Cassandra

by Hilary Bailey

  ‘Do you want to be his concubine?’ my mother said, in agitation.

  Creusa sobbed, ‘Who will they give me to? Who shall I have to endure?’

  Rape is of course the confirmation of victory; the final humiliation of the enemy is achieved when the victors take their women. The passion they feel as they rape is not for the women, it is hatred for their menfolk, the enemy.

  The long afternoon wore on. Thirst was a burden. Children cried for water. Women fainted. Turning our heads to the left, we saw ships being brought from our harbour and from lower down the coast, from Miletus. They were bringing vessels to transport us and their booty back to Greece. ‘We shall sail tonight,’ my mother said. A little further off two Greeks were quarrelling over one of Creusa’s women. One felled the other, grabbed the girl and carried her off screaming.

  At dusk a wind came, cooling us. Through the gloom a giant came, at first terrifying us. It was Achilles, with his men, bringing water. He went to Andromache, offering her the cup. ‘You have been given to my son,’ he said. ‘He is not a bad man. He will treat Hector’s widow well.’

  Andromache’s eyes were on the ground. She refused to drink from the cup he held out ‘You throw me to your son and expect me to thank you? You, who killed my husband? No son of yours, or any Greek, will have me long. I will kill myself, starve to death if I must’

  ‘Lady,’ he said, ‘war is war. Many die. Those left alive must go on living.’ There was pity in his voice. ‘I have arranged for my son to have you out of respect for your late husband. Do not throw my goodwill in my face.’

  ‘After your leader dashed my infant son’s head against a wall?’

  ‘War is war,’ he repeated. ‘Some would not have slain Hector’s son before the eyes of his mother, but none would have left the child alive. This you know. The choice is yours, Andromache. Neoptolemus my son is the lesser of evils.’

  ‘No good can ever come to me again, made a widow and childless, and a captive to you.’

  He began to lose his temper. ‘If you dream of ransom, forget the dream. The Queen of Lycia has offered ransoms for all of you. We have refused. Agamemnon says he wants the nest of vipers dead under his foot.’

  ‘Why not let my sister ransom us?’ Hecuba said bitterly. ‘What harm can we do?’

  ‘Trojan women,’ Achilles said. ‘The wolves are dead, the she-wolves left behind. Your women endured the long siege. The city would have fallen earlier without you. In the end you fought in dead men’s armour. This innocent prophetess, a princess and subject to her divine gifts, was seen attacking Menelaus with a sword – a rare sight, a sight I wish I’d seen. My lady,’ he said to my mother, ‘I am a merciful man, though a simple one, but the others, Agamemnon, Menelaus and the intelligent Ulysses tell me you are women of iron. Are we to send you to your sister, to plot and plan, rally, bear more Trojans to fight us? No, you must sink into unknown, unremembered graves, far from here. This is what they tell me and I see they are right.’

  He began to walk away. Creusa was sobbing. He turned – he was indeed a somewhat merciful man, ‘You have less cause to weep than the others,’ he told her. ‘Your husband Aeneas escaped the city as it burned. With his father and your son. Your husband is a man who could survive anything – he lives, as far as I know.’ I heard some contempt in his voice.

  Creusa’s sobs redoubled. ‘Alive – oh, I give thanks. Give thanks. He will ransom me. Aeneas will save me.’

  Achilles left. We were all thankful that Aeneas, Anchises and the child were safe and we were happy for Creusa, though a woman nearby, her head under a canopy made of a piece of cloth propped on a stick, called in a cracked voice, ‘Spare a thought for others, lady, while you’re rejoicing.’ How clever Aeneas was, we thought. But I wondered, strong and clever as he was, how had he managed to escape with an elderly man, and a boy to carry?

  The soldiers released us from our chains to go to the latrines. There, watched by a soldier, I sat beside a boy of about seven straining his guts out, his face all bones, his eyes showing the horrible blank patience of a child who no longer knows any certainty. I could not meet these eyes. I could not give one word of comfort to the child. I should have noticed the lack of soldiers round the tunnel mouth, I thought, and had not We had rejoiced when we should have been on guard against a Greek return. Hector would never have trusted a Greek withdrawal. So I thought, as the child strained and I urinated under the eyes of a laughing guard. The victorious have one thought, the defeated many, and guilt at their defeat is never far away. The boy stared blankly ahead, the soldier shouted at him. He got up and walked off, head down, back to whatever was left of his family.

  Later, as even the wailing of the women and children had begun to decline, from exhaustion, the soldier roused us, and we were marched, aching from our chains, along the beach and through water on to the ships. We sat on deck, soldiers all around. Creusa, who I think had been expecting sudden rescue or ransom by Aeneas, wept anew. She gazed towards Troy. She said what many must have been thinking, ‘If we had given in when the Greeks invaded and made a treaty with them, submitted, on our terms, much loss of life and suffering might have been avoided.’

  Hecuba must have been shocked and indignant, but said nothing. Andromache said only, ‘I doubt that, Creusa. They would not have let us live.’

  ‘They might have let my man live, at any rate,’ said the woman next to us harshly. It was Raina, the inn-keeper’s daughter. ‘And my father. My daughter’s gone, raped to death, burned – I don’t know how she died. They might all have lived.’ There was a silence. Wars are always the same: the nobles fight, the poor die; everyone knows that. None could answer.

  ‘Is my daughter alive, Cassandra?’ Raina now asked me urgently. ‘Is she? You can see. Tell me!’

  ‘Shut up, you women,’ said one of the soldiers. He spoke Greek. Not all the women could understand him, but all knew what he was saying. There was another silence. A woman sobbed. Still the ships did not move. Perhaps we would be there till dawn, halfway between our old lives and our new fates in Greece. The waiting seemed eternal.

  Then a soldier came up and dragged me to my feet. ‘Where is she being taken?’ my mother asked.

  ‘To Agamemnon,’ he said, pulling me away. My countrywomen heard the name and began to wail pitifully.

  He took me to the hold and shut me in. It was very hot and dark, full, it seemed, of bales and bundles of loot. I sat down, lights flashing in front of my eyes. The hatch opened, feet came down the wooden ladder, Agamemnon was there, carrying a torch, which he put in a socket on the wall. Light filled the hold. I saw one bundle, made of the rug which had been on Paris’ wall and bulging with items from his house. I shook. I kept my eyes to the floor. He would rape me, might damage me internally, might kill me. I only wanted it, whatever it was, to be over.

  Then I found that Hecate, Queen of Night, ruled me. She was close to me, closer than a mother, as he said, ‘I told your mother I would have you, and I will.’ I saw the moon, a thin sickle, the rest dark. I heard him say, ‘Your brother, Paris, the adulterer, is dead.’ He did not want a calm victim. He wanted tears, pleas, bargains. ‘I may yet ransom your mother. I may give your sister, Polyxena, to Ajax. I may kill you all.’

  Something stirred within me, as he had intended it should. He was telling me, if I begged, or if I colluded in my own rape, he might show mercy. The glimmer of hope that I might persuade him to spare in some way those left alive, soon died. This was another part of the torment Paris was dead, my handsome brother, consort to the goddess. ‘He has slain my lover,’ I heard a woman’s voice say. Tears rolled down my face.

  Finding I could not be made to speak, that I showed no feeling but for my tears, he slapped me violently on both sides of my face, so that my head snapped, first right, then left. The pain brought me partly out of my trance, but I said only, ‘Do what you will to me, Great King.’ He was not a Great King, never would be and he knew it. I looked up at him, just to check the death-mark on hi
s face, which I could see, in the mind’s eye, as clearly as if the blemish had been there, visible to all. The blue-black mark was spreading. He had little time left. He kicked me, picked me up by the throat and shook me as a child shakes a puppy. In spite of the pain I asked myself would it not be easier to give him what he wanted, the tears, entreaties, profession of intense fear and a willingness to do anything he wanted? To feign love, if necessary. But the goddess had her hand on me and, as he threw me down, pinioned my arms, entered me, I heard her music as he raped me.

  After he had gone, I lay on the sacks, knowing nothing but pain. And shame – terrible shame. Aloft I heard Agamemnon shout, then the creaking of sail. We were getting under way, leaving Troy.

  Later – it must have been dawn, for I saw light as the hatch flew back, Agamemnon returned. He was even more violent this time. He punched me in the stomach. I think he cracked some ribs. When he had gone I turned my head and vomited on to Paris’ great hanging. Later the girl, Briseis, brought me food, which I refused. She supported me as I drank some water. I asked what was happening to the captives. She was cowed to the point of idiocy – I now knew why – and simply shook her head. ‘Tell them, if you can, I am alive, and will live,’ I told her. She stared at me, with huge terrified eyes. I doubt if she understood. I found out later that there was no one of my family left on board by that time. Before we set sail my mother, Polyxena and Andromache had been transferred to Ulysses’ ship. They had been taken to Thrace. There, Polyxena and my mother both died. My mother was not even spared, at the last, the knowledge that although she believed her last son, young Polydorus, was safe with the King of Thrace where she had sent him, he was not. The king had killed him at the instigation of the victorious Greeks. There in those half-savage lands, Polyxena, Polydorus and last of all, my mother, died without even the consolation of knowing Helenus was still alive. Hecuba died, cursing the Greeks as they mocked her.

  So the voyage went on. We came to land at Euboea, where they said Agamemnon had sacrificed his own daughter to get up a wind to take the fleet to Troy. Straight away Neoptolemus bore Andromache away to his mountains in the Epirus, for he wanted to have her all to himself. It was later she’ became Helenus’ wife.

  I was dragged on deck, injured, fouled and starving. The women screamed when they saw me as I stared round blindly and desperately for my mother and sisters. The women looked after me as well as they could, and told me my mother and sisters had gone on Ulysses’ ship.

  The other Greek ships lay in the bay on sparkling sea. Above were wooded cliffs. So this was Greece, home of the monsters. I had thought of it as dark, yet it was not unlike our own land. The women, in spite of their own fear and distress, were kind. They washed me down with sea water, which, though painful, was cleansing, but they could not cleanse me of Agamemnon and they knew it One woman tried to push a small pebble in my womb, sure protection against conception, she said, but it was too painful. I was too torn.

  That evening the village women came with a waggon, with food, broth, bread and roasted meat for the soldiers. I ate soup and bread. Like Andromache I had resolved to starve, but still I ate. Agamemnon came among us, and I flinched and trembled from him. Nature is very strong – we eat in order not to die, we cower from those who have hurt us. At the same time, though I lay at his feet, trembling, smelling him, one glance showed the death-mark spreading on his face.

  I slept out in the open that night in the bay, surrounded by trees. The women were kind to each other. Many had been raped, others expected it. Even as we slept we were awoken by a man hauling a girl in our midst to her feet and dragging her away. At dawn I myself was pulled up and taken to a chariot drawn by two horses. I was tied upright by ropes, as I have seen men rope themselves in before battle so that they can fight on, though wounded. A soldier positioned himself behind me and there I stood as dawn came, and birds began to sing.

  Later, Agamemnon got on to the chariot, picked up the reins and we went off. He was still in his battle armour, I beside him, my gown torn, stained and dirty. So Agamemnon and three more chariots and some twenty-five mounted soldiers set out for Mycenae, a hundred miles away. Travelling fast, in helmets, plumes waving, we went through the countryside, where the farmers and villagers came out to watch us go. The soldiers shouted out who I was as we travelled. I was in pain, half-conscious, yet I knew the soldiers knew, as did all the people we passed, that their chieftain had raped and beaten me. This was the return of a triumphant general who had been away for over a year, and a display for the people. Some laughed at me or jeered and shouted but I was aware that some did not.

  We went through the streets of Thebes, then Corinth. Those streets were magnificent and were lined with people but there were many more women than men, and they looked tired and pinched. The children were hollow-eyed, some ragged and barefoot. In the cities we slowed down for the king to display himself, and me, the emblem of his victory and our defeat. The crowd cheered and called out insults.

  One of the soldiers cried, ‘See – here is our leader with Cassandra, Troy’s princess.’

  A man called back, ‘Wash her and I’ll take her off your hands.’ There was a laugh, more jeering until a woman’s voice cried out, ‘Where’s Helen? Where’s Paris’ whore?’ and that cry was taken up with more enthusiasm than the other.

  The soldier tried to distract attention by crying out, ‘We have the riches of Troy, travelling behind.’ There was more cheering, but the cry came again, this time from a man lacking a leg. ‘Where’s Helen? Bring us the bitch. Never mind the prophetess. Bring us Helen!’

  Agamemnon whipped up the chariot, the men followed suit. We galloped out of Corinth at speed. I could see now that this war had cost the Greeks dearly. They were poor. Their men had died. They had suffered for the ambitions of their leaders. There in Greece I saw that defeat is bitter and even victory is cruel.

  The soldier behind me said our horses were tired and indeed they were, but Agamemnon’s desire to leave the city and its less-than-admiring crowd made him push on, paying no visit to its ruler, not even changing horses.

  We rested in a grove beyond the city while fresh horses were brought out to us. They untied me, and I lay on the ground.

  Mycenae lay ahead. A messenger was sent before us with a trumpet to tell the palace we were coming. I saw Agamemnon on a hillock with his officers. He glanced at me and grinned as I had once seen an angry ape grin, but the mark on his face was still spreading. Not many days were left to him now.

  It was in the grove that they hauled me up, stripped off my torn and filthy dress and put on me a red, embroidered dress. This was done on Agamemnon’s instructions. An old soldier, eyes averted, dropped it over my head to cover my bruised and wasted body. Agamemnon had bitten my shoulder and it was festering. This soldier had stared as I took off my dress but turned his head away, ashamed, I suppose, when he saw what the great general had done. I said nothing. He brought me some wine, and I sat down on a rock by the roadside. I was thin, my hair matted and tangled and I knew my face must be bruised. I felt too, my womb was festering like the bite, with Agamemnon’s poisonous seed. But I was bewildered by the attempt to make me presentable for the arrival at Mycenae. No one would be surprised by violence towards a captive, or, of course, rape. Agamemnon had no need to attempt to hide his maltreatment of me. The soldier spoke to me, not unkindly, but I ignored him. He could not be innocent of my people’s blood. He had killed. He, too, had raped. Now he was home, perhaps he was beginning to be shocked by some of the things he had done. In a little while he would be ploughing his field, pruning his vines, telling his neighbours of his brave exploits. His wife would show off her Trojan bracelets, his daughter’s dowry would be golden earrings from Troy, no doubt. His sons would play soldiers with his dented and battered sword. He would buy a widowed neighbour’s field. Now I lay down on the grass, in pain from my womb and bruises and the cracked ribs, jolted badly on the journey. I felt quite empty, except for the most intense fear for what wa
s left of my family.

  We would reach Mycenae at dusk, I imagined. And what was to happen to me then?

  I do not suppose Agamemnon knew, as he searched out a dress from the loot he was bringing back to his palace, that the garment he had found for me was the old ceremonial gown of Troy’s oracle. After they had killed the woman they must have stripped her and thrown her clothes and ornaments on to a heap. It must have been fated that he was to give me that dress, invested with a hundred years of power held by the oracle, and given to her by the goddess. I, of course, who from childhood had tried to avoid becoming the oracle, had now been forced to assume her clothing, and her role, here in Greece, just as we were about to enter Agamemnon’s stronghold. I knew, in my weariness and pain, that strange and terrible events were about to take place.

  Thirty-Seven

  Thessaly

  After Helen saw my son Diomed in the yard, I led her, because she was too startled to be able to move of her own volition, through the snow and back to the house. Diomed held her other arm. It was easy to understand her feelings – she had seen what must have looked to her like a ghost, not just Agamemnon returned – and he had been dead now for over twenty years – but Agamemnon in youth, as she must have known him when she was a girl.

  A whole story now revealed itself to her – that I had borne Agamemnon’s child after his death, hidden both of us in fear all those years, knowing the child of a Trojan princess and the great leader of the Greek alliance could only be seen as a threat to the kingdom. After the war, the alliance had at first been ruled by her sister, then by her nephew, Orestes, who had never been popular. My son, with his astonishing resemblance to Agamemnon, might, if he ever chose to raise an army and challenge Orestes for his throne, have gained the support of the population and become king himself.

  Naomi walked behind. I felt her agitation and shared it. This visit was a most unlucky event.