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.”
7
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!”
“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.