All I remember is regaining consciousness on the floor, my mother leaning over me in the small council chamber. ‘What did you see, Cassandra?’ she was asking urgently. ‘What did you see?’
‘Nothing.’
She did not believe me. ‘Tell me.’
But how could I? She would not have believed me anyway. She looked at me in despair as I rolled my eyes at the carvings on the ceiling, pretending to be in a state far worse than I was. And then a servant ran in without ceremony, hissing at her, ‘They’re leaving – shouting for waggons. They’ve sent a messenger to the harbour, telling the captains of their ships to make ready.’
My mother sprang up, forgetting me. As the wind filled the Greeks’ sails later that day it was as if we all, my mother, my father, old Anchises, Hector, all gathered on the quay, were blowing them full with our sighs of relief. My parents gave their still and dignified salutes, one arm raised at the elbow, the crowd cheered. I grasped Helenus’ hand, half afraid the wind would change, a storm come up, the ships turn before they went out of sight and sail back into the harbour. But they didn’t. On my other side I knew my brother Paris stood, tears on his face as Helen, with her husband Menelaus, went over the sea to her home.
Five
Between Troy and Mycenae
The brothers Agamemnon and Menelaus, and their priest-adviser, Calchas, sat on stools in the prow of their longship as it bounded over the waves. The sails were filled and there was no need for rowing. The fifty warrior-oarsmen sat on deck, talking and playing dice. The two younger men wore white woven cloaks, the blind man wore an elaborate woven cloak in reds, greens and blues, two winters’ work by a patient daughter. All looked in the direction of the coast of Greece, more than a hundred miles away. They discussed their visit to Priam in voices which could not be heard by the others.
Agamemnon said drily to his brother, ‘They honoured us well, our Trojan friends.’
‘They fear us,’ responded Menelaus.
‘We should take Troy in the autumn,’ declared Agamemnon.
Menelaus turned his eyes towards his brother’s bold, enthusiastic face. Calchas’ blind eyes still looked towards Greece. Agamemnon went on, ‘Imagine the wealth. Imagine controlling that harbour they make us pay to use. Consider the trade.’
Calchas broke in. ‘You tell us nothing. But you’re mad. Over-excited. You haven’t eaten or drunk since we left Troy this morning. To attack Troy with the men and arms we have would be absurd.’ He counted the points off on his fingers as he spoke. ‘The walls are thick. The neighbours of the Trojans would rally to help them because they hate us. The Hittite king would send reinforcements – he, too, hates us. Since we took Miletus on the coast, he’s come to fear we’ll establish ourselves on the mainland and begin to challenge his influence with his puppet-kings.’
‘I know these things,’ Agamemnon told him. There was threat in his tone. He was in no mood to be challenged.
‘I’m merely repeating what we all know,’ Calchas said, ‘to soothe your agitated feelings.’
Agamemnon’s anger, which was fearful, was not far off. He told Calchas, ‘Your value to us, and great it is, is as a soothsayer, not a planner, still less a warrior. I would not attack Troy in the conventional way. How could you believe I would? But if we could land by night, get an advance party of men quietly up to the walls of Troy to wait, then send out a larger force, in chariots, shouting and making a noise, to attract attention, we might get into the city quickly. As the Trojans woke, our first party could get the gates open. By the time our second force arrived several hundred men could sweep into the city. With the advantage of surprise, we could take the city.’
Menelaus did not seem to be paying great attention. He looked out to sea. Calchas said, ‘Priam has many friends and many sons.’ Perhaps, he thought, Menelaus was uninterested because he knew his brother was talking for effect. Perhaps he had other thoughts. Calchas pondered about what those other thoughts might be, horrified by his own conclusions. He said, ‘Priam has many sons within the gates. Surprised or not, they might overcome us. That done, our warriors would be finished for good. I think the risk too great.’
Menelaus’ attention had been caught, though. He turned his eyes towards Calchas. The priest had touched a sore point. Agamemnon and Menelaus, younger than Priam, had been faced during their stay with an older man constantly surrounded by tough-looking henchmen, a great many of whom were his grown-up sons. How many were there? But Menelaus had only one child, a daughter, Hermione. Agamemnon had three children, but two were only daughters and the boy, now twelve, had often been ill in childhood, hard to rear, and even now, unlike many twelve-year-olds he still had the appearance of a child. Agamemnon was returning to a household consisting of women and girls, weaving, and an all-too-often enfevered boy. The brothers did not look weaklings, Calchas thought, and their wives were both acknowledged to be the most beautiful women in Greece, Helen, of course, being irresistible. But for all the women’s beauty and the men’s strength, both couples lacked sons. Neither wife had borne a child for seven years. The brothers, admittedly, were often away, in battles on the mainland or raiding the islands of the Aegean. Nevertheless, other women of often-absent husbands conceived son after lusty son. These women did not. Calchas, a seer, was privy to many of those parts of the world women kept secret. Was this infertility the result of a curse, or was it some magic art they practised, he wondered?
As Menelaus stared at Calchas with some unspoken question in his eyes – a question Calchas never wished to hear him ask – Agamemnon prevented any further comment by taking something from the pocket inside his cloak. ‘Look,’ he said, the same fierce stare in his eyes. The object was a spearhead, black and pitted. The broken shaft of the spear, a jagged-edged piece of wood only three or four inches long, was splintered at the end. He slipped from his stool, knelt on the deck, raised the spearhead and brought it down onto the deck, driving it into the plank with all his strength. It lodged about two inches deep, splitting the plank slightly.
Menelaus jumped, then peered down at the exposed part of the weapon. His face cleared as he understood. ‘Where did you get it?’ he demanded.
‘From Deiphobus,’ his brother told him. ‘Yesterday I intercepted that caravan from the mountains they were expecting. It was twenty miles out of Troy. They were making a secret of it, but I found out from one of the servants that they were waiting for his return from Anatolia. So, I thought, I’ll ride out on the sly and see what’s happening, what he’s got. True enough, the caravan had come from King Suppiluliumas’ city and was loaded down with good things – tin, rare fabrics such as you’ve never seen, and many bales and chests I could not decently ask to see. Suffice it to say I became friendly with Deiphobus, a strong and personable young man, quite intelligent, on one of the stops. He knew nothing of our visit and sold me this – he could hardly refuse. And now do you see why we must take Troy? They have access to mountains of iron. Suppiluliumas is shy about trading it. He has hills full of it and slaves at work digging for the ore. He has smelting sheds in all the villages close to his stronghold – but he won’t trade. Deiphobus says he’s even written to Pharaoh, claiming he can’t send any. Deiphobus accepts Suppiluliumas’ explanation that the Great Mother wishes iron to be used solely for objects connected with her worship (he told Pharaoh a different tale, that he had not sufficient refined ore, but that’s not true either).
‘No,’ Agamemnon said indignantly, ‘the Hittite king knows if he alone has it his ploughs will plough deeper, his scythes reap more quickly, his billhooks prune faster – and with his weapons he’ll be able more easily to keep what he has – and get more, with his indestructible spears, his strong swords – this is what we face: Suppiluliumas, that greedy king – and his claims about the goddess’s wishes – convenient claims.’ He began, the great muscles of his arms bulging, to work the spear-head out of the plank in which it was stuck.
Calchas spat to one side. He respected and worshipped the n
ew gods of Mycenae, painted pottery figures with angry faces, which now stood in the sanctums. But he held more strongly to the ancient Triple Goddess, worshipped for generations throughout the countryside. These new, fiercer gods were city-gods, but had they the power of the maiden, the woman, the crone? He wondered. It was to them he sacrificed, when he could. In any case, what soothsayer would speak ill of the Great Mother of all Asia? Who would take the risk?
Agamemnon watched him spit. He said broodingly, still working at the spear-head, ‘Swords, ploughshare tips, scythes—’ The arrow came out suddenly from the plank. He stood up, stared at it lying in his big palm. His hand closed round it. ‘This is what we want!’ he asserted, almost shouting.
Menelaus said irritably, ‘The Trojans have no iron. I watched Aeneas, son of the king’s adviser, ploughing one of his father’s fields near the palace with a bone plough.’
‘They are closer to the iron than we are in Greece,’ Agamemnon said grimly.
‘Troy is only part of your plan,’ said Calchas. ‘You dream of attacking the great Hittite king.’ He felt Agamemnon’s fury but went on, ‘That is a vast, dangerous ambition.’
‘Smoke!’ cried a voice. ‘Smoke on the horizon off the Trojan coast.’ All three men stood. To starboard, behind them, thick columns of smoke rose into the clear blue, dispersing higher up, waving into the sun. All the men were standing, staring at the smoke and talking.
‘From Tenedos,’ Agamemnon said. ‘But who?’
‘Achilles,’ muttered Calchas.
‘Achilles,’ Agamemnon said in a low voice. ‘Just so. Now tell me we shouldn’t try to capture Troy – while he and his men are everywhere, on the islands, on the mainland, taking what they want and growing stronger.’
Calchas sighed. Agamemnon was angry and impatient, but that anger, impatience, and his fierce ambition had served him well in the past. And it was true that though he and Menelaus as a pair made the most powerful kings on the mainland, as long as the other Greek kings and princes were harrying and looting ships, attacking cities all over the Aegean, there was no guarantee they could hold their position. One man, or several working together, grown stronger, could overturn them – as their grandfather had overturned and driven out his predecessor. But he, their grandfather, Tyndareus, had sons. His son had had sons – these very men, Agamemnon and Menelaus. Between them they had only one son, too young to fight, perhaps never strong enough to rule.
Agamemnon’s jaw was set. He brought his foot down on the deck in an angry stamp. ‘And us with only two ships. If we had five, perhaps only four, we could change course and go there – take from Achilles what he has got.’
But the ship bounded on for Tyrins and home with a good sweet wind in its sail and sun shining in the sky. Menelaus stood discontentedly in the prow looking back at the pillars of smoke on the horizon, while Agamemnon brooded, with the spear-head still in his hand. Unhappy men. Calchas looked inward. He saw war, contention and folly. He thought of the delights of victory if it ever came, the clash of weapons, screams of the captives as they were led away, the heaps and handfuls of booty hurled down into the streets.
Below, in her cabin, Menelaus’ wife, the beautiful Helen, sat and thought only of Priam’s son, her lover, Paris.
Six
Thessaly
As my servant shouted ‘Rich waggons – someone important’s coming!’ Naomi instantly began to sweep up my papers and bundled them, written and unwritten sheets alike, into a basket on which she shut the lid. She asked, ‘Who would come here, at this time of year? This bodes no good. Will you take to your bed and pretend to be ill?’
I nodded, picked up the basket and went to my room. I hid the basket behind the wall hanging, a piece of weaving I and my daughters had done many years ago. It was all vivid greens and reds and showed our daily lives, the sowing, the digging round the olive roots, the lambing in spring, the summer crops; our sparse barley fields depicted as vast acres of yellow corn. It pictured the harvest, the autumn slaughter, the pruning. All these matters were presided over by the rural gods of these parts, a girl, a grown woman and a crone, with their familiars, an owl on the girl’s shoulder, the woman leading a cow, the crone with her black dog. They were close enough to the goddess of my youth, this girl, this pregnant woman, this old crone. They were shown as homely figures – the girl wore a short skirt, the woman in a longer dress was pregnant and holding a child in her arms, the crone, in a dark woollen cloak, stood by a bare tree with her dog.
Who was this visitor, coming unannounced up the rough track to the house? I was not anxious, felt no threat. In any case, my children were safe now, even Diomed, safest of all, under the protection of the Pharaoh of Egypt.
I sat down on my bed to wait, dreaming. We were at our looms for five winters making that hanging. Each of the families to whom Iphitus had given our daughters had hinted the tapestries should be part of the dowry, but I had pretended not to know what they were asking. As I now did when they eyed my farm and wondered, aloud sometimes, why I was still there, alone, running the farm by myself, instead of handing it over to one of my sons, or sons-in-law. They would certainly put more pressure on me to go, as time wore on, but I knew, though they did not, how little time there was for any of us now.
It was this thought which brought me out of my room. Formerly, when strangers had come – and they were few – I had hidden, pretending to be ill. Now the time for hiding was over. As I went into the hall, Naomi looked up startled, from the fire, where she was hanging up a pot of lentils to cook, since we would have to entertain these visitors, whoever they were. Two plucked birds and a hare lay beside her, ready to go on the spit over the fire. I went outside to the courtyard and stood in the bright late afternoon sunshine, preparing to give a proper welcome. Through the gates in the high wall two men were carrying a litter, the handles ornately carved, the whole structure shrouded in bright tapestries. Behind, two other men led a waggon laden with bales and drawn by two white mules. Behind them were three mounted, armed male servants. Inside the litter was a person of great importance, evidently. It must be a woman, or an old man – an active man would have ridden. Standing in my old gown, short, as is the custom in these parts, with a cloak of undyed wool round me, because of the cold, I felt hardly fit to greet this entourage. I had seen nothing like this for twenty years.
I advanced into the courtyard, bowed, spreading my arms wide to express the honour I felt, and though I was gazing down at the stones of the courtyard, I could just see the litter put down, the curtains parting and the feet of two men assisting the woman inside to get out. I saw a blue cloak, misshapen feet in sandals, the big toe joint on one white foot was swollen and so was the ankle-bone on the other. Yet they were feet I knew, still so white, but distorted now, no longer as lovely as they had been. As I raised my head, I knew who I would see. She was heavily painted in the Egyptian manner, with black lines round her blue eyes, her face very white, lips very red. She was a painted version of herself when young, damaged, still beautiful. There in front of me stood Helen, Queen of Sparta, Troy’s doom. I was horrified, though I’d always known I would see her again one day. And, though I was believed to be dead, I’d known, too, one day someone would find me. It seemed horribly right that my discoverer should be Helen. So I raised my eyes and greeted her.
The woman was lined under the paint Egyptian beauty-doctors, skilled slaves from everywhere, many magicians must have done their best to save her beauty, but time had been stronger than they. She pushed back the hood of her cloak, gazing at me, almost apologetic, as women are when you meet them years later and their beauty is lost. They’d said the two sisters, Helen and Clytemnestra, were daughters of a goddess, but it seemed they were all too mortal. Clytemnestra was dead, murdered by her own son, Helen alive, but appearing older than her years. She was not well. I felt only anger. Sick or well, she was alive, had survived twenty years longer than the men who’d been killed in the war she’d caused. She had lived as a queen. I, another of
her victims, had lived in hiding and exile.
As I greeted her, formally, without any warmth, I wondered, Why had she come? How did she know I was here? The exchange of greetings took place outside in front of the servants. I noticed she used the courteous language she’d have used to a princess, not a farmer’s wife. I wasn’t pleased by this and hoped none of the servants, hers or mine, would observe this. However Naomi, behind me now, noticed, and I felt her stiffen.
Then we walked in. I poured her wine, warmed by Naomi because Helen shivered and pulled her blue cloak about her. I gave her a chair close to the fire, where the pot was bubbling. ‘We live simply,’ I explained.
‘I rejoice to see you,’ was her response.
‘And I you,’ I replied, though this was far from true. I still wondered why she had come and feared for my own safety. ‘I live alone,’ I pointed out. ‘My husband died last year. My children are married.’
She nodded. Obviously she already knew this. She was too polite to ask directly why I had not gone to one of the families of my children, nor offered one of them a home on my farm. She sat stiffly in the chair, her back very straight in her fine, pale woollen dress, the distorted feet in their golden sandals placed straight, a little apart, on the rug before the fire. Her golden hair was pinned up with gold combs, studded with small turquoises. I still stood, to honour her. Naomi was impassive by the thick door. It seemed to me that this thickset servant of mine, with her gnarled feet, legs like sturdy little treetrunks and workworn hands had, at that moment, as much dignity and power as either of us. From outside came the sounds of Helen’s servants unloading the mules and unharnessing the animals. Like me, Naomi would be wondering how long the queen and her seven servants planned to stay.
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