The Firebrand (70 page)

“Oh, bless you,” Andromache cried.

Kassandra said, “Let me take you to your room; you do not want him here among all these drunken women.”

“Yes, I will bring him to you there,” Helen said. “You still have your son, and that is the greatest of all gifts.”

One by one, or in twos and threes, the women, exhausted with grief and the strong wine, were slipping away to their beds. Only Hecuba, and Polyxena in her priestess’ robes, took their station at Troilus’ head and feet, there to remain until those came who would give his body to the earth. Kassandra wondered if she too should remain; but they had not asked her, not even to do the service of a priestess in purifying the chamber of death. Andromache and even Helen needed her more; she knew she was as alien among the women of Troy as were the Colchian and the Spartan women.

She stayed with them until Helen had slipped into Paris’ rooms and found Nikos and Astyanax. They had both been crying. Astyanax’s face was filthy and smudged with tears; someone had evidently told him of his father’s death and had tried to offer the child some solace. Helen took both boys to the well at the center of the courtyard and washed their faces with the corner of her veil.

Astyanax fell gratefully into his mother’s arms, then said, bewildered, “Don’t cry, Mother. They told me I was not to cry because my father is a hero. So why are
you
crying?”

Helen said gently, “Astyanax, you must help to dry your mother’s tears; it is now your business to care for her, since your father cannot.”

At the child’s touch Andromache dissolved drunkenly into tears again; Helen and Kassandra took her to her room, put her to bed and tucked the boy in at her side.

“Nikos will stay with me,” Helen said. “Oh, why do they take them from us so young?” But when she took Nikos in her arms, he pulled indignantly away.

“I’m not a baby, Mother! I shall go back to the men.”

Smothering her sobs, Helen said, “As you like, child; but embrace me first.”

Grudgingly Nikos complied, and ran away; Helen, tears streaming down her face, watched him go, unprotesting.

“Paris has done no better with him than Menelaus,” she observed. “I do not like what men make of boys—making them like themselves. Thanks to the Gods Astyanax has not yet become ashamed to stay with his mother,” she said, staring out into the hard gray rain that howled outside the palace.

“Kassandra!” she said suddenly. Her voice was so filled with dread and she clutched so abruptly at the other woman that Kassandra almost dropped the torch. “If we fall into the hands of the Akhaians, what will happen to my son? Perhaps the Trojans will stop at nothing to make sure Menelaus cannot reclaim him!”

“Are you saying that you think my father or brothers would kill the child to prevent his being taken back to Sparta?” Kassandra could hardly believe her ears.

“Oh, I cannot really believe it, but—”

“If you believe that, then perhaps you should indeed return to Menelaus, and take the child to safety,” Kassandra said. “Surely he would welcome you if you came with his son. . . .”

“And I thought Nikos would be so much better off in Troy; that Paris would make a better father to him than Menelaus,” Helen said sadly. “And he was, Kassandra, he was; but now . . . he seems to hate him because he is alive when our own sons died. . . .” Her voice broke and for a moment, clinging to Kassandra, she wept.

“Then you will go—?”

“I cannot,” Helen said numbly. “I cannot persuade myself to leave Paris; I tell myself that it is the will of the Gods that I stay till this is all played out between us. He no longer loves me, but I would rather be in Troy than Sparta . . .” She let her voice trail away into silence, then said, “Kassandra, you are weary; I must keep you no longer from your bed. Or will you return and watch by Troilus?”

“No, I do not think they want me there,” Kassandra said. “I will return to the Sun Lord’s house.”

“In this rain? Listen to this storm,” Helen said. “You are welcome to sleep here if you will. You can sleep in my bed—it is less than likely Paris will come in now; they will all have drunk so much in honor of Hector’s spirit that they would lose their way on the stairs. Or I will have the maids make up a bed for you in the other room.”

“You are very kind, Sister, but the servants will all be sleeping by now; let them rest,” Kassandra said. “The rain will clear my head.” She picked up her cloak and put the hood over her head, then embraced Helen and kissed her. She said, “Andromache did not mean what she said to you.”

“Oh, I know that; in her place I should feel the same,” Helen said. “She is afraid; what will become of her now, and Astyanax? Paris has already decided that he will succeed Priam, and leave no place for Hector’s son; and if Paris should somehow bring this war to a good end—”

“There is no chance of that,” said Kassandra. “Yet you must not be afraid, Helen; Menelaus has not fought all these years for revenge.”

“I know that; I have spoken with him,” Helen said, surprising her. “I know not why, but it seems he wants me back.”

“You’ve spoken with him? When?” She started to ask how, but remembered that as Paris’ wife Helen could go where she would, even down into the Akhaian camp. But why should she go and confer with the captains among the enemy? she thought suspiciously, then mentally absolved her friend of treason. It was no more than reasonable that Helen should wish to bargain for her own fate and that of her son.

She said, “If you speak with him again, ask him if there is something he can do to influence Akhilles and have Hector’s body returned to us.”

“Believe me, I have tried and will try again,” Helen said. “Listen, the rain is slackening a little; if you go now, perhaps you will be home before it starts to come down hard again.”

She kissed Kassandra again, and went down to the heavy front gate of the palace with her. Kassandra went out into the icy rain. Before she had climbed half a flight of the long stairs, it began to beat down with renewed fury, and the wind tore at her cloak like a wild beast’s claws.

She thought for a moment, regretfully, that she should have accepted Helen’s offer of a bed. Aeneas would be feasting and drinking with the men, and would be unlikely to join her tonight. But there was no point in turning back now; she struggled upward against the storm.

As she turned into the street of the Sun Lord’s house, she heard a light step in the street behind her. After so many years of war she was nervous of strangers, and turned to see, in the pale light of the torches hung up over the gateway, the face and cloaked form of Chryseis. Even in the torchlight she could see that the girl’s dress was rumpled and stained with wine, and the cosmetics on her face were smeared. She sighed, wondering in what strange bed the girl had spent much of the night and why she had bothered to leave it in such a storm.
She looks like a cat after a night of wandering—except that a cat would have washed her face.

The watchman at the gates of the Sun Lord’s house greeted them with amazement (“You are abroad late in this cruel weather, Ladies”), but no one had ever shown curiosity about Kassandra’s comings and goings; she reflected that she might have had as many lovers as Chryseis, and no one would have known or cared. As they climbed the steep courtyard toward their rooms, located near the highest part of the Temple, she slowed her steps to match the girl’s.

“It is growing so late it is almost early,” she said. “Do you want to come into my room and wash your face before you are seen like this in the Temple?”

“No,” Chryseis said, “why should I? I am not ashamed of whatever I do.”

“I would spare your father the sight of you like this,” Kassandra said. “It would break his heart.”

Chryseis’ laughter was brittle as breaking glass.

“Oh, come, surely he cannot still cherish any illusions that I came from Agamemnon’s bed a virgin!”

“Perhaps not,” Kassandra said. “He cannot blame you for the fortunes of war; but to see you like this would distress him.”

“Do you think I care for that? I was well content where I was, and I wish he had minded his own affairs, and left me there.”

“Chryseis,” Kassandra said gently, “do you have any idea how dreadfully he grieved for you? He thought of little else.”

“Then the more fool he.”

“Chryseis . . .” Kassandra looked at the girl, wondering what was in her heart or if, indeed, she had one. She asked at last, curiously, “Doesn’t it shame you at all, to stand before all men in Troy and know that all men know and recognize you for having been Agamemnon’s concubine?”

“No,” Chryseis said defiantly, “no more than it shames Andromache to have all men know she is Hector’s, nor Helen to have it common knowledge that she belongs to Paris.”

There was a difference, Kassandra knew, but she could not muster her thoughts to tell this confused girl what it was.

“If the city should fall,” Chryseis said, “all of us will be given into the hands of some man or other; so I give myself where I choose while I still can. Will you, Kassandra, keep your own maidenhood so that it may be taken by a conqueror by force?”

For that I cannot fault her at all.
Kassandra could not speak; she only turned and went into her own room.

Inside, some neglectful servant had left the shutters wide open; the rain and wind were beating in through the windows. Honey’s pallet was sodden, and the child had rolled off the quilts and onto the stone floor against the wall to escape the rain. Even so she was soaked.

Kassandra closed the shutters and took the child to her own bed. Honey felt as cold as a little frog and whimpered when Kassandra lifted her, but did not wake. Kassandra wrapped her in blankets and rocked her, holding her close against her breasts until she felt the icy little feet and hands beginning to warm, and at last Honey was sleeping the heavy sleep of any healthy child.

She put the little girl down and lay down herself beside her, wrapping them both in her warm cloak. The noise of the storm outside the closed windows was muffled, but still rattled the shutters with its force. She closed her eyes, trying to move her spirit forth from where she lay.

To her surprise, once she had slipped free of her body, moving her consciousness away from the bed and through the window, she had no awareness of the storm, only a deep silence; on the level where her spirit now moved there was no weather. As swiftly as thought she glided down the hill into clear moonlight, flying over the plain between the gates of Troy and the earthworks that guarded the Akhaian camp.

Under that impossible moonlight, shadows lay sharp and black on the plain, silent and untenanted except by a single drowsing night watchman. Paris was right, she thought: they should have flung all their forces at the camp by night. Then she remembered that in the physical world the Akhaian earthworks were better guarded by the pouring rain than by all the watchmen in the world. She could see a dark-shadowed structure which she recognized as Akhilles’ chariot, and a blurred shape which had to be Hector’s bound body. Her first thought was gratitude that in this analogue of the Afterworld—and how had she come to walk so handily in this world of the dead when she was still among the living?—Hector’s body was not battered by rain and howling wind. And as she thought of him, he was standing there before her, smiling.

“Sister,” he said, “it is you. I might have expected to see you here.”

“Hector—” She broke off. “How is it with you?”

“Why . . .” he stopped and seemed to consider. “Better than I ever expected,” he said. “The pain is gone, so I suppose I am dead. I remember only being wounded, and thinking this must be the end; then I woke, and Patroklos came and helped me to rise. He was with me for a while, and then he said he had to stay with Akhilles, and went away. After that I went to the palace tonight, but Andromache could not see me. I tried to speak with her and then with Mother, to tell them I was all right, but neither of them seemed to hear me at all.”

“When you were living, did you ever hear the voice of the dead?”

“Well, no, of course not; I never learned how to listen for it.”

“Well, then: that is why they could not hear. What can I do for you, my brother? Do you want sacrifices or—”

“I can’t imagine what good it would do,” Hector said. “But do tell Andromache not to cry; it feels very strange not to be able to comfort her. Tell her not to mourn; and if you can, tell her I will come soon and take Astyanax with me. I would like to leave him to take care of her, but I have been told—”

“By whom?”

“I don’t know,” Hector said, “I can’t seem to remember; perhaps it was Patroklos—but I know well that my son will come to me very soon, and Father, and Paris. But not Andromache; she will stay there a long time.” He advanced to her, and she felt the faint touch of his lips against her forehead.

“I will bid you farewell too, Sister,” he said, “but have no fears, there will be much to suffer, but I promise you, all will be well with you.”

“And Troy?”

“Ah, no; it is already fallen,” he said. “See?” And he turned her around, with gentle insubstantial hands, and behind her she saw a great heap of rubble, with flames rising, where once Troy had stood. But the sound of such destruction . . . how could she not have heard it?

“There is no time here,” he said. “What is, and what is to be, are all one. I do not understand all these things,” he said fretfully, “for tonight I walked in the halls of my father’s palace where they were feasting, and now look, the city has been fallen for a long time. Maybe when I was on earth I should have inquired of those who know these things, but there never seemed to be time. But now I see Apollo and Poseidon—look, They are striving with each other for the city,” he said, and pointed to where above the fallen walls it seemed that two monstrous figures, spanning the clouds, stood and battled, Their flesh glowing like lightning.