The figure in the door shifted slightly; the full moon crowned it with a shining halo, and its robes shone like polished marble. Sky Father’s Queen stood there, Hera, stately and majestic, rooted in earth but reigning over it. “Serve me, Paris, and you will be great. You shall rule over all the known countries, and the wealth of the world shall be yours.”
Kassandra felt Paris bow his head. “Truly you are fair, Lady, Most Powerful Queen.” But the apple still lay heavy in his hand.
She looked up cautiously, fearing the Lady’s wrath, but now the moon seemed to shine through a golden haze, glinting from the helmet and shield the Lady bore. The golden light radiated from Her as well, and even the owl on Her right shoulder shone with reflected glory.
“You will have much wisdom, Paris,” Athene said. “Already you know that you cannot rule the world unless you first rule yourself. I shall give you knowledge of self, and build upon it all other knowledge. You will have wisdom to live well, and achieve victory in all battles.”
“I thank you, Lady, but I am a shepherd, not a warrior. And there is no war here; who would dare to challenge the rule of King Priam?”
Kassandra thought she saw a look of scorn on the Lady’s face, but then She moved, coming close enough so that Kassandra felt she could reach out and touch Her. Her shield and helmet had disappeared, as had Her pale draperies, and light radiated from Her perfect body. Paris brought up his hands, still clasping the apple, to shield his eyes. “Bright Lady,” he murmured.
“There are other battles a shepherd can easily win—and what victory can there be without love and a lady to share it? Thou art fair, Paris, and most pleasing to all the senses.” Her breath brushed against his cheek and he felt dizzy, as if the entire mountain were spinning around him. The air around him was warm; he shone brilliantly, bathed in the Lady’s golden glow. Her voice continued, soft and seductive, pulling him toward Her. “Thou art a man any woman would be proud to marry—even such a woman as Helen of Sparta, the most beautiful woman in the world.”
“Surely no mortal woman could compare with You, Lady.” Paris looked into Aphrodite’s eyes, and Kassandra had the curious impression that she and he were drowning together, washed away in the tide of light that shone from the eyes of the Queen of Love.
“But Helen is not entirely mortal; she is a daughter of Zeus, and her mother was fair enough to tempt Him. She is almost as beautiful as I am, and she holds Sparta as well. All men desire her; all the Kings among the Argives sued for her hand. She chose Menelaus, but I assure you that one look at you would make her forget that choosing. For you are beautiful, and beauty draws all to itself.”
Kassandra thought of Oenone, lying entranced at Paris’ side—What does he want of a beautiful woman? He has one already—but Paris appeared unaware of her presence. The apple seemed feather-light in his hand as he handed it to the Goddess Aphrodite, and the golden glow brightened as if it would consume him. . . .
The sunlight was shining in her eyes through the tent flap that Elaria had just opened. “How are you feeling this morning, Bright Eyes?”
Kassandra stretched warily, slitting her eyes against the light—only sunlight, after all, not the brilliant arrowed moonlight of the Goddess. Had it been a vision, or only a dream; and had it been her dream, or her brother’s? Three Goddesses—but not one of them had been the Maiden Huntress. Why not?
Perhaps Paris has no interest in maidens, she thought flippantly. But neither had there been any sign of Earth Mother—or was Earth Mother the same as Hera? No, for Earth Mother is Goddess by Her own right, not wife even to a God, and those Goddesses were all defined as wife or daughter to Sky Father. Are those, then, the same as the Goddesses of Troy?
No, they could not be; why would a Goddess agree to be judged by any man—or even by any God?
None of these Goddesses is the Goddess as I know Her—the Maiden, Earth Mother, Serpent Mother—nor even Penthesilea’s Mother of Mares. Perhaps in a land where the Sky Gods rule, can only those Goddesses be seen who are perceived as servants to the God? This left her more confused than ever.
It cannot have been my dream, for if I had dreamed of Goddesses I would have dreamed of those Goddesses I worship and honor. I have heard of these Goddesses; Mother told me of Athene with Her gifts of olive and grape; but they are not mine, nor of the Amazons.
“KASSANDRA? Are you still sleeping?” asked Elaria. “We are to return to Colchis, and Penthesilea has been asking for you.”
“I am coming,” said Kassandra, pulling on her breeches. As she moved, the tension of the dream—or vision—seemed to slip away, so that in her mind was only the curious memory of the alien Goddesses.
The vision is my brother’s, not mine.
“Say to my kinswoman that I am coming,” Kassandra said. “Let me but brush my hair.”
“Let me help you,” Elaria said, and knelt beside her. “Does your head hurt? The bandage has come away from your face. Ah, good—there is no sign of a scar; it is healing cleanly. The Goddess has been kind to you.”
To herself Kassandra wondered, Which Goddess? but she did not speak the question aloud. In a few minutes she was in the saddle, and as they turned toward Colchis for the long ride, Kassandra saw before her in the brilliant sunlight the faces and forms of all the world’s Goddesses. But what did these Goddesses of the Akhaians want with my brother, or with me? Or with Troy?
11
RIDING AT their own pace and no longer held to the slow lumbering of the clumsy tin-bearing wagons, Penthesilea, Kassandra and the others who were returning to Colchis left the caravan to make its way to the faraway country of the Hittites. Kassandra’s face ached, and the jolting of her horse made it worse. She wondered what fortune the rest of the warriors would have on their journey and almost wished she could ride with them to that unknown land, even if only to join them in battle or death. But, she thought, I should not complain; I have already traveled farther from my home than any other woman of Troy has ever traveled, farther than any of my brothers, or even Priam himself.
Penthesilea seemed unconcerned about attack as they retraced their way toward the city; perhaps the Amazons were not worth attacking without the metal they guarded. And who, Kassandra wondered, would guard the next caravan, with so many of the Amazons gone to guard this one? But she knew it was not her affair.
Now that she thought about it, she was eager to see more of the city of Colchis; Penthesilea’s oracle had commanded her to remain for some time. All she had to look forward to after this was a return to Troy. Now she understood what her kinswoman meant in saying that she should return before she was completely unfit for the ordinary life of a woman of Troy. But, thought Kassandra, it is already too late for that.
I shall go mad, prisoned inside house walls for the rest of my life.
And then she remembered her vision of the Goddesses and of her brother. With this gift, she would always have a way of going outside her immediate surroundings, and thus she was more fortunate than many other women.
But was it any kind of substitute for actual change? Or merely a mockery, that her mind should escape the prisoning walls when her body could not?
She felt she would like to talk about this at length with her mother, who had lived both lives and might understand. But would her mother be willing to talk about it freely, having made her own irrevocable choice? What had her mother gained for all she had given up? Would she still make the same choice?
Yet Kassandra knew she would never really have that opportunity. To Hecuba it was important that she be seen as powerful, and to this end she would never admit to Kassandra—or to anyone else—that she might have made a choice that was less than perfect.
Who else was there to talk to? Was there anyone to whom she could confide her confusion and distress? She could think of no one. It was unlikely that Penthesilea would be ready for such a discussion; Kassandra was sure her kinswoman loved her, but that she regarded Kassandra as a child, not an equal with whom she would talk
freely.
Even though they were traveling at the best speed of their horses, the ride to Colchis seemed all but endless. Even though at the end of the first day they came within sight of the high walls of the iron-gated city, there was still a long way to go: days in the saddle from first light, broken at noon for the usual cheese or curds. At least it was better than the hunger in the southern pastures. It was sunset of the third or fourth day when at last the tired riders passed beneath the great gates and towers. They set up a cheer in which Kassandra joined, but opening her mouth to cheer made the bandaged cut on her face ache. It was growing cold, and rain was threatening.
Within the shadow of the walls, a messenger from the palace came and spoke to Penthesilea, after which she beckoned to Kassandra.
“You and I are bidden to the palace, Kassandra; the rest of you, join the others in the camp.”
Kassandra wondered what the Queen wanted of them. They trotted slowly through the cobbled streets, gave up their horses at the palace gates and were conducted by Queen Imandra’s women into the royal presence.
She was waiting for them in the same room where she had greeted them before. A young girl with coils of dark curls arranged low on her neck sprawled beside her on a rug.
“You have done well,” Imandra said, beckoning them forward; seizing Penthesilea’s hand, she slid onto it a bracelet of carved golden leaves, set with bits of green stone. Kassandra had never seen anything so beautiful.
“I will not keep you long,” said the Queen. “You will be wanting a bath and dinner, after your long journey. Still, I wanted to speak with you for a little.”
“It is our pleasure, Kinswoman,” Penthesilea said.
“Andromache,” said Queen Imandra, turning to the girl on the rug beside her, “this is your cousin Kassandra, daughter of Hecuba of Troy. She is the sister of Hector, your promised husband.”
The dark-haired girl sat up, flinging her long curls to one side. “You are Hector’s sister?” she inquired eagerly. “Tell me about him. What is he like?”
“He is a bully,” Kassandra said forthrightly. “You must be very firm with him or he will treat you like a rug and walk all over you, and you will be no more than a timid little thing perpetually yessing him, as my mother does my father.”
“But that is suitable for a husband and wife,” said Andromache. “How would you have a man behave?”
“It’s useless to talk to her, Kassandra,” said Queen Imandra. “She should have been born to one of your city-dwelling women. I had intended her for a warrior, as you can tell from the name I gave her.”
“It’s useless to say that to Kassandra,” said Penthesilea; “she speaks no language but her own.”
“It’s horrible,” Andromache said. “My name means ‘Who fights like a man’—and who would want to?”
“I would,” said Penthesilea, “and I do.”
“I don’t want to be rude to you, Kinswoman,” said Andromache, “but I don’t like fighting at all. My mother can’t forgive me that I was not born to be a warrior like her, to bring her all kinds of honor at arms.”
“The wretched girl,” Imandra said, “will have nothing to do with weapons. She is lazy and childish; she wants only to stay indoors and wear pretty clothes. And already her mind is full of men. When I was her age I hardly knew there were men in the world except for my arms-master, and I only wanted him to be proud of me. I made the mistake of letting her be brought up by women, indoors; I should have turned her over to you, Penthesilea, as soon as she could sit a horse. What sort of Queen is this for Colchis? Good for nothing except to marry—and what good is that?”
“Oh, Mother!” said Andromache, crossly. “You must accept that I am not like you. To hear you talk, one would think that there was nothing to life except war and weapons and the ruling of your city, and beyond that, trade and ships beyond the borders of your world.”
Imandra smiled and said, “I have found nothing better. Have you?”
“And what of love?” asked Andromache. “I have heard women talk—real women, not women who are pretending to be warriors—”
Imandra stopped her short by leaning over and slapping her face.
“How dare you say ‘pretending’ to be warriors? I am a warrior, and no less a woman for that!”
Andromache’s smile was wicked, even though she put her hand to her reddening cheek.
“Men say that women who take up weapons are pretending to be warriors only because they are unable to spin and weave and make tapestries and bear children—”
“I did not find you under an olive tree,” interrupted Imandra.
“And where is my father to say so?” asked the girl impudently.
Imandra smiled. “What does our guest say? Kassandra, you have lived both ways . . .”
“By the girdle of the Maiden,” Kassandra said, “I would rather be a warrior than a wife.”
“That seems to me folly,” said Andromache, “for it has not brought happiness to my mother.”
“Yet I would not change with any woman, wedded or unwedded, on the shores of the sea,” said Imandra; “and I do not know what you mean by happiness. Who has put these sentimental notions into your head?”
Penthesilea, speaking for the first time, said, “Let her alone, Imandra; since you have decided she is to be married, it is just as well she should be contented in that state. A girl that age does not know what she wants, nor why; that is so among our girls as well as yours.”
Kassandra looked down at the soft-skinned, rosy-cheeked young girl at her side. “I think you are quite perfect as you are; I find it hard to imagine you otherwise.”
Andromache lifted her hand toward Kassandra’s bandaged cheek. “What have you done to yourself, Cousin?”
“Nothing worth mentioning,” Kassandra said. “No more than a scratch.” And indeed before Andromache’s soft eyes she felt it truly nothing, a trivial incident she should be ashamed to mention.
Imandra leaned forward, and as she did so, Kassandra saw the small squarish head sliding out of her bodice. She put out her hand. “May I?” she asked, pleading, and the snake glided forward to slide around her wrist. Imandra guided the snake into Kassandra’s hand.
“Will she speak to you?”
Andromache looked on with a frown. “Ugh! How can you touch those things? I have such a horror of them.”
Kassandra brought the snake caressingly to her cheek. “But that is foolish,” she said. “She will not bite me, and if she did, it would do me very little harm.”
“It has nothing to do with fear of being bitten,” Andromache said. “It is not right, not normal to be unafraid of snakes. Even a monkey that has been kept in a cage all its life, and never seen a living snake, will cry and shiver if you so much as throw a piece of rope into the cage, thinking it is a snake. And I think men too are intended by nature to be afraid of snakes.”
“Well, perhaps, then, I am not normal,” Kassandra snapped. She bent her head close to the snake, crooning to it.
Imandra said gently, “It is not for everyone, Kassandra. Only for such as you, who are born with the link to the Gods.”
“I do not understand this,” Kassandra said, feeling sullen and inclined to contradict everything that was said to her. Petting the snake, she said, “I dreamed the other night—or perhaps it was a vision of some sort—of the Goddesses. But the Serpent Mother was not one of them.”
“You dreamed? Tell me about it,” said Imandra, but Kassandra hesitated. Partly she felt that to tell her dream might dilute the magic; it had been sent to her as a sacred secret and was not intended for anyone else. She cast a pleading look at Penthesilea, for she did not want, either, to offend the Queen who had been so good to them.
“I advise you to tell her, Kassandra,” said the Amazon Queen. “She is herself a priestess of Earth Mother, and perhaps she can tell you what this means to your destiny.”
Thus encouraged, Kassandra began, detailing every moment of her vision, ending with he
r confusion that neither the Maiden, nor Earth Mother, nor Serpent Mother had appeared among the Goddesses. Imandra listened intently, even when Kassandra, momentarily overcome by the memory, let her voice sink to a whisper.
When she finished, Imandra asked quietly, “Was this your first encounter with any of the Immortals?”
“No, Lady; I have seen the Mother Goddess of Troy speak through my mother’s mouth, though I must have been very small indeed at the time. And once”—she swallowed, lowered her head and tried to steady her voice, knowing that if she did not she would break into wild weeping without knowing why—“once . . . in His own Temple ... Apollo Sun Lord spoke clearly to me.”
She felt Imandra’s gentle fingers rest on her hair.
“It is as I thought when first I spoke with you; you have been called as a priestess. Do you know what that means?”
Kassandra shook her head and tried to guess.
“That I must live in the Temple and care for the oracles and the rites?”
“No, it is not as simple as that, child,” Imandra told her. “It means that from this very day you must stand between men and Immortals, to explain the ways of the one to the other. . . . It is not a life I would choose for my own daughter.”
“But why have I been chosen?”
“Only Those who called you know the answer to that, little one,” Imandra said, and her voice was very gentle. “On some of us They lay Their hand in a way we cannot mistake. They do not explain Their ways to us. But if we try to escape Their will, They have ways of forcing us to Their service, forget it not. . . . No one seeks to be chosen; it is the Gods who choose us, not we who seek to give our service to Them.”
Yet, thought Kassandra, I think I would have sought this service. At least I do not come to it unwilling. The snake seemed to have fallen asleep in a heavy puddle on her arm; Imandra leaned forward and scooped it up still sleeping, letting it slide as if melting down the front of her dress.
“When next the moon shines full, you shall seek Her,” she said. And Kassandra felt an omen in the way she spoke.