The Firebrand (28 page)

Hecuba gathered the women together and they surrounded Creusa, with their torches, and Kassandra, whose voice was the clearest, led the wedding hymn. Creusa kissed her father and he laid her hand in Aeneas’; then the women led her up the stairs. Creusa, close to Kassandra, whispered, “Can you prophesy good fortune for my marriage, Sister?”

Kassandra pressed her hand and whispered, “I like your husband well; you heard me say I would gladly marry him myself. And such good fortune as may come to any marriage in this year will surely be yours; I see long life and good fame for your husband and for the son you will bear him.”

Andromache touched Kassandra’s shoulder and whispered, “Why had you no such prophecy for me, Kassandra? We have been friends, and I love you.”

Kassandra turned to her friend and said gently, “I do not prophesy what I wish, Andromache, but what the Gods send me to say. If I could choose prophecy, I would wish you long life and honor, and many sons and daughters to surround you and Hector in your honorable old age on the throne of Troy.”

Andromache smiled and took Kassandra’s hand.

“Perhaps, my dear, your goodwill may count for more than your prophecy,” she said. “And can you see enough into the future to know how long before Hector’s child is born—and if it is a son? My mother would have had me bring a daughter first into the light; but here Hector talks of nothing but his son, so I too wish for a boy—and will I live through childbirth to see his face?”

With enormous relief, Kassandra clasped her friend’s slender fingers in hers.

“Oh, it is a boy,” she said. “You will have a fine strong boy, and you will live to guide him toward manhood. . . .”

“Your words give me more courage,” Andromache said, and Kassandra felt a catch in her throat, remembering the fires which had been all she could see at Andromache’s wedding.
Perhaps,
she thought,
it was madness after all and not true prophecy; this is what my mother believed. I would rather be mad than believe, in this quiet place under these peaceful stars, that fire and disaster will fall on all of these I love.

“Kassandra, you are daydreaming again; come and help us undress the bride,” demanded Andromache. “We cannot undo these knots you have tied into Creusa’s hair.”

“I am coming,” Kassandra said quickly, and went to help the other girls at making her half sister ready for her husband’s coming. With all her heart she was glad she had foreseen for them no disaster.

AFTER ALL the noise and excitement of the wedding the house of the God seemed even more silent and peaceful, more separated from the disturbances of ordinary life. Ten days after Creusa’s wedding, Kassandra was summoned again to a celebration at the palace: for the birth of a son to Hector and Andromache, Priam’s first grandson.

“But it is not Priam’s first grandson,” Kassandra said. “There is Oenone’s son by Paris.”

“That’s as may be,” the messenger said, “but Priam chooses to call Hector’s son his first grandson, and as far as I know, the King has the right to choose whom he’ll name his next heir after Prince Hector.”

This was true; but, Kassandra thought, it was hard on Oenone to see her son passed over as was his father.

She had come to treasure the peace and calm of the Temple and resented anything which broke into it, but she got leave to pay a visit to Andromache. She found her in the elaborate suite with the murals of sea-creatures, sitting propped up on pillows, the small red-faced baby in a wicker basket at her side. She looked healthy and blooming, with a good color in her cheeks, and Kassandra was relieved; so many women died in childbirth or soon after, but Andromache looked quite well.

“What is all this nonsense about
Hector’s
son?” she asked, only half joking. “It was you who went to the trouble of carrying him for the best part of a year, and you who went through all the pain and fuss of birthing him. I would call him Andromache’s son!”

Andromache grimaced, then giggled. “Maybe you have the best of it, being sworn to the God and forbidden to men! After all that, I am in no hurry to welcome Hector back to my bed. Childbirth is a much-overrated pastime; I would as soon wait a few years before I try it again. And they say women are too fragile to handle weapons for fear of wounds? I wonder how brave my dear Hector would have been in
this
battle!”

Then she chuckled. “Can’t you hear it now?—we change all the customs, and bards will make ballads about the bravery of Hecuba, mother of Hector! Well, and why not?—she has triumphed in that battle at least a dozen times, which means she has more bravery than I ever hope to have! They tell us about the delights of marriage . . . Every girl is brought up to think of nothing else; but the delights of childbearing we are left to discover for ourselves. Ah, well . . .” She leaned over, grimaced with the pain of movement and beckoned to one of the servants to put the baby into her arms; the look of delight on her face as she held him close belied her words. “I think,” she said, “my prize of battle is worth more than the sack of a city!”

“Well, I should think so,” said Kassandra, touching the tiny curled fist. “What will you call him?”

“Astyanax,” said Andromache. “So Hector desires. Did you know that when he is carried down to the naming-feast, he will be laid in Hector’s shield and carried that way? Imagine it—what a cradle!”

Kassandra tried to visualize the infant laid at the center of Hector’s great war-shield. Suddenly she shuddered and went rigid, seeing the great shield, and the child—how old was he? Surely too young for a warrior!—the child’s broken body laid out as for burial. It was like a wave of icy water; but Andromache, happily holding her baby at her breast, did not see.

Kassandra closed her eyes in hopes that that would drive the bloody sight away. “How is it,” she asked, “with Creusa?”

“She seems happy; she says she cannot wait to be pregnant. Shall I tell her all of what lies in store for her?”

“Don’t be unkind,” said Kassandra. “Let her enjoy her first happiness; there will be time enough for everything else later.”

“You are right; there are enough old witches who try to spoil everything for young brides by warning them of everything in store for them in the fullness of years,” Andromache agreed. “And no matter what, I would not have wanted to miss my little darling.” She buried her lips in the baby’s soft neck, and snuffled at him ecstatically. As when she had seen Phyllida holding her child, Kassandra was touched and almost envious.

“Is there any other news?”

“Yes; the ship of Paris has been sighted; a runner from the mountain lookout came to tell the King so,” said Andromache. “Paris is your twin, but I do not think him so much like you.”

“I am told we are much alike in looks,” Kassandra said, hesitating. “I do not think we are much alike otherwise. There are some who think him the handsomest man in Troy.”

Andromache said lightly, stroking Kassandra’s hand, “I am not among them, of course; for me no man is the equal of Hector, whether in looks or otherwise.”

This pleased Kassandra; she felt herself responsible for this marriage and rejoiced that Andromache was content with her husband. And Hector had no reason to be dissatisfied either.

“And everyone thinks you beautiful,” Andromache went on, “but I do not think your face would well suit a man: it is too delicate. I do not remember that you were as like as that; is he so girlish, then?”

“I don’t think so, and surely he is manly enough, for he won so many events at the Games,” Kassandra said. “He is a fine archer and athlete and wrestler, and a very devil in a chariot. But I think,” she added with a touch of mischief, “if we were matched on the field, he would be no better warrior than I.”

“My mother said,”Andromache remarked,“that you had the soul of a great warrior in the body of a field mouse.”

Kassandra giggled, and put her face down to the baby Astyanax; she felt she had somehow wronged him in giving way to her visions.

“May all the Gods bless him, and you too, my dear,” she said.

“Will you not stay to drink to his good fortune at the naming-feast?”

“No, I think not,” Kassandra said. “I will come home, perhaps, for a day or two when Paris returns. For now I will go and embrace my mother, and then return to the Temple.”

She took an affectionate farewell of Andromache, knowing that she was closer to her than to Polyxena or any of her half sisters, and went briefly to Hecuba for her blessing. Then she went to the simple rooms at the back of the house where Oenone dwelt with a couple of servants, quiet girls who had been, she knew, votaries of the River God.

Oenone was curled up in a hammock nursing her son; Kassandra came and embraced her, aware of the woman’s fragility; it was Oenone, she thought, and not herself, who had the spirit of a warrior in the body of a field mouse. Oenone seemed so delicate that she would break at a touch.

“Are you well, my sister?” Kassandra asked, using the word deliberately. She was certainly fonder of Oenone than of Creusa or even Polyxena. But when she was close to her she felt again that disturbing impulse to caress the girl, and because she did not know whether this was her own emotion or Paris’, it made her diffident and shy with Oenone.

“I would have come to visit you when I was here for Creusa’s wedding, my dear; but they told me you were not well enough for guests,” she said.

Oenone smiled and said, “Well, now that Andromache’s son is born and Hector’s place is secure, I need not fear for
my
son.”

Kassandra was shocked. “Surely there is no need to fear for him—”

“To be certain, I hope there is not,” Oenone said, “but Hector managed to be rid of Paris, and I do not think he welcomes Paris’ son or has any reason to love him.”

“I think surely you misjudge Hector,” Kassandra said. “He has never shown any jealousy of Paris—not to me.”

Oenone laughed and said, “Oh, Kassandra, I do not think you know how much everyone values your good opinion and wishes to show you only a very best side. If Hector felt so, you would be the last to know.”

Kassandra blushed. To turn the conversation aside, she picked up the baby and dandled him in her arms. “He is pretty,” she said. “Is he like his father, do you think, or like you?”

“It is too soon to tell,” Oenone said. “I should hope he would be like my own father, true and honorable.”

Kassandra sensed the disappointment in the words, more strongly perhaps than even Oenone herself knew. She said, “He may well be like
you;
and then none can question his goodness.”

“Only time will tell whether he or Hector’s son would have been better fitted to rule over this city; but I truly rejoice that he will bear no such burden or such fate.”

Kassandra said quickly, “Oenone, never envy the fate of Hector’s son.”

“What have you seen?” Oenone asked apprehensively. “No, do not tell me; I heard what you prophesied at Andromache’s wedding. I wish for no such blessing on my son . . . Paris’ son.”

“Yes, I was talking about that with Andromache,” said Kassandra. “At least, among the Amazons a son may bear his mother’s name; Hector would be son of Hecuba—”

“And my child son of Oenone, not son of Paris of the house of Priam,” said Oenone. “Fair enough; yet in your city, only the son of a harlot bears the name of his mother and not of his father.”

Kassandra said gently, “None could call you so, Oenone, and so I would bear witness.” Yet the words were meaningless, for she had no power to change matters; Andromache had been pledged to Hector before all of the city, whereas Oenone, it appeared, was Paris’ wife only in that she had accepted him with her father’s blessing.

“Oenone, who was your mother?”

“I never knew her name,” Oenone said. “Father told me she died young. She too was one of the priestesses of the River God’s shrine.”

Yes; women who bear the children of Gods are more nameless even than the children of men.
She kissed Oenone and promised to send her son a gift.

On the way back to the Sun Lord’s house, Kassandra had much to think about. If there were men like Aeneas in the world, there might be others she would be willing to marry.

ONE MORNING she was in Phyllida’s room, holding the fair-haired baby while the young mother folded an armful of freshly washed diapers and blankets. She had taken off the baby’s swaddling bands so that he could kick freely and was holding the small chubby feet in her hands, admiring the soft perfection of the tiny toes and nails, putting her face down to the little feet to kiss them and caress them with her lips. She blew into the middle of his soft belly to make him laugh, and laughed herself. At this moment she was almost wishing she had her own baby to play with, though she was by no means interested in any of the preliminaries necessary for getting one.

Phyllida came and bent to reclaim her son, but Kassandra clung to him.

“He likes me,” she said proudly. “I think he knows who I am—don’t you, Beautiful?”

“Why should he not?” Phyllida said. “You are always ready to cuddle and spoil him when I am too busy to give him all the attention he wants.”

Hearing his mother’s voice, the baby began to squall and reach toward her.

“He is hungry,” said Phyllida with resignation, beginning to unfasten her tunic at the neck. “And that you cannot do for me, I fear.”

“I would if I could,” said Kassandra, barely above a whisper.

“I know,” Phyllida said, settling down with the baby at her breast.

Watching her with the child, Kassandra felt the dark waters of a vision rise and subside.

“Kassandra, why will you not tell me what you see?” Phyllida asked, staring at her fearfully.

Kassandra was silent.