“The winter has lain long on the land,” she said, “and we have seen no humans all this winter but a little band of Kentaurs, so weakened with starvation that they made no attempts on our women, but only begged us for food of any sort.”
“That seems sad,” Kassandra said, but the headwoman wrinkled her face in disdain.
“You are a priestess; it is your work to have compassion even for such as they, I suppose. But they have terrorized us too often for me to have any feeling save satisfaction when I see them brought so low. With luck they will all starve, and then we need never fear them again. Have you metals or weapons for trade? No one passes through here for trade these days; such metals as they have are all bound for the war in Troy, and we can get none.”
“I am sorry; I have no weapons but my own,” said Kassandra. “But we will buy some of your pots if you still make them.”
The pots were brought out, and lengthily examined; dark fell while Kassandra’s party was still looking them over, and the headwoman invited them to dine at her table and continue the trading in the morning. She placed one of the stone huts at their disposal, and bade them to dinner in the central hut. The food was meager indeed—meat that seemed to be some kind of ground squirrel, boiled in a stew with bitter acorns and tasteless white roots; but at least it was freshly cooked. Kassandra, recalling the blight, was somewhat reluctant to eat here at all, but told herself not to trouble about it—for though I am still, I suppose, of childbearing age, I am not wed, nor likely to be. And in any case, while these ladies sleep one at either side of my bed, I am scarcely likely to get myself with child.
If this village had not somehow recovered from the blight, she thought, it would have vanished when every soul in it died.
A FEW DAYS later they sighted the iron gates of Colchis, as high and as impressive as ever, and Kassandra attired herself not in her leather riding clothes and chemise, but in her finest Trojan robes, dyed in brilliant colors, and had one of her waiting-women dress her hair in the elaborate plaited headdress she wore in the Sun Lord’s Temple. At least Queen Imandra would greet her as a princess of Troy, not as a wandering supplicant.
They were welcomed at the city’s iron gates as envoys from Troy and bidden to lodge at the palace. Kassandra, saying she must first pay her respects at the Sun Lord’s Temple, went to His large shrine at the city’s very center, and sacrificed a pair of doves to Apollo of the Long Bow. After that, she was taken to the palace and conducted to a luxurious guest suite, where bath-women and dressing-maids were put at her disposal. During the long process of bathing—or rather, of being bathed—she reflected that during the long journey she had all but forgotten the taste of luxury. She enjoyed the steaming water, the fragrant oils, the gentle massaging of her flesh with brushes and the soft hands of the women. Then they dressed her in fine guest-garments and conducted her into the presence-chamber of Queen Imandra.
She had expected that the Queen would look older; she herself was no longer the childlike girl who had come here, shy and tongue-tied, at Penthesilea’s side. But the change was more than she could ever have imagined; if she had met this woman anywhere except in this very throne-room, she would never have recognized her as the proud descendant of Medea.
Imandra had grown enormously fatter; she was imposing rather than gross, hung everywhere with gold; but she had ceased to adorn her fleshy body with the coils of living serpents. Her cheeks and lips were stained with red dye, and she wore the richly dyed robes of finespun thin cloth which came from the land of the Pharaohs by way of the eastern roads. Her hair was studded with jewels as always. Amid all this splendor, only the merry dark eyes were the same, almost lost in the folds of flesh.
As Kassandra entered the hall and paused to give her the ritual greeting, Imandra rose from her throne, and walked—or rather, waddled—forward.
“No, my dear, no prostrations from my kinswoman,” she said, seizing Kassandra in a warm and scented embrace; the perfume was as familiar as the eyes. “I am more glad than I can say to see you, daughter of Priam. What a long journey you have had! No doubt you bear messages from my daughter . . .”
“From your daughter and your grandson; Andromache is a mother, and soon to be—no, by this time she has another child, if all has gone well,” Kassandra said, and Imandra beamed.
“I knew it, I knew it; did I not say, my dear, that enough time had gone by that I should be twice a grandam, if my daughter had done her duty?” she asked, addressing a handsomely built young man attired in gold cloth, like an athlete or the victor of the Games, who had been given a seat near her. “Tomorrow I must look in the pool of ink and try to see her child, and if all is well with her.”
She took Kassandra’s hands and drew her to the high table, seating herself between Kassandra and the richly dressed young man. “Now tell me everything that has happened in Troy these last years since you went from me, taking my dearest treasure with you. And what brings you so far without your kinswomen?”
“Perhaps,” said the young man, “the Lady Kassandra has come to beseech our assistance in this war against the Akhaians.”
“Not if she traveled under Apollo’s truce,” said Queen Imandra. “I know something of that, dear boy.” She turned back to Kassandra. “Even so, you need not break your pledge if you have made it; without any asking, I will send to Priam all the soldiers I can find, men or women, and as much as wagons can carry of metals and weapons too.”
“You are more than generous,” Kassandra said, and explained her errand. Imandra smiled and kissed her.
“My own priestesses and masters of serpents shall be consulted early on the morrow,” she said, “or as soon as they tell me it is an auspicious day for such things. I need hardly say that all the wisdom to be found in our city is at your command and at the command of the Trojan Apollo. You shall be free to speak with them at any time; but you must promise to pay me a long visit.”
“Your Majesty is gracious,” Kassandra said; she was weary of traveling and at the moment desired nothing more than a long stay in Colchis.
“Not at all, Kinswoman,” Imandra replied. “Are you not my fellow priestess, and nearest of all in kin to my daughter? And my soothsayers say the child I bear now will be another daughter, and I find it a good omen that you should be here for the birth.”
Kassandra had not had the faintest inkling that the Lady was pregnant; indeed, had she given the matter a moment’s thought, she would have believed Imandra old beyond the age of bearing. But now she looked closely, she saw that the Queen was indeed in the early stages of pregnancy. When she had taken this in, she complimented the Queen upon her expectations, and asked, “Will this, then, be heir to Colchis in Andromache’s place?”
“It will. Andromache cares nothing for queenship; you must have found that out by now,” Imandra said, “and it is not hard to forget about the business of being a Queen when a woman is happy—even if that woman is a Queen. Have I not said this to you before, Agon?” she demanded.
And the handsome young man said, “Indeed, my lady.”
Imandra’s broad face was wreathed in a grin Kassandra could only describe as “foolish” as her eyes rested on her favorite, and Kassandra, abruptly understanding the state of affairs, was shocked; the independent Queen Imandra, Lady of Colchis, besotted with a handsome boy no older than her daughter? And besotted she certainly was; the very tone of her voice said so. He shared her plate and wine-cup, and she sought out all the finest delicacies to offer to him.
When they had dined, Kassandra sent for the chests she had carried with her and brought out the gifts Andromache had sent to her mother: embroidered hangings, bolts of richly dyed fabric, even intricately decorated bronze swords and knives; several of these the Queen, with an indifferent gesture, bestowed at once on her consort.
“But don’t tell me you want to go and fight in Troy,” she said firmly to him. “I need you at my side to help me bring up our daughter; and even more if the soothsayers are wrong and it is a
son.”
“I wouldn’t think of leaving you, my lady,” he said, “certainly not to fight in some faraway country. If Agamemnon or any of those fellows were to come here to try to take Colchis, that would be quite another matter.”
Imandra turned to Kassandra. “Tell me about this war, and this Spartan Queen,” she said. “Distant as we are, I know something about her family, of course. What sort of person can she be, to have touched off such a widespread war as this?”
Kassandra said slowly, “I had not expected to like her or respect her. But I do; I think the Gods did harshly by her when They put her in the way of my brother Paris.”
“Well, she had every right to take a consort,” said Imandra, with a sly smile at young Agon; “but it was her mistake not to dismiss Menelaus—or have the old sacrifice! Things should be done in order. Helen’s mistake, remember, was not that she took a lover; that was her perfect right which no one could deny her. Her mother was Queen by right in Mykenae, and Sparta was Helen’s to rule; her crime—and it was truly a crime for a Queen—was leaving Sparta for Menelaus to seize, and this has confused the issue. Have they given it over to her daughter to rule after her? I’ll warrant they have not; Hermione is too young to be aware of her queenship. These Akhaian savages who try to bring their prattle of ‘Kings’ into our civilized world; and their mighty talk of fathering . . . as if any man could create life. The Goddess alone breathes life into children; yet some of these men are arrogant enough to say that the woman is no more than an oven in which their child—their child, did you ever hear such nonsense?—is cooked. That Agamemnon—may he be cursed by every Goddess and all the Furies!” Imandra exclaimed.
“He is the leader of the Akhaian armies from Mykenae itself,” Kassandra said.
“Yes; you knew he was married to Helen’s sister, who succeeded her mother in Mykenae? Klytemnestra was the elder twin, and very beautiful, but nothing like Helen. Klytemnestra had a daughter, Iphigenia—dedicated to Serpent Mother, and of course keeper of the shrine and high priestess from the time she was still a child. Well, when this war began, Agamemnon had sworn to aid his brother in all things, and so he had to leave Mykenae, and he was afraid that Klytemnestra would replace him as her consort; she was angry that he had dared to swear such an oath without her leave, and so she threatened that if he left her she would take her cousin Aegisthos to her bed. Agamemnon threatened to take away their son Orestes; Klytemnestra told him he might do as he would with the boy, but if he perverted any of her children with his evil Gods, she would cast his son out after him. So he made the lad a priest of Poseidon—I think it was Poseidon, the Horse God—and sent him to be fostered among the Kentaurs. When Agamemnon’s armies were gathered to sail to Troy, he was delayed on shore with poor winds, and he sent to Klytemnestra that her daughter Iphigenia should come and conduct the appointed sacrifices to the winds. So she came, as priestess, and what should he do but sacrifice Iphigenia herself, on false oracles; so that Klytemnestra could not take another consort, because her younger daughter was too young to be her successor. And I have heard that this younger daughter, Elektra, has been turned against the worship of Earth Mother; and who could blame her? If she became a priestess like her sister, she might die too. But Klytemnestra has sworn vengeance; and Agamemnon will one day face the vengeance of Earth Mother. And mistake me not, he will die. The Gods are not mocked in this fashion.”
“So, then, it is all a matter of whether the land shall be ordered by Kings or Queens?”
“What else? Why should men rule the hearth or the city, where woman has commanded since first Earth Mother brought forth life? The old way was best, wherein the King was led out every year to die for his people and there was no question of any man setting up his son to follow him. For thousands of years, until these Akhaian savages came to try to change our ways, that was the rule of life . . .
“And then, who knows? Perhaps there was war and a King was too skilled a leader to be made to die; or some foolish woman like myself did not wish to lose her young lover.” She turned an affectionate look on young Agon. “Then these horse-folk came, and the first Kings, and set up their arrogant Gods—even the Sun Lord, who claimed to have slain Serpent Mother.” Imandra yawned. “The world is changing, I tell you—but it is the fault of the women who did not keep their men in their place.”
“And you think, then, this is the cause of this war?” Kassandra asked.
“My dear, I am sure of it,” said the Queen. “It could never have happened in Colchis.”
16
A FEW DAYS later Kassandra, lodged in the suite in the palace once allotted to the royal daughters, that same room where once she and Andromache had lain awake one night watching stars falling, was awakened by Queen Imandra herself.
“My dear, the High Priestess in Serpent Mother’s Temple is willing to receive you.”
Kassandra awakened her waiting-women and had herself dressed in a simple unbleached tunic, as befitted a suppliant. Adrea protested: “You are a princess of Troy and a priestess in your own right; you should go to her as an equal, my lady.”
“But I go to her to seek wisdom which she possesses and I do not,” Kassandra answered. “I think it is more fitting that I go to her humbly, beseeching her help.”
The waiting-woman sniffed; but Queen Imandra said, “I think you are right, Kassandra. When she summons me, even I go to her with humility.” Kassandra sighed with relief and bound her soft sandals on her feet. She very much disliked wearing elaborate court robes and being dressed up as a princess.
Though the sun was not very high in the sky, the morning clouds had already burned off, and the heat was very strong on her head and through the shoulders of her tunic. It seemed a long walk across the city, and her feet were tired when at last they climbed the great Titan-built steps toward the shrine.
Inside, to Kassandra’s relief, it was dark and cool, and there was the pleasant far-off sound of falling water. A quiet dark-robed attendant showed them into a shaded tile-floored court; at the far end there was a formal high seat where sat a large fat old woman with white hair.
“The priestess Arikia,” murmured Imandra.
They advanced slowly down the room.At first Kassandra thought there was a living serpent twined about the priestess’ gilt headdress; then she realized that it was only a very realistic molded and painted one of pottery, or perhaps of carved wood. The priestess was dressed in a sleeveless robe of patterned crimson cloth, richly ornamented with designs that looked like the scales of serpents; and wrapped around her waist was indeed a living snake—the largest that Kassandra had ever seen: as big around as the priestess’ arms, which were very fat. The snake was coiled around Arikia’s waist twice, and the old woman held the serpent’s head in her hand, lazily tickling it under the chin.
She said in a soft voice which resounded nonetheless with authority: “Greetings, Queen Imandra. Is this the Trojan princess of whom you told me?”
“It is, Lady,” said Imandra, “Kassandra, daughter of Queen Hecuba of Troy.”
Kassandra felt the old priestess’ eyes resting on her, as dark and flat as the serpent’s eyes. “And what do you want from me, Kassandra of Troy?”
Kassandra felt compelled to kneel down before the old woman.
“I have come from Troy to learn of you—or rather, of Serpent Mother,” she said.
“Well, tell me what you seek,” said the old priestess. “For you, Hecuba’s daughter, I will do whatever lies within my powers.”
So encouraged, Kassandra told her of the death or desertion of the serpents in the Sun Lord’s house, and her unwillingness to replace them until she knew more of their care. The old woman smiled, still stroking the great snake under its chin—or the place where it would have had a chin. At last she said, “I should call all my priestesses, Kassandra, and have them come and look at you. For in all Colchis I cannot find a single young woman who wishes to learn this lore; and you have come all the way from Troy to seek it from me.
“Tell me then, Kassandra, while you are in Serpent Mother’s Temple, will you give due reverence to Her?”
“I swear it, Lady.”
Arikia smiled and held out her hand.
“So be it,” she said, “I accept you. You may remain here, and none of our ancient wisdom shall be hidden from you while you dwell among us. You may leave her with us, Imandra; and you too may go,” she said, casting her sharp eyes on Adrea. “She will need no waiting-woman in the Mother’s Temple; such attendance as she may need will be given by priestesses.”
Adrea said firmly, “I promised her mother, my lady, that I’d not leave her side for a single day while she was in foreign parts.”
Arikia said kindly, “I cannot fault you for that, Daughter. But do you truly think she needs your chaperonage when she is in the hands of the Great Mother?”
“I suppose not, my lady. When you put it like that, where could she be safer than in the hands of the Great Goddess? But I cannot break my promise to Queen Hecuba,” said Adrea reluctantly.
“Still,” said Arikia, “I think you must leave her to me and the Goddess; but you may come every few days and speak with her alone and unobserved, to reassure yourself that she is safe and well, and here of her own free choice.”
Imandra said, “Must she lodge in the Temple, Lady Arikia? I would be happier to have her in the palace as my guest, and she could attend at the Temple services whenever you wished for her.”
“No, that will not do; she must live among us and learn to live with us and our serpents,” Arikia said. “Is this disagreeable to you, Kassandra?”
“Not at all,” Kassandra said. “I honor the Lady Imandra as my mother’s kinswoman and my friend; but I am more than willing to dwell in the House of the Mother as is seemly for a priestess.”
Imandra embraced her, and Adrea, and they took their leave. When they had gone, the old priestess, who had observed Kassandra’s close watching of the snake that was still coiled motionless about her body, asked, “Are you afraid of the serpent-folk, Kassandra?”