A Song of War: a novel of Troy

by Kate Quinn

  “Our hold on this life is tenuous,” I said, turning the dead fly in the lamplight so I might further admire its colors. “Would that we all met such quick deaths.” My dreams last night had been filled with slow agonies, filled with both old and new faces and fresh scenes of carnage and fire.

  I was a true seer, and the terrible clarity of these new terrors told me they were no mere dreams. I willed myself now to be calm despite the claws closing around my throat at the remembrance. There was no war right now, only a brother to welcome home.

  I dropped the fly as an offering before my cat. “Enjoy,” I said. Like a true feline, he ignored me entirely, content to recline on his woven cushion. “Perhaps I’ll get a dog,” I taunted him, but still he didn’t answer. “Some beast that can be bothered to acknowledge my existence.”

  The heavy door behind me creaked open to let in a flood of morning sunshine, and my attendant poked her head inside. “Princess Cassandra,” she said, stepping fully into the chamber and sniffing in disdain. “Were you speaking to someone?”

  “The cat.”

  She arched an eyebrow. Perhaps speaking to cats was frowned upon, especially when one hasn’t spoken to another human in weeks. Honestly, I much preferred the company of animals to people. Especially this bent-backed woman with her sour smell and face puckered like a rotting peach. She might bring me my meals every day, but that didn’t mean I had to like her, especially as I knew she reported my every sneeze to Father. “Your brother and his entourage have returned from Sparta.”

  “I’m well aware,” I said. “They arrived after the seventh hour.”

  She scowled, at my rudeness or the way I’d done my hair or just because she didn’t care for anything about me. I noticed then that her customary tray with its normal spread of crusty bread, goat cheese, and olives was missing. My heart leaped at what that might mean.

  “Am I to attend the royal entourage?” I asked, hoping against hope that I might be allowed to welcome home my brothers.

  “Hellenus requested your presence, and King Priam has relented, if you can promise to behave in a civilized manner this time.”

  “Of course,” I said, cringing inwardly at the memory of my begging Father not to send Paris to Sparta. That had not ended well.

  “Your father sent me to escort you to the citadel,” she said, gesturing outside with a pale arm. I swept past her without another word onto Troy’s battlements and into the glorious sunshine.

  The sun…

  Apollo’s light, but how I loved the sun. I closed my eyes and relished its warmth on my skin, like the warmth of Hellenus’ smile.

  Then I opened my eyes and drank deep the sight of the city around me. Its inhabitants reviled me, but there was no denying that Troy was the most breathtaking city on earth, a glittering crown perched atop the world. Not only were we beautiful, but strong, too, for the gods who’d forged the city knew that the rest of the world would slaver like feral dogs to claim our riches. The towering limestone outer walls built by Poseidon and Apollo encircled the city like a warrior’s sword arm, and defensive towers peered beyond those walls to shield the inner courtyards and colonnaded halls. This was a city where we god-born walked in safety and prosperity—and after the terrors I’d seen in the night, those walls were more comforting than any dram of poppy milk. Those walls would protect us all, so long as they were never breached.

  The gleaming royal citadel was perched atop Troy’s highest hill, adorned with colonnades and palaces of hewn stone to house fifty bedchambers for all of my father’s sons, plus twelve more for his daughters.

  Only I was kept apart, ostracized to the lower reaches of the citadel. Yet I refused to let the long fingers of loneliness curl around my heart today.

  From here, I looked down upon the many gardens and expansive stables, for Troy was famous for its horse tamers and the beasts they raised to pull our chariots. My oldest half brother Prince Hector’s penchant for the beasts had earned him the title Tamer of Horses within our family. The smell of manure was barely palpable, for no foul scent would dare defile our city. Beyond that were the wool-gatherers, their sheep freshly shorn for the summer and their clouds of white gold spread out to dry in tiled courtyards. Men worked to bind and stretch the shorn wool between two trees, like clumsy spiders. In the most far-flung district, smiths labored at fiery forges to mix precious tin and copper into the bronze that was the lifeblood of our trade with the Achaean sea-kings. So many little lives lived by so many little people.

  To the west of the city lay its sprawling golden beach, the fickle River Scamander with its hot and cold springs that drained into the boundless waste of the wine-dark sea. Today a far-off pod of dolphins frolicked in the waves, and playful winds tossed the briny air, whipping my dark curls about my face.

  I ran in the opposite direction to the uppermost heights of the citadel, ignoring the harpy attendant screeching behind me. I could taste my freedom.

  I loathed crowds—I loathed people in general—so the crush of humanity that now packed the citadel from the lower city almost brought me to my knees after so many weeks alone. Of course, I should have known that every noble, foreign dignitary, and shepherd in Troy would have noted the return of our ships and followed the entourage back to the palace in the hopes of ogling any trade goods and hearing the gossip from far-off Sparta. Whereas I’d envisioned a warm family gathering—warm meaning my family would tolerate my presence—it seemed that the entire city had packed itself onto the rocky plateau of the citadel.

  I wanted to scream or turn and bolt, but the knowledge that Hellenus was somewhere in the horde of people made me press on.

  My tarrying had caused me to be one of the last to arrive, yet still the rest of the perfumed courtiers gave me a wide berth, pulling their hems close. Perhaps on a different day I’d have spit in their faces, for the blisters of their insults had not yet turned to calluses, but today I would restrain myself. I glanced to where my father stood on the raised dais in regalia that would have rivaled that of Zeus himself: a tall man, gray-bearded but strongly built despite his half-century of years, his eyes, piercing as blades, that narrowed when his gaze fell on me.

  I bowed my head in submission. I would be on my best behavior, even if it killed me.

  The entire royal family was assembled for this spectacle, all the way down to my young half brother Prince Polites. It was a simple matter to locate my twin, for Hellenus stood stocky and dark amongst my fairer skinned half brothers, his warrior’s braid secured with a simple strip of goat hide. My heart leaped, and I called out to him, waving my arms frantically. Against all odds, he saw me, and a grin cleft his dark face.

  I could breathe easier then, feeling as if everything was right in the world. That illusion was shattered when I looked to see which brother stood beside Hellenus.

  Paris laughed at something someone had said while he adjusted his ibex bow and the quiver of arrows slung on his back. I’d hoped against hope that a mighty albatross would pluck Paris from the deck of his ship and drop him screaming into the dark depths of a monster’s maw. Instead, he appeared more hale and hearty than when he’d left, with an extra swagger in his step as he broke off whispering with our father to take his official place behind Hector. Still, I thought I detected a hint of healing injuries on his face, a yellow shadow around his eye and a cut around his eyebrow, as if he’d been in a fight at the end of the wedding festivities. Not for the first time—and certainly not the last—I rued the fact that it was my vision that had saved the miserable pissant in the Temple of Zeus.

  I wended my way to the far side of the dais to join the women beneath a woven canopy, past Queen Hecuba in her luxurious layered kilts and golden laurel crown, to settle in an open chair next to Hector’s wife, Andromache. She was a sunny-natured girl, a few years younger than I, with a small freckled face and a pair of dancing eyes that had made my eldest brother grin like a fool on their marriage day.

  That was no mean feat, for Hector was anything but a f
ool.

  Like her husband, Andromache erred on the side of being kind to me. Still, I knew that I unsettled her, although I went out of my way not to.

  “You look lovely today, Cassandra,” she said to me. “Black suits you.”

  “Thank you.” I struggled to find something more to say, but the crush of people and all their clanging voices pressed hard against me, like sharp red triangles of sound at my temples. I closed my eyes and beat a rapid tattoo with my foot.

  Why, oh why, couldn’t I just run to my brother, drag him out of the city onto the plains and into the clean air to escape this mess of humanity? I felt a gentle pressure on my leg and flinched, but it was only Andromache’s dainty hand.

  “More than two months away from Troy.” She looked drawn and grave, I noticed, lacking her usual cheerful energy. Perhaps the voyage home had been difficult. “You must be glad Hellenus is home after so long an absence.”

  I nodded and willed my foot to cease twitching. “More than you know.”

  “I have some idea.” A smile, but a somber one for Andromache. “I could never have been separated from Hector for so long. He needs me terribly.”

  One didn’t have to be a seer to prophesize that Andromache would one day have a baby perched on those slender hips of hers. That would bring the cheer back to her smiles. I smiled, too, for Hector and Andromache were kind. And there was no denying they’d make lovely babies. Still, I caught the way Hellenus’ eyes strayed to Andromache every so often, like the tides toward a full moon.

  Oh, Hellenus...

  Father raised his hands for quiet then, and the crowd settled. That was better, without all the nattering of so many mouths like bleating lambs.

  “My sons, kinsmen, and fellow Trojans!” my father called out, his voice deep and sonorous. “We are here today to celebrate the safe return of your Trojan princes from a successful expedition to the bleak and distant lands of Sparta!”

  The assembly cheered and clapped. “Did you bring back any spoils?” The question came from a prosperous merchant who had lost a ship to a raid last year. “Those Achaean sea-dogs deserve it after their foul attacks last spring!”

  The taller spectators craned their necks for a glimpse of any glittering luxuries my brothers might have procured along the way. After all, the Achaeans were little better than pirates, raiding our coasts during fair winds. It seemed only just that our men might have returned the favor. But the dais was empty of any gold or sacks of rubies, slaves, or livestock.

  Instead, Hector stepped alongside our father. “This was no mission of retribution. Sadly, we had no time to relieve the Achaeans of any of their valuables.”

  Perhaps no one else noticed it, but Hector’s fingers rapped a steady beat against his thigh. He was lying.

  But why?

  A quick glance at the rest of the assemblage showed several of them to be on edge. Even Hellenus seemed tense, a vein in his neck throbbing. Only Paris and my father seemed at ease.

  Paris stepped in front of Hector then, though his slender frame scarcely blocked our eldest brother. “In Sparta, we witnessed the wedding of Odysseus of Ithaca to Penelope. Her father is a champion runner, you know, and was reluctant to part with his favorite daughter, and so he proclaimed a contest! No man would have her save he who could beat her father in a foot race. Along came Odysseus…”

  I scowled to realize that the crowd was leaning forward, drawn to Paris’ sweet story like mindless honeybees to nectar. He did know how to weave a tale, hands flying to illustrate his words. I refused to be charmed, leaning back in my seat with arms folded across my chest, willing this to be over before we were all old enough to be in our graves.

  “He bested Penelope’s sire by tricking him into calling for a drinking game the night before. The poor man did his best to keep up with young Odysseus, but he could scarcely stand, much less sprint the next morning. Odysseus wasn’t impervious to the wine, either; both were violently ill at the finish line!”

  The crowd laughed, although I noticed Father’s frown. Paris was foolish to believe he’d appreciate the tale of a king being bested by such simple trickery.

  Paris continued, “Sadly, the Spartans are a shabby people, lacking all the polish and splendor of Troy, and many of their Achaean compatriots are even meaner folk. There was only a scrubby mare to sacrifice for the wedding feast and drab wildflowers to adorn the young bride. However, there was one glorious jewel there, rarer even than those that adorn my mother’s crown.”

  The crowd swiveled to look at Queen Hecuba’s laurel diadem with its riot of gold rings and amber flowers. She gave an indulgent smile, and Paris continued.

  “It would have been an affront to the gods to leave such a jewel in the hands of those Achaean swineherds,” Paris said. “So do you know what we did?”

  Polites’ little hand shot up. His face shone with the simple joy of a child who lived in a world far happier than the rest of us. “Did you bring it back?”

  Paris laughed and jogged down the dais, ruffling his brother’s hair so he beamed with pleasure. Why was I only the one who saw Paris for the weasel he was?

  “We did indeed, little brother.” He stood his full height and threw back his shoulders. “Or rather, I did.”

  Hector might have been Hellenus’ twin in that moment instead of me, so identical were their clenched jaws and narrowed eyes. They didn’t approve of what was about to happen, but I still didn’t understand why.

  “By the grace of all the gods,” Paris said, “I have brought to Troy the finest, most beautiful woman in the world. Aphrodite cannot walk among us mere mortals, but if she could, she would look like Queen Helen of Sparta. My Helen,” Paris continued. “Once of Sparta and now of Troy.”

  “Your Helen?” Hecuba asked. “If I’m not mistaken, Helen of Sparta is wife to King Menelaus.”

  “You’re almost correct,” Paris said, preening like a damned cockerel. “She was married to him.”

  “Then Menelaus is dead?”

  Paris shook his head. “Menelaus is very much alive, although he may wish for his death after losing so lovely a pearl. Helen now belongs to me.”

  He spread one arm wide in an expansive gesture. There was a collective intake of breath as a veiled woman moved from behind Father’s throne. I recognized his hand in this turn of events. For all that my father appeared the benevolent shepherd to his flock, I knew his darker side. I didn’t understand what he was orchestrating here, only that it didn’t bode well for any of us.

  The woman moved like quicksilver, tall and graceful, bells tinkling at her wrists and ankles. Every man assembled—the old, infirm, and those with the first fuzz of manhood on their upper lips—watched her with hungry eyes while the women muttered darkly. Cloth of gold embroidered with apple blossoms rippled over well-placed curves with her every move. My breath caught, and I clutched Andromache’s hand next to me so hard she gasped.

  The foreign woman lifted her golden veil in a slow movement. My veins filled with ice water as I recognized her chiseled cheekbones and lush lips like rose petals, her honeycomb of pale golden curls and skin smoother than fresh cream. The gleam in her icy eyes as she took Paris’ outstretched hand.

  Hers was the face from my nightmares.

  Once again I felt the scorch of flames, their fiery arms clawing at Troy’s towers to devour the helpless souls within while enemy spearmen poured into the city. And atop the walls, cackling over the inferno, a golden fiend.

  The woman before me was the flesh-and-blood version of the daemon that lurked in my nightscapes. I knew with certainty that this was no mere dream, but a prophecy now set in motion by Paris and this woman. I recalled his boasts of possessing a special task in Sparta; Father’s broad smile now confirmed that it was he who maneuvered the pieces on this board.

  But why? Why bring war to Troy?

  For the usual reasons, you empty-headed simpleton. Every king craves riches and power. Your father more than most.

  Hector was addressing our
father in low tones, clearly arguing Helen’s welcome, though out of respect he kept his voice low. Listen to him, you mad fools!

  The voice clanged in my head like a warning gong, but Father was waving Hector off, and the crowd was roaring, shouting in their haste to congratulate Paris.

  I quailed only a moment, brushing with my fingertips the vial tucked into my bodice to fortify me. Then I lunged from my chair before Andromache or Hecuba or even the gods could stop me.

  “Send her back!” I screamed, launching myself at Helen’s face. I had no weapon, but I would destroy the beauty that had entranced Paris and entrapped us all. My fingers tore at her golden veil and my nails found purchase in the soft skin of her cheek. Helen screeched in pain, startled out of her marble poise as she tried to defend herself with bare arms, but I was possessed by the wrath of a thousand vengeful gods. My fists came away with handfuls of her beautiful golden hair, and still I attacked, even as I heard Hellenus yell my name. “She will destroy us all!” I screeched.

  Rough hands clamped down on my arms and dragged me back, yet I fought against them, my bare feet kicking in vain and my claws tearing at air. Paris ran to protect Helen, who fell back panting and quivering on the dais. Despite the damage I’d done to her face and hair, she was still lovelier than a goddess. “She will bring the Achaeans to our shores like a nest of hornets,” I screamed, spitting at her. “Send her back!”

  “Get away, Mouth of Evil!” Paris shouted, shoving me away from them so I fell to the ground.

  “Restrain her,” my father said, and at first I hoped he spoke of Helen until rope scratched at my wrists. I fought like a woman possessed then, spitting like a hydra and clawing like a chimera until I was tightly bound and thrown over Hector’s shoulder. I saw guardsmen holding Hellenus back from coming to my rescue and knew I had lost.