Cassandra (29 page)

Chryseis laughed and bade him be seated, then warmed wine for him while I took off his boots and thawed his feet.

`You know what your father's been up to, girl?' he asked Chryseis. `He's caught Odysseus out, that sly one, he of the nimble wits, king of Ithaca. You've heard that they are mounting an expedition against Troy to retrieve Elene of Sparta?' he cocked a bold, dark eye at me and I nodded. `Well, Diomenes... ah, here is your master. Greetings Glaucus, you old tortoise! Here you've been safe in your shell while I tramped the roads getting older and considerably more way-worn. No, I can't move again to your fine house. Stay here with me and let me refresh my spirit by gazing on the golden Chryseis, Palamedes' daughter, most fair of women since Elene was... er... abducted.'

Master Glaucus grunted with laughter and let himself down onto the sleeping mat. I had finished with the bard's frozen toes and sat next to Chryseis, admiring her grace as she heated wine for our guests. Her wrists looked delicate, but they were strong, and muscles moved under the skin of her upper arm as she tilted the pot and poured spiced wine for the bard and Master Glaucus.

`As I was saying, Palamedes went with Agamemnon to persuade the old fox Odysseus to come on this Trojan venture, in the name of that league we saw sworn in Mycenae of the golden walls. There they found the king of Ithaca, completely out of his wits, ploughing with an ox and a goat, sowing salt in his own acres and giggling. They were all taken in but your father, girl. He picked up the king's son, the baby Telemachus, and plumped him down in front of the ploughshare. Of course Odysseus stopped, and it was revealed that he wasn't mad after all. So he's going to Troy and I don't think he's happy. Your father should watch his back, my golden maiden. He's got a long memory, the king of Ithaca.'

`Who else is going on this... expedition? They can't really think that the Trojans will keep the Argive woman, can they, not if they arrive on the beaches with an army?'

`This isn't about any woman. Women are two to an obol,' snarled Arion. `This is about the wealth and position of Troy. Even if they give back adulterous, traitorous Elene to be the sport of the Achaean soldiers, that will not stop Agamemnon. He wants Troy, and I expect that he is going to have it, though not as easily as he thinks. There is Hector in Troy, and many good bowmen, and while they have those things Troy will not fall like a ripe fruit into anyone's hand, even if he is Lord of men.'

I winced at his mention of Elene, and Chryseis winced at his description of what would happen to her. We embraced to comfort each other as the shadows lengthened. Rain began to fall outside, a soft relentless patter. Our brazier burnt red and hot and the old men's voices went on.

`Once they enlisted Odysseus, however, he obtained Achilles for them. He is the best warrior of our time; greater than Trojan Hector, they say. His father is Zeus and his mother's a sea-nymph - Thetis is her name. She made him invulnerable by dipping him in the Styx. She hid him among the maidens at the court of King Sciros; Odysseus the Sly One came as a peddler and brought jewellery and necklaces and a shield and sword. Naturally Achilles took up the weapons and was revealed.

`The hero is a strange one; but he is a man. One of the daughters is pregnant. He said that he was just doing as the girls do among themselves, and there was this surprising development.' Arion guffawed.

`So there will be a child of Achilles, the hero, even if he meets his fate at Troy. He is called Man Slayer, Grey-Eyed, God-touched, not long to live. But the maid is an aberration. He had drunk from the springs of Salmancis all right; he's a man-lover as well as a man-slayer. He's bringing the ant-warriors, the Myrmidon in brown armour and his adored Patroclus, a man loved by everyone, not just this touchy boy-warrior.'

`Patroclus lived here for two years, learning medicine. He worked with Macaon and might have become a surgeon but he turned to war,' my master sighed and took a sip of wine. `A waste of a good healer. So, who else, brother bard?'

`Agamemnon, Lord of Men, and Menelaus the injured husband, cuckold Menelaus with the toothy smile - so difficult to flatter him, even in a ballad that has been bought and paid for! - Even a bard has his pride, brother... what was I saying?'

`Who else has joined in this war?' asked my master patiently. `Diomenes, perhaps you could send for some food.'

`Are you saying that I am drunk, brother?'

`Yes, brother, a little, perhaps,' said Master Glaucus.

I signalled to our only slave to go the master's house and get meat and bread. Old men should not drink on an empty belly. The girl scrambled away from the hearth and was gone into the rainy darkness, letting in a gust of cold air which made Arion swear and shiver.

`That was a breath of death, by Puton the rich one! I grow old, brother. Too old for heroes. I need a willing girl to warm my old bones and I will loll in the sun and watch the road roll out like a ribbon and never ever take my poor old feet further than the agora.'

`And you will sit under the olive trees and gossip with men who have never left their village,' said Glaucus gently. `And they will never believe your travels.'

`True,' Arion pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. `Bards need an educated audience. This is an heroic time and who will remember the gallant deaths if there is no song to commemorate them? They would go down unsung, lost forever, spilling their names and their deeds with their blood, and no man would remember them. Men would never say of a fine steed, "That is almost as good as Achilles' chariot horse". Men would never say of a bright-eyed girl, "She is the equal of Argive Elene, the most beautiful woman in the world". There would be no honour to stand by, no great ancestors to comfort the heart when the belly drops and the gorge rises at the sound of men running to battle. No, there must be songs, brother. And I must make them.' He took a deep breath, which bubbled in his chest, and coughed.

`So, who else sails for the sack of Troy? The allies of Mycenae; Tiryns, Corinth, Lacedemon, Kriti, Arcadia, Elis led by Meges the Charioteer, Rhodes with Tlepolemus Kin-Killer.

Argos, Hellas, Phylace, Pherae, Methone, Argissa, Cyphus, men even from Pelion and Boeotia - both Aias are there, mighty heroes. Trachis too, and most of the islands. A great army. Do you know if your sons will go?'

`They have spoken to me about it. I am against it. Healers, however, will be needed - how well only Asclepius knows. I expect that they will follow the army, probably with the men of Ithome. There is a question of asking the god. If he gives permission, who am I to withhold it?'

My master's eyes were dark with pain. Arion put out a shaking hand and the two beards mingled in a kiss.

The slave had returned with food and Chryseis laid out a platter for them. She was pale in the red light.

`What is wrong, my wife?' I asked.

`I am very afraid, Diomenes,' she said. `I am afraid of battle and war and I fear my own death.'

`You have no reason to fear that,' I whispered into her sweet neck. `You are young and healthy and the war will not come here.'

`You asked me what was wrong, not if it was reasonable,' she reminded me.

Arion had heard part of what she said. `Never worry you hear, maiden,' he said coughing again. `War comes not to peaceful Epidavros. You need not fear death or ravishment here.'

`And the women of Troy?' she asked softly.

`They will suffer if Troy is defeated,' he said. `It is all a matter of fate. Women's fate runs with men's, for good fortune or ill, Palamedes' daughter.'

Chryseis did not reply. Arion began to cough so hard that Master Glaucus became alarmed and opened the door. The bard walked four paces and collapsed bonelessly into my master's arms.

`You must come with me, old friend.' He said gently. `Come, Chryse, Lady, we will carry him.'

Together, we heaved the old bard up out of the mud and carried him to the master's house. Chryseis laid his grizzled head down gently on the master's bed.

`He has travelled far,' she commented, observing his battered feet.

`Too far for a foolish old man in this weather,' snapped the master. `Brew me the pectoral herbs, Chryse, honey but not poppy. And you, Lady,' he was always very polite to Chryseis, `soak those cloths in boiling water, wring them out, and lay them on his chest. We will be lucky to save him. Old rogue of a bard,' he scolded fondly, `haven't you, at your advanced age, enough sense to come in out of the rain?'

We sewed the bard into a freshly flayed sheepskin to keep him warm and shared the watch, my master and me. Chryseis sat with me far into the night, talking softly about herbs and stars in various languages while the lamp burned down and the sick man's breathing heaved, laboured, paused for nerve-shattering time then heaved and wheezed again. We were finishing each other's sentences, catching the other's thought, and this was so magical and new that I continually tested it, never accepting, always questioning. We were talking about gods.

`The Father, that is Zeus, and the Mother is Hera, except that there are several mothers. Even-'

`Aphrodite is a mother,' I said absently, then stared into her amber eyes in the lamplight. `How did I know what you were going to say?'

`We are one,' she said simply, laying my hand over hers, palm to palm. `You always know what you are saying to yourself. Well, usually,' she added, and laughed. The small flame of the oil-saucer made her glow; a golden woman with hair like sunset cloud and eyes like jewels.

I never felt the need to touch her to know that she was there. Her presence could be felt, like the change in the air if someone comes into a room. She was behind me and about me all the time, close as flesh to bone; her scent pervaded me.

`Goddess,' said Arion, reaching out a wavering hand. She took it in both of her own. I could tell from his touching her that he was still burning like a furnace. `Goddess, forgive. I never told about Elene and Chryse, never a word, though the secret burned my breast. I will make a song of it for you, the innocent boy and the most beautiful Elene with eyes like pools and a mouth like a red poppy. That will amuse you, Aphrodite, Lady of Love.'

Chryseis held the hand tightly and her expression did not change. I said, `Arion, Dolphin-Rider, be calm. You are in Epidavros in the master's house and it is Chryse, I am here, and my wife Chryseis.'

`Goddess,' the old man forced himself to sit upright, then fell out of bed and fumbled at Chryseis' knees. `Forgive your singer. Chryse was scarce a man, and we sent him to soothe the woes of your favoured one knowing what might happen. She needed him, Aphrodite, Lady of Doves, and you sent your own sign to approve us. Forgive me now, grown worn in the service of love.'

Chryseis understood in a flash; I saw knowledge and calculation flush her face, and she shut her mouth hard on my most dangerous secret. Then she stood up to her full height and cupped Arion's cheek, tilting his head so that he looked up at the column of her body into her eyes. She was as tall as a cryselephantine statue, ivory and gold, and she took my breath away.

`Speak no more, Arion,' Her voice sounded richer, deeper, stronger than Chryseis' own. `I am the goddess on whom you call and I say to you, be silent. For all you have done and for your sweet songs, Bard, I forgive you and honour you. Be forgiven, I say; my displeasure is assuaged. Arion,' her hand hovered over his head, palm out, then came down solidly. `You are healed.'

We heaved him back into bed and by the time we had him settled the aura had gone, divinity had departed, and my Chryseis was familiar again, a girl clad in an unbound tunic who was tying back her hair with a piece of string.

`Oh, Chryseis,' I began, and she put her finger to my lips.

`Later and when we are alone,' she whispered. `He can still hear. Look, fool Asclepid, feel his forehead. Is it not cooler? It was hot enough to brand my hands at sunset.'

`Yes,' I said. `Tell the slave to call the master. I think that Arion Dolphin-Rider has been forgiven by the Goddess.'

I tried to explain what I had seen when she drew herself up and declaimed that she was the Lady Aphrodite, but words faltered on my tongue. Perhaps it had been a trick of the light; Chryseis was a clever woman and words came easily to her, the words which would flog Arion like a tired horse over the final hurdle to recovery. Even his sudden movement might have provoked the sweat which broke his fever. She herself had no opinion, considering my quibbles as vapourings from a weary mind. She did not say a word about Elene of Sparta and I could not talk about it.

We slept for a long time, woke to dreamily make love and slept again, and when we emerged into the cool mist we heard Arion demanding wine from the master's house slave, and the full-throated howl of outrage when he was told firmly that he couldn't have any.

`He's better,' said Chryseis, fetching a short sigh. `I'm glad I'm not that slave. He will have orders to offer him barley broth,' she said, and I added just before a roar and a smash sounded from inside the house. `And there goes the bowl.'

 

Two months later, as the year turned gradually into spring, I saw a line of marching men coming to Epidavros on the road to the sea. The sun glinted off their armour; they seemed like bronze men to me, with greaves and breastplates and helmets wrought like beasts or in the shape of angry faces.

They could not enter the temple - Asclepius has no use for war and utterly rejects those who wound or kill - so they halted outside the suppliant's gate. Dogs barked and Chryseis, at my side, shivered as if she were cold, though she had a thick tunic on and it was a warm day with a gentle breeze.

`Macaon and Polidarius,' demanded the leader, `the men from Ithome of the terraced hills, from Tricca and from Oechalia of Eurytus, are here to take you to the conquest of Troy.'

Macaon and Palidarius stood at the gate, asclepid priests, both sons of Glaucus. They were tall and clad in armour, carrying spears and swords. Each had a shield and each led a horse loaded down with medicinal herbs. No horse, I knew, could carry the remedies needed for an army of this size, and I wondered where more would come from once these were exhausted. I had helped in the sorting and bundling of dried plants; woundleaf and pounded bark for bleeding, remedies for the plagues of Apollo and the mixed burning herbs for stunning the wounded during surgery. Laurel and hemlock and nightshade, burned in a vessel and inhaled, will produce intoxication of percussive force, strong enough to hold even during an amputation. Such men usually die, however. If not from the smoke, from the shock.