Hector patted the little animal’s smooth shoulder and called for a tie rope.
“You don’t need it, my prince,” Paris said. “If you’re taking the herd bull, she’ll follow you like a puppy.”
“So cows are not unlike women, then,” Hector said with a crude laugh. “I thank you, and I wish you would reconsider coming to the Games. I am sure you would carry off most of the prizes; you look a natural athlete.”
“It is kind of you to say so, my prince,” Paris said, and watched Hector and his entourage as they descended the mountain toward the city.
Later that evening, when he went with his foster-father to fetch the goats for milking, he mentioned Hector’s invitation. He was not at all prepared for the old man’s response.
“No; I forbid it! Don’t even think of it, my son; something terrible would be sure to happen!”
“But why, Father? The prince assured me that it did not matter that I was not nobly born; what harm could there be? And I would like to have the caldron and tripod for Mother, who has been so good to me and has no such things.”
“Your mother don’t want no caldrons; we want our good son safe here at home where nothing could happen to you.”
“What could possibly happen to me, Father?”
“I am forbidden to tell you that,” the old man said seriously. “Surely it should be enough for you that I forbid it; you have always been a good and obedient son to me before this.”
“Father, I am no longer a child,” Paris said. “Now when you forbid me something, I am old enough to know the reason.”
Agelaus set his mouth sternly.
“I’ll have no impudence and I don’t have to give you no reasons; you’ll do as I say.”
Paris had always known that Agelaus was not his real father; since his dream of Goddesses, he had begun to suspect that his parentage was higher than he had ever dared to believe. Now he began to think that Agelaus’ prohibition had something to do with this. But when he put the question, Agelaus looked more stubborn than ever.
“I can’t tell you nothing at all about that,” he said, and stamped off to milk the goats. Paris, following his example, said no more; but inside he was fuming.
Am I no more than a hired servant, to be bidden here or there? Even a hired servant is entitled to his holiday, and Father has never denied me leave before. I will go to the Games; my mother at least will forgive me if I bring her back a caldron and tripod. But if I carry off the prize and she does not want it, I will give it to Oenone.
He said nothing that night; but early the next morning, he put on his best holiday tunic (it was in fact coarse enough, though Oenone had woven it of their finest wool and dyed it with berry juice to a soft red color) and went to bid her farewell. She looked at him, her mouth contorted in distress.
“So you are going? In spite of your father’s warning?”
“He has no right to forbid me,” Paris replied defensively; “he is not even my father, so it is no impiety to disobey him.”
“Still, he has been a good and kindly father to you,” she said, her lip quivering. “This is not well done, Paris. Why do you wish to go to their Games anyway? What is King Priam to you?”
“Because it is my destiny,” he retorted hotly. “Because I no longer believe that it is the will of the Gods that I sit here all my days keeping goats on the mountainside. Come, girl, give me a kiss and wish me good fortune.”
She stood on tiptoe and obediently kissed him, but she said, “I warn you, my love, there is no good fortune for you in this journey.”
He scoffed, “Why, are you now going to speak as a prophetess? I have no love for such warnings.”
“Still I must give it,” Oenone said, and threw herself weeping into his arms.
“Paris, I beg you, for love of me, stay.” She put her hand shyly over her swollen small belly and entreated timidly, “For his sake, if not for mine?”
“It is for his sake all the more that I must go and seek good fortune and fame,” Paris said. “His father will be something more than Priam’s herdsman.”
“What is wrong with being the son of a herdsman?” Oenone asked. “I am proud to be a herdsman’s wife.”
Paris scowled at her and said, “Beloved, if you do not give me your blessing, I must go even without it; would you wish me ill?”
“Never, my love,” she said seriously, “but I have the most terrible feeling that if you go you will never return to me.”
“Now, that is the greatest folly I have ever heard,” he said, and kissed her again. She clung to him still, so at last he gently disengaged her clinging hands and set off down the mountain; but he knew that she watched him till he was out of her sight.
KASSANDRA SLOWLY became aware again of where she was: in the darkness of the wagon, not the bright autumn sunlight of Mount Ida. And they were hardly into summer; they would reach Troy in the autumn, perhaps. At her side Andromache still slept quietly; cramped and cold, Kassandra crept into the blankets beside her, grateful for the warmth of her cousin’s body.
He is in Troy. Perhaps he will be in Troy when I come there; I shall see him at last. The thought was almost too exciting to endure; Kassandra slept no more that night.
15
IT WAS ANDROMACHE rather than Kassandra who first saw the great high walls of Troy rising in the distance. She sounded overwhelmed as she said, “It really is bigger than Colchis.”
“I told you so,” Kassandra remarked.
“Yes, but I didn’t believe you; I could not believe that any city could really be bigger than Colchis. What is the shining building high at the top of the city? Is that the palace?”
“No; it is the Temple of the Maiden; in Troy the highest places are reserved for the Immortals. And She is our patron Goddess who gave us the olive and the vine.”
“King Priam cannot be a truly great King,” Andromache said. “It is forbidden in Colchis for any house—even a Goddess’ house—to be higher than the royal palace.”
“And yet I know your mother is a pious woman who respects the Goddess,” said Kassandra. She recalled that when she had first come to Colchis, it had seemed blasphemy to her to build a mortal’s house so high. Her eyes sought out the Sun Lord’s house with its golden roofs, rising a terrace above the palace; she pointed out the palace to Andromache.
“It is not built so high; but it is as fine a palace as any in Colchis,” she told Andromache. Now that they were actually within sight of the city, Kassandra examined her own feelings warily, like biting on a sore tooth: she did not know how she felt about returning to Troy itself after her time of freedom. She realized that she was almost painfully eager to see her mother and her sister, Polyxena, and without trying, she felt her mind reach out for that insubstantial and confusing link with the twin brother who was at times even more real than her self.
I will not be caged again. Then she emended it a little: I will never let them cage me again. No one can imprison me unless I am willing to be imprisoned.
She looked round at her escort, half wishing she might return to the Amazon country with them. Penthesilea was not among them; she said that after their long absence she must remain to set the affairs of the tribe in order. Kassandra knew that if she had been dwelling among the Amazons now, she would be sent with the other women of childbearing age to the men’s villages to bear a child for the tribe. She felt she would even be willing to observe that custom, if it was the price of remaining with Penthesilea’s tribe; but that was not among the choices offered to her.
“But what is happening?” Andromache asked. “Is it a festival day?”
Processions were coming forth from the gates, long lines of men and women in holiday garments, animals garlanded with ribbons and flowers, whether for show or sacrifice she could not tell. Then she saw Hector and some of her other brothers wearing only the brief loincloth in which they competed on the field and knew it must be the Games. These were no business of women—though her mother had told her once that in anc
ient times women had competed in the footraces and in casting of spears and in archery too. Kassandra, who was a good shot, wished she were still small-breasted enough to pretend to be a boy, and shoot with the archers; but if she had ever been capable of such disguise, she was not now. Resignedly, she thought, Well, one day my skill at weapons may still be of use to my city—in war, if not at Games—and then saw, near the end of the procession, a chariot bearing the shrunken but still impressive figure of her father, Priam. She was about to throw herself headlong from the wagon and embrace him, but the sight of his gray hair shocked her; this old man was all but a stranger to her!
Behind him, riding in a smaller chariot, and wearing the insignia of the Goddess, Kassandra saw her mother; Hecuba seemed not to have changed by a single hair. Kassandra got down from the wagon and came forward, bending low before her father in token of respect, then hurrying to throw herself into her mother’s arms.
“You are come at a good hour, my darling,” Hecuba said. “But what a woman you have become! I would hardly have known this tall Amazon for my little daughter.” She drew Kassandra up on the chariot beside her. “Who is your companion, my child?”
Kassandra looked at Andromache, who was still seated on the forward seat of the wagon. She looked very much alone, and out of place. This was not how she had intended to introduce her friend to Troy.
“She is Andromache, daughter of Imandra, Queen of Colchis,” said Kassandra slowly. “Imandra, our kinswoman, sent her to be a wife to one of my brothers. She has a wagonload of treasure of Colchis for a dowry,” she added, and as she spoke, her words seemed crude, to betoken a mere matter of purchase and queenly expediency, as if Imandra had sent her daughter as a bribe for Priam. Andromache deserved better than that.
“Now I see she has the look of Imandra,” said Hecuba. “As for a marriage, that is for your father to say; but she is welcome here, marriage or no, as my kinswoman.”
“Mother,” said Kassandra seriously—after coming all this way Andromache should not be rejected—“she is the only child of the ruling Queen of Colchis; my father has sons and to spare, and if he cannot find one of my brothers to marry her for such an alliance, he is not as clever as he is reputed to be.” She hurried to fetch Andromache, helping her down from the wagon and presenting her to Priam and Hecuba; Hecuba kissed her, and Andromache smiled and dimpled as she made a submissive bow to them. Priam patted her cheek and took her up on the stands beside him, calling her Daughter, which seemed a good start. He seated her between himself and Hecuba, while Kassandra wondered why Andromache was being so submissive. She asked, “Where is my sister, Polyxena?”
“She has stayed in the house like a proper modest girl,” Hecuba reproved in a whisper. “Naturally she has no interest in seeing naked men competing at arms.”
Well, Kassandra thought, if I ever had any doubt, now I know I am home again. Am I to spend the rest of my life as a proper modest girl? The thought depressed her.
Kassandra watched the opening contest, which was a footrace, with tepid interest, trying to pick out those of Priam’s sons whom she knew by sight. She recognized Hector at once, and Troilus, who must now, she thought, be at least ten years old. As they set off, Hector quickly took the lead, and he remained there throughout the first lap; then behind him a slighter, dark-haired youth began to gain. Almost easily, he overtook him and flashed past, touching the mark an instant before Hector’s outstretched hand.
“Bravely run!” shouted the other contestants, clustering around him.
“My dear,” Priam said, leaning across Andromache to Hecuba, “I do not know that young man, but if he can outrun Hector he is a worthy contestant. Find out who he is, will you?”
“Certainly,” Hecuba said, and beckoned to a servant. “Go down and find out for the King who is the young man who won the footrace.”
Kassandra shaded her eyes with her hand to look for the winner, but he had disappeared into the crowd. The contestants were now fitting strings to their bows. Kassandra, who had become an expert archer, watched with fascination, and suddenly, dazzled by the sun, felt confused: surely she was herself on the field, nocking an arrow into the bowstring—My parents will be so angry .. . Then, looking down at the strong bare arm so much more muscular than her own, she knew what had happened: that her thoughts had again become entangled with those of her twin brother. Now she knew why the young winner of the footrace had seemed almost painfully familiar to her: this was her twin brother, Paris; and as she had foreseen, she was indeed present at his homecoming to Troy.
With that curious double sight, it seemed she was at once on the field and in her seat above it, looking up at Priam as if it were for the first time, seeing him at once as her father and as a strange, frightening old man with the unfamiliar majestic look of royalty. There were also old men whose names neither of them knew—Paris deduced, rightly, that these must be the Trojan King’s advisers; a sweet-faced old woman he was sure was the Queen; a gaggle of young boys in expensive bright clothing, whom he assumed—correctly—to be Priam’s younger sons, not old enough yet to take part in these contests, and some pretty girls who caught his eye mostly because they looked so different from Oenone. He wondered what they were doing here—perhaps the palace women were allowed to watch the Games. Well, he would give them something to watch. Now he was being beckoned forward to shoot at the mark.
Paris’ first shot went wide because he was nervous, and his second flew far beyond the target. “Let the stranger shoot again,” Hector said. “You are not accustomed to our targets; but if you can shoot so high and so far, surely you cannot be incapable of a proper shot.” He pointed out the target and explained the rules.
Paris prepared to shoot again, thoroughly surprised at Hector’s courtesy. He let fly his arrow, this time straight into the center of the target. The other archers shot one by one, but not even Hector could better his shot. Hector was not smiling now; he looked cross and sullen, and Kassandra knew he was regretting his impulsive generosity.
There were other contests, and Kassandra, pulling herself back into her own mind and body with a fierce effort, watched with interest and pleasure as her twin won them all. He threw Deiphobos almost effortlessly at wrestling, and when Deiphobos got up and rushed him, stretched him out insensible, not to rise till the Games were over. He cast the javelin farther even than Hector, listening to the shouts of “He is strong as Herakles” with ingenuous smiles of pleasure.
A servant came to the King and Queen with a message, and Kassandra heard her father repeat aloud, “He says that the young stranger is called Paris; he is the foster son of Agelaus the shepherd.”
Hecuba turned white as bone. “I should have known; he has the look of you. But who could have believed it? It has been so long, so long . . .”
The contests now were ended, and Priam gestured for Paris, as the winner, to come forward. Then he rose.
“Agelaus,” he called aloud, “you old rascal, where are you? You have brought back my son.”
The old servant shuffled forward, looking pale and ill at ease. He bowed before the King and muttered, “I didn’t tell him he could come today, Sire; he came without my leave, and I’d perfectly well understand if you were angry with me—with us both.”
“No, indeed,” Priam said graciously, and Kassandra saw her mother’s knuckles unclench their painful grip over her heart. “He’s a credit to you, and to me too. My own fault for listening to superstitious rubbish; I have only thanks for you, old friend.” He took a gold ring from his own finger and put it on Agelaus’ work-gnarled finger.
“You deserve more reward than this, my old friend, but this is all I have for you now. Before you return to your flocks I shall have a better gift for you.”
Kassandra watched in astonishment as her father, who had slapped her to the ground even for inquiring of the existence of this brother, embraced Paris and awarded him all the prizes of the day. Hecuba was weeping and came forward to clasp her lost son.
“
I never thought to see this day,” she murmured. “I vow an unblemished heifer to the Goddess.”
Hector frowned at the sight of his father bestowing lavish gifts on Paris: the promised tripod (which Paris said he wished to send to his foster-mother); a crimson cloak with embroidered bands, of the palace women’s weaving; a fine helmet of worked bronze; an iron sword.
“And of course you will return to the palace and dine with your mother and me,” he invited at last, smiling expansively. As Priam rose, gathering his cloak over his arm, one of the old men in the circle surrounding him came up and whispered urgently to him. Kassandra recognized the man as an old palace hanger-on, one of the priest-soothsayers in his circle.
Priam scowled and waved the man away.
“Don’t talk to me of omens, old croaker! Superstitious rubbish; I should never have listened to them.”
Kassandra could feel the shock—partly fear—that went through Paris at the words. Of course; he would know of the omens which had exiled him from the palace and his birthright—or was he only now learning of them?
Hector said into his father’s ear—but clearly audible to Paris: “Father, if the Gods have decreed that he is a danger to Troy—”
Priam interrupted: “The Gods? No; a priestess, a reader of chicken guts and dreams; only a fool would have deprived himself of a fine son at such a one’s blitherings. A King does not listen to the omens of a breeding woman, or her fancies. . . .”
Kassandra felt torn, half in sympathy for the twin whose fear and insecurity she could not but feel as if they were her own, half for her mother’s dread. She wanted to step forward and draw her father’s anger to herself; but before she could speak, Priam’s eyes fell again on Andromache.
“And now I’ll put right my old mistake and bring home my lost son. How say you, Hecuba: shall we marry the Colchian Queen’s daughter to our wonderful new son?”
“You cannot do that, Father,” said Hector, even as Kassandra felt Paris’ eyes rest greedily on Andromache. “Paris has a wife already; I beheld her myself in the house of Agelaus.”
The Firebrand Page 16
