Elektra(52)

I loosened my grip on my father’s frail arm, the marks of my fingers sagging in wrinkled circles. ‘We could leave the horse here, on the beach,’ I tried. ‘Dedicate it to Apollo out here under his gaze in the sunlight, and bolt our gates tonight in case any Greeks remain.’

The hammered bronze discs adorning the neck of his tunic glinted in the harsh light. ‘They buy the goodwill of Athena with this wooden horse,’ he mused. ‘But if it is Troy that gives her such a gift, instead of them, then who is to say she will not turn her favour to us instead at last?’

Tears of frustration burned behind my eyes. My father was staring at the horse so intently, my words were as futile as feathers drifting in the wind.

The crowd hummed with activity, men slinging ropes around the great horse, hauling it with all their strength. The sun shone down on them, their bare arms bathed in a sheen of sweat as they pulled together, grimacing and laughing all at once. A lightness rippled over the Trojans, a sweet breath of joy at being free of fighting and siege, at pressing their toes into sand and talking of freedom again. I stood apart.

If I was going to run, this would be my chance. No one wanted to hear any more of my warnings; they wouldn’t care to listen to anything that might puncture this fragile newfound delirium that had overcome them all. In a city that had succumbed to a credulity that seemed insane, it was only me, the mad prophetess, who had clarity.

A tide of resentment was building in my body, seething into a rage. I had done everything I could to serve Troy. I had tended to Apollo’s temple, said the prayers and performed the rituals to keep our patron god happy. I had bitten down on my unwelcome insights as hard as I could manage, all these years. I had fought my best to contain them. Apollo had punished me so cruelly, and I never breathed a word against him, never railed at the injustice, only strove to serve him better so that I could deserve his mercy. And all of them had turned away from me. I had no respect from the people of Troy; I, daughter of Priam and Hecabe, was reviled and ignored, no matter how hard I tried to help them. Perhaps I should leave them to their doom, let them happily embrace the devastation of the city.

I opened my eyes. The crowd was further up the slope, inching towards the city walls. Their shouts drifted over the breeze: the gates were not wide enough, some were calling, they must knock down the wall at the side so that the horse could be taken in without scratching a single panel. The walls that had withstood ten years of the biggest army anyone had ever seen battering against them, now they would fall at Trojan hands, because of Trojan foolishness. I shook my head. Took a step forward, away from them all. And then another. And another.

‘Where will you go?’

I bit down on my bottom lip. Keeping my eyes fixed on the sea, I didn’t answer her.

‘Cassandra?’

Her footsteps, light on the sand as she followed. I shook off the touch of her hand on my shoulder.

‘Cassandra, it isn’t safe out here.’

The ring of panic in her voice gave me pause. I had never heard Helen so rattled. Not even when the army first arrived. Certainly not when Paris died.

‘It isn’t safe back there,’ I said.

She gripped my shoulder again. She was so close to me, but I kept my eyes averted from her, refusing to look into her face. ‘I don’t know the meaning of the horse,’ she said, her words spilling out low and fast. ‘Why the Greeks left it, if they should take it into the city or not – I don’t know.’ Her fingers dug painfully into my skin. ‘But you can’t stand out here alone, unprotected. If any soldiers remain; if anyone has been left behind . . .’

A sob caught in my throat. Somewhere, in the distance, if only I could walk far enough to find it, there was safety, I was sure. I could see it more clearly than I saw the ocean before me. Soft hills, wooded with welcoming forests. A quiet farmhouse, a spiral of smoke drifting into the air from its chimney. A peaceful solitude, a place where no agony would shatter my skull, a place where nothing of note would ever happen, so there would be nothing to foresee.

‘There is nowhere to go,’ Helen said.

I looked at her. Her free hand rubbed anxiously at the back of her neck, her brows drawn together and her eyes brimming with concern. Concern for me, I realised. My parents, my sisters, my surviving brothers, they were all gone far back towards the gates, with the crowd and with the horse. Only Helen stayed here for me. And I could see how much it cost her, how her eyes darted back and forth along the horizon, searching for danger. If any Greeks besides Sinon had stayed on the beach to keep watch, what would they do to Helen if she was out here unprotected? The vision of the farmhouse evaporated, and the world rushed back in around me. My breath wouldn’t come. I could feel it, her fear, infecting me: the press of a thousand watchful eyes, the silent masses of an unseen army ranged against us, waiting for their chance.

She was right. I wouldn’t make it to the nearest settlement, to any nearby village that hadn’t been razed to the ground by the Greeks already. I didn’t want to die out here alone. I let her pull me back up the sand, casting one more look back at the empty beach and the silent sea. If there was death in that direction and death in the other, what should I do? Where should I go? Who was left to help us?

My brother Hector had been Troy’s protector and defender until Achilles cut him down. I stopped for a moment, stood still, ignoring Helen’s exasperation as I thought of it.