the chariots.

A great cry went up from both ranks; at the top of the earthworks stood a great bronze chariot adorned with gilded wings and a rayed sun, and in it a glittering figure: Akhilles had joined the battle, dominating the line of Akhaians as a rooster dominates a hen yard; everyone on either side of the battle seemed smaller and drabber by contrast.

Shouting, he raised his mighty shield and charged down the earthworks at Hector like a Fury. Jumping out of the chariot, he cried his challenge. Hector was ready to oblige him. He cast his javelin, which rebounded from Akhilles’ shield; then, sword in one hand and shield in the other, swiftly engaged Akhilles in combat. Even from where she stood Kassandra could feel the shock of that first blow, from which both men reeled back, staggering, several feet.

She knew that Andromache was beside her, clutching at her arm so strongly that her nails dug into Kassandra’s skin. This battle had been inevitable from the moment Patroklos was killed.

Kassandra shrieked with excitement. Behind the foot soldiers, who swept along to catch the Akhaian soldiers between the chariots, came the horses of the Amazons. Their arrows and swords dispatched many of the foot soldiers. Hector, engaged with Akhilles, now seemed taller and more formidable; Kassandra felt it was not her brother, but the shining War God Himself. Hector wounded Akhilles and the Akhaian went down. A cheer from the Trojan ranks seemed to revitalize him, and he was up again, beating Hector back toward his chariot. The Trojan prince jumped up and was fighting Akhilles from the step of the chariot, then pivoted the wheels and knocked Akhilles down as he rode almost over him. Akhilles recovered and flung his javelin. It rebounded from Hector’s armor, but he followed it up with a mighty sword-slash that struck Hector in the neck.

Hector slumped in the chariot. Troilus grabbed the reins and, knocking Akhilles down again, made a dash for the walls. Then the Amazons with their spears swept toward Akhilles; but he was surrounded by at least two dozen of his own Myrmidons, who made a solid wall of shields around him. The Amazons were forced to retreat, for although they cut down ten or twelve of Akhilles’ men, there were always more.

The Myrmidons reached Hector’s chariot when it was already under the walls of Troy. Then storming after them came Akhilles in his own chariot, with only one horse—he had cut the other loose. He crashed his chariot deliberately into Hector’s, spilling young Troilus out onto the ground. The boy landed on his feet and went down beneath the swarming Myrmidons. Andromache was screaming; Kassandra turned to quiet her, and when she looked back again, Akhilles had the reins of Hector’s chariot and was racing back toward the Akhaian lines with Hector—or his body—still inside.

Troilus was fighting for his life. One of the Amazons swept up to him, killed three of Akhilles’ men and snatched Troilus into her saddle. Paris and Aeneas were in hot pursuit of Akhilles, but the men atop the earthworks repelled them with what seemed a wall of javelins, on which their horses were impaled. The Amazon charge cut down the javelin wall, and rescued Paris and Aeneas, but their overturned chariots were in Akhaian hands. Akhilles, with Hector and his chariot, had vanished from sight.

It took a hard-fought hour for the Trojans to make their way back to the gate, even covered by arrow-fire from the walls; and Andromache met them.

“You couldn’t even recover his body?” she shrieked. “You left it in their hands?”

“We did our best,” said Paris; he had lost most of his armor, and was leaning on his charioteer, bleeding from a great sword-cut across the thigh. “But with Akhilles leading his men—”

“Akhilles! Curse him forever! May his bones rot unburied on the shores of the Styx!” Andromache broke into a high wild scream of lamentation: “Hector is dead! Now let Troy perish indeed!”

Hecuba joined in the keening: “He is dead! Our greatest of heroes is dead! Dead or in Akhaian hands—”

“Oh, he’s dead all right,” Aeneas said grimly.

“Galls me to admit it, but without the Amazon charge we would
all
have been dead,” said Deiphobos, who had lifted down Troilus from the Amazon saddle and was half carrying him, examining his wounds. Hecuba hurried to him and took him in her arms, beckoning for a healer-priest.

“Ah, my sons! My Hector! My firstborn and my last-born in a single hour! Ah, most fateful of all battles! It has begun,” Hecuba wailed, and crumpled senseless. Kassandra ran to kneel by her, suddenly terrified that the shock had killed her mother too.

“No, Troilus is alive,” said Aeneas, lifting the old woman gently. “You must be strong, Mother; he will need your good care if you are not to lose him too.” He turned Troilus over to a healer-priest, who restored him to consciousness with a sip of wine, then examined his wounds. Women were handing wine around; Aeneas took one of the cups and gulped it.

“I think tomorrow I will take careful aim at Akhilles from the walls and try to get him off the field before we even venture out.”

“He can’t be killed that way,” Deiphobos said. “That armor of his is God-forged; arrows bounce off it like twigs!”

“Not God-forged,” said Penthesilea, “forged of solid iron. Have you any idea what it must weigh? Even my women’s metal-tipped Skythian arrows cannot penetrate it.”

Paris said in disgust, “There’s an old tale that Akhilles is protected by spells so that no wound inflicted by a mortal can bring him down.”

“Let me but get a weapon into his flesh,” said Aeneas; “I’ll guarantee to kill him. But we must go up and break the news to Priam; the worst news of all this year.”

Kassandra said between her teeth, “We should have expected this. Hector killed Patroklos; Akhilles was ready for him the moment he put foot outside the wall. This was not war but murder.” And silently she wondered if there was that much difference.

“We must go to Akhilles at once,” Aeneas said, “perhaps even before we tell our father, and ask a truce to bury and mourn our brother.”

“Do you really think they will give it?” asked Paris sarcastically. “You think too well of them.”

“They
must
grant it,” said Aeneas. “We gave a truce for Patroklos’ funeral games.”

“If it comes to that,” said Andromache, “I will go myself and kneel to Akhilles and beg back the body of my husband.”

“They will return it,” said Aeneas. “Akhilles is always talking of honor.”

“Only his own, I notice,” Kassandra said.

“Well, then, his own honor will prompt him to do the honorable thing,” Aeneas said. “They know me; let me go, then, with a delegation of Hector’s own guard to bring home his body.”

“We must tell Father first,” said Troilus, rising from the healer’s ministrations, very pale, his head wrapped in bandages. “If you wish it, I will tell him; I am to blame; I let him fall into Akhilles’ hands.”

Hecuba embraced him fiercely. “No blame to you, my love. I rejoice that you did not follow him into death.” She added, “But yes, go to Priam; nothing could comfort him for the loss of our firstborn but the knowledge of the son we still have to bless us. . . .”

“I will go and tell him,” Paris said. “But first gather all my brothers; all of us who live still shall stand before him and be ready to comfort him.”

“And I,” said Kassandra, “I will go to the Maiden’s Temple and tell Polyxena; she and Hector were close in age, and they loved each other well.”

They had begun to set out on their various errands, when Andromache went to the wall and let out a high, wild shriek.

“Ah, the fiend, the monster! What is he doing now?”

“Who?” Kassandra asked, but she already knew;
fiend, monster
could be only one person. She rushed to the wall.

The sun was high. It was not yet noon; it had only seemed that they had watched the great battle for half of a day. There was a great cloud of dust on the plain before Troy; it cleared a little and she could see the chariot of Akhilles, with Akhilles himself standing upright, driving his matched horses. And in the dust at the tail of the chariot, a figure whose armor clearly revealed its identity.

“Hector! But what is he doing?” she demanded.

It was all too clear what he was doing; he was dragging Hector’s corpse in the dust behind his chariot, as he raced fiercely in circles around the plain. The Trojans watched, frozen in horror.

“Why,” said Kassandra, “he
is
mad, then. I thought . . .” She had thought they called him mad rhetorically; but surely a man who could thus abuse the corpse of a fallen enemy—even an enemy who had slain his dearest friend—must be mad in truth.

Why, he is not fit to be let out without a keeper,
she thought with a shudder.

Aeneas said, “Why, this goes beyond even revenge; the man is inhuman.”

“Demented with grief, perhaps,” said Kassandra. “He loved Patroklos beyond reason, and when his friend died, he lost the last of all ties to sanity.”

“Still, this must be stopped,” Aeneas said. “We must send to the Akhaians—Odysseus, at least, is a reasonable man—and get back Hector’s body before this comes to his father’s ears.”

“So,” said Andromache, with clenched fists, “I am to stand here and watch this and not go mad myself with grief; but Priam, a man and a King, must be shielded from the very word, let alone the sight . . .” She flung back her head and screamed, “I will go down myself, if I must, and I will persuade that man with a horsewhip that he cannot do this thing before all of Hector’s kin!”

“No,” Paris said, embracing her gently. “No, Andromache, he would not listen to you. I tell you, he is mad.”

“Is he? Or is he feigning madness so that we will offer him a greater ransom for Hector’s body?” Andromache asked. Kassandra had not thought of that.

At last Troilus, taking with him two or three of Priam’s other sons, went up to tell the King that Hector was dead, while Paris and Aeneas armed themselves and drove forth in a chariot with Priam’s favorite herald. They tried in vain to make Akhilles hear them, but he simply went on whipping up his horses into a frenzy and refused to listen to a word the herald said.

After a time they stopped and conferred and went on to the main Akhaian camp to speak with Agamemnon and the other captains. Eventually, looking discouraged, they returned to Troy.

Andromache rushed at them. “What did they say?” she demanded, though it was obvious they had had no success; down on the plain, Akhilles’ chariot was still dragging the body around in circles. It seemed he meant to go on at least till sunset, perhaps longer.

Aeneas said, “They will do nothing to stop Akhilles; they said he is their leader, and he must do as he will with his own captives and prisoners. He killed Hector and the body is his, to ransom or not as he chooses.”