“Is this true, my son?” Priam asked.
Paris looked sullen, but he understood the implied threat. He spoke politely: “It is true; my wife is a priestess to the River God Scamander.”
“Then you must send for her, my son, and present her to your mother,” Priam said, and turned to Hector. “And to you, Hector, my eldest son and heir, to you I give the hand of Queen Imandra’s daughter; tonight we shall solemnize the marriage.”
“Not so fast, not so fast,” said Hecuba. “The child needs time to make her wedding clothes like any other girl; and the women of the palace must have time to prepare for this most important feast in a woman’s life.”
“Rubbish,” said Priam. “As long as the bride is ready, and the dower arranged, any clothes can be worn for a wedding. Women are always worrying about such trivial things.”
All this may be a foolish thing, Kassandra thought, but it is crude of Priam to disregard it. What would the Queen of Colchis think to have her daughter’s wedding tacked onto the end of the festival?
She bent close to Andromache and whispered, “Don’t let them hurry you this way. You are a princess of Colchis, not an old cloak to be given as an extra Games prize or a consolation for Hector because he did not win!”
Andromache smiled and whispered to Kassandra, “I think I’d like to have Hector before your father changes his mind again or decides he can use me as a prize for someone else.” She looked up and murmured in a small and timid voice which Kassandra had never heard her use before, so false Kassandra did not see why Priam did not laugh at her, “My lord Priam . . . my husband’s father . . . the Lady of Colchis, my mother the Queen, sent with me all kinds of clothing and linens; so if it pleases you, we can hold the wedding whenever you think proper.”
Priam beamed and patted her shoulder.
“There’s a fine girl,” he said, and Andromache blushed and looked down shyly as Hector came and looked her over—Kassandra thought, just as he had looked over the virgin heifer Paris had chosen for the sacrifice.
“I shall be most content to take the daughter of Queen Imandra for wife.”
THE LONG day was drawing to a close. Priam and Hecuba were helped into their chariots for the return to the palace. Kassandra found herself walking at Paris’ side; she was deeply distressed because as yet he had not addressed a single word to her nor acknowledged in any way the bond between them which to her was so important. How could he ignore it?
She wondered if he too was under the special protection of the Sun Lord, that he could come and face the father who had intended to expose him at birth, and now acknowledged him and intended to restore him to his rightful place in the family.
Hector was walking close to Andromache; he turned and laid his hand on Kassandra’s shoulder, then gave her a rough hug of welcome.
“Well, Sister Kassandra, how brown and sunburnt you are—though after all these years with the Amazons I should not be surprised. Why did you not gird on your bow and go into the field to shoot with the archers?”
“She could have done so, never doubt it,” said Andromache, “and bettered your shot.”
“No doubt,” said Hector. “I was not at my best this day; and”—he coughed and lowered his voice, casting a quick look over his shoulder at Paris—“I would rather be beaten by a girl than by that upstart.” He turned to Deiphobos, who was still holding his head as if it hurt him. “Tell me, Brother,” he said, “what are we to do with this fellow? I cut my teeth on that old story about how Father exposed him because he was a threat to Troy. Am I to overlook it because Father saw fit to bribe me with a beautiful wife?”
Deiphobos said, “It seems Father is already besotted with him. He should take a lesson from King Pelias when he was confronted with his lost son, Jason; I recall he sent Jason on a quest to the far ends of the world, to seek the Golden Fleece . . .”
“But there is no longer any gold in Colchis,” said Andromache.
“Well, we must devise some way to rid ourselves of him,” Hector said. “Perhaps we could persuade Father to send him to use some of that charm on Agamemnon and persuade him to return Hesione.”
“A good thought, that,” said Deiphobos. “And if that fails, we can send him—oh, to talk the sirens out of their sea-hoards, or to shoe the Kentaurs where they dwell—or to harness them to pull our chariots . . .”
“Or anything else that will take him away a thousand leagues from Troy,” agreed Hector. “And this for Father’s own benefit, if the Gods have decreed he is not a boon to Troy—”
“Nor, certainly, to us,” said Deiphobos. But Kassandra had heard enough. She stepped out of the path and dropped back to walk at Paris’ side.
“You,” he said, looking at her rudely, “you—I thought you were a dream.” And as their eyes met for the first time, she again felt the bond establish itself between them; was he too aware of how they were linked, within the soul?
“I thought you were a dream,” he repeated, “or perhaps a nightmare.”
The rudeness of his words was like a blow; she had hoped he would embrace her in welcome.
She said, “Brother, do you know they are plotting against you? You have no welcome in Troy from our brothers.” She reached for contact again, only to feel him draw back from her angrily.
He said, “I know that; do you think me a fool? After this, Sister, keep your thoughts to yourself—and stay out of mine!”
She recoiled with pain at the harshness of being shut out of his mind. Ever since she had known of his existence and the bond between them, she had fancied that when they met he would welcome her with joy and thereafter she would be special and even precious to him. Now, instead, he rebuffed her, thought of her as an intruder. Did he not even see that she was the one person here ready to welcome him with acceptance and love even greater than Priam’s own?
She would not weep and beg him for his love.
“As you will,” she snarled. “It was never my wish to be bound to you this way. Do you think, then, that perhaps our father would have exposed the wrong twin?” She flung herself away from him, hurrying down the path to rejoin Andromache, all the joy of her homecoming spoiled.
16
THROUGHOUT the evening, Kassandra thought that this was more of a celebration of Paris’ welcome to the family than a wedding feast for Hector and Andromache, though once Priam had decided to solemnize the marriage he went to considerable trouble to leave nothing undone. He sent to the royal cellars for the best wine, and Hecuba went to the kitchens for delicacies to be added to the evening meal: fruits, honeycomb, all kinds of sweetmeats. Musicians, jugglers, dancers and acrobats were assembled for entertainment.
A priestess from the Temple of Pallas Athene was summoned to supervise the sacrifices which were such a necessary part of a royal wedding. Kassandra stayed close to Andromache, who, now that it was actually at hand, looked pale and frightened—or perhaps, Kassandra thought, with an irony which astonished her, this was Andromache’s idea of how a properly modest woman should behave on the day of her wedding.
As they stood together in the courtyard, solemnly watching the sacrifices being gathered, Andromache leaned toward Kassandra and whispered, “I should think the Gods would have had enough sacrifices for one day. Do you suppose they ever get bored with watching people kill animals for them? A slaughterhouse wouldn’t entertain me.” Kassandra had to choke back a giggle which would have been scandalous; but it was true: there had already been many sacrifices at the Games. The couple stood side by side, hands clasped on the sacrificial knife, and Hector bent and whispered to Andromache. She shook her head, but he insisted, and it was her hand that drew the knife unhesitatingly across the throat of the white heifer. To Kassandra, who had eaten nothing since early morning, the smell of the roasting meat was like ambrosia.
After that it was only a few minutes till they went inside and Hecuba sent serving women to Andromache and Kassandra to dress them for the feast. They were in the room that Kassandra had shared with
Polyxena when they were little children; but it was no longer a simple nursery. The walls had been painted in the Cretan fashion with murals of sea-creatures, strange curving squid and tentacled octopus entangled in coils of seaweed, and nereids and sirens. The tables were of carven wood, littered with cosmetics and scent bottles of blue glass blown into the shapes of fish and mermaids. There were curtains at the windows, Egyptian cotton, dyed green, through which the late sunlight entering the rooms came in as if through waves, giving a curious underwater light.
The wagonload of gifts from Colchis had been unloaded and carried into the palace, and Andromache rummaged in the boxloads for a suitable wedding gift for her new husband. The Queen sent up for Kassandra a fine gown of Egyptian gauze, and Andromache found among the chests from Colchis a gown of silk, full-skirted but so fine that the entire garment could be pulled through a ring, and dyed with the priceless crimson of Tyre.
The Queen also sent her own maids, who set out tubs of warmed water and bathed and perfumed both girls. They curled their hair with heated tongs, then sat them down and painted their faces with cosmetics. They put on red lip-salve that smelled of fresh apples and honey; then they applied kohl from Egypt to darken their brows and underline their eyes, and painted their eyelids with a blue paste that felt like powdered chalk but smelled of the finest olive oil. Andromache accepted all this attention as if she had been accustomed to it all her life, but Kassandra made nervous jokes as the women tended her.
“If I had horns, I am sure you would gild them,” she said. “Am I a guest, or one of the sacrifices?”
“The Queen ordered it, Lady,” said one of the waiting-women. Kassandra supposed that Hecuba had ordered all of this so that the Colchian princess might think Troy no less luxurious than her own faraway city.
The waiting-woman said, “She ordered that you should be no less fine than herself; and rightly so, for the old song says every lady is a Queen when she rides her bridal cart. And this is the way I have dressed the Lady Polyxena for every festival since she first was grown.”
She frowned as she rubbed Kassandra’s hands with scented oil that smelled of lilies and roses. “Your hands are callused, Lady Kassandra,” she said reprovingly; “they will never be as soft as the princess’ hands, which are like rose petals—as a lady’s should be.”
“I am sorry. There is nothing I can do about it,” Kassandra said, twisting the maligned hands. It was at that moment that she first realized how much she would miss the outdoor life, as she already missed her horse. Penthesilea had given her a fine mare as a parting gift; but Kassandra’s last act of the journey had been to send the horse back with the Amazon guard. She knew she would not be allowed to ride freely, and she did not want to see her noble companion penned up in the stables or, worse, given to one of her brothers to pull a chariot.
The sun was setting, and the waiting-women lighted torches. Then they put a gold brooch on the shoulder of Kassandra’s tunic, and laid a new cloak of striped wool over her shoulders. Andromache slid her feet into gilded sandals.
“And here is a pair for you, just like them,” she said, bending to put them on Kassandra’s feet.
“You will be as fine as the bride,” said the attendant; but Kassandra felt that Andromache, with her shining dark curls, was more beautiful than any other woman in all of Troy.
The two girls hurried out to the stairs; but Kassandra could not run in the elaborate sandals, and they had to walk carefully step by step down the long flights of stairs.
The great feasting hall glowed with many torches and lamps. Priam was already seated on his high throne, and looked displeased because they were late. But when the herald called out, “The Lady Kassandra and Princess Andromache of Colchis,” Priam stretched out his hand good-naturedly to the girls to approach him. He seated Andromache in the favored position beside him, sharing his own gold plate and goblet.
Hecuba signaled to Kassandra to sit beside her, and whispered, “Now you truly look a princess of Troy, not a wild tribeswoman, my darling. How pretty you are.”
Kassandra thought she must look like a painted doll, like the little effigies that came from Egypt and were intended for the tombs of Queens and Kings. That was what Polyxena looked like; but if her mother was pleased, she would not protest.
When everyone was seated, Priam proposed the first toast, raising his cup.
“To my splendid new son, Paris, and to the kindly fate which has restored him to me and his mother, a comfort in our old age.”
“But, Father,” Hector protested in an undertone, “have you forgotten the prophecy at his birth, that he would bring down disaster on Troy? I was only a child, but I remember it well.”
Priam looked displeased; Hecuba seemed about to cry. Paris looked unsurprised; Agelaus must have told him. But it was rude of Hector to mention it at a feast.
Hector was in his finest robes, an elaborate tunic with gold embroidery which Kassandra recognized as the work of the Queen’s own hands; Paris too had been given a fine robe and a new cloak like Kassandra’s, and looked splendid. Priam surveyed them both with satisfaction as he said, “No, my son, I have not forgotten the omen which came not to me, but to my Queen. But the hand of the Gods has restored him to me, and no man can argue with Fate or the will of the Immortals.”
“But are you certain,” Hector persisted, “that it was the Gods, and not perhaps the work of some evil Fate bent on destroying our royal House?” Paris’ dark face looked like a thundercloud, but Kassandra could not read her twin’s thoughts now.
Priam said with a frown of warning which made Kassandra cringe, “Peace, my son! On this subject alone I will not hear you. I had rather see all Troy perish, if it came to that, than any harm come to my splendid newfound son.”
Kassandra shuddered. Priam, who scorned prophecy, had just uttered one.
He smiled benevolently at Paris, who was seated at Hecuba’s other side, his fingers tightly clasped in hers. Her face was wreathed in smiles, and Kassandra felt a stab of pain; the discovery of Paris meant that such further welcome as her mother might have given her was quite lost. She felt sad and heart-sore, but told herself that in any case Penthesilea had become her true mother; among the Amazons a daughter was useful and welcome, while here in Troy a daughter was always thought of only as not being a son.
Priam urged Andromache to drink every time the cup went round, forgetting that she was a young girl who would ordinarily not be allowed or encouraged to drink this way. Kassandra could see that already her friend was a little fuddled and tipsy. Just as well, perhaps, she thought, for at the end of this feast she is to be sent quite unprepared to my brother Hector’s bed. And he is quite drunk too.
It suddenly occurred to her to be glad that Andromache was not marrying Paris as had been suggested; with the mind-link between them, she probably could not have avoided sharing in the consummation of the marriage. The thought made her hot and cold by turns; her sensitivities were burning. Where was Oenone? Why had Paris not bidden her, as his wife, to the wedding?
Hector, perhaps because he was drunk, chose to pursue the subject. “Well, my father, you have chosen to honor our brother; will you not consider that he should be allowed to earn the honor you have bestowed upon him? I entreat you to send him at least on a quest to the Akhaians, so that if the evil prophecy still stands, it may be diverted to them.”
“That’s a good thought,” murmured Priam, himself now the worse for a good deal of wine. “But you do not want to leave us already, do you, Paris?”
Paris murmured correctly that he was eternally at the disposal of his father and his King.
“He has charmed us all,” replied Hector, not without malice. “So why not let him try this irresistible charm upon Agamemnon and persuade him to ransom the Lady Hesione?”
“Agamemnon,” said Paris, looking up sharply. “Is he not the brother of that same Menelaus who married Helen of Sparta? And is he not himself married to the sister of the Spartan Queen?”
&nbs
p; “It is so,” Hector said. “When these Akhaians came from the North with their chariots and horses and their Thunder Gods, Leda, the Lady of Sparta, wedded one of these Kings, and it was rumored, when she bore him twin daughters, that one of them had been fathered by the Thunder Lord Himself.
“And Helen married Menelaus,” Hector continued, “although it was said that she was fair as a Goddess, and could have married any King from Thessaly to Crete. There was, I heard, much dissension at Helen’s wedding, so that it nearly resulted in a war then and there. You are not ill-looking, my Andromache,” he said, coming close and looking attentively at her face, “but not so beautiful, I think, that I will need to keep you imprisoned lest all men envy me and covet you.” He took her chin in his hands and looked down at her.
“My lord is gracious to his humble wife,” said Andromache with a small grin which only Kassandra recognized as sarcasm.
Paris was watching Hector so closely that Kassandra could not but notice. What was he thinking? Could he be jealous of Hector, who was neither as handsome nor as clever as he? With a beautiful wife like Oenone, he could hardly envy Hector Andromache just because she was a princess of Colchis. Or was he envious of Hector because Hector was the older, and his father’s established favorite? Or was he angry because Hector had, after all, insulted him?
She sipped slowly at the wine in her cup, wondering how Andromache really felt about this marriage; she could not imagine her overjoyed at being married to the bullying Hector, but she supposed Andromache was not displeased at eventually being a Queen in Troy. Surreptitiously—her mother had always warned her that it was not proper to stare at men—she looked around the room, wondering if there was any man there she would willingly marry. Certainly none of her brothers, even supposing she were not their sister; Hector was rough and contentious; Deiphobos was shifty-eyed and a sneak; even Paris, handsome as he was, had already neglected Oenone. Troilus was only a child, but when he grew up he might be gentle and kindly enough. She remembered how even among the Amazons the girls had talked all the time about young men, and there too she had felt the weight of being different on her heart. Why was it she cared nothing for what was so important to them?