The Firebrand

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  He turned away, stopping beside his wife. She saw him bend to look inside the shawl, touching the baby’s face with his finger; he said something, laughing, and turned away to go back to the men.

  How different from Khryse, Kassandra thought, watching him move down the hill. I said it at his wedding: if my father had found me such a husband, I would have been glad.

  In all my life—and I am almost the only woman of my years at the court of Priam who has not been given a husband—I have not seen any man whom I would willingly wed. Save this one, and he is my half sister’s husband and the father of her child.

  She straightened her back wearily and bent again to the task of filling the little flasks of oil.

  “Kassandra, you are spilling oil all down the edges; don’t fill the ladle so full,” reproved Creusa, coming to sit beside her. “What was my husband saying to you for so long?”

  “He was asking how I should conduct this war if I were a soldier,” Kassandra said, surprised into truthfulness. But Creusa only laughed.

  “Well, don’t tell me if you don’t want to,” she said scornfully. “I am not the sort of woman who is jealous if her husband says two words to another woman.”

  “I told you the truth, Creusa; that was one of the things he said. Also, we were wondering what we should do if the Akhaians fail to observe the sowing-truce for spring planting.”

  “Oh, I suppose because you are a priestess, and would know about such things,” Creusa said. “But even Agamemnon could not be as impious as that. Could he?” And when Kassandra did not answer immediately she demanded, “You who are a prophetess—you should know that. Could he?”

  Kassandra could not answer; but she said, “I hope not. I do not know what they do, or how they serve their Gods.”

  7

  BUT BEING a prophetess was not enough; later the whole first year of the war became a blur in her mind of fires, raids, men screaming, burned alive from fire-arrows. A woman had wandered down unwitting into the Akhaian camp, and been abused by a dozen men. She was found screaming in delirium; the healer-priestesses of the Sun Lord’s Temple fought to save her, but on the first day she seemed well enough to be left unguarded for a moment, she flung herself from the high wall of the citadel, and someone too lowborn to avoid the task had to go down and retrieve her shattered and broken body from the stones far below.

  A few days before spring sowing, the priests and priestesses rose to a joyous trumpet call from the palace below, and found the harbor empty of ships; the Akhaians had gone away, leaving only a long black strip of beach, dirty and fouled from where their tents had been.

  There was rejoicing in the city, even as all Hector’s men went down to clean away their filth and debris. His son, little Astyanax, came too. Running about now, and prattling, he was a great pet among the soldiers; every minute he brought up some abandoned bit of rubbish he thought a treasure: a shining bronze harness-buckle, a wooden comb broken to a stub, a bit of used vellum on which someone had scrawled a crude map of the city. Kassandra took this from the protesting child and stood looking at it for a long time, wondering what enemy of Troy had made this.

  “Give it back!” shouted Astyanax, reaching up for it, and Kassandra said, “No, little one. Your grandsire must see this.”

  “See what?” asked Hector, taking the parchment from her hand and giving it back to the child. Kassandra bent and reclaimed it, disregarding the angry child’s howls.

  “What is the matter with you, Kassandra? Give it to him. They are gone; there is no reason to care what rubbish they may leave behind,” Hector said. “No. Stop yelling, little son, and you shall have a ride in Father’s chariot.”

  “They are not gone for long,” Kassandra said, “or, with this, would they have given up such an advantage?”

  “You are making too much of this,” said Hector. “What do you want with it?”

  She traced on it the familiar markings which she could not entirely read.

  “Someone from Crete has done this; and I thought they were our allies. I must show it to him ...”Then she thought better of it and said, “Helen has a Cretan woman among her entourage; I will show this to Aithra.” As both a Queen and a priestess, if any woman knew this odd kind of writing, it would be she.

  “Well, if you wish,” Hector said with a shrug. “I never knew such a woman for making much of trifles.”

  But Aithra looked at it without comprehension and said that she had indeed seen such markings in Crete, but she had not been schooled to read them.

  “I cannot even guess whose hand it may be,” she said. “Perhaps Khryse will know,” and Kassandra was ashamed to explain to the dignified woman why she did not wish to confront the priest.

  But at last she took it to Charis and explained; Charis knew why she feared and disliked Khryse, and agreed to come with her while she consulted the priest.

  Khryse examined it carefully, frowning, his lips moving, tracing the symbols with his forefinger; then he looked up and said, “This is no more than a map of the city; but the names are written on it. See? This shows the Queen’s chambers, the granaries, the great dining-hall, every part of the palace marked; see, and Apollo’s Temple, and here the Temple of Pallas Athene.”

  “I thought as much,” said Kassandra. “Can you tell me who wrote this?”

  “I cannot say who wrote this; but it was no friend of Troy. I can say only that it was probably not a Cretan,” said Khryse, “for we are taught to make the letters differently, just a little, in Crete.”

  That much, Kassandra thought, she could have guessed. Later she took it to Priam, who paid little attention, though he at once recognized it for what it was.

  “I cannot think of a dozen men outside Troy who could have drawn this; armed with this, it would be no task at all to find any place in Troy,” he said. “Only one who knew the palace and the city very well could have done it, and I cannot think that one of ourselves would have done so. Only . . .” Priam hesitated, then shook his head. “No; he is my sworn friend and has been our guest. I cannot believe that he would betray us.”

  “Father, who?” she asked, and Priam, shaking his head, said “No. Only . . . No.”

  “Odysseus?” she asked.

  “Kassandra, do you really think my old friend could be so false?”

  She did not wish to think this of Odysseus; but the possibility was there. She said only, “In war men forget other oaths, Father.”

  “It may be. But he pledged to me that he would not be drawn into this war,” Priam said. “I will not accuse him unheard. Your thoughts are filled with poison, Kassandra.”

  “Father, it was not I who thought of such a thing,” she said, “I only asked if that was your thought.”

  “I am still certain that I wrong my old friend with such an idea,” Priam said, “and I shall wait to ask him to his face if this was his work.”

  In her heart, Kassandra was certain; Odysseus, so she had heard, was full of such crafts and wiles. Yet she did not wish, either, to think he would betray his old friendship with Priam and with Troy.

  There was not long to wait; the Akhaians had not been gone ten days when the ship of Odysseus was sighted in the harbor. Kassandra had come to the palace to visit Creusa and make a healing brew for her child, who was ailing with a summer fever, and afterward was summoned to the great hall. Aeneas came at once to greet her; as usual, he embraced her and kissed her cheek.

  “Is it well with the child, Sister?”

  “Oh, yes; there is nothing much wrong with her; I would do better to make a potion for Creusa which would cure her anxieties. Every time the wind changes, she thinks the little one is sick to death. At least Andromache has learned that babies have little upsets and it is better not to dose them too much: they will get better by themselves, and if they do not, there is time enough to call for a healer.”

  “I am relieved to hear it; but be patient with Creusa, Sister; she is young and it is her first child. Come and have some dinner,” Aene
as said, leading her forward. Odysseus got up from the guest-seat beside Priam and came to Kassandra; he embraced her so hard that she flinched and gave her a great smacking kiss.

  “So it is my beautiful best girl,” he said, “and what have you been doing these months of war? I have a gift for you: a string of amber beads which matches your bright eyes exactly; I have never known anyone else whose eyes are that yellow with just a glint of red in their depths,” he added, drawing out the necklace from the folds of his tunic and putting it round her neck. Kassandra sighed, taking it off and holding it between her hands, examining the shining beads almost covetously.

  “I thank you; it is very beautiful, but I would not be allowed to wear it. Should you not bestow it directly as a gift to the Sun Lord?”

  Odysseus took back the necklace, frowning.

  “It suits you so well; and the Sun Lord, though I have no quarrel with Him”—he made a pious gesture—“has no need of such gifts as I can give.” He looked round the room, and his eyes fell on Helen, sitting modestly in Paris’ shadow.

  Helen said in her gentle voice, “Dear old friend, I will keep the necklace for Kassandra, and she shall have it back whenever she wants to ask for it.” She was quite obviously pregnant by now, but Kassandra saw with a sigh that it seemed to make her even more beautiful. Andromache had been strong and healthy throughout, but she had looked pale and bloated, while Creusa had been sick all during her pregnancy, unable to hold down any food, and so wasted that she looked like a rat dragging about a stolen melon. Helen looked, Kassandra thought, just like one of the carven pregnant Goddesses she had seen in Colchis; or like Aphrodite if the Goddess of Love would allow Herself to be seen pregnant.

  Helen took the necklace from Odysseus’ hands. She said gently, almost affectionately, to Kassandra, “Who knows, my sister? You may not always be in the Sun Lord’s service. I give you my word, this necklace is yours anytime you ask for it.”

  Against her will, Kassandra was warmed by the glow of Helen’s presence. She said, more affectionately than she intended, “Thank you, my sister,” and Helen pressed her hand and smiled at her.

  Priam interrupted testily, “It is all very well to stand here as my guest and bestow trinkets on the girls, Odysseus, but tell me, did I not see your ship among the raiders’, and were you not among the enemy at the walls? I thought you had promised to me that you would not be drawn into war against me with those Akhaians.”

  “That is true, my old friend,” said Odysseus, grinning and draining the wine from his cup at one draft. Polyxena came to refill the cup, and he smiled up at her—almost a leer—and patted her rounded buttocks. “Would that I were still unwedded, pretty thing; if your father could have given you to me—even if I am old enough to be your grandsire, and I am not given to seeking brides in their cradles—then Agamemnon could not have tricked me into coming against old acquaintances this way.”

  Priam looked politely skeptical. “I confess, my friend, I do not understand.”

  “Well,” said Odysseus, and Kassandra reflected that Odysseus would certainly make a good story of it, truth or falsehood. “You do remember that I stood with the suitors for Helen when she wedded Menelaus. Helen, I think, has forgiven me that I was not one of her suitors—I wanted only to marry Penelope, daughter of Ikarios.”

  Helen smiled. “May the Gods of Truth forgive you as firmly as I have done, my friend. I only hoped I might gain a husband as faithful to me as you to your Penelope.”

  Odysseus continued, “And when all the suitors were fighting, it was I who created the compromise that broke the deadlock: that Helen choose for herself and that all of us take an oath to defend her chosen husband against all contenders. So when this war broke out, there was I, caught in my own trap; Agamemnon sent for me to come fulfill the oath I had taken to Menelaus.”

  Priam scowled, though Kassandra could tell that her father was not really angry; he wanted the rest of the story. “And what of your oath to be my guest and friend?”

  “I did my best to honor it, Priam, I vow to you,” said the old seaman. “I have seen enough of the world; I wanted to stay home and look after my own acres. So I had Penelope send a message that I was sick and could not come; that my wits were astray, that I was a poor madman. And when Agamemnon came, I put on my plowman’s old hat, and yoked my horse and my ox together, and started to plow a field of thistle. And do you know what that”—he hesitated; “well, there are ladies present—that Agamemnon did?” He gave the name the force of an obscenity, and looked round to survey the effect of his story on his rapt audience. “He picked up my little son, Telemakhos—he was just toddling; about the size of your Astyanax, Hector—and he set him down in the field right in front of where I was plowing. So what was I supposed to do—plow right over the child? I swerved the team, and Agamemnon laughed to split his sides and said, ‘Come on, old fox; you’re no madder than I am!’ and demanded I honor my oath to defend Menelaus. So I came; but believe me, it was I who sent them home to do their spring planting. They’ll be back after that; I came to warn you all.”

  Priam had laughed as hard as anyone; then he sobered and said, “I can see how you could do no other than you have done, Odysseus. For all that, you are still my friend.”

  “I am,” Odysseus said, and helped himself to fish and bread.

  “And may you always be so,” Priam replied, “as I am yours.”

  Kassandra narrowed her eyes, looking at Odysseus as if seeking the Sight. Try as she might, she saw only a harmless old man, genuinely torn between old friends and unwelcome neighbors with whom he must, for the safety of his own family, keep the peace. Yes, he would be their friend—as long as it was to his advantage to do so. Unless there was a good joke or a good story to be made out of his own cleverness or even treachery. No friendship would stand against that; not for Odysseus.

  She quickly finished her own meal and, rising, asked her father for permission to withdraw. He gave it absentmindedly; she kissed her mother and Andromache, lifted little Astyanax in her arms and kissed him too, though he squirmed and insisted he was too big to be kissed, and left the hall.

  After a minute she realized that someone had followed her. Thinking it was one of her sisters with a question to be asked of a priestess which was too private to ask before men, she stopped to wait. Then strong male arms went round her; and for a moment she rested in Aeneas’ arms, before, regretfully, she drew away from him.

  “Aeneas, no; you are my sister’s husband.”

  “Creusa would not mind,” Aeneas said in a whisper. “Since our child was born, she cringes whenever I come to her bed. She has no desire for me, I swear it. She would rejoice if I found love elsewhere.”

  “You will not find it with me,” Kassandra said, sadly. “I too am sworn, my brother; sworn to the Sun Lord, and it would be a braver man than you who would contend with Him for a woman.”

  Aeneas said, “I will strive with Him if you want me to, Kassandra. For you I would dare even His wrath.”

  “Oh, hush,” she said, holding her fingers over his mouth. “You did not say that. I did not hear it. But this much I will say, my dear,” she went on, the endearment slipping from her lips almost without volition: “if we were both free, I would willingly have you, as husband or as lover—whatever you would. But I have seen the wrath of Apollo Sun Lord, and I would not knowingly dare it for any man; certainly not for you, whom I could well have loved.”

  “The Gods forbid,” said Aeneas piously, “that I should contend against a God, unless you should demand it of me. If you are content to be the Sun Lord’s bride and no other’s . . .” He stepped back. “Be it as you will. Yet I swear by Apollo Himself”—and he raised her slender hand respectfully to his lips—“I shall be forever your faithful friend and your brother, and should you ever desire my help, I swear you shall have it, against any man—or any God.”

  She said, shaken, “I thank you for that; and I shall ever be your friend and your sister, whatever happens.”
>
  He held her gently by the shoulders. “Kassandra, my dear, you do not look happy. Are you truly content in Apollo’s Temple?”

  “If I were,” she said in a whisper, “I would have run away from you before it ever came to this.”

  She drew away from him and went quietly out of the palace, her heart still beating so loudly she felt that Aeneas must have heard it. As she climbed the long hill toward the Sun Lord’s house, she felt tears unshed pressing at her eyes.

  I do not want to be false to my vows. I am sworn to Apollo, and it is He who has forsaken me; I would never betray Him with any mortal man, yet that blasphemous priest has had me disgraced in the Temple. For his sake I am defiled in their eyes when I am innocent of all wrongdoing.

  Would the Goddess she had served during her time with the Amazons have taken the part of a man against Her sworn priestess? Was it only that a God, when a man and a woman contended, could not take a woman’s part, whatever the rights of the matter? She was the property of the God, just as if she had married a mortal man.

  Yet Khryse and I both belong to Apollo, and so we should have been equal in His sight.

  She came through the great bronze doors, and the night watchman bent to her in reverence.

  “You are abroad late, Princess.”

  “I have been at the palace with my father and mother,” she said. “A good night to you.”

  “Good night, Lady,” he said, and she went toward the rooms at the back where the women slept. She slipped out of her sandals and gown, and laid herself down to sleep.

  Her eyes were still aching, and as she relaxed her muscles, she felt tears stealing unbidden down her face. The memory of Aeneas’ embrace returned, and for a moment she played in her mind with the memory. If she would, she could take him from her half sister, and Creusa would not even be angry with her; she would be pleased to be free of her wifely obligations to him. . . .