your hand from above me. Though you sink my ships and swallow my treasure, I will not beg for your mercy. You have none.
Cassandra
Making a mental note that I should never, never back the Princess Electra, daughter of Agamemnon, into a corner, I watched the shoemaker of Artemision as he fitted soft boots onto her dainty feet. She was small, like the figurines that they make in Tanagra, with delicate wrists, a tiny waist and little feet, still bruised and cut by thorns. How could such a diminutive woman, who did not look strong enough to harm a flea, have disembowelled a grown man fuelled by lust and wine?
It was impressive. I had heard her shrieking, then silence had fallen, except for certain revolting noises which I now understood and which rendered me unlikely to really relish red meat for the foreseeable future.
Eumides had brought the lamp into the melee when it was all over, and the floor had been swimming with blood. Wrist-deep in the victim's abdomen, Electra had frozen, seeming to be tranced, and had not resisted when I led her gently out of the house.
The man who had attempted to rape her was more comprehensively dead than any fallen soldier, and I did not know what to make of it. I had to unfold her fingers to make her release the unidentifiable piece of squashed tissue, which might have been his heart.
Chryse was sitting behind me and I leaned back against his warmth. I felt his heart beating.
'Are all Argive women subject to such rages?' I asked.
'No. I believe that it was a trance such as maids sometimes have, women who dance for the God Dionysos. It usually takes them three days of fasting and wine to work themselves up to this fury, and they have hunted men and killed them in mistake for deer, but always in a pack. Each one encourages the other. I have never seen it happen to one alone.'
'Perhaps it was the God,' I said in all seriousness, and he laughed.
'Lady, surely you do not believe in the Gods?'
'Lord, surely you don't disbelieve in them? They are all around.'
'I have only seen one God, and his name is Thanatos, Death. All other Gods are constructed by men, who wish desperately to explain the random workings of chance.'
'Chryse, look at me.' I shifted my position so I could look into his eyes. He seemed sincere. 'I have seen the Gods since I was a child. They are a fact. I do not need to believe in them, I can see them as clearly as I can see you.'
He laid his palm on my forehead. I held his hand between my own, compelling his attention.
'I have no fever and I am not mad. The Gods are there. They move men. I saw the Bright Lady distract my brother Hector in single combat, so that Achilles killed him. One is not mistaken about things like that.'
'Is one not?' he asked quietly. 'I cannot see them.'
'That is your way of seeing. Mine is different. But both are equally valid.'
'I cannot believe in the Gods, Lady, however much I love you.'
'You don't need to, as long as you have no objection to me doing so. Do you have colour-blindness among the Argives? In Troy it was always an affliction of men. A man who cannot see the difference between red and green is likely to deny that they exist, but that does not affect the existence of either red or green.'
He stroked my cheek very gently.
'You are wise and merciful, Lady. We shall agree to differ. Did you see any God with the Lady Electra in her rage?'
'None at all, but I was occupied.'
He smiled and shook back his hair, seemingly relieved.
'Well, Healer of Troy, if she was your patient, how would you treat her? With mistletoe?'
'Ordinarily, or maybe basil - what do you call that?'
'The same, king of herbs; revealed, like valerian, to Asclepius by Apollo himself. It may be significant that it grows by the basketful in the fields around Epidavros.'
'Possibly. You will get no praise from me for Apollo. But she doesn't seem unwell, Chryse. Look at her. Her colour is good, her breath comes easily, she is steady and she ate a good breakfast.'
'Perhaps it is a matter of pressure. Pain or fear builds up inside her, becomes unbearable, and when it is discharged, she feels relieved.'
'Like the release of urine in dropsy. Yes, possibly. But what pain or fear could be so dreadful as to make a slight maiden strong enough to tear a village bully to bits?'
'The Asclepids would put her to sleep in the tholos, to learn from her dreams,' he said earnestly.
I replaced myself in his arms. His hand lay upturned in my lap. A healing hand, strong and well made.
I saw that the first boot had been laced to the princess' imperious approbation and mused, 'That might be a good idea.
She is nervous, certainly, starts at most sounds and is very protective of her brother.
'She is not ready to consider the death of her father yet, we must let that lie until she can speak. She is uncertain in the world, but that could be expected in an imprisoned woman who has suddenly been set free.'
Chryse shifted a little against the warm wall. 'We call them secluded, not imprisoned. She reminds me of my wife, Chryseis. She had never learned anything or seen anything until her father gave her to me. But she picked up languages with astonishing speed, and she was arguing points of philosophy with the old men before the year was out.'
'But she died?'
'In childbirth.' I felt him tense, ready to withdraw again into his memories.
'There are always some we cannot heal,' I said, not looking at him. 'They are always the ones we remember. One by one, Healer, I watched my people die and no effort of mine could save them. We must comfort one another, Chryse,' I said, very deliberately, 'for no one else can understand what we suffer.'
For a moment his voice caught in his throat, then I felt him lean down until his face was in the hollow of my shoulder. His mouth moved and I heard him say, 'That is true, Healer. I will try to comfort you, and you will try to comfort me, for our loss is almost beyond bearing.'
We sat until noon in the sun, in the central square of Artemision, embracing, and did not speak further. Eumides was engaged in forging himself a short sword on the pattern of Orestes' knife, and the boy was helping, fetching and carrying. After the boots were finished to her complete satisfaction, Electra joined them in the smithy.
Chryse and Cassandra, who had watched an army and a city die, who knew that there were Gods and that there were no Gods, drowsed together in the light of the sun or Bright Apollo and, for the first time since the destruction of Troy, I felt loved. I had been aroused and satisfied by my lovers in the goatherd's hut, but now I felt simply loved, without having to move or speak, without needing to caress or be caressed. The touch of sunglow and pine shade, the breathing heat of Chryse behind me, the scent of quenched metal, the inventive Trojan blasphemy from the smithy and the veiled men balancing jugs - all of this formed a bizarre but fascinating pattern which effortlessly included Cassandra, the stranger, and made her feel whole.
It
