A Thousand Ships(53)

Hecabe, her women, the Greek warriors, all saw the same thing: a daughter of Zeus turning her full and terrifying attention towards a mortal.

‘I understand,’ Odysseus said. His voice barely quavered, but the smile was gone. She gave the smallest of nods and let go of his jaw. She walked past him to the Spartans, who fell in behind her, like youths in a religious procession following the statue of Aphrodite as it was carried to its shrine.

Hecabe was tempted to gloat over his humiliation, but she did not. There was something about Helen – a simmering menace – which made even the queen of Troy think twice.

‘He’s welcome to her,’ Odysseus said, once the Spartan party was out of earshot.

‘What is he like?’ Hecabe asked. ‘Menelaus? Is he a match for her?’

Odysseus’ eyebrows gave the answer his tongue could not.

‘You will accompany me in the morning,’ he said. ‘I will give you the rest of today to spend with your daughters. Although the other Greeks may not be so considerate. Do you understand?’

‘Why are you taking me? Tell the truth.’

‘I thought you’d enjoy the voyage home.’

‘Your home is not mine.’

‘Our ships will sail north before they head west,’ he said.

She tried to conceal the hope dancing in her eyes. ‘Where will you put down first?’

‘Thrace,’ he replied. ‘I’ve sent a messenger to tell the king – Polymestor, I heard he was called – that I would very much like to meet him on the Chersonese shore.’





27


Calliope


I know what the poet would like to be doing now. He’d like to follow Helen back to the camp like a faithful dog. He’d like to describe the scene where Menelaus falls at her feet and thanks all the Olympian gods for her safe return. He’d like to sing of her beauty and her grace, and the way every man bows to her every whim. Well, he cannot.

I have had enough of Helen. Enough of her beauty, enough of her power, enough of her. I despise the way they all melt at the merest mention of her. She is only a woman. And no one’s looks last forever, even daughters of Zeus.

I shall teach him a lesson. Let him follow the future of another woman, another queen. Let him see what Cassandra sees: her mother’s future. That will show him to be careful what he prays for. Not every story leaves the teller unharmed.





28


Hecabe


Cassandra saw the future as though it were the past. It was not for her as it was for the priests who read signs in the flight of birds or the entrails of beasts. From their murky pronouncements, you would believe the future was always swathed in cloud and fog, tiny strands of isolated brightness in the dark. But for Cassandra, it was as clear as a recent memory. And so when she heard Odysseus say he would take her mother to Thrace, she knew what was to come, because for her it had all the clarity of something she had already seen happen.

She felt a wave of revulsion rip through her and the familiar sour taste rising in her throat. She did not dare vomit, as Hecabe would punish her for the mess, her mouth curling in disgust as she slapped her daughter across the cheek. Cassandra felt a flicker of heat from the tiny white scars on her brow bone, from the time her mother had hit her while wearing her full ceremonial jewellery. That gold was gone now, of course, stowed in the strongboxes of the Greeks. Cassandra swallowed two, three times in rapid succession, took a deep breath and tried to focus on the faint taste of salt in the air. Salt had always quelled the worst of her sickness.

But how could salt take away the sound of those eyeballs popping, the sight of black jelly pouring down a weather-beaten face? Her breathing became uneven. She pushed the vision away, but every time she blinked, it was all she could see: ruined sockets and thick dark blood. She tried to come back to the present, turn away from the future and be where she was. Sometimes she could walk herself back, step by step from tomorrow to today, and the taking of each small step reduced her potent desire to scream.

But this time she found that she could not travel backwards, only forward to disaster, over and over again. She watched her mother leave her – was she, Cassandra, the last one to leave the shores of Troy? She wanted to look around and check: where was Andromache, where was her sister, Polyxena? But she could only watch what played out in front of her: the following morning. It must be the following morning, mustn’t it? Because Odysseus had said to her mother that she would be leaving with him then. And her mother’s expression, as the Greek hero held out his arm to help her onto his ship, was almost triumphant. She still carried herself like a queen, even if the queen wore a soot-stained chiton, torn in two places at the hem.

Hecabe was preparing herself for the meeting with Polymestor, Cassandra could see. She took some brief solace when she saw that her mother was not alone. Odysseus had taken a small group of Hecabe’s serving-women along with her, so although she did not have her family, she had the women whose company she had often preferred. Cassandra wondered if Odysseus had been forced to barter with his fellow Greeks to take a whole gaggle of women, or whether no one had cared where the old ones went. As she walked on Trojan ground for the last time, her mother made no effort to hold Cassandra, or kiss her goodbye. But Cassandra saw something in her eyes which was not familiar. The exasperation which usually marked Hecabe was gone. She did not kiss her daughter, it was true. But she did not kiss her because she feared the humiliation of breaking down in tears.