The Firebrand (74 page)

In THE HALL of the Serpents she found the priestesses all running about half dressed, struggling to recapture the snakes; this morning quite a number of them had deserted their proper places and taken refuge in the garden. One or two of the most docile, on being rounded up and carried back to their places, had bitten the handlers. Kassandra was dismayed. Phyllida had indeed tried to tell her of this, but she had not listened. The omen was bad indeed; but the time to be afraid had passed.

“The Sun Lord did not send His people a false warning,” she said. “The hand of Poseidon Earth Shaker did in fact strike us; but only the lightest of blows. Listen, the birds are singing once more; the danger is past, at least for this day.”

Nevertheless, some of them looked troubled.

“The great snake, the Mother of Serpents, has not come forth for her food for three days,” said Phyllida. “We have tempted her with mice and newborn rabbits, then a young pigeon, and even with a saucer of fresh goat’s milk.” (This last was a rare delicacy now in Troy, where so many goats had had to be slaughtered for lack of fodder; what milk remained was kept only for young babies, or for women in early pregnancy who could tolerate no other food.) “What does this omen portend, Kassandra? Is the Mother angry with us? And what can we do to turn away Her anger?”

“I do not know,” she said. “I have not been given any message from the Goddess to say She is angry with us. I think perhaps we should all put on festival robes and sing to Her.” (That at least could do no harm.) “And then we shall all go down and perform a dance of devotion at Hector’s funeral feast.”

This brought exclamations of pleasure from the women; as she had supposed, it quickly banished their fears about the omen. But Phyllida, who had learned from Kassandra much of the serpent-lore of Colchis, delayed for a moment when the others had gone to change into their robes.

“This is all very well, my dear; but what if the great serpent refuses to feed again?”

“I suppose we must simply accept it as the most evil of omens,” Kassandra said. “Even the Mother of Serpents is but a beast, after all; and no beast starves itself without reason. I have force-fed smaller serpents; but I do not feel equal to the task of force-feeding this one; do you?” Phyllida silently shook her head, and Kassandra nodded. “So all we can do is offer her such food as may tempt her most, and pray she will see fit to take it.”

“In short, exactly what we would do with one of the Immortals,” Phyllida said with a cynical smile. “I wonder more and more: what good are the Gods?”

“I don’t know either, Phyllida; but I beg you not to say that to the other girls,” Kassandra said; “and I suppose we had better go and put on our dancing robes too.”

Phyllida patted her cheek; she said, “Poor Kassandra; you cannot feel much like dancing and feasting when Hector lies dead.”

“Hector is better off than most of us still living in the city,” Kassandra said. “Believe me, my dear, I rejoice for him.”

“None of my kin are fighting,” said Phyllida, “and it is so long since I feasted that I would be joyful about it even if the feast were in honor of my own father. So we will dance for Serpent Mother and in memory of Hector, and I hope one gets as much good out of it as the other.” She slipped away, and Kassandra bent before the great artificial cave in the wall that had been built for the great snake.

She hesitated to be certain that Apollo would not speak to forbid her entry, then crawled inside with a lighted torch in her hand to investigate. The ancient serpent knew her smell and would not harm her; but she would not willingly approach a lighted torch either. Inside the cave, in the semidark, Kassandra smelled the ancient smell which brought fear to the very center of the bones of humankind; but she had been trained to ignore that.

She crawled on, avoiding a patch of filth in the cave. Snakes were cleaner than cats under normal conditions; this one would not have fouled her own place if all were well. She began to make out the great heap of scaled coils, and murmuring soothingly, she crawled on. She put out a hesitant hand and stroked gently; but in place of the warm scales she anticipated, she touched what felt like cold pottery. She pressed more firmly. Unstirring beneath her hand, the Great Serpent lay dead.

So that’s why she didn’t come out to eat. The omen was worse than the girls knew,
Kassandra thought, sighing and lying for a moment quietly at the side of the dead creature. She found herself wondering: if she went out onto the gray plain of death where Hector lingered awaiting his son, would she find the Serpent Mother there, and would the snake speak to Her priestess in a human voice?

Well, it would make no difference; if she had occasion to cross that plain again, maybe she would find out; there were so many questions to be answered about death, she could never understand why anyone should fear it or face it with anything except eager curiosity.

She crawled backward out of the cave and placed the lighted torch in a stand before it, a signal not to disturb the occupant. Phyllida came back and asked, “Did you go into the cave? Is it well with her?”

“Very well,” Kassandra said steadily. “She has cast her skin and must not be disturbed.”

Phyllida was relieved. “Oh, but you haven’t changed your robe—nor put on your dancing sandals.”

“Oh, Hector will not care about my robes,” she said, “and I can dance barefoot as well as in my sandals.”

As the girls gathered again in the shrine, she led them through the steps of the dance, which was older than Troy. At the finish, she cried out the final wailing cry, murmuring under her breath a prayer for the old snake; then wondered: was it proper to pray for the soul of a beast who probably had none? Well, if she had a soul she was welcome to the prayer, and if not, at least it would do her no harm.

“And now for the feast,” she said, and led the women down the hill to the palace.

Priam had not expected them, but they were welcomed anyway, and Hecuba was pleased that they had come for this tribute to Hector. Kassandra stood at the center of the dance, watching as the long spiral of the women, with their white robes fluttering, wound around her and then led the unwinding of the coils of the ancient dance of the labyrinth. When the dance and song came to their end, Kassandra signaled the priestesses to help in filling the cups of the guests before they sat down, and herself poured a cup of wine and bore it to Penthesilea. Weary and heartsore, she felt there was no one else in this hall to whom she could speak except the old Amazon. Not even to Aeneas, though he smiled and beckoned to her, could she bear to speak.

Penthesilea did not trouble her with questions; she simply pulled her down on the couch beside her and shared her cup of wine. Not till then did she ask: “What is it, little one? You look so weary. It is not only grief for Hector?”

Kassandra felt tears welling up in her eyes. To everyone else in Troy she was the priestess, the bearer of burdens, the answerer to whom all questions must be brought. It never occurred to anyone that she might have fears or questions of her own.

“There are times when I wish I too had chosen to be a warrior,” she blurted. “I cannot see what use it is to anyone that I am a priestess.”

Penthesilea’s voice was stern. “Our lives are often chosen for us, Kassandra.”

“Then why is it that some people are able to choose?”

“I think perhaps some of us have the choices made for us by the choices we have already made—if not in this life, then in another,” Penthesilea said.

“Do you really believe that?” demanded Kassandra.

“Oh, my dear, I don’t know what I believe; I only know that like all of us, I do the best I can with the choices offered me at any moment,” said Penthesilea, “and so do you. But you should not sit here discussing all the ins and outs of life’s vagaries with an old woman; look, Aeneas has been trying and trying to catch your eye. A few minutes with your lover will do more to cheer you than all of my philosophy.”

It might be so, thought Kassandra, but she resented it. Nevertheless, she looked at Aeneas and returned his smile. He rose and came to her and accepted another cup of wine—although she noted that it was so diluted that it was more water than wine.

“The dance was lovely; I have never seen anything like it before,” he said. “Is it one of the old dances of Troy?”

“Yes, it is very old,” she told him. “But I think it may be from Crete; it is the labyrinth dance—the spiral of the coils of the Earth Snake. It has been danced in the Sun Lord’s house since before He slew the Great Serpent, they say.”

And once again, the Great Serpent lies dead, and the Sun Lord gave us no warning or omen,
she thought, overwhelmed by her dread. . . . What could all this mean? Surely the death of Hector was only the beginning of a procession of evils. . . .

Aeneas was bending over her anxiously, troubled by her distress. She did not want to frighten him too; with him she might even find some surcease from this endless despair.

“Let me bring you something,” he said. “You have hardly tasted of the feast; and there is roast kid and lamb—Priam has spared nothing, and Hector would not want you to be miserable; wherever our dear brother may be, we can be sure it is well with him, and will be none the better for our mourning.”

This sounded so near to what she had been trying to say that she was overjoyed;
at least Aeneas understands when I speak; I need not try to fight my way through a mountain of fear and superstitious nonsense about death!
His face seemed to glow in the torchlight. She remembered that she had seen him coming undamaged from the ruin of Troy; he was going to live, and the light in his face was simply the light of life, where the pallor of death lay over everyone else.

“I want nothing to eat,” she said, though a little while ago she had been hungry.

“Well, then, let us get out of this hall of mourning. All the Gods may witness I loved Hector, but I do not see how his fate or our understanding of it can be bettered by people sitting around and eating till they can hardly move, and drinking themselves into a stupor,” he said, and slipped his arm around her. Enlaced, they went out onto the balcony and looked down into the dark expanse of the Argive camp; there were a few scattered lights, but all else was dark.

“What are they doing down there?” Aeneas asked.

“I don’t know; I may be a prophetess, but I cannot see that far,” she said. “Building an altar to Poseidon, I should think. But it is too late for that, and they should know it.”

“Perhaps their soothsayers are not as good as you are,” he said, holding her tightly. “Kassandra, let me come to your room. . . .”

She hesitated, but finally said, “Come, then.” Tomorrow would be enough time to deal with dead serpents and dying cities.

On their way up the steep street, a star fell, with such a dizzying sweep across the sky that for a moment it felt as if it were the earth that tipped; and she clutched Aeneas’ arm, remembering how she and Andromache had watched falling stars in Colchis when she was only a young girl. Since that night, though she had watched the skies diligently, she had not seen another falling star until this moment. Was it a portent of some kind? Or did it mean anything at all?

“What is it?” Aeneas asked, bending over her and speaking with great tenderness.

“Only the star.”

“Star?” he asked. “I saw nothing, my love.”

Now I am imagining things. Enough, then, for tonight,
she said firmly to herself, and drew Aeneas into her room, knowing with a sudden stab of pain that it would be the last time.

THE TRUCE, rather to Kassandra’s surprise, was not broken by the Akhaians. None of them competed in Hector’s funeral games—except for an anonymous Myrmidon who entered the wrestling, threw four successive opponents (ending by pinning down Deiphobos), pocketed the golden cup given as a prize and vanished without revealing his name. Gossip in the city later credited him with being one of the Immortals in disguise, but he wasn’t. Paris said he had seen him in the ranks and he was just a common soldier. Trojans and Akhaians both stood watching the various events and applauding the winners in a fine sportsmanlike way.

Penthesilea insisted on competing for the prize in archery, which caused some trouble when she won handily against all comers, including Paris, who had obviously marked out that prize for himself. He protested, but no one upheld his objection; since Paris had been heard often to say that no man alive could best him at archery, several of Priam’s younger sons (who were not at all sorry to see their brother beaten for once) insisted he had no right to complain at being beaten by a woman.

On the third morning Kassandra woke early, hearing with relief the sounds of many birds singing loudly in the gardens of the Sun Lord’s house; at least there would be no substantial earthquake this day.

She went early to the palace—Penthesilea had moved from her quarters in the Sun Lord’s house—and helped dress the Amazon in her armor of hardened leather with metal plates.

“All of us will be fighting, and this day we—we Amazons, that is—will throw all our forces against Akhilles,” she said. “We have fought for many years. One warrior, be he never so fierce, cannot lay us all low.”

“I wish you would set yourselves to attack someone less formidable,” Kassandra said, troubled. “There are enemies enough; such men as Menelaus and Idomeneos need killing too. Why not go against Agamemnon? Why must you challenge the pride of the Akhaians?”

“Because if Agamemnon or Menelaus is killed, Akhilles is still there to inspire the troops, but if Akhilles is dead, they will be like a hive of bees when the queen is gone,” Penthesilea said. “The Myrmidons, at least, will be completely demoralized; remember when Akhilles was still sulking, they hardly fought at all, and they certainly did not fight like the well-disciplined army they are now.”