A Song of War: a novel of Troy

by Kate Quinn

  Chryses, High Priest of Apollo, was a powerful man, but I refused to cower before him.

  “I am the daughter of Priam and can go where I please.”

  We both knew that wasn’t true, for my father had locked me in my cell after I’d first come here. He’d claimed it was for my protection, but not until he’d made it clear that he blamed me for what this priest had tried to do to me. I’d been only a frightened young girl. Locking me away had only broken me further.

  Yet I hadn’t come here to relive the past.

  “War stalks Troy like a starving vulture,” I said simply. “I intend to avert it.”

  The priest laughed then, his single eye bulging. “You think Apollo listens to you? Your hubris alone would lay this city low—”

  “You owe me.” I stepped closer, my eyes narrowing in the way that made most mortals recoil. “I served the god of light with faith and dignity, but you robbed me of that. Now you’ll pray to Apollo that his plague arrows will smite Helen and Paris and avert the tidal wave of war that threatens to crash upon all of us. If you won’t do it to save the city, you’ll at least do it to save your daughter. A father’s heart must beat in there somewhere—do you want your Chryseis to become a war prize to the Achaeans if they overrun this city?”

  Chryses didn’t cower as I’d hoped, only stepped closer so I could smell the smoky tang of sacrifice that had always clung to him. The gorge rose in my throat, but I swallowed it down.

  “I never collected on what you owed me,” he said.

  I had to force myself not to bolt. “You will not come upon me sleeping this time, priest. Tell me, though, for I’ve often wondered: Did Chryseis hear you accost me? Has she learned what sort of vile serpent she has for a father?”

  “You’re the vile one, Cassandra,” he said, taking another step. “Why else have you been plagued with such a miserable life while I reap the blessings of the gods?”

  “Take one more step and I’ll gouge out your remaining eye. My guard waits outside. If I scream, not even Apollo will protect you this time.”

  Liar. It’s no wonder no one believes you.

  “Not now,” I whispered with a twitch. The priest’s gaze flicked to the temple forecourt even as daemons whispered in both our ears.

  “Leave,” he finally said. “You have nothing that could make me strike a bargain with you.”

  “No?” I sneered, removing the precious object from my bodice. “Not even this?”

  I knocked the wax seal from the terra-cotta vial and withdrew his desiccated eye from the honey I’d used to preserve it, a thin ribbon of connected tissue still attached. His eye had been the first in my collection of bones and oddities after I’d plucked it from the priest’s face in the hooked-thumb gouge Hellenus had once taught me. Chryses had come upon me sleeping after the completion of my temple duties and thought to force his attentions upon me. He’d lost half his sight for his troubles.

  It was the scene that visited me often in my nightmares, waking to find him hovering over me, yanking up my skirt and promising that glorious Apollo wished me to sacrifice my purity to him. When I’d fought and finally stood with his slimy eye in my palm, the priest had shrieked and thrashed on the ground. I’d preserved my virtue, but he had damned me as I’d run away.

  I curse you with the gift of prophecy, he’d screamed. You shall writhe with visions of the future, and none shall believe a word that falls from your lips.

  To see the future and never be believed, that was my burden. It was a load that had broken me, especially after my father had muzzled me in my dark chamber.

  Chryses had lost an eye, and in the days that followed, I’d lost my sanity.

  But I would win it back. I would be believed this time, and I would save Troy.

  “Begone, foul witch,” Chryses said as I replaced the precious eye in the vial, shaking his hands as if I were some sort of filth he could sweep away. “Apollo cried cataracts of tears to see his temple defiled by so wretched a woman.”

  It wouldn’t have mattered if I’d brought a sacrifice of twelve yearling heifers that had yet to feel the goad; this corrupted priest and the god he served would never lift a finger to help me. So be it. I would do this alone, and his agony when I thwarted his curse would be my reward.

  “Get out,” Chryses thundered. “Get out and never return. The altars of all the gods will be forever cold to all your sacrifices.”

  I ran from him to the battlements, where the beach and ships lay to the west, and the olive groves and scattered temples stretched in all other directions. My fingers still sticky with the befouled honey, I tore at my hair and scratched my face as if in mourning, trying to rend the doubt from my soul, but it did no good.

  The familiar voice clanged in my head all the way back to my cell, laughing and chanting all the while.

  You will fall. Your city will fall. It will burn, burn, burn.

  I denied it with all my soul, screaming myself into oblivion that night. But no one heard. Or if they did, no one cared.

  After all, I’m nothing but a madwoman.

  I had an unexpected visitor the following morning.

  “I don’t care if King Priam hasn’t given prior approval,” came the voice arguing with my attendant on the other side of the door. “I’m cousin to the royal family and the son of Ishara, although you probably demean her with the name Aphrodite.”

  “Princess Cassandra is too wild for visitors—”

  “I daresay I can handle a young woman.”

  I smiled to hear the voice of my cousin Aeneas, harsher than iron and typically raised in lectures about piety and duty to the gods. Scrambling to my feet, I looked down at my crumpled clothing in dismay. I’d fallen asleep on the cold flagstones of my cell last night, and my dark hair was in wild disarray. I glanced around my cell, wondering how I might position myself to seem whole and healed to my cousin, but I lacked the usual props of a woman’s loom or distaff. I settled for lighting a fresh oil lamp to chase away the gloom and sitting on the edge of my narrow bed, smoothing my skirt.

  The door groaned open, and Aeneas entered, grim-faced and somber, as he usually appeared before our family. He was dark-haired and intense-eyed, as handsome as Paris, but unlike Paris, he did not seek to charm and ingratiate. “Cassandra,” he said and winced as my attendant slammed the door behind him. “It is so good to see you.”

  I couldn’t help it; I threw myself into his arms before he knew what was happening. Of all my family—perhaps even including Hellenus—Aeneas alone understood the magnitude of the crime Paris had committed when he stole Helen away. Aeneas’ piety also meant he understood that Troy couldn’t duck the wrath of the gods forever.

  “I’m glad you came.” I released Aeneas and stole a glance at his startled expression. So much for appearing healed then, for what sort of woman acted in such a manner? My fingers twitched, and I managed a nervous laugh. “After all, I so rarely have visitors.”

  “I would have come sooner,” Aeneas said, looking up and spreading his arms as if measuring the breadth of my meager cell. “I tried to visit shortly after hearing of Paris’ folly, but Priam was adamant I not come to Troy until I could gather my Dardanian warriors to bring with me.”

  “You’ve brought warriors?”

  He gave a single nod. “In case the Achaeans do come. I felt it my duty.” He tilted his head to one side. “Have you been mistreated?”

  “How could I possibly be mistreated?” A trill of laughter. “My father has seen fit to provide me with the protection of these walls and an attendant to see to my every need.”

  Aeneas saw through the veil of my words. “I’m sorry, Cassandra. Truly, I am. If there’s anything I can do—I am disgusted with our family’s conduct, with Paris and Priam. With all of Troy, actually.”

  “I know,” I said. “None of this will end well, not if the Achaean fleet arrives at our shores.”

  Aeneas cocked his head. “Have you seen it?”

  I crossed my arms in front
of me as if to ward off some terrible chill. “I’ve seen much, Aeneas. And none of it good.”

  He came and clasped my hands in his own, then led me to a chair. “Tell me.”

  I did then, unburdening myself as I’d only ever done with Hellenus, yet I told Aeneas even more than I had my twin. I told him everything: the arrival of a thousand ships and years of bloody battles, the never-ending pyres for the dead and the flames that devoured the city.

  “I’ve done much to avert all this,” I said. “I won’t rest until I’ve done everything in my power to save us.”

  “And what if it’s not enough?”

  I shook my head hard. “It has to be. I alone can overcome the faults of our family to keep my visions from becoming reality.”

  Aeneas rubbed my hands; I hadn’t realized how cold they’d become. “You’re not alone, Cassandra. I believe you, and I’ll do everything in my power to save Troy.”

  I touched his face, the stubble on his cheeks sharp against my palm. “If anyone can overcome the hubris of man and the pride of the warrior, it’s you.”

  Aeneas gave a sad smile. “Is that a prophecy, Cousin? I fear not, for I am as guilty of hubris as any Trojan.”

  I answered his smile. “Perhaps.”

  We chatted about nothings until I knew Aeneas lingered only for my sake. Finally, I rose and rapped on the door. “Be well, Aeneas,” I said. “You can best help me by casting your prayers to your divine mother and the rest of the Olympians.”

  Aeneas winced. “Only if you promise not to refer to our gods by that dreadful Achaean term.”

  “I promise,” I chuckled. “Pray that what I’ve done is enough. Pray that Troy is safe.”

  “I will.” Aeneas pressed his forehead to mine. “You have my word.”

  I spent the rest of the day in quiet contemplation, feeling calmer than I had in a long time. Perhaps Aeneas’ visit had been a sign of the gods’ favor. Perhaps they smiled on me—and Troy.

  If so, I prayed they’d guide me in the days and weeks to come. For I had one more wild, desperate plan to ensure Troy’s safety.

  Then, and only then, might I rest.

  We didn’t have long to wait now.

  Winter had passed, spring had come, and soon the sea lanes would be calm enough for ships. Word had flown to Troy on the tongues of news-bearing travelers that the Achaeans were building more and more vessels, hoping to enlarge their pirate fleet to something truly vast.

  I would know soon enough whether that was the fleet of my nightmares, and if so, whether they would truly be moved to sail on the winds of war.

  I touched the jagged shard of pottery with my thumb and inhaled sharply as it pierced the soft flesh of my thumb. My nails had been bitten to the quick in recent nights, and Hellenus had forbidden knives of any kind on my meal trays after he’d seen the state of my wrists. Yet he hadn’t forbidden jars of my favorite date wine from Aegyptos, and my attendant hadn’t noticed the missing shard after I’d dropped and shattered the most recent amphora. The sharpened terra-cotta had felt foreign on my wrists tonight, less comforting than the cold metal of a blade, but I’d made do. It had been months since I’d had a proper night of sleep, for the new terrors had made even Hellenus rear back in horror when I’d told him of my visions in garbled and halting words.

  I saw not only the war now, but glimpses of its terrible outcome.

  An empty beach, the detritus of war scattered in the sands.

  A mother gone mad, barking like a dog over the corpses of her children.

  A wise and weary soldier, tossed about on Poseidon’s waves for years on end.

  A conqueror murdered by his loved ones.

  New cities founded from the ruins of old.

  I’d tried so hard to save this foolish city of mine. I’d ranted and raved, negotiated and begged both gods and men. Was it all for naught?

  Let Troy fall. Escape and let this cursed cesspit crumble to the ground, remembered only in the tales of blind singers meant to warn children of the crime of hubris.

  These were the words that woke me each night, taunting and teasing me. But I would not let Troy fall, that I knew with a dark certainty. I was intended to save her—and if that meant the hubris was mine, then may the gods strike me in her place.

  Morning, clad in a robe of pale saffron, had suffused light over the earth. The great black doors of the Scaean Gate would soon be swinging open to expel the fishermen and farmers to the bounty of the sea and their fields for the day. I tucked the shard of terra-cotta into the fold of my kilt and wrapped a black veil over my unkempt hair before picking up the woven basket. The terra-cotta vial was back in its rightful place in my bodice, reminding me to be brave. Hellenus waited outside for me. Over the winter, he’d vouchsafed for my behavior with Father, so I was allowed to leave the city in a rare respite. He took the basket from me, and we walked silently down the narrow steps of the citadel while the inner city stretched and woke around us. I was struck by Troy’s beauty in that moment, at the way the sun broke through the marbled clouds to gleam off her limestone towers and light the purple anemones that spilled through the cracks of the steps. Even the market was lovely, silent and empty of the fishmongers and peddlers who would soon arrive to set out their wares. Hellenus and I gathered our cloaks nearer and continued past the bleary-eyed wives waiting at the wells and the dogs that looked up lazily from the doorways they’d protected during the night. The guards at the Scaean Gate stood at attention in front of its colossal red pillars as we passed, the shadows from the walls casting them in semidarkness.

  “Prince Hellenus,” one said, and I smiled at the respect in their voices. My brother commanded more respect than he knew, whereas I… I was glad that his presence shielded me from their spittle and insults today.

  I breathed easier once we were outside the city. Despite the many oak trees, the winds were fierce without the walls for protection, and the waves of the sea looked like a herd of wild horses galloping just beneath the surface. Our waters were bereft of ships; our own fleet had still not returned from the Hittite troubles, and Father—hearing the news of an Achaean fleet being built, just as I had—decided our few remaining vessels should be taken for safekeeping to Aeneas' holdings in Dardania rather than be outnumbered in our own bay.

  Perhaps my father was finally seeing sense. I prayed it wasn’t too little, too late.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Hellenus asked.

  I nodded, and we continued in silence past a weather-beaten wild fig tree to the two fair springs that fed the river Scamander. At this early hour, only a few women beat linens against the stone washing troughs, but soon the banks would swell with their idle gossip. The gods toyed with these waters, for steam rose from the first spring like smoke from a burning fire, yet the second felt colder than ice when I dipped a toe in its waters. It was on the muddy banks of the latter that I finally untied the rope at my waist and held my cat’s skull for the final time. I kissed his smooth forehead, then released him into the river. He tumbled in the waters, and I blinked back tears until he disappeared from view.

  I set him free because I didn’t need him now. Letting him go was proof to me—and Hellenus—that I was truly healed.

  “I’m proud of you,” Hellenus said when I straightened. That was all I needed to bolster myself, to keep from splashing into the freezing waters to retrieve the skull that had become a part of myself over these past months. Hellenus and I walked in silence back to Troy, the winds scourging us until we were through the gates. Now my city anticipated a possible Achaean attack as though preparing for a spring banquet. Slaves sang while they worked to fill enormous storage jars packed along the citadel, and fiery sparks flew like laughter from forges in the bronze-smiths night and day. Men played like children as they sparred with wooden swords and shields.

  Including my brothers as I sought them out in their wing of the palace. All save Hector acted as if this were all a game, hoping the Achaeans would arrive as soon as the sea la
nes opened.

  “I must speak to Hector about the city’s defenses,” Hellenus said. “Will you be all right?”

  “Of course,” I said, feigning a sunny smile.

  “Are you sure?”

  “They’ll pay no more attention to me than they would a stray dog.” Hellenus squeezed my hand, then ducked into Hector’s chambers, leaving me free to follow my own path.

  “I’ll challenge mighty Agamemnon to fight me for Helen! I’ll present his head to King Priam and use his carcass as target practice for my poison arrows!” Paris yelled as he pulled taut the string of his mighty ibex bow, sixteen palms long, its horns tipped with gold. I’d seen him fumble with a spear and shield like a greenling, but there was no denying he was deadly with a bow. His long fingers brushed his face, releasing the bowstring to hurl an arrow at the target dangling from an elm tree. It skewered the bag of sand with a dull thud that made me cringe as sand sprayed everywhere.

  A spray of blood.

  Mangled bones.

  A skull caved in, the brains inside a ruined and quivering mess.

  I grabbed Paris’ arm and whirled him around. “You tempt the gods with your boasts,” I snarled. “Beware, or they’ll strike you down for your arrogance.”

  “Go away, lunatic,” he said, shaking me off and holding out his bow as if in challenge. “No one wants to hear your latest mumblings. You yourself foretold of Troy’s continued greatness in the face of the Achaeans. Father said so, had heralds proclaim it throughout the city.”

  “I lied,” I said, then screamed the words. “I lied!”

  Paris only laughed, and the rest of my half brothers joined in. I knew how I must look to them, barefoot and wild-haired, my skin ashy and eyes sunken from lack of sleep. “Did you hear that, Brothers?” Paris called. “Our sister isn’t only moon-brained, she’s a liar, too!” He leaned in close so only I could hear. “And I swear on my dying breath that no one will ever again believe a word from that foul mouth of yours.”