Elektra(10)

4


Cassandra

I shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot as I waited, the rising steam from the hot water making my dress cling to my skin. My sister, Laodice, reclined luxuriously in her bath, her hair piled in curls on top of her head, her eyes dreamy, whilst the slaves darted about, intent on the preparations. My eyelids were heavy; I was tired from the late feast the night before and I longed to close them. We had been up at sunrise: our father had offered a pure white lamb for sacrifice to Hera, seeking her blessings for Laodice’s marriage. There was still so much of the day to be done and already I longed for the quiet comfort of my own bed.

A tugging at my dress startled me. There was my sister, little Polyxena, her round cheeks flushed from the warmth, her big eyes fixed on the bath, intrigued by the novelty of the day. ‘What will the wedding be like?’ she asked again, for at least the dozenth time.

I sighed, not wanting to explain it all again. ‘I don’t know.’

She pursed her lips, annoyed not to be indulged. ‘Why do people get married?’ she tried.

‘I definitely don’t know.’

My mother swept past, tutting as she went. ‘You’ll know in good time, Cassandra,’ she said. ‘It’ll be your turn soon.’

I reddened. There was an abundance of princes and princesses of Troy, and my parents had no need for me to provide any more grandchildren, but still the prospect of a husband shadowed my future. My elder sister Ilione had married the year before. Now it was Laodice’s turn, and I worried that her disappointed suitors might turn their attentions to me. Helicaon, Laodice’s intended, seemed inoffensive, but that was the best I could say of him. The idea of spending a moment alone with him or any other man filled me with nothing but dread. I had none of my sisters’ ease in conversation or charm. I was considered odd in general – quiet and awkward, and prone to striking a conversation dead.

A great bustle of activity commenced in getting Laodice out of her bath, dried, dressed and veiled. I hung back, hoping I wouldn’t be called on to offer any opinion.

I wasn’t. I hovered at the fringes all day, watching the guests mingling freely, Laodice resplendent and beautiful, my mother and father proudly accepting congratulations. I felt sick picturing myself at the centre of such a scene. The only peace I had felt all day was in the temple at dawn, scattering barley before the priest took up his knife.

I still coveted the hidden secret of my mother’s dreams, even though the memory of that long-ago night repelled me. That was what I wanted; not a wedding, not a husband or children. And then it struck me. Apollo had the gift of prophecy; he might yet choose to bestow it on his most devoted followers. The service of Apollo was a noble calling. It would be a convenient route for an inconvenient daughter.

I made it known to Hecabe and Priam the very next day. They made no objection to my choice. The mighty sun-god’s glorious, golden light made our city shimmer, for the city of Troy was as beloved by Apollo as he was by us. But it was not his radiance or his healing powers, or even the melodious music of his lyre, that I longed for when I burned the incense at his statue’s feet, or slit the throat of the sacrificial animals that bled in his honour. When I made my oath to become his priestess, I did not fear that terrible divine privilege of seeing what was to come. As a priestess, I would have no children of my own, no baby that I might be forced to consign to a desolate mountainside, so I was not afraid of what he might show me. If I was gifted by him to see the kind of things that my mother saw – perhaps even more than her – then I might not hang my head and mumble; my voice would be, at last, clear and brave. If I could speak the will of the gods and see the very fabric of fate, I could command attention and respect. With all of my heart, that was what I wanted. To be something other than myself; to speak in someone else’s words instead of my own.

I was dutiful, I was devoted. I knew that Apollo would see me, his dedicated servant, at his temple every day, and I trusted I would be rewarded for my piety.



The day that it happened began like any other. I had no inkling of what was to come. I walked on the shore before dawn, and then I came to the temple as I always did. I sang at his altar and hung flowers about the neck of the statue in its centre, my head clouded by the fragranced oils burning in dishes and the rich aroma of the wine I poured to him. The silent peace of the dim interior was a sanctuary for me, a place of respite. The place I belonged more than anywhere else in Troy.

Light trickled through the soft smoke, melting into it like liquid, streams of gold that suffused the shadows, brightening the air wherever it touched. I couldn’t see where it was coming from. I paused, my hand hovering above the petals I was about to sprinkle. And, as I looked around, I felt something stir: a breeze in the empty room, whispering over the nape of my neck.

The golden light steadily intensified, coalescing around a burning glow in the centre of the room, so bright that I couldn’t see anything else. Panic began rising in my chest and I put up my hand to shield my eyes, stepping back, groping for the doorway that should have been somewhere behind me.

And then, out of the light, he stepped forward. My hands dropped, hanging useless at my sides. There was nothing but his presence – his true, real presence – suffocating, overwhelming, dizzying in its intensity. It was impossible that he was truly there, but he was. Apollo, an Olympian god made flesh, beautiful and terrifying at once.