Abruptly it was again Aeneas who stood on the field, screaming like a woman and shaking his hand, from which blood was pouring. Diomedes did not lose the advantage, but put up shield and sword in defense. Aeneas, however, attacked strongly, and after a moment Diomedes went down full length on the ground; a few seconds later, Agamemnon and four of his men were backing up Diomedes, driving Aeneas off in a fury of blows. Hector’s chariot dashed by, and Hector jumped to the ground, briefly engaged Agamemnon in a wild exchange of swordplay and lifted Aeneas into his chariot. They dashed back toward the gates of Troy, while a handful of Hector’s soldiers drove off Agamemnon and his men from Aeneas’ chariot and managed to recapture the horses.
“He’s hurt,” Creusa cried, and ran down the stairs. The other women followed in haste, just in time to greet Hector’s chariot. Hector swung down and motioned them away.
“Get back so we can get these gates closed, unless you want Agamemnon and half the Akhaian army in here,” he said; the women surged back and the men joined hands pushing the gates closed, cutting down one luckless Akhaian soldier who was trapped inside.
“Throw him over the wall to his friends,” Hector said. “They want him, and we don’t.”
Creusa was holding Aeneas tightly, summoning healers to bandage up his hand. He seemed dazed; but when Kassandra came and took over the bandaging, he smiled up at her and asked, “What happened?”
“If you don’t know,” said Hector,“how are we to tell? You were fighting Diomedes and suddenly you stopped . . .”
“It was not you but Aphrodite,” Helen said. “She fought through you.”
Aeneas chuckled. “Well, I don’t remember anything except being in a rage at Diomedes for trying to claim my chariot and horses; the next thing I remember, my hand was bleeding and I heard someone scream—”
“That was you,” Hector said; “or the Goddess.”
Aeneas laughed. “The Beautiful One,” he said, “screaming all the way back to Olympos, I daresay, to sit in Zeus Thunderer’s lap and tell Him all about the nasty men fighting. I hope the Thunderer commands Her in no uncertain terms to stay off the battlefield from now on; it’s no place for ladies—not even when they’re Goddesses,” he added.
Kassandra continued tying up his hand.
His eyes smiled at her. To her he still bore the glamour of the Goddess, and her heart beat faster. If he sought her again, she knew she would not be able to resist him. Is this the revenge of the Goddess because I would not serve Her? Has Aphrodite conquered me, she wondered, when Apollo could not?
She had finished the bandaging; it was with reluctance that she let go of his hand. There was a little stall nearby where the soldiers bought bread and wine at midday; Hector went to it and brought back two goblets of wine and gave one to Aeneas, who shrugged it away. Creusa said, “Drink it; you have lost blood,” and he shook his head.
“I’ve cut myself worse and lost more blood shaving,” he said; but he sipped at the wine after all, and laughed. “I wonder if they will tell the same mad tales as they did when the Goddess appeared when Paris fought Menelaus.”
“No doubt,” Kassandra said. He was looking straight at her. “The Akhaians seem to like that kind of story.”
“Well, the Gods will do as They will, and not as we ask Them to,” Aeneas said. “Yet by my divine ancestress, I wish They would go away and let us get on with the war. It’s not Their business, it’s ours.”
“I think perhaps it is Their business more than ours,” Helen said, “and we have very little to say about it.”
“But why? Why should the Gods care who wins a mortals’ war?” Andromache asked.
Hector shrugged. “Why not?”
And to that not even Kassandra ventured an answer.
“There was a time,” Hector said, “when I believed that we were altogether at the mercy of the Akhaian troops. But now that Akhilles has abandoned them—”
“That can hardly go on for long,” Helen said. “I cannot imagine the great Akhilles remaining for long sulking in his tent like a little boy . . .”
“But that is exactly what Akhilles is like,” Aeneas said. “A cruel, arrogant schoolboy. There might be something great and heroic about falling to a madman, but a brain-sick child is something else.”
Hector said without changing expression, “We must not question the decrees of the Gods.”
“If the Gods make decisions that would be set aside as the decisions of the mad,” Aeneas replied, “perhaps They are not to be obeyed blindly. Perhaps”—but he lowered his voice and looked around fearfully as he spoke—“perhaps They are testing us to see if we have the wit to stand against Them.”
“Maybe They are headstrong like Akhilles,” Helen said, “and if They cannot have Their own way in a game They will smash all the playthings.”
“I think it is like that,” Hector said; “and we are the playthings.”
4
FOR THE NEXT few days Kassandra heard the war news from the old cake-woman. It seemed that Akhilles remained in his tent, never showing his face even to encourage his companions; and the war dragged on without much change. Hector fought a prolonged duel with Ajax; they battled till it became too dark to continue, and neither had the advantage. Agamemnon tried a bluff, threatening to pull out of the war too, if Akhilles would not fight; but the Akhaians greeted this threat with so much glee, rushing for their ships and starting to pack up their gear, that he had to spend much of the next day coaxing his men to come back, offering them gifts and bribes to continue fighting.
Kassandra drifted that night in confused dreams of Olympos. Hera, tall and proud, stood and demanded help in destroying the city of Troy.
“Zeus has forbidden Us to intervene,” said the tall Athene, somber and sad, “although He has allowed Me to counsel the Trojans, if they will but listen to My wisdom. Why do You hate them so fanatically, Hera? Are You still jealous because Paris did not award the crown of beauty to You? What did You expect? Aphrodite is, after all, the Goddess of Beauty; I learned long ago that I could not compete with Her. And why should You care what a mortal thinks?”
“Then You, Poseidon!” The proud Lady turned to the hairy Sea-God, thickset, bearded, muscled like a swimmer. “Let Me have Your help in destroying the walls of Troy. Zeus has ordained it, and when it is done He will not be angry.”
“Not I,” said Poseidon. “Not till the time ordained has come. I know better than to conspire with a woman against the will of Her husband.”
Thunder flashed as Hera stamped Her foot and cried out, “You will regret this!” But Poseidon had taken the form of a great white stallion and galloped away along the shore; the pounding of His hooves sounded like the crash of waves along the seawall the Akhaians had built.
Kassandra woke in dread, hearing the sound of Poseidon’s rage, wondering if it presaged another earthquake; but all was quiet in the Temple, and at last she slept again. In the morning she found that a few vases and dishes had fallen from tables and shelves, and a lamp had overturned, but had burned itself out on the stone floor without setting anything afire; if there had been an earthquake, it had been a very small one, hardly more than a shrug of the God’s shoulders. The Immortals seemed to have the same unresolved squabbles as those inconclusive duels between the soldiers, which settled nothing. Well, they—the soldiers—were only human and could hardly be blamed for behaving foolishly; but Kassandra would have thought the Gods would have something better to do.
She resolved that this day she would stay away from the city wall; she had seen enough of these duels, and she supposed that with Akhilles still hiding in his tent, there would be nothing happening yet again. It was surprising, she thought, how much time she had wasted of late gossiping with the other women watching from the walls.
Honey was outgrowing her frocks. Kassandra spent the morning looking through her own possessions and inquiring of the priestesses; perhaps there would be something suitable among the offerings that she could use to make her daug
hter some clothes. She was given a piece of saffron-dyed material (which she thought would look pretty with the little girl’s dark curls and lively dark eyes) from which she could fashion a gown and kerchief. The child would still need sandals; she was running everywhere now, and after the big earthquake the courts were full of rubbish on which she could hurt her feet. Kassandra started to call a servant to go to the market to fetch leather for sandals, then decided to go herself and take the child.
Honey was big enough now to scamper along beside her, and to understand that she was to have sandals like a big girl; Kassandra enjoyed the feeling of the small chubby hand in hers. Sagely she examined the sandals displayed for sale; the prices were not, it seemed, exorbitant. She arranged to try a sturdy pair on the child, and finding them well built and satisfactorily fitting the little feet, allowed Honey to choose which pattern she liked best.
“And for you, Lady?” the sandalmaker asked. By habit Kassandra started to say no, then followed the man’s gaze to her feet. Her sandals were much worn, thinning at the sole, and one strap mended and remended. Well, after all, she had worn them to Colchis and back.
“Well, these sandals have been halfway around the world; I suppose they deserve to be honorably put out to pasture like an old mare,” she said, and allowed him to show her several pairs, all of which were too large. At last he measured her foot and said, “The Lady has such a little foot; I must make a pair to your measure.”
“I did not design my own foot,” Kassandra said, “but if you will make me a pair by this pattern”—she indicated the most nearly fitting of the sandals he had shown her—“that will do nicely. Meanwhile, I suppose you can simply mend the strap of these yet again.”
“I don’t think it will hold together; it has been sewn so often,” he protested. “If the Lady will be content to wait in my humble shop but half an hour, the new ones will be ready. May I send for a glass of wine for you? A slice of melon? Some other refreshment? No? Something for the child?”
“No, thank you,” Kassandra said; Honey too must learn to wait patiently when necessary. She stood watching the man trimming the soles of the sandals that had been just a little too large, repositioning the straps and stitching them with his thimble and heavy leather needle. He had an iron needle, which, she thought, must be why he did such fast work; bronze needles could not pierce the leather so readily. She wondered whether he had had it smuggled in past the blockade, or whether he traded with the Akhaians. It was probably better not to know. Such commerce was forbidden; but if Priam’s city wardens were to thrust into prison everyone who traded illegally, there would be no trading at all, and commerce in the city would come completely to a halt.
Already many foodstuffs were hard to come by after the long siege; what had saved the city was the gardens inside the walls, where grapevines and olive trees were the sources of wine and oil, and vegetables could be grown. Many houses had caged doves or rabbits, previously kept for sacrifice; now these were eaten, and kept away the most acute hunger. Bread was in short supply except for the soldiers’ mess and the palace, though some wagons of grain had been brought in overland, avoiding the Argive ships, during the truce.
Now that the truce was officially over, would it mean a tightening of the siege? Or would the Akhaians get tired of fighting without Akhilles, and go away again? That might be the best that could happen.
But if they felt they had the Gods on their side—and there Kassandra’s thoughts broke off in the old confusion: why should the Gods meddle in men’s affairs? Well, Hector’s answer had been simply: Why not? Anyway, she had been asking that same question since the beginning of the war, and she had had no answer—except in her dreams. Dreams! What good were they?
Yet her dreams had sent her warning of the great earthquake; she should, then, trust them. Anyway, she had no choice. The dreams were there; she ignored them at her own peril—and for all she knew, the peril of Troy and her world.
She had drifted into reverie when she heard a great commotion in the streets; Hector’s chariot raced down through the city toward the lower gates. To Kassandra, watching from her bench inside the sandalmaker’s shop, it seemed that half the population of Troy emptied itself into the streets to watch. After so long, one would think they would take it for granted and go on about their business. But there was as much enthusiasm evident as on the first day he had paraded before his troops. Well, that was nice for Hector, she thought, not entirely without sarcasm, and would have turned away; but the sandalmaker brought her new sandals and stood watching Hector’s chariot instead of helping her put them on.
“He drives his chariot like the very Battle-God himself,” he remarked. “Princess, he is your brother?”
“Yes; the son of both my mother and my father,” she replied.
“Tell me, what is he like? Is he truly as much a hero as he seems?”
“He is certainly brave and a valorous fighter,” she said. But was it bravery or simply a lack of imagination? Paris could simulate bravery, but only because he feared being thought a coward more than whatever else it was he feared.
“But more than that,” she said, “Hector is a good man, apart from being a good fighter. He has other virtues than bravery.” The man looked a little startled, as if he could not imagine any other virtues. “I mean he would be worthy to admire even if there were no war.”
And that, she thought, could hardly be said of any of her other brothers; they seemed little more than animate weapons, without much thought for what they were doing or why. Paris had some good qualities—although he seldom showed them to a sister: he was kind to Helen, showed kindness as well as respect to his aging parents and had been a loving father to his children while they lived. He was kind even to Helen’s son by Menelaus. Aeneas too had this kind of character—or do I think so only because I love him? she asked herself. The sandalmaker still lauding Hector’s attributes, Kassandra said, “He will be pleased to know that he is so well thought of in the city” (which certainly was true), paid for her purchases and stepped out into the street. She immediately had to snatch Honey out from under the feet of the crowds blocking the way and surging back from the street where four chariots, driven by Aeneas, Paris, Deiphobos and the Thracian captain Glaucus, were thundering down in the wake of Hector’s toward the great gate.
Had Priam decided to send his best champions against the Akhaians regardless of the fact that Akhilles was not with them—or in hopes of luring Akhilles forth? The thought revived her curiosity; Honey was already trying to run after the crowd, so Kassandra went down toward the wall and once there, up the stairs inside to the women’s favorite observation point.
As she had expected, she found Helen, Andromache and Creusa there with Hecuba. They all greeted her with affection. Helen, she observed, looked less worn. Soon she confided to Kassandra that she believed she was pregnant again.
Andromache said, “I do not see how any woman could in good conscience bring a child into the world when there is this great war. I said so to Hector, but he only answered that this is when children are most needed.”
“And children die when there is no war,” Helen said; “I lost my second son to a midwife’s carelessness, and three of my sons died in an earthquake. They could have fallen to their death bird’s-nesting on the rocks, or been trampled by an escaped bull at the games. There is no safety for children anywhere in this mortal world; but if we all decided not to bear children because of that, where would the world be?”
“Ah, you have more courage than I,” said Andromache. “Just as Paris is more daring with his chariot than Hector—look how he races out of the great gate!”
It was hard to tell which man was driving most wildly; all five chariots exploded out of the gate almost at once, Hector’s foot soldiers streaming after them. The Akhaians had not yet formed any battlelines; Kassandra saw the chaos and disorder of the Argive camp as the troops sprang out between their tents, yelling, searching for weapons. The line of chariots thundered down on
the camp, and on through. Now she saw that each chariot bore a brazier of coals and something else—tar? pitch?—and an archer swiftly preparing arrows by dipping them into the blazing stuff, and shooting at the lines of ships that lay in the harbor beyond the camp. For a few minutes, while trying to bring down the chariots, the Akhaians did not see the objective of the attack; then a great cry of rage rang out—but by this time the chariots were actually on the beach and several of the ships already ablaze.
Hector’s foot soldiers were well organized, attacking the still-surprised troops of Agamemnon.
Ship after ship, each with a blazing arrow in the folds of its furled sails, took fire, with sailors unready to fight the flames jumping overboard and adding to the confusion. Now Hector’s men turned their attention from the ships to the armies’ tents. There were screams and immense confusion all through the camp as men tried halfheartedly to organize ways of fighting the inferno and tended to the wounded. One of the ships (she heard later it had a cargo of oil) had already burned to the waterline and sunk. A great cheer went up from Hector’s men.
The Trojan chariots were surrounded now by Akhaian foot soldiers trying to pull the riders down; but the archers continued to shoot their fire-arrows into the tents until the women on the wall could not see into the Akhaian camp at all through the smoke. Another ship sagged and settled down into the harbor, the flames subsiding in the water.
The women cheered; then there was a commotion among the guards along the wall, and Trojan soldiers ran past them to a vantage point where some archers were stationed. There were loud yells, a combination of cheers and jeering cries, and a great crash. When the captain of archers came back, Andromache asked what had happened. Saluting her respectfully, he said, “At first we thought it was Akhilles himself and that he’d picked this time for a diversion. ’Twasn’t him, though; it was that friend of his—what’s his name—Patroklos; climbed right up the west wall where there’re stones loose from the earthquake.”