Cassandra

by Hilary Bailey

  The Greek fleet was still moving over a calm sea in bright sunshine, but now they were near our shores. There was little wind – they had men at the oars. From the ramparts we could make out the shapes of men, horses and chariots on deck. We could see tiny flashes of sunlight coming from bronze helmets.

  In the harbour the last of our ships was struggling out A boy was bringing five sheep across the plain to the Dardanian Gate. A thin stream of waggons and flocks, people on foot with bundles, was still coming into the city through the Scaean Gate.

  There was silence on the ramparts, but for the sound of sobbing. From below came the bleat of a sheep, from the sky the cry of a bird. Otherwise, as the small ships approached, there was no sound but the steady hammering of the smith on the anvil. He and his slave could not be spared for a second, even to see the reason for their work. A ship, heavily laden with animals and people and their bundles of goods, sailed slowly round the headland out of sight The harbour was almost empty now.

  We could count the Greek ships. Fifty – the biggest fleet any of us had ever seen. There might be as many as thirty warriors aboard each ship, with their baggage, chariots and horses – making one and a half thousand warriors, a huge army, outnumbering us by some six to one.

  In the silence we all heard the two great gates of the city shut There was the first dragging sound as they were scraped along flagstones, the thud as the two doors banged together, then, after a pause, the louder crash as four men pushed up the heavy wooden crossbar on one side and let it drop into the socket on the other. Then came a series of minor thuds as smaller bolts were shot. Always, before this, the gates had been shut at night and opened at dawn. The sound of the gates closing at night meant reassurance, that all in the city was well and would be until dawn. When we heard the gates opening at dawn, it meant a new day had come safely to us. We had never understood until now that those regular openings and closings of the gates were the sounds of a city at peace. Henceforth the gates would open and close at any time, to protect us from Greek attack, to let our men out to battle, to let them in as they fled from the enemy, to allow in supplies under heavy guard. The grating of the gates on the flagstones, the thud of the crosspiece going into its socket, would no longer mean safety but emergency or crisis. We would learn to wake up at night hearing the gates open, return to sleep, uneasy, wondering what news would greet us in the morning.

  So the gates shut. I saw a straggler looking for refuge pushing a handcart towards the city. He glanced up as he heard the gates closing, panic-stricken, unable to believe it had happened. Even as the Greek ships grated in and began to drop anchor, he ran to the gates. I did not see what happened to the man or his cart. My eyes, the eyes of all, were on the ships – the gangplanks were down, the disembarkation of men, horses and baggage was beginning. On the foreshore stood a pair of tall, helmeted figures, too far away for us to be able to identify them by their features, but near enough to make out the wild red hair of Menelaus streaming from under his plumed helmet, the pale locks of his brother, Agamemnon, blowing from under a helmet crowned with bronze horns. They both looked at the city, saw us, and then, arms outspread, mimed delighted laughter. Others joined them and advanced in a line. Achilles was recognised by some, others pointed out Ajax, Nestor of Pylos, Diomedes of Tyrins. These leaders of the Greeks, and Idomeneus of Crete and Ulysses were all fully armed, carrying shields. They had jumped from their ships on to the shore of Troy and now stood on the plain, mocking us. We watched from the ramparts of our city, behind closed gates. The humiliation of this was much felt. The warriors muttered; women wailed, complained, turned to the men and cried ‘Shame!’ One beside me said, ‘Give me a shield and a sword. What are we doing standing here watching an invasion?’ Yet we all knew, in our hearts, there were too few of us to mount a successful attack on the Greeks and that an unsuccessful one might give the city and the nation to them at one swoop.

  My mother’s hand was on my shoulder. ‘Come, Cassandra,’ she said. ‘We have seen it now. Let us go back to work.’ The sun was high, the ships were at anchor, the Greeks were getting their supplies from the boats. Sickened, I followed Hecuba back to her office. In there the tablets of fresh clay were stacked high, the records from the storehouse lay to another side. It was cool. A fly buzzed. It felt as if nothing unusual was happening. I had known for years this was to come, yet now it had. It was so different, so extraordinary, my mind would hardly accept it.

  My mother passed her hand over her eyes, leaned back in her carved chair, said, ‘Now we must go to the treasure-house to make sure the record is accurate. This will be an expensive affair for the city.’ She gazed at me, not seeming to be looking at all. She asked, ‘Where have Paris and Helen been all this while? Shut indoors, I suppose. There will be bad feeling about Helen now. Well – we must start.’ She began to read off lists to me. Later we stood down in the treasure-house, where heaps of rugs and woven hangings, the chests of clothing, the boxes of gold, jewellery and the elaborate old shields and swords all lay. There was scent of spices, of myrrh and frankincense. There was an ivory tusk from Africa in a corner. There was a big box of coins, strings of amber and lapis lazuli. We found some elaborate gold earrings and a necklace in a small ivory box. ‘That was to have been part of your dowry – a surprise for you,’ declared my mother.

  And I said, ‘I don’t think I shall be wearing them now.’ There was a silence. Then we began to count

  During the afternoon I went down to the lower part of the city, where I had not been all day, to intercept a messenger to my aunt, Queen of Lycia, with a forgotten request for salt. I found armed men everywhere. Even as the messenger left the gates, a contingent of men arriving from the west along the white, dusty path to the city, was spotted from the ramparts. So the gates were left open, with armed men inside and out, to protect the arriving force from Greek attack. A cry went up as they galloped in – Sarpedon, the Lycian, his brother Glaucus and some ten other warriors were there. I ran to Sarpedon, whom I knew well, and he reached down brawny arms and whisked me up into the saddle. How they had arrived so fast, after a message sent only in the early morning, I did not know. They must have mustered at great speed, then ridden like the wind from their fertile lands.

  Hector arrived, having heard the cheering. He called for wine and food. We sat feasting in the temple, where the priestesses were offering a lamb in sacrifice. Sarpedon and Glaucus sat on either side of me – I felt like a girl being stolen by two bears, as in an ancient story – they were passing a wooden bowl of meat between them, over me. Both suggested to Hector that I should marry them as a reward for their assistance in the war. It was a joke, but I knew if the war extended itself, the marriages would become, like the giving of gifts and money, one more bargaining counter to ensure loyalty. If I had been under any illusions about the permanence of my own betrothal, the morning’s work with my mother would have dispelled it. Everything she did spoke of urgency, desperation, crisis.

  The day wore on. After the horror of the Greek arrival a surprising calm reigned. Men roamed the stalls set out in the city market In the temple priestesses prayed and sang continually. Later, my mother would offer sacrifice. Families who had come to find shelter in the city arranged themselves and their bundles in corners of the warehouses, in the already crowded rooms of houses round about. Warriors made themselves comfortable in the temple. The market-place was full of penned sheep. There was a goat tethered to every available post. The heat seemed to mount as the blacksmith hammered on. Children cried, or laughed, or played in the dust. A small boy strutted along with a sword trailing in the dirt. There was heavy traffic in and out of the houses which offered food and lodging to travellers and everywhere was that mixture of boredom and tension we would learn to know so well. Suddenly at war, we did not know what to expect, what the next hour, let alone the next day, would bring. It was collectively, like those times when the child of a family is gravely ill. People are quiet, anxious, considerate of each other and kind to the
other children of the family who do not fully understand what is happening.

  The tradesmen and women were gloomy. They saw hard times ahead. The seller of fried fish, a jovial man, made a joke of it. ‘Come on, soldiers, women,’ he cried. ‘Hurry up and buy. There’ll be no fish tomorrow. I’ll be frying old shoes and caps.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Hector told him. ‘They’ll be gone in a week.’ There was an uneasy laugh. Troy is a small city compared with others – it is no Tyre or Sidon, Babylon or Memphis, yet as it is a port and trading centre, many people come to the city from many places, bringing strange items and telling strange stories. The men of Troy are seafarers. The men and women of Troy were not naive. Few believed Hector’s brave statement. The Greeks had been harrying the mainland for years, their ships had attacked even our fishermen, who had taken to going out in convoys. Now they had put aside their own quarrels to attack us with fifty ships and over a thousand hardened, fighting men. The city was besieged. No one believed Hector and perhaps he did not expect them to. He spoke to encourage.

  ‘Well, prince,’ the fish fryer responded. ‘I’ll believe you. But I won’t kill the goat yet.’ For the victory feast, he meant.

  Then a woman, looking very distressed, rushed to Hector and grasped his arm. ‘My child’s sick. What can I do? He’s burning hot.’

  ‘Keep him away from the warriors,’ Hector said grimly.

  ‘What can I do? I can’t go out to collect herbs for the fever with the enemy so close.’

  ‘Talk to my sister,’ Hector said and pushed me to her. She looked at me suspiciously. She was a countrywoman and had heard, no doubt, I was mad.

  I went to see the child. The family, a man, a woman and three children, were living at the back of the forge, in a hut used for storing firewood, heaps of which now lay stacked on the ground outside. Mercifully the child was up and playing. She had been disturbed by the journey, no doubt, and other fears had made her mother think the girl sicker than she was. Nevertheless we would need to collect herbs for medicines from outside the city, under guard if necessary. We would have to do that for everything we needed – food, fuel for cooking and water. The city cisterns would soon run dry.

  I went back to the palace and found my parents talking in the great hall in low voices. They were sitting opposite each other on stools, holding hands across the divide between them. I interrupted, ‘I should take out women to gather herbs. But we will need guards.’

  ‘Later,’ my father said.

  I trailed to the ramparts. A crowd was gathered there, watching the Greeks setting up camp. Fires had been lit. Two men were bringing in a cart with a dead cow on it A sheep was already roasting on a spit in the middle of the camp. They were hauling trees from beside the river, cutting planks for their huts and making a corral for horses. How long would the clump of willows by the Scamander, where I had met Arvad, endure, I wondered, as their need for wood for shelter and cooking grew? I still hoped he might come back for me in autumn, as he’d promised, or earlier, seeing my danger. Yet, if he did, could I leave my family and country, when they were in such trouble? They needed me – I supposed they needed me. Yet they would blame me easily when there were defeats. As usual, when humankind is unhappy and looking for someone to blame for the misfortune, the prophet becomes the scapegoat.

  The soldiers moved about, unloading cargo, riding in and out of camp. We heard the high, distant scream of a girl, some captive they had seized while reconnoitring for food and supplies. We stood silently watching the Greek force settle into camp. I thought of Adosha, wondered if she had listened to my warnings, made so long ago, and if the messenger we had sent had reached her.

  We saw the small figures of soldiers on horseback bringing in a string of captives. On the ramparts women wept, some men, too. There was a council of war now in progress in the great hall, but I stayed where I was, craning to see if I recognised one of the captives. I did not. They were very far away. But someone else did for I heard a woman scream, there was a babble of words about a red scarf and a child, and someone cried out, ‘Oh shame!’ Next to me an old man, hands on either side of his head, rocked to and fro with the humiliation of the scene.

  Then Helenus was beside me in full armour. Though tall, he was not fully grown. His thin shoulders did not fill his corselet, with its overlapping leaves of bronze. He wore greaves on his legs. He carried his helmet.

  ‘Are we going to attack?’ I asked.

  He shrugged. ‘I do not know.’ Then he said in an undertone, ‘Did you tell our mother about the tunnel in the sanctum where we used to hide?’

  ‘I did,’ I told him. ‘She knew of it and plans to unblock it secretly if she can. It lets out on the hill in the woods near the cave of the oracle. It might be a chance to get water and food, carefully, when we really need them. The city’s filling up. This will have to end soon. We can’t hold out for long.’

  He nodded. The city seldom lacked water, even in the driest weather, for there were rivers on either side. We would be unable to get water from them now, without running into Greek soldiers. Helenus’ words emerged with difficulty from stiff lips. He was very frightened and trying not to show it. He whispered, ‘If only you had left with the Phoenician.’

  ‘He may come, in time,’ I said. ‘When word gets out what’s happening. Messengers went in many directions this morning. Sarpedon and Glaucus are already here. I expect you’ve heard.’

  ‘It’s because of their arrival we contemplate attack,’ Helenus said. ‘Hector thinks we could see the enemy contingents off before they get established. This would take luck, though, and planning. Others think it better to wait for other reinforcements to arrive.’

  We stared at each, of course.

  I said tentatively to Helenus, in a low voice, ‘Perhaps we have been wrong – all those years.’

  He looked at me with little hope in his eyes. ‘We have to behave as if we were wrong.’

  There came the screech of one of the city gates opening to let in a fugitive, probably. Then it grated shut Helenus and I, not knowing if tonight he would have to go into battle, gazed at each other sickly. Then he muttered, ‘I must go back to the council – find out what they have decided.’

  There was no battle that day, or the next, or the next The city waited while the reinforcements arrived. Lycians came from my aunt’s country, also Mysians, Phrygians and many others. The people in the city cheered as the gates opened and closed, letting in contingents of soldiers, supply waggons, refugees from the farms seeking the protection of the city. The anvil beat out its perpetual rhythm. My mother, hollow-eyed and always counting, supplied the soldiers, the refugees, the palace. The Greeks continued to make their camp, not attacking the troops of soldiers as they arrived, merely picking off refugees if they could, unless we sent men out to protect them.

  We had begun to dig out the tunnel by day, because at night the sounds would be audible to Greek spies roaming round the walls under cover of darkness. Inside the sanctum priestesses prayed continually. Two old warriors posted outside guarded the spot, for the tunnel had to be kept a secret, even from our own people.

  It was a strange time. The silence of the city was chilling. Women and slaves were exhausted with the preparations for war. The fighting men were keyed up, but inactive, waiting only for the watchmen to signal an approach. We all knew the conflict would be terrible when it began.

  For nights the conferences went on until even the sound of the forge ceased. I sat on the floor, with many others, and was sometimes so tired I dozed, hearing the voices of the men going on and on, discussing strategy, prospects and the rest.

  Now a city which had previously housed five hundred people accommodated six hundred civilians and five hundred men at arms. There were groups of soldiers, or families in all the gardens of the houses higher up the city, except for Paris’ house, where it was felt to be too dangerous for Helen. There were people in every doorway. Forcing your way past soldiers down the steps into the lower city you cou
ld pause, see below, crowding the square, in every doorway, a mass of people, soldiers from all nations, in all garbs, sitting about, families in little groups, sometimes under an improvised shade made of a cloak or skirt, mothers suckling babies, fathers mending shoes, children carrying water, a seething mass of people getting in each other’s way, trying to cook, eat, wash in small spaces.

  Sarpedon and his Lycians, eventually numbering a hundred men, chose to camp outside the walls behind the city with their priestess (and harlot), her flute-player and her drummer, who played on a Babylonian drum. The priestess was called Vina. She was a tall woman of about thirty, who looked none the worse for being the wife of a hundred men by night and, by day, their cook and housekeeper, as well as their seer and, I imagine, friend.

  We had no way of disposing of any waste, human or animal, now. This had formerly been carried from the city in waggons and put in pits we dug. Now we began to create a reeking mound beside the Scaean Gate. Excrement, the remains of the beasts we were smoking and salting and every kind of detritus was flung over the walls on to it for we could no longer spare the slaves to take waggons of refuse from the city, risking the Greeks seizing horses, waggons and slaves. Many slaves had in any case run off and no one tried to stop them.

  On the third night after the Greek landing, there was another council. There were almost a hundred people in the room. My mother said if the war did not kill us, the smell and flies from the midden would drive us into surrender eventually. This mundane remark reflected her real anxiety that the war would be lost because conditions in the city became impossible. Dirt, hunger and thirst would do more damage than the enemy. No one listened. There were too many other factions, too many other points of view in the council. Some, even now, were advocating negotiation, not war. My father was for strong resistance. Hector, too, maintained a series of battles coming thick and fast would get rid of the Greeks. We now had enough men. Though still outnumbered, skill and courage, he said, would bring victory. ‘Any soldier,’ he told the council, ‘fighting for his own homeland is worth two invaders.’