But for the most part the watchers were silent as the ship drew slowly closer to the pier. To Kassandra the silence seemed ominous. She shivered, although the rich cloak she wore was warm, and took the baby back from the serving-woman, to clutch him close against her body.
The prow of the ship bumped gently against the land. Agamemnon was the first to step ashore; at once he fell to the ground and solemnly kissed the stones of the pier, crying in a loud voice, “I give thanks to the Thunder Lord who has returned me safe to my own country!”
A tall red-haired man with a gold torque about his throat stepped up to him and said with a bow, “My lord Agamemnon, I am Aegisthos, a kinsman of your Queen; she has sent me with these men to escort you with great honor to the palace.”
The men closed in around Agamemnon and marched away. It looked to Kassandra as if he were a guarded prisoner rather than a King receiving an escort of honor. Agamemnon was scowling—she could see he had little liking for this. Nevertheless, he went with them unprotesting.
One of the men on the pier climbed aboard and came to Kassandra. “You are the daughter of Priam of Troy? The Queen sent word you would be coming and you were to be shown all regard,” he said. “We have a cart for you and your child, and your woman.”
He gave her his hand and helped her ashore, settling her in the cart with the baby on her knees and the serving-woman crouched at her feet.
In spite of this luxury—and the road up to the palace was so steep that she had dreaded climbing it on foot—Kassandra felt uneasy. The stone walls of the great palace, almost as massive as the fallen walls of Troy, seemed to frown above her, deep in shadow. They passed under a great gate above which two lionesses, painted in brilliant colors, kept watch face to face. As the cart trundled through the Lion Gate, she wondered if they represented the ancient Gods of the place or were Agamemnon’s private emblem. But they were lionesses, not lions, and anyhow, Agamemnon had come here as a consort of the Queen in the old way. Klytemnestra’s symbol, then?
Ahead of the cart marched Agamemnon and his honor guard with Aegisthos. Just inside the Lion Gate was a city built on the hillside on the same pattern as Troy: palace, temples, gardens, one above another, the walls rising in many terraces and balconies. It was beautiful; yet it seemed shadowed darkly, the depths of the shadow falling on Agamemnon where he walked at the center of the soldiers.
On the steps of the palace, a woman appeared, tall and commanding, her hair, elaborately dressed in ringlets fresh from a curling iron, flaming gold in the morning sun. She was dressed richly in the Cretan style, a laced bodice low across her breasts, a flounced skirt dyed in many colors, one for each flounce.
Kassandra saw at once the close resemblance to Helen. This would be her sister Klytemnestra. The Queen came through the escort and bowed low to Agamemnon; her voice was sweet and clear.
“My lord, a great joy to welcome you to these shores and to the palace where once you ruled at my side,” she said. “We have long awaited this day.”
She held out her two hands to him; he took them ceremoniously and kissed them.
“It is a joy to return home, Lady.”
“We have prepared a celebration and a great sacrifice suitable to the occasion,” she said. “I can hardly wait to kill you.”
No, Kassandra thought in shock, that cannot have been what she said; but it is what I heard.
What Klytemnestra had actually said was, “I can hardly wait to see you take the place we have prepared for you.”
“All is prepared for your bath and the feast,” Klytemnestra said. “We are entirely ready to see you lying dead among the sacrifices.”
Once again Kassandra had heard what Klytemnestra was thinking, not what her lips had actually spoken. So again foresight, undesired, had come upon her.
Klytemnestra gestured Agamemnon toward the palace steps.
“All is prepared, my lord; go in and officiate at the sacrifice.”
He bowed and began to walk up the steps. Klytemnestra watched him go with a smile which made Kassandra shudder. Couldn’t he see?
But the King moved without hesitation. Just as he reached the great bronze doors at the top of the stairs, Aegisthos, armed with the great sacrificial ax, flung them open and thrust him inside. The doors closed after him.
Klytemnestra came down the stairs to the cart. She said, “You are the Trojan princess, Priam’s daughter? My sister sent word to me that you were the one friend she had found in Troy.”
Kassandra bowed; she was not sure that Klytemnestra’s next move would not be to thrust a knife through her heart.
“I am Kassandra of Troy, and in Colchis I was made a priestess of Serpent Mother,” she said.
Klytemnestra looked at the baby on her breast. She said, “Is that Agamemnon’s child?”
“No,” said Kassandra, not knowing whence came the courage which bade her speak so boldly, “he is my son.”
“Good,” said Klytemnestra, “we want no King’s sons in this land. He may live, then.”
At that moment, a great shout arose from within the bronze doors; someone thrust them open from inside, and Agamemnon appeared in flight at the top of the steps, with Aegisthos behind him, bearing the great double-bladed sacrificial ax. He whirled it high and brought it down into the fleeing King’s skull. Agamemnon staggered and tripped over the edge of the stairs, falling and rolling down the steps almost to Klytemnestra’s feet.
She screamed, “Witness, you people of the city: thus the Lady avenges Iphigenia!”
There was a tremendous cheer and cry of triumph; Aegisthos came down with the bloody ax and handed it to her. A few of Agamemnon’s soldiers started a cry of outrage, but Aegisthos’ guard quickly struck them down.
Klytemnestra said fiercely to Kassandra, “Have you anything to say, princess of Troy who thought perhaps to be Queen here?”
“Only that I wish I could have held the ax,” replied Kassandra, gasping in a wild joy. She bowed to Klytemnestra, and said, “In the name of the Goddess, you have avenged wrongs done to Her. When a woman is wronged, She is wronged too.”
Klytemnestra bowed to her and took her hands. She said, “You are a priestess, and I knew you would understand these things.” She looked into the face of the sleeping child. “I bear you no grudge,” she said. “We will have the old ways returned here. Helen has not the spirit to do so in Sparta, but I do. Will you remain here and be the Lady’s priestess, then? You may enter Her Temple if you will.”
Kassandra was still breathing hard, her heart pounding at the suddenness of her release. Through Klytemnestra’s features she still saw the hunger for destruction; this woman had avenged the dishonor offered the Goddess, but Kassandra still feared her. The Goddess took many forms, but in this form Kassandra did not love Her. Never before had she faced so strong a woman: princess and priestess. For once she had encountered a force stronger than her own.
Or did she but see in Klytemnestra the ancient power of the Goddess as She had been before male Gods and Kings invaded this land? She could not serve this Goddess.
“I cannot,” she said, as calmly as she could. “I—this is not my country, O Queen.”
“Will you return to your own country, then?”
“I cannot return to Troy,” Kassandra said. “If you will give me leave to depart, Lady, I will seek my kinswomen in Colchis.”
“A journey like that, with a baby still at the breast?” Klytemnestra asked in astonishment.
Then a curious change came across Klytemnestra’s face. An unearthly peace relaxed the sharp features, and she seemed to glow from within. A voice Kassandra knew well said, Yes, I call you home. Depart at once from this place, My daughter.
Kassandra bowed to the ground; the word had come. Still she had no idea how she would travel or what would become of her; but she was once again under the protection of the Voice which had called her first when she was no more than a child.
Truly had the priestess in Colchis said, The Immortals understand on
e another.
“I beg leave to depart at once,” she said.
And Klytemnestra replied, “Whom a God has called we must not detain. But will you not have rest, fresh clothing, food for yourself and the babe?”
Kassandra shook her head. “I need nothing,” she said, knowing that with the gold Agamemnon had given her she was well provided. She wished to accept nothing from Klytemnestra—or from the Goddess of this place.
She departed within the hour.
Her child tied in her shawl, she went to the harbor, where she would find a ship to take her and the baby on the first step of the arduous journey halfway to the world’s end, which would bring her at last to her kinswoman Imandra and the iron gates of Colchis. And above all, she was no longer blind and deprived of Sight; she was herself again, and after all the sufferings she knew the Goddess had not yet forsaken her.
On the docks a woman approached her, clad in a ragged earth-colored tunic, her face covered by a tattered shawl.
“Are you the Trojan princess?” she asked. “I am bound for Colchis, and I have heard you are going there.”
“Yes, I am, but why—”
“I too seek Colchis,” the woman said. “A God has called me there; may I bear you company?”
“Who are you?”
“I am called Zakynthia,” the woman said.
Kassandra stared at her and could see nothing. Perhaps the woman was bound to her by Fate; in any case, no God forbade it. And even Klytemnestra had doubted her ability to make this long journey alone with an unweaned child. With a sigh of relief she unslung the shawl in which she had tied her son, and passed him over.
“Here,” she said. “You can carry the baby till I need to feed him again.”
Epilogue
THE WOMAN was soft-spoken and obedient, even submissive; she cared for the baby, rocking him and keeping him quiet. Kassandra, prey to renewed seasickness, had little opportunity to pay much attention to her child or the woman, though she did watch unobserved for several days to make certain that the servant—about whom, after all, she knew nothing—could be trusted not to ill-treat or neglect the baby when no one was watching. But she seemed conscientious, attentive to the infant, singing to him and playing with him as if she were really fond of children. After a few days Kassandra decided that she had been fortunate in finding a good servant to care for her child, and relaxed her vigilance somewhat.
And yet Kassandra began to suspect her companion was not what she professed to be. Underneath the ragged garments the woman seemed strong and healthy; Kassandra could only guess her age—perhaps thirty or even more. When Kassandra was near she was modest in her manner, but her voice was rough and hoarse, and her demeanor with the sailors and crew was free as an Amazon’s. Then one day on the deck, Kassandra saw a stray wind blow Zakynthia’s garments hard against her chest, and it seemed that her bosom was too flat to be womanly. Her legs, Kassandra noticed, were hairy and muscular; and her face looked as if it had never known cosmetics or smoothing oils. The thought came to Kassandra that perhaps it was possible Zakynthia was not a woman, but a man.
Why would any man, she wondered, have sought her out in woman’s guise? Yet if he was a man, she thought, he might try to have his way with her—although, catching a glimpse of her own reflection in a basin of water, she could not imagine that any man would desire her as she was now: pale from seasickness, dressed in ragged garments, her body still shapeless after childbirth. Even so, she took to sleeping with Agathon in her arms; if the suckling at her breast did not deter a ravisher, probably nothing would, except her knife.
One night of storm, when the ship was tossed about like a cork on the heavy waves, Zakynthia spread her blanket close to Kassandra’s and offered to take the baby into her own bed. The waves slammed their blanket rolls together, sliding them first uphill and then downhill in the cramped little cabin, until at last Zakynthia, who was larger and heavier, took Kassandra in her arms.
Kassandra, sick and weary, felt nothing but relief at the shelter her companion’s body offered against the constant battering.
After this incident some of her fear subsided; surely no ordinary man would have ignored such an opportunity. She began to consider other possibilities. Perhaps he was a eunuch, or a healer-priest under vows of chastity. But why, then, did he wear women’s garments and profess himself a woman? Finally she decided that it did not matter and after a time it occurred to her that she no longer cared whether her companion was a woman or a man; he or she was simply a friend she trusted and was beginning to love. The baby loved her companion too, and was willing to leave his mother’s arms to be held and rocked by Zakynthia.
When at last the ship came to shore and they disembarked, she sought through the market for horses.
“But surely, Lady,” said the merchant, “you will not travel overland, with a baby and a single servant, into the country of the Kentaurs.”
“I did not know any of them remained alive,” Kassandra said. “And I am not afraid of them.” She hoped that on their journey they would meet some of that vanished race. She bartered a single link of gold for horses and food for the journey; she also bartered for a cloak for herself which could double as a blanket for sleeping, or as a tent.
“We should also have another tunic for you, Zakynthia,” she said, turning over in her hand a remnant of woven cloth which might make a cloak for the child. “You are so ragged that you might be a street-sweeper. And as for me, I have been thinking that before we go on, perhaps I should cut my hair and wear a man’s garment. The babe can soon be weaned, and surely they raise goats hereabout. It might be somewhat safer for traveling in this wild country. What would you think of that? You are taller and stronger than I; you would perhaps be more convincing as a man.”
Her companion stood very still, but she had heard the caught breath of consternation before the other said quietly, “You must do as you think best, Lady; but I cannot put on a man’s garment nor travel as one.”
“Why not?”
Zakynthia did not meet her eyes.
“It is a vow. I may say no more.”
Kassandra shrugged. “Then we shall travel as women.”
KASSANDRA LOOKED up at the gates of Colchis and remembered the first time, as a young girl in the Amazon band of Penthesilea, she had seen them. She had changed and the world had changed; but the great gates were just the same.
“Colchis,” she said quietly to her companion. “The Gods have brought us here at last.”
She set Agathon on his feet; he was beginning to toddle at last. If the journey had not been so long, she thought, he might have been really walking already; but she had been forced to carry him much of the time instead of letting him crawl or walk around. He was almost two years old now, and she could see in the strong development of his little chin, in his dark eyes, and dark curly hair, that he was Agamemnon’s son.
Well, at least he would not be trained into Agamemnon’s version of manhood.
It had been a long road; but not, she knew now, endless, as it had seemed. They had traveled overland mostly at night, hiding by day in woods and ditches. She had worn out several pairs of shoes and the clothing she wore was threadbare; she had had little opportunity to replace it.
There had been encounters on the road with soldiers—veterans of the sack of Troy—but she had seen and heard nothing of the Kentaurs; most of the people to whom she spoke of them believed they were only a legend, and either frankly accused her of telling tales or secretly smiled with contempt when she said she had seen them in her youth.
They had hidden from wandering bands of men, bribed themselves free, used their wits and sometimes their knives to get out of danger. They had gone cold and hungry—sometimes food was not to be had even for gold—and had stopped once or twice for a whole season to find work as spinners, or as handlers of animals.
Once they had traveled for a time with a man who was exhibiting “dancing” serpents. They had joined once or twice with other lone
travelers, and had lost their way for long distances.
And after so many adventures that Kassandra knew she would never dare to try to recount them, they had arrived safely in Colchis.
She picked up the child again as they walked through the gates. She knew she looked like a beggar-woman. Her cloak was the same one with which Agamemnon had covered her on board his ship—once crimson, but now faded to a grayish colorlessness. Her gown was a shapeless tunic of undyed wool, her hair loosely bound with a scrap of leather thong which had once been used to tie a sandal. Zakynthia looked even worse, if possible; less like a beggar-woman than some kind of ruffian. Her sandals were worn almost through, and she would have had to find another pair in Colchis even if it had not been her destination.
But they had managed to keep the child well and warmly dressed. His tunic—though he was outgrowing it—was from a good piece of wool which she had bought two towns ago and was fastened with a pin made from one of her last bits of gold, and his sandals were stout and strong. Sometimes she thought he looked less like Agamemnon than like her brother Paris.
“Now we are at journey’s end,” she said to her companion.
She asked a passerby the way to the palace, and asked if Queen Imandra still reigned here.
The woman said, “Yes, though she is growing old; there was a rumor from the palace that she was mortally ill, but I do not believe it.” She stared at Kassandra’s threadbare cloak and asked, “And what can the likes of you want with our Queen?”
Kassandra merely thanked the woman for her help and did not answer. She set off for the palace. Zakynthia picked up the child and carried him.
Climbing the palace stairs, Kassandra nervously smoothed her hair with her fingers. Perhaps she should have stopped in the market and provided herself with proper clothing to visit the Queen.
She spoke to the guard on duty—an old woman guard whom Kassandra actually recognized from her stay so long ago in Colchis.
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