road from Navplion.
I recalled the chain of little hot lights, fire speeding across the mountains to announce the return of the Sons of Atreus. King Agamemnon had sighted them too, far out on the wrinkled sea, flat as a plate, the seamen grunting at the oars.
'There goes the message of my victory,' he said, and grinned.
I hated him. Big as a bull, strong, coarse, brutal, cunning king. He had tried to rape me the night of my recapture, but I had called on the black aspect of Gaia the Mother, the Goddess Hecate, Drinker of Dog's Blood, and the proud phallus had shrunk and fallen under her black regard, the snake-haired one.
For disgraced or not, captive or not, exiled or at home, I am still Cassandra, daughter of Priam of the Royal House of Troy, Priestess of Apollo, and I can call on the Gods. They owe this to me, who have wounded me almost beyond bearing.
Agamemnon had attempted violation again the next night, when I was seasick; perhaps he thought that I would have less power if I was retching helplessly. The other women had urged me to co-operate, saying that he would beat me, but I would not. He disgusted me, his matted chest, filthy skin still smeared with Trojan blood, and his grasping, sweaty hands.
And when he shoved me down and knelt again between my thighs to no effect, he did not beat me. He got up clumsily, made the sign against evil - and evil was certainly there in that loot-filled cabin - and pushed me out to sleep with the captives.
Thereafter he did not speak to me. If I looked at him, he avoided my gaze.
Slaves have but small triumphs.
The journey from the port was slow, because Agamemnon's treasure had to be transported, loaded on every horse and mule in the Argolid. The loot from Apollo's temple alone burdened ten ox-carts.
Oh, Ilium, all that remains of you is golden vessels and the frail flesh of your children, and how long will we last? Gold melts and flesh dies. In a generation all memory of Troy will be gone. No one will speak of it except to say, 'This was Troy, once a great city, which the Sons of Atreus destroyed because of faithless Argive Elene.'
Yet, it was not Elene. We never had her. It was greed that destroyed Troy, all its wisdom and wealth spilled on that blood-soaked plain, because the Argives did not like to pay our tolls for passing the Hellespont. Eight years of piracy and two years of siege, and now the treasuries of Agamemnon brim with our gold.
And Troy is gone, gone utterly.
Oh my twin, my lost Eleni, taken by the son of Achilles. My arms ached for him, my mind sought constantly for the spark of his mind. It was there - a flicker, just a flicker. A desperately miserable and humiliated Eleni lit a small corner of my mind. I hoped that he could not feel my rage, my burning fury. I would not add to his burdens. He was a slave and I was a slave. But we were in good company.
The women of Troy are valuable throughout the world. They call us the well-skilled women. In the baggage train there were almost a hundred of us - spinners, weavers, two jewellery-makers, a dozen house-builders and the best potters in the city. Our skills would not die, provided we were allowed to teach them to another. For we worked and moved and even breathed now at the behest of our masters, and we had not been slaves before. We talked when we could, to comfort each other. Perhaps half were resigned enough to settle in their new lives, but three had already been murdered by their Achaean masters for being insufficiently meek.
I did not hold out great hopes for the rest.
The happiest of Ilium are the dead, and there are so many dead. Hector, my brother, tall as a tree, sun-golden, with his great beard. My mother and father, my brothers, all dead, all gone. I could feel Eleni, my twin, by our God-given consciousness. He was just existing, but he was still alive, the last son of Priam.
Eleni was still alive and I was about to die.
By the God's vision I knew. I was certain. If I went up that hill I was going to share Agamemnon's death. The woman was waiting for him. She would strike once across the belly and then as the guts spilled and he bowed before her, with a skilled woodsman's stroke she was going to cut off his head.
And mine.
I heard my own dying cry and smelt blood so strongly that I choked. The water of the bath lapped like a red tide. I clutched at my throat, cleared my voice and cried, 'Stop!'
My bearers, both Achaeans, looked around inquiringly. Achaeans are infallibly curious. It is their only charming characteristic.
'Why did you say "Stop!", Lady?' one asked.
'If you take me up into the city I will die,' I said. They were sorry for me, and the left one patted my hand soothingly.
'Slavery is not good; no one desires it. But in life there is hope,' he said.
'I mean, soldier, if I go up into the Palace I will be killed,' I elaborated.
The patted me again and said, 'Lady, we are ordered to take you up into the city.'
'Listen, idiots, don't you understand me? I thought I spoke clear grammatical Achaean!' They stared at me stupidly. 'There's a lake of blood up there. I can smell it so strongly that I can hardly bear the stink. I am a Priestess of Apollo and he gave me clear sight and I tell you, the king must die - will die - I can see the manner of his death now as clearly as I see you. If you take me there she will kill me too, so put the litter down.'
'The Lady is distraught,' said one.
'Women, even priestesses, are excitable,' said the other, lifting his end of the litter so that I was flung backwards by the length of my chain.
'The Priestess is overcome by the horror of her situation,' said the first, hoisting his end to a muscular shoulder.
We jolted up the steep path to the Lion Gate and I occupied myself in prayer. Not to the new cruel Gods, Apollo or Artemis or Hera, but to the familiar Lords of my destroyed city: Gaia the Earth, Mistress of Animals; and Dionysos the Dancer. I shut off the vision of blood and recalled, instead, sitting on Hector's shoulders with my twin Eleni, hands clasped across his golden head, while he argued with a ship's crew about a missing amphora of honey from Kriti. I closed my eyes.
Electra
He was coming home, my magnificent father, victorious and bringing captives and treasure, and I wanted to rush out to meet him. He would render justice to me, roast Aegisthus over a slow fire, kill the unrighteous queen.
I dressed in my finest chiton, of delicate rose with a blue mantle, coloured my lips and cheeks with cherry juice and outlined my eyes with Egyptian kohl. I brushed my dark hair until it shone. I laced on my best sandals, a present from my father and too small for me, but decorated with little bronze rosettes. My nurse, Neptha, showed me my face in the bronze mirror and told me I was beautiful. I heard the trumpets and the drums. The Great King was returning.
Then my nerve failed. As others had turned from friends to monsters in a moment, might not my father change as well? My trust wavered. I could not just leap into his arms as I had once. I was not his little daughter any more. I was flustered, confused and afraid. My golden eyes, which had once been as clear as water, were not innocent. I knew things, I held secrets.
So I crept, not to the main wall, but to the women's quarters, under the mountain called Spider. I saw the baggage train gleaming with gold, heard horses neighing and men shouting and wooden
