At this moment there was a loud outcry; the children had been playing at the far end of the hall, and there were whacking sounds from wooden swords and loud childish shrieks; Hector and Paris saw that little Astyanax and Helen’s son Nikos were sprawled on the floor, struggling and punching at each other, both shouting incoherently, their faces red and tearstained.
Helen and Andromache each ran to reclaim her son, and when they returned, each with a wailing small boy under her arm, Hector motioned to the women to set the boys down.
“Here, here, lads, what’s all this? Isn’t there enough war outside the gates; must we have it at dinnertime too? Astyanax, Nikos is our guest in Troy; a guest deserves our hospitality. Besides, he is smaller than you. Why do you beat him?”
“Because he is a coward like his father,” Astyanax said with a scowl, digging his fists in his eyes.
Nikos kicked out at his shins, and Astyanax muttered, “Well, you said it, Father.”
Hector struggled to keep his face straight.“No,Astyanax; I said that his father, Menelaus, was an honorable enemy; Paris is not his father, you know. And besides”—he raised his voice, as both boys began yelling at once—“whoever said what, there is always a truce at dinnertime. If Agamemnon himself came to this table, it would be my duty as an honorable man to feed him if he was hungry; the first duty we owe the Gods is hospitality. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, sir,” muttered Astyanax, and Hector turned to Helen.
“Lady, I beg you to keep your son in order at dinnertime, out of respect to my father and mother, or send him away with his nurse,” he commanded.
“I will try,” she murmured. Paris looked like a thundercloud, but he did not venture to contradict Hector; no one did, these days.
Kassandra applied herself to the honeyed fruits which had appeared in her dish at the end of the meal, and asked Priam, “Has there been any sign that Mother’s waiting-women can be exchanged or returned?”
“Not yet,” Priam growled. “That damned priest’s daughter—a plague on her, for all Apollo took her part,” he added with a pious gesture—“has brought all other negotiations to a stop so sudden that if it were a chariot we’d all be head over heels in the road! When we can, we’ll try again, but just now I’m afraid there’s no hope.”
Creusa rose, cradling her child in her arms. “I must take the little one to bed,” she announced to the company at large. “Helen, will you come with me?”
Kassandra rose too.
“I too will say good night,” she said. “Mother, Father, good night, and thank you; I have certainly dined better at your table than in the refectory of the priestesses.”
“Don’t see why it should be that way,” Priam said thickly; “they get the best of everything up there.”
Aeneas said, “By your leave, sir, I will walk through the city with the Lady Kassandra; it’s late, and there may be riffraff about, now that all the decent able-bodied men are with the soldiers down below.”
“I thank you, but really, Brother-in-Law, it’s not necessary.”
“Let him go with you, Kassandra,” Hecuba commanded firmly. “It will ease my mind; Polyxena was not with us tonight because the Temple of the Maiden could spare no man to escort her.”
“Why, where is Polyxena?” Kassandra asked. She had noticed her sister’s absence, but for all she knew, Polyxena might have been married to some King or warrior at the far end of the world.
“She serves the Maiden Goddess; it’s a long story,” Hecuba said in a tone indicating that long story or short, she had no intention of telling it now. Kassandra kissed her mother and the children, and let Aeneas, rather than a servant, fold her into her cloak. Hector rose too, embracing his wife and son, and at the palace doors took leave of Aeneas and Kassandra.
“You are prettier than when you went to Colchis,” he said kindly. “There is some ballad which calls you beautiful enough for Apollo to desire; if you wished, I am sure Father could find you a husband, without all the nonsense that drove Polyxena into the Temple of the Maiden.”
“No, dear brother; I am happy in the house of the Sun Lord,” she replied; but she returned his embrace with real warmth, knowing he meant her well.
It was not particularly dark as they moved up the steep streets, for the moon was rising, round and bright. Aeneas paused at one point to look out over the plain where the Argive army lay.
“If Agamemnon and Akhilles had not quarreled, this is the sort of night when it would hardly be wise for Hector to dine at home with his family,” Aeneas said. “Usually, these last three years, on nights with a full moon we have had an attack from seaward. But look, everything is dark down there—except in Akhilles’ tent, where, I dare say, they are still arguing over their wine.”
“Aeneas, what’s all this about Polyxena?”
“Oh, Lord,” he said, “I don’t know the whole story; nobody does. Akhilles—well, Priam offered her to Akhilles, hoping to make trouble in the Akhaian ranks. Your father—after that, he went about saying she was as beautiful as the Spartan Helen, and he would award her to the most powerful—”
“What? Polyxena, as beautiful as Helen? Is his eyesight failing with age?”
“I think he was trying to make trouble with the Akhaians; he offered her to the King of Crete—”
“Idomeneus? But I heard he was joined with Agamemnon on the Akhaian side. It’s treachery, of course; the Minoan folk have been our kinsmen and allies since before Atlantis sank.”
“Well, however it may be, Priam tried to offer her as wife to many of the island people; but all those who wanted to accept were among the supporters of the Akhaians. And in the end, Polyxena rebelled—”
“Rebelled? But Polyxena has always done whatever she was told,” Kassandra protested.
“And so she did; but she said at last that she felt like a pot being hawked at the market; and a cracked pot which no one would buy, at that—and vowed to serve the Maiden Goddess. Where she is to this day. Priam was angrier with her than when you went to serve the Sun Lord.”
“I should think so,” Kassandra said. “Since I was a very little girl, Father always thought of me as a rebel; but when Polyxena disobeyed, it must have been as if a child’s pet rabbit had turned and bitten him.”
“Yes, exactly like that, I think. Your mother was very distressed.”
“Yes,” Kassandra said, “Mother brings us up to think for ourselves and then is shocked and upset when we do it. I’m glad my sister made her own decision.”
They strolled quietly up the steep street. Kassandra stumbled in the darkness and Aeneas quickly caught her.
“Mind your step!” he admonished. “It’s a long fall!”
His arm was around her; he was not wearing armor, only tunic and cloak, and against her body he felt warm and strong. She let him support her for the next few steps; but when she would have drawn herself upright, he tightened the clasp of his arm around her waist, and bent his face to hers. In the dark their lips just met before she pulled away.
“No,” she said, entreating, drawing herself away. “No, Aeneas. Not you too.”
He did not free her at once; but he raised his head, and said softly, “Since first I set eyes on you, Kassandra, I have wanted you. And somehow I thought that this—this was not altogether distasteful to you.”
She said, and discovered that her voice was shaking, “If it had been otherwise . . . but I am sworn to chastity, and you are the husband of my sister.”
“Not by my own choice, not by Creusa’s,” Aeneas said softly. “We were wedded by the will of my father and yours.”
“Still, it is done,” Kassandra said. “I am not Helen, to abandon a pledge of honor . . .” but she let her head rest against his strong arm. She felt weak, as if her legs were no longer holding her firmly upright.
Aeneas said quietly, “I think too much is said of honor and duty. Why should Helen remain faithful to Menelaus? She was given to him with no thought for her happiness. Are we put on this ear
th only to carry out our duty to our families? Are we not given life by the Gods so that we may create lives for ourselves for some good to our own hearts and minds and souls?”
“If you felt like that,” Kassandra asked precisely, drawing herself upright a little (she felt cold away from Aeneas’ arm), “why did you agree to marry her in the first place?”
“Oh, I was younger then,” Aeneas said, “and all my life I had been told it was my duty to marry whatever princess was found for me; and at that time I believed still that one woman was very much like another.”
“And are they not?”
“No,” Aeneas said violently. “No, they are not. Creusa is a good woman, but you are as unlike her as wine to spring water. I say nothing against the mother of my children; but at that time I had never seen a woman who was more to me than any other, one I truly wanted, one who could speak as an equal, a comrade. Kassandra, I swear, if before I married Creusa I had had the opportunity to speak a dozen times with you, I would have told Priam and my father that I would marry no other woman under the skies—that I would have you or go unmarried to my grave.”
She felt stunned. “You cannot mean this; you are making fun of me,” she murmured.
“Why would I want to do that?” he demanded. “I did not—I do not—want to disrupt my life, or trouble your peace, or hurt Creusa; but I think that Goddess of Love who played such a cruel trick on Paris has chosen to throw discord my way as well, and I felt I must say to you, once, what I felt.”
She put out her hand, hardly knowing she was doing so, and touched his; he clasped his fingers strongly over hers. He said softly, “When first I saw you, Kassandra, seated among the girls with your eyes cast down modestly, I knew all at once that it was you I wanted, and that I should have stood up at once and proclaimed it to Priam and to my father. . . .”
The thought made Kassandra smile.
“And what would Creusa have said to that?”
“I should not have let that matter to me,” Aeneas said. “I was the one whose life was being cast into the balance. Tell me, Kassandra, would you have had me for a husband? If I had refused Creusa and demanded you instead—as the price of my fighting for Troy—”
Her heart was beating as wildly as his agitated words. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “Whatever I might have said or done then, it’s too late for thinking about it now.”
“It need not be too late,” he said, and drew her into his arms. She did not know that she was crying until Aeneas’ finger wiped away a tear.
“Don’t cry, Kassandra; I don’t wish to make you unhappy. But I cannot bear to think that now I have found that you are the one I love, there can never be anything more for us than this.”
He enfolded her in an embrace so rough, so completely compelling, that nothing outside seemed to exist at all; she was drowning, suffocating, wiped away into nonexistence; incapable of thought. Nevertheless, after a time that seemed too long—but very short—she pulled herself upright and onto her own feet, wiping her eyes with her gown. So that is what it is like.
She knew her voice was shaking as she said, “You are my sister’s husband; you are my brother.”
“By my own immortal ancestress! Don’t you think I have chewed on that until it sickens me?” he muttered. “I can only beg you not to be angry with me.”
“No,” she said, and it sounded so foolishly inadequate for the moment between them that she began helplessly to giggle; “no, I’m not angry with you, Aeneas.”
He pulled her again into an embrace she could not and did not want to fight off; but this time there was caution too, as if he were taking great pains not to hurt or frighten her. He said against her ear, “Tell me you care for me too, Kassandra.”
“Oh, Gods,” she said helplessly, “do you have to ask?” Her mouth was crushed so tightly against his that she wondered how he could understand her words.
“No,” he said, “I don’t have to ask, but I need to hear you say it. I don’t think I can stand to go on living unless I hear you say it.”
Suddenly Kassandra was filled with the most unbelievable sense of generosity. It was in her power to give him something he wanted so much. She leaned forward again against him and whispered, “I do care for you. I think—I think I have loved you since first I saw you.” And she felt him move softly against her as if it were where he had always wanted to be. He was touching only her fingers; but that touch was somehow closer than an embrace. She wanted him to hold her again; yet she knew that if he did, she and she alone would be responsible for whatever happened.
She said softly, “Aeneas . . .” and stopped.
“What, Kassandra?”
“I think,” she whispered with a sense of overpowering wonder—“I think I only wanted to hear myself say your name.”
He tightened his arms around her, but gently, as if he were afraid the slightest touch would break her. He said, “My little love. I don’t know—I’m not sure what it is that I want, but it is not to seduce you into my bed; that I can have from anyone, anytime. I love you, Kassandra. I wanted to tell you, to try to make you understand. . . .”
“I do understand,” she said, tightening her hand on his. Above them the moon swung so brilliant that she could see his face as if by daylight.
“Look,” he said: “all the fires are out in the Akhaian camp. It is very late. You must be weary; I should let you go.”
It was late. She drew a little away from him, feeling cold out of his arms, and offered him her hand. He bent over her very close, but he did not kiss her again. He whispered, “Good night, my little love, and the Goddess keep you. I will stand here till I see you safe inside the gates of the Sun Lord’s house.”
She climbed the last steps alone and knocked at the gate, which was opened from inside.
“Ah, Princess Kassandra,” said one of the Temple servants, as he opened the gate; “you are returning from dining with your parents at the palace? Did you walk up alone?”
“No; the Lord Aeneas escorted me,” she said, and the young man thrust out his head.
“Would the Lord Aeneas like a lighted torch for the way downward?”
“No, thank you,” Aeneas said courteously. “The moon is very bright.” He bowed to Kassandra. “Good night, my sister and my lady.”
“Good night,” she said, and when she was out of hearing, she heard herself whisper, “Good night, my love.”
She was stricken with dismay. She had sworn—knowing nothing of it—that she would never serve the Goddess Aphrodite nor succumb to this kind of passion.
And now she was like any other of that Akhaian Goddess’ servants.
23
AKHILLES’ SOLDIERS were loading their ships; the quarrel in the Akhaian camp had evidently not subsided. One of Priam’s favorite agents, an old woman who sold cakes in the Akhaian camp and came back inside the walls every day about noon for a new supply (and a long talk with the Captain of the Watch), reported that Akhilles had not stirred from his tent. Patroklos had tried to dissuade the soldiers from leaving, but without much effect.
Patroklos, she said, was liked by all the soldiers, but they all felt their loyalty was to Akhilles, and if he had decided to give up the fight, they would give up too.
Halfway through the morning, Kassandra went down to the wall to see for herself, along with most of the women of Priam’s house: Hecuba, Andromache, Helen and Creusa.
They listened to the old cake-woman’s report and wondered what this would mean to the Akhaian cause.
“Not much,” said Paris, who this morning was Captain of the Watch. “Akhilles is a maniac for fighting, but Agamemnon and Odysseus are the brains of the campaign. Akhilles is great in single combat, of course, and drives his chariot like a hellion; those Myrmidons of his would follow him in a charge over the edge of the world.”
“What a pity someone can’t persuade them to do it,” Creusa murmured.“That would solve most of our trouble—with Akhilles at least. Does anyone know a friend
ly Immortal who would appear in Akhilles’ form and lead his men off on an urgent mission somewhere on the other side of the world, or convince them they’re desperately needed at home?”
“But the point is,” Paris said, ignoring her, “that that is all Akhilles has in his favor: he’s crazy for the kill. He doesn’t know a damned thing about strategy or war tactics. Losing Akhilles from the war, having him go home like a little boy saying ‘I’m not playing anymore,’ is no great blow to the Akhaians. It would be far worse for them, and better for us, if they lost Agamemnon, or Odysseus, or even Menelaus.”
“What a pity we can’t think of some clever way to get rid of one of them,” said Hecuba.
“It almost happened,” said Paris. “This quarrel between Akhilles and Agamemnon meant they would have to lose one or the other. Losing Akhilles distressed the soldiers—he’s their idol—but the leaders knew they couldn’t lose Agamemnon or the whole campaign would fall apart. Why else do you think they let him take Akhilles’ girl? They know how important Agamemnon is to the whole campaign. Why do you think Akhilles is sulking? He’s been shown very clearly that he’s not nearly as important—not to anyone—as Agamemnon.”
“Well, something is going on down there,” Helen said. “Look, there is Agamemnon—with Menelaus tagging behind him, as usual—and his herald.”
Kassandra had seen the herald before: a tall young man who was perhaps too slightly built to be of much use with sword or shield, but who had a splendid bass voice which he could make ring through the entire camp. Waste of a fine musician, Khryse had once said; and indeed he would have made a splendid minstrel or singer.
Now Agamemnon was giving him orders, and the herald was striding clear across the camp and—yes—toward the foot of the wall. Paris took his tall loop-shaped shield, settled his helmet down on his head and went out onto the wall. The herald shouted: “Paris, son of Priam!”
“That is I,” Paris said, his voice sounding small and young after the herald’s trained and resonant tones. “What do you want with me? And if Agamemnon has a message for me, why does he not come within range of the walls himself, instead of—like a coward—sending you, whom I may not lawfully shoot?”