The Firebrand

  “I do not know what the purposes of the Goddess may be, that sent me to the womb of Hecuba of Troy instead of Imandra of Colchis,” Kassandra said, laying her cheek against the older woman’s, “but whatever it may have been, Kinswoman, I love and revere you as if you were my mother in truth.”

  “I believe you do, child,” said Imandra, turning her face to kiss Kassandra. “Should the Goddess take me today, as we all come under Her Wing at such times as this, promise me to stay in Colchis and rear my daughter in the old ways.”

  “Oh, come, you mustn’t talk about dying; you will live many, many years and see this daughter with her own sons and daughters at her knees,” Kassandra said. One of the serving-women handed her a cup of wine and a plate of honey cakes; she sipped at the wine absently, and put the cakes aside.

  “Let me look for you into the bowl,” she said, and knelt again on the stones by the kindled witchlight, casting her mind to the day when Andromache’s first son had been born; Hector’s face pale and excited, looking at the little creature . . .

  Shadows moved in the water, flowing and congealing into Hector’s face . . . the crimson plumes draggled, slimed with a wet darker crimson . . . Kassandra gasped as a sudden pain pierced her heart. Hector! Was he dead, or did she but see what was to come? When a city was at war, it was more likely than not that the leader of the army, who always was first among his troops in battle, should fall at the hands . . . the bloody hands of Akhilles! . . . That sneering face, pale and beautiful, beautiful and evil . . . Snow drifted across the face of the water, and Kassandra knew she saw what was to come in a future year; but which year? Kassandra had no way of knowing.

  Imandra, her eyes fixed on Kassandra’s face as if desperately trying to share the vision, asked, “What did you see?”

  “Hector’s death,” Kassandra whispered. “But for a warrior there is no other end, and we have long known that this was to come; but ’tis not yet, perhaps not for many years. . . .”

  “But the child,” Imandra whispered—“tell me of the child!”

  “When last I saw, he was healthy and well grown, and already had a wooden sword and a toy helmet,” Kassandra said, reluctant to look again and see disaster, and for some reason she never doubted that this was what would come. “The omens this night are evil for the Sight, Imandra; I beg you excuse me from looking again.”

  “As you will,” said Imandra, but her face twisted with disappointment.

  “I could die content if only I could see my daughter’s son, even by your sight rather than my own. . . .”

  Flickers of color flowed across the surface of the water; firelight, flame across the gates of Troy . . . and she remembered Hector’s teasing voice.

  You have but one song, Kassandra; fire and doom for Troy; and you sing it in season and out, like a minstrel who knows but one tune. . . .

  Yes, I know Troy is to perish, but not yet. . . . I beseech You, let me see something else. . . .

  The flames died; there was a flare of light, the bright sunlight reflecting on the white walls of Troy . . . melting into the angry, somber face of Khryse, distorted into the familiar lines of mourning.

  Apollo Sun Lord: if I see all this in Your light, why must You show me nothing but what I already know?

  Then glare, as if she were staring directly into the face of the sun; it seemed Khryse grew taller, and now Kassandra saw the blazing light of the God, and knew who now strode the walls and ramparts of Troy, terrible in His wrath; His shining bow drawn, the golden arrows shooting . . . shooting at random among Akhaians and Trojans alike, the terrible arrows of Apollo, striking. . . .

  Kassandra screamed, covering her face with her hands. The vision blurred and ran like water, was gone.

  “Not upon us,” she moaned. “Not upon Thine own people, Sun Lord, not the wrath, not the arrows of Apollo. . . .”

  Then they were all around her, shaking her, trying to lift her, holding wine to her lips.

  “What did you see? Try to tell us, Kassandra.”

  “No, no,” she cried, trying very hard to keep her voice from becoming a shriek. “We must go at once! We must return to Troy!” But dread iced her heart as she thought of the endless leagues of the journey which lay between Colchis and home.

  “We must go at once! We must set out at daybreak, or even this night,” she cried, reaching for her waiting-woman’s hands holding her up. “We must go . . . We must not lose a moment. . . .”

  She pulled herself unsteadily to her feet, and made her way to Imandra’s side, kneeling there, pleading, “The Gods call me at once to Troy; I beg you, Kinswoman, give me leave to depart. . . .”

  “To go now?” Imandra, her whole mind and body concentrated on the birth-throes sweeping her body, stared at her without comprehension. “No; I forbid it. You promised to remain with me. . . .”

  Despairing, Kassandra realized that she could not impose her own needs upon this woman gripped in the most imperative of all callings. She would simply have to wait. She wiped away the tears she had not realized were flooding down her cheeks, and turned her attention to Imandra herself.

  “Did you see my Andromache’s child?” Imandra pleaded.

  “No,” Kassandra said soothingly, blocking from her mind the sight of the child’s broken body before the walls of Troy. . . . She had seen that before. . . . “No, this night the Gods gave me no such sight. I saw only how ill it went with my city.”

  The sea black with the Akhaian ships, the walls of Troy swarmed over by the storming ants of Akhilles’ armies . . . walls breaking, flames rising . . . No, not yet . . . not that final destruction, not yet . . . but worse, the terrible arrows of Apollo’s wrath flying against Akhaians and Trojans alike . . .

  One of the women started one of the traditional birth-songs. How could they sing and behave as if this were an ordinary women’s festival? But no, they had not seen blood or flames or the arrows of the angry God. After a stunned moment of silence, Kassandra joined in the chant, encouraging the waiting soul of the child to come into the body prepared for it, for the Goddess to release the child’s body from the Queen’s imprisoning womb. Song followed song, and later some of the priestesses danced the curious dance of the soul making its way past the guardians of the World Before. The night wore slowly away, and when the sky was paling for sunrise, the Queen at last, with a shout of triumph, gave birth. The senior palace midwife, into whose hands the child had been born, held it up, crying out, “It is a daughter! A strong and healthy daughter! A little Queen for Colchis!”

  The women broke into a triumphant chant of welcome for the infant, taking her to the window and holding her up to the rising sun, passing the little naked body around the circle of women from hand to hand that each woman might embrace and kiss the new one. Queen Imandra finally demanded, “Let me take her; let me see that she is truly strong and healthy.”

  “Just a moment; we must first swaddle her against the cold,” said the court midwife, and wrapped the baby in one of the Queen’s own shawls.

  They put her, swaddled and washed at last, into Imandra’s hands, and the Queen laid her face tenderly against the little one’s cheek.

  “Ah, I have waited long enough to hold you, little one. It is like bearing my own grandchild. I know no other woman who has borne a child at my age and lived,” she said; “yet I feel as strong and well as when Andromache was put into my arms.” She was unwrapping the baby in the compulsive way of all new mothers, counting each finger and toe, then counting them all over again in case she had missed one, then giving each one a separate kiss, like a special tribute.

  “She’s beautiful,” she said, smiling blissfully when she had finished nudging and nuzzling the baby, and drawing a costly ring from her finger, presented it to the court midwife: “This in addition to your regular fee, which my chamberlain will give you.” The midwife gasped thanks and backed away, overwhelmed at such largess.

  Imandra continued: “We will name her on the first auspicious day. Until then she wil
l be my little pearl . . . since she is as smooth and pink as one of the pearls the divers in the islands bring from the depths of the sea. And I shall call her Pearl, my little pearl princess.”

  All the women agreed that this was a lovely name. It would be used until the princess was given a formal name by the priestesses, and informally all her life.

  Then Queen Imandra beckoned Kassandra forward.

  “Your eyes are red, Kassandra, and you do not seem to rejoice with us. Have you seen some evil omen for my child, that you do not share my joy?”

  Kassandra cringed; she had been afraid that she would not be able to conceal her grief from Imandra’s sharp eyes. “No, Kinswoman; I truly rejoice for your happiness,” she said, bending down and kissing the little princess, “and I cannot tell you how greatly I rejoice that you are safe and well. But my eyes are always red when I sleep so little as this night; and”—she hesitated, her voice breaking—“the Gods have sent me an evil omen from Troy. I am needed there. I beg you, Kinswoman, grant me leave to depart at once for my home.”

  Imandra looked distressed, but the pain in Kassandra’s face softened her anger. She said, “In this weather? Winter is approaching, and the journey would be terrible. I had hoped you would remain to help me raise my daughter. I had little luck in raising Andromache to be Queen after me. I put small faith in oracles or omens, yet I can deny you nothing on a day when the Goddess has sent me this beautiful daughter. Yet it is not my leave you must obtain, but that of Serpent Mother. It is to Her, not to me, that you are sworn here. And you must wait at least until I can gather gifts to be sent to Troy; for Andromache and her child, and for my kinswoman Hecuba, and not least, for you, my dear daughter.”

  Kassandra had known this would be required, and she told herself that the catastrophe she had foreseen could not be so imminent that a day or even a week could make so much difference. The dues of kinship and courtesy should not be ignored for one who had been so good to her as Queen Imandra. Yet her heart rebelled; everything which held her back from Troy now seemed hateful to her. She was sure that Arikia would chide her for disloyalty; but there was no other honorable thing to do. They had given generously of their knowledge and friendship; she could not, after all, steal away from Colchis like a thief.

  So she braced herself and went to take leave of the Serpent Priestess.

  DURING THE night and the long next day, while wagons and beasts and gifts and all that she would need on the long road to Troy were being made ready, Kassandra had time to regain some degree of calm, if only because she could not remain at that fever pitch of dread and terror and live. While she knew that the Gods had summoned her to Troy to meet whatever might be her destiny, it never occurred to her that remaining in Colchis might serve to avoid it; history was full of tales of those who selfishly thought to avoid their destiny by neglecting some duty, and inevitably brought upon themselves the very fate they feared.

  The vision might not mean catastrophe; it might even mean that Apollo would not tolerate the war as it was being waged. Perhaps He would force them to some kind of truce, and all would be well.

  So in the end, although truly sorry to part from Colchis and the freedom and honor she knew there, she set forth three mornings later with a high heart, glad—or at least, not sorry—to be on the road again.

  18

  THEIR JOURNEY began at the earliest daylight, the three women riding in a strong cart drawn by mules which Queen Imandra had provided. As the cart trundled down through the city, all was dark except for sparks from a forge, where a burly woman blacksmith worked. Adrea and Kara were openly jubilant that they were going home, although they spoke with dread of the long miles of the journey, and the dangers of bandits and Kentaurs as well as of mountain passes deep in snow, and roving wild men or women who might think they bore riches—or who would find their simple supplies of food and clothing riches enough.

  Kassandra rode silently, already missing her friends in the Temple of Serpent Mother, both human and reptilian, and sorry to leave Imandra. It was hardly likely that they would meet again in this world.

  As they passed through the iron gates of Colchis, a few flakes of snow were sifting down, and the skies were gray and sullen. Light grew, though the sun did not appear, and Kassandra took a last look at the high gates of the city, gleaming red in the grayish dawn light.

  There could not be many women her age who had made such a journey twice in a lifetime; and if she could journey this road twice, why not three times or more? There might still be many adventures before her; and even if she rode back to Troy, there was no need to feel the walls of the city close about her again until she must.

  The first night, when she and her women prepared as usual to settle down for sleep, Adrea demanded, “Are you going to sleep with that thing in your bed, Princess?”

  Kassandra let her hand stray to the coils of the snake, warm and soft in her chemise.

  “Of course. I am her mother. I hatched this snake with my own body’s warmth, and she has slept in my bosom every night of her life. Besides, it is cold at night; she would die if I did not keep her warm.”

  “I would do much, and I have done much, for your mother’s daughter,” said Adrea. “But I will not share my bed with a snake! Can’t it sleep by the fire in a box or a pot?”

  “No, it cannot,” said Kassandra, secretly filled with glee. “I assure you it will not bite, and it is a better bedfellow than a human child, for it will not wet or soil the bedclothes as a baby is likely to do. You will never sleep with a cleaner creature.” She stroked the snake and said, “You needn’t worry; she will stay close to me. I am sure she is more afraid of you than you are of her.”

  “No,” Adrea said pleadingly. “No, please, Lady Kassandra, I can’t do it. I can’t sleep in one bed with that serpent.”

  “Why, how dare you! She is one of the Goddess’ creatures, the same as you, Adrea. You will not be so foolish, will you, Kara?”

  Kara said stubbornly, “I’m not going to sleep with any slimy snake, either. She’d be sure to crawl on me in my sleep.”

  “She doesn’t even bite—and she wouldn’t hurt you if she did,” Kassandra said crossly. “Her teeth aren’t grown yet. What a fool you are.” She lay down, idly caressing the snake’s head, which stuck just a finger’s breadth out of her chemise.

  “If you had the sense the Gods gave a hen,” Kassandra said, “and would just touch her, you’d know she’s not slimy at all, no more than a bird; she’s very soft and smooth and warm.” She thrust the snake, draped over her hand, at Adrea, but the woman recoiled with a squeal. Kassandra lay down, stretching out on her pillows. She said, “Well, I am weary, and I shall sleep, even if you two make fools of yourself by sleeping on the cold floor of the wagon. Make what beds for yourselves you will, but turn out the lamp and let us all sleep, in the Goddess’ name. Any Goddess.”

  THEY WERE soon out of sight of Colchis, riding through the winding hills and past a succession of little villages. The days grew progressively colder, and fine snow was beginning to sift down, melting as it fell.

  One morning, riding almost before the sun was up, Kassandra heard a strange, insistent wailing cry.

  “Why, it’s a child, and by the sound, a young one; what’s a baby doing alone in this wilderness, where there could be wolves or even bears?” she said, and got down from the cart, looking around through the falling snow for the source of the sound. After a time she saw a bundle of coarse-woven fabric on the hillside: a small, well-made girl, its navel-string not healed, a dark fuzz covering its head.

  “Don’t touch it, Princess!” said Adrea. “It’s just a baby been exposed from one of the villages; some harlot who can’t raise a child, or some mother with too many daughters.”

  Kassandra stooped and lifted the baby. It felt icy cold in spite of its wrappings, but still kicked strongly. As Kassandra held the infant against her breast, the warmth soothed it somewhat, and the wailing ceased; it began to squirm around seeking to suck.
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  “There, there,” Kassandra said soothingly, rocking the bundle. “I’ve nothing for you, poor child. But I’m sure we can find something for you to eat.”

  Adrea said, horrified, “Why would we do a thing like that? Surely, Princess, you aren’t thinking of keeping it?”

  “You would be eager to get me married,” Kassandra said, “to have a baby, and now I can have one without breaking my oath of chastity, or suffering in childbirth. Why should I not take this daughter whom the Goddess has sent directly to me?” The baby felt warmer now, and dropped off to sleep against Kassandra’s breast. “Surely it is a virtuous deed to save a child’s life.”

  She had said it at first to tease Adrea; but now she began to think of the inconvenience and trouble, when the woman said, “How are you going to feed it, Princess? It’s not old enough to chew hard food, and you’d have to get a wet-nurse somewhere, and drag her along all the way to Troy.”

  “Not at all,” Kassandra said, thinking it over. “Go to that village there, and get a good healthy nanny goat, fresh in milk. Babies thrive on goat’s milk.” Adrea’s face contorted in dismay, and Kassandra said, “Go at once; such food will be good for all of us. Or keep my snake while I go. . . .”

  Thus admonished, Adrea ran for the village and came back with a young black-and-white nanny goat, strong and healthy, which at once set up a racket with its bleating. Neither of the waiting-women knew much about milking goats, but Kassandra showed them how to do it, and when they had milked a good bowlful, she fed the baby with milk dripped off the edge of her finger. The child sucked enthusiastically and collapsed again into sleep, still pulling on Kassandra’s finger, a warm lump in her arms. Kassandra took a piece of cloth and rigged a sling so that when she rode the donkey the baby could travel with her on her saddle, clinging to her neck like the babies of the Amazon mothers. She decided at least for the moment to call the child “Honey” because, clean and warm and full fed, she had a sweet smell like honeycomb.