She leaned forward, her eyes closed; she had learned to sleep on horseback, yielding her body bonelessly to the animal’s movement. Now she drowsed, her mind ranging out in search of her brother. Perhaps it was the sight of Apollo’s bull that drew her to the animal Paris led to the fair.
Kassandra looked out from her brother’s eyes on the great body of assembled beasts and ran in his mind over their faults and virtues. This cow had flanks too narrow; that one, an ugly mottled pattern of brown and pink on its udder; this bull had horns twisted askew and not fit for guarding its herd; that one, a hump above its neck. Near or far, Paris thought with pride, there was none to match the bull from his own herd, which he had garlanded with such pride and brought here; he could declare the honors of the day to his foster-father’s own bull. This was the second year he had been chosen to judge the cattle, and he was proud of his skill and proud of the confidence his neighbors and fellow herdsmen felt in him.
He moved among the cattle, motioning gently to bring one forward so he could see it better, or to take an animal not seriously being considered out of his range of vision.
He had chosen the finest heifer and calf, and then, to murmurs of acclaim, the finest cow; it was a splendid cow indeed, its hide pale white with patches of gray so subtle that it was all but blue; its eyes were mild and motherly, its udder smooth and uniformly pink as a maiden’s breasts. Its horns were small and widespread, and its breath fragrant with the thyme-scented grass.
Now it was time to judge the bulls. Paris moved with satisfaction toward his foster-father’s own Snowy, the beast he had tended and decorated with such care. In a whole day of judging cattle he knew that he had honestly seen no beast to match it, and he felt justified in awarding the prize to his foster-father’s animal. He had actually opened his mouth to speak when he saw the two strangers and their bull.
As soon as the younger one—Paris supposed he was the younger—began to talk, Paris knew somehow that he was in the presence of the more-than-mortal. It was his first such encounter, but the blaze of the man’s eyes from under his hat, and something about the voice, as if it came from very far away and yet very close, told him this was no ordinary man. As for Kassandra, she would have recognized anywhere the unearthly shimmer around the golden curls of her God; and perhaps without Paris’ knowing it consciously, something crept through to him from the mind of his unknown sister.
He said aloud, “Strangers, bring the bull closer so I may see him. I have never seen such a fine animal.” But perhaps the bull had some fault not apparent, Paris thought, walking around it from all sides. No, the legs were like pillars of marble; even the tail moved with an air of nobility. The horns were smooth and broad, the eye fierce yet gentle; the animal even suffered, with a look of boredom, Paris to open its mouth gently and look at the perfect teeth.
What right has a God to bring his perfect cattle to be judged among mortal men? Paris wondered. Well, it was Fate, and it would be arrogant to set himself against Fate.
He beckoned again to the man who held the rope around the bull’s neck, and said with a regretful glance at Snowy, “I am sorry to say it, but never in all my life have I seen a bull so fine. Strangers, the prize is yours.”
The glowing smile of the Immortal blurred into the sun; and as Kassandra woke, she heard a voice—no more than an echo in her mind: This man is an honest judge; perhaps he is the one to settle the challenge of Eris. And then she was alone in her saddle and Paris was gone, this time beyond any recall at her command. She did not see him again for a long time.
7
NO SOONER had they reached the country of the Amazons than the weather changed. One day, there was blinding sun from early morning to sunset; overnight, it seemed, there was day-long rain combined with damp, dripping nights. Being on horseback was no longer a pleasure, but toil and exhaustion; to Kassandra every day was a constant battle against cold and damp.
The Amazons kept up the fires in their sheltered camps; many lived in caves, others in heavy-walled leather tents set up in thick-leaved groves. Small children and pregnant women stayed inside all day, huddling close to the smoking fires.
There were times when the warmth tempted her, but among the tribe, girls Kassandra’s age counted themselves among the warriors, so she covered herself with a heavy robe of thick oil-surfaced wool, and endured the dampness as best she could.
As the rainy season dragged by she grew taller, and one day when she dismounted for a rare hot meal in the camp around the fire she realized that her body was rounding, small breasts sprouting under the rough loose garments.
From time to time as they rode, there slipped into her mind visions of the boy with her face. He was taller now; the woven tunic he wore barely covered his thighs, and she shivered in sympathy when he tried to cover himself with his too-short cloak. Surrounded by his flock, he lay on the slopes of the mountain, and once she saw him at a festival, one of a group of boys garlanded and moving in a dance. Another time she sat within him before a blazing fire as he was given a new warm cloak and his long hair was cut for the altar of the Sun Lord. Was he too under Apollo’s protection?
Once in spring, silent in a cluster of other boys, he watched a group of little girls—though most of them were as tall as or taller than he—wrapped in bearskins, dancing a ritual dance to the Maiden.
Now she seldom even thought about indoor life except for a vague constant nag of memory of a time when she was confined to the palace and never allowed outside. Curious sensations attacked her body; the roughly woven wool of her tunic rubbed her nipples raw and she begged from one of the other women an undergarment of soft cotton cloth. It helped, but not enough; her breasts were sore most of the time.
The days shortened, and a pale winter moon stood in the sky. The herds circled aimlessly, searching for food. Later the mares’ milk failed, and the hungry beasts moved restlessly from exhausted pasture to exhausted pasture.
The loss of the mares’ milk, the Amazons’ staple food, meant there was even less to eat; what there was was saved by custom for the pregnant women and the youngest children. Day after day, Kassandra knew little but sharp hunger; she kept her small allotment of food to eat before she slept, so that she would not wake dreaming of the ovens in Priam’s castle and the rich warm smell of baking bread. In the pastures, as she watched over the horses, she searched endlessly for dried-out fruits or stringy berries clinging to dead vines; like all the other girls, she ate anything she could find, accepting that about half of the food so found would make her sick.
“We cannot stay here,” the women said. “What is the Queen waiting for?”
“Some word from the Goddess,” said the others, and the older women of the tribe went to Penthesilea, demanding that they move on to the winter pastures.
“Yes,” said the Queen, “we should have gone a moon ago; but there is war in the countryside. If we move the tribe with all our children and old women, we shall be captured and enslaved. Do you want that?”
“No, no,” the women protested. “Under your will we will live free, and if we must we will die free.”
Nevertheless, Penthesilea promised that when the moon was full again she would seek counsel of the Goddess, to know Her will.
Seeing her own face once in the water after a hard rain, Kassandra hardly recognized herself; she had grown tall and lean, face and hands burnt brown by the unremitting sun, her features sharp and more like a woman’s than a girl’s—or perhaps like a young boy’s ... There were freckles on her face too, and she wondered if her family would know her if she should appear unannounced before them, or whether they would ask, “Who is this woman from the wild tribes? Away with her.” Or would they, perhaps, mistake her for her exiled twin?
Despite the hardship, she had no wish to return to Troy; she missed her mother sometimes, but not the life in the walled city.
One night at sunset, the young girls, returning to the camp for dry clothing and a share-out of such food as could be found—usually astr
ingent boiled roots, or some hard wild beans—were told not to take the horses out again, but to remain and gather with the other women. All fires in the camp but one had been extinguished, and it was dark and cold.
There was not so much as a mouthful of food to be shared out, and Elaria told her fosterling that the Queen had declared that all must fast before the Goddess was petitioned.
“That’s nothing new,” Kassandra said. “I should think we had done enough fasting in this last month to satisfy any Goddess. What more can She ask of us?”
“Hush,” said Elaria. “She has never yet failed to care for us. We are all still alive; there have been many years when there was raiding, and many outlaws in the countryside, when we did not leave our pastures till half our young children were dead. This year the Goddess has not taken so much as a babe at the breast, nor a single foal.”
“So much the better for Her,” Kassandra said. “I cannot imagine what use dead tribeswomen would be to the Goddess, unless She wishes us to serve Her in the Afterworld.”
Aching with hunger, Kassandra got out of her damp riding leathers and slipped into a dry robe of coarsely woven wool. She tugged a wooden comb through her hair and braided it, coiling it low on her neck. In her exhausted and semistarved state, the very feel of dry clothing and the heat of the fire was sensuous pleasure; she stood for some time simply feeling the warmth soak into her body, until one of the other women shoved her aside. In the close air of the tent, the smoke was gradually filling the entire space, and she coughed and choked until she felt that she would vomit, if her stomach had not been so empty.
Behind her in the tent, she felt the pressure of other bodies, the silent rustle of women and girls and children: all the women of the tribe seemed to be gathered in the dark behind her. They squatted around the fire, and from somewhere came the soft thump of hands on taut skins stretched across a hoop, the chattering of gourds with dry seeds, shaken and rattling like the dry leaves, like the rain pattering on the tents. The fire smoked with little light, so that Kassandra could feel only the faint streams of discouraged heat.
Out of the dark silence next to the fire, three of the oldest women in the tribe rose up and cast the contents of a small basket on the fire. The dried leaves blazed up, then smoldered, flinging out thick white clouds of aromatic smoke. It filled the tent with its curious, dry, sweetish perfume, and as she breathed it in, Kassandra felt her head swimming, and strange colors moved before her eyes, so that she no longer felt the dull pain of her hunger.
Penthesilea said from the darkness, “My sisters, I know your hunger; do I not share it? Anyone who is unwilling to remain with us, I freely give you leave to go to the men’s villages, where they will share their food if you lie with them. But do not bring daughters so born back to our tribe, but leave them to be slaves, as you have shown yourselves to be. If there are any who wish to leave now, let them do so, for you are not fit to stay while we petition our Maiden Huntress, who cherishes freedom for women.”
Silence; within the smoke-filled tent no woman stirred.
“Then, sisters, in our need let us summon Her who cares for us.”
Again silence, except for the fingertip drumming. Then out of the silence came a long eerie howl.
“Oww—ooooo-ooooo-ooooow!”
For a moment Kassandra thought it was some animal lurking outside the tent. Then she saw the open mouths, the strained-back heads of the women. The howl came again, and again; the faces of the women no longer looked quite human. The howling screams went on, rising and falling as the women swayed and yelled, and were joined by a sharp short “Yip-yip-yip-yip-yip . . . yip-yip-yip,” until the noise filled the tent; it beat and battered at her consciousness, and she could only harden herself to remain apart from it. She had seen her mother overshadowed by the Goddess, but never in the midst of mad commotion like this.
At that moment, for the first time in many moons, Hecuba’s face was suddenly before Kassandra’s eyes and it seemed she could hear Hecuba’s gentle voice:
It is not the custom . . .
Why not?
There is no reason for customs. They are, no more . . .
She had not believed it then and she did not believe it now. There must be a reason why this weird howling should be thought a suitable way to summon the Maiden Huntress. Are we to become as the wild beasts She is hunting?
Penthesilea rose, stretching out her hands to the women; between one breath and the next, Kassandra saw the Queen’s face blur, and the brightness of the Goddess shone through the very skin, the voice altered beyond recognition. She cried out, “Not to the south, where the men’s tribes wander! Ride to the east, past the two rivers; there remain until the spring’s stars fall!”
Then she crumpled forward; two women of the tribe’s elders caught her and supported her in a fit of coughing so violent that it ended in weak retching. When she raised herself, her face was her own again.
She asked in a hoarse whisper, “Did she answer us?”
A dozen voices repeated the words she had spoken while she was overshadowed:
“Not to the south, where the men’s tribes wander! Ride to the east, past the two rivers; there remain until the spring’s stars fall!”
“Then we ride at dawn, sisters,” Penthesilea said, her voice still weak. “There is no time to lose. I know of no rivers to the east, but if we turn our backs on Father Scamander and follow the east wind, we will surely come to them.”
“What meant the Goddess when She spoke of ‘until the spring’s stars fall’?” asked one of the women.
Penthesilea shrugged her narrow shoulders. “I do not know, sisters; the Goddess spoke but did not explain Her words. If we follow Her will, She will make it known to us.”
Four of the women brought in baskets filled with coiled roots and passed around leathern bottles of wine. Penthesilea said, “Let us feast in Her name, sisters, and ride at dawn filled with Her bounty.”
Kassandra realized how long food must have been hoarded for this midwinter feast. She tore into the tasteless boiled roots like the starving animal she felt herself to be, and drank her share of the wine.
When the baskets were empty and the last drop had been squeezed from the wineskins, the tribe’s few possessions were gathered: the tents taken down and bundled together; a few bronze cooking kettles, a store of cloaks worn by former leaders. Kassandra was still seeing the Goddess’ face through and over Penthesilea’s own, and hearing the curious alteration in her kinswoman’s voice. Kassandra wondered if one day the Goddess would speak through her own voice and spirit.
The tribe of women drew their horses into a line of march: Penthesilea and her warriors at the head; the elderly or pregnant women and the smallest girls at the very center, surrounded by the strongest young women.
Kassandra had a spear and knew how to use it, so she took a place among the young warriors. Penthesilea saw her and frowned, but she said nothing; Kassandra took her silence as leave to stay where she was. She didn’t know whether she hoped for her first battle or whether she was inwardly praying that the journey would be completely uneventful. Dawn was breaking as Penthesilea called out the signal to ride; a single star still hung in the dark sky. Kassandra shivered in the wool robe she had worn at the ceremony. She hoped there would be no rain this night; she had left her riding leathers in the tent, and they had been packed somewhere among the leather bags and baskets.
Her closest companion, a girl of fourteen or so whom her mother called “Star,” riding next to her, made no secret that she was hoping for a fight.
“One year when I was small there was a war against one of the Kentaur tribes—not Cheiron’s band, they’re our friends, but one of the tribes from inland. They came down on us just as we left our old camp and tried to steal away the strongest of our stallions,” Star told her. “I could hardly see them; I was still riding with my mother. But I heard the men screaming as Penthesilea rode them down.”
“Did we win?”
“O
f course we won; if we hadn’t, they’d have taken us to their encampment and broken our legs so we couldn’t run away,” Star said, and Kassandra remembered the crippled woman in the men’s camp. “But we made peace with them, and we lent them the stallion for a year to improve their herds. And we agreed to visit their village that year instead of Cheiron’s; Penthesilea said we have become too closely akin to his people by now and should skip a few years because it is not wise to lie with our own brothers and fathers for too many generations. She says when we do, the babies are weak and sometimes they die.”
Kassandra did not understand, and said so. Star laughed and said, “They wouldn’t let you go anyhow; before you go to the men’s villages, you must be a woman, not a little girl.”
“I am a woman,” Kassandra said. “I have been old enough for bearing for ten moons now.”
“Still, you must be a tried warrior; I have been grown now for a year and more, and I am not yet allowed to go to the men’s villages. But I’m not in a hurry; after all, I might be pregnant for nine moons and bear only a useless male, who must be given to his father’s tribe,” said Star.
“Go to the men’s villages? What for?” Kassandra asked, and Star told her.
“I think you must be making it up,” Kassandra said. “My mother and father would never do anything like that.” She could understand a mare and a stallion; but the thought of her royal parents engaging in such maneuvers seemed disgusting. Yet she remembered, unwillingly, that whenever her father summoned one of the many palace women into his sleeping quarters, sooner or later (more often sooner than later) there would be a new baby in the palace, and if it was a son, Priam would visit the palace goldsmith, and there would be handsome gifts, rings and chains and gold cups, for the newly favored woman and for her child.
So perhaps this thing Star was telling her was true after all, strange though it seemed. She had seen children born, but her mother had told her it was not worthy of a princess to listen to the tattle of the palace women; now she remembered certain gross jests she had not understood at the time and felt her cheeks burning. Her mother had told her that babies were sent into the wombs of women by Earth Mother, and she had wondered sometimes why the Goddess did not send her one, because she dearly loved babies.