A Thousand Ships(54)
The scene dissolved and reformed as Odysseus’ ship landed high on the sands of the Chersonese coast. Cassandra knew it was Thrace – a place she had never seen – as well as if she had grown up there. Her visions were never wrong, never lacking in detail, even if she could not always understand them. In the short time it took for Odysseus’ men to disembark and put up a few small tents, two messengers dressed in ornamental garb appeared from somewhere further inland. They bowed before Odysseus, almost on their knees to ensure his favour for their king. Odysseus might be the guest in Thrace, but no one was under the illusion that his host – the king, Polymestor – was anything other than desperate for his approval. The messengers paid no heed to the old women, a little cluster of slaves. Why would they? Cassandra felt the sour pressure in her throat once more and she pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Not now, not now, not now. She tried to focus on the sand beneath her mother’s sandaled feet: full of round grey pebbles and bright white shells which she would have liked to pick up so she could run her thumbnail across their neat ridges.
She felt another rush of memory, like a blow to her stomach. But this was a true memory, even if it was not hers. It was not the future she could sense now, this was the past. Her mother was right near the spot where Polydorus’ body had been rowed out of the bay, into the open sea, before being dumped overboard with a few handfuls of stones stuffed into his tunic to weigh him down. Hecabe’s feet would stand in the footsteps of the men who had pushed the small boat out into the water. She would be so close to Polydorus but yet too late. Cassandra’s visions were always too late, even when they should not have been. She had long since learned that no one heard the truth from her, that even if they listened, they did not hear.
The men who had committed this impiety against her poor brother, Cassandra saw, had not realized that he would tip in the water, the stones dropping from his clothes before he was an arm’s length under the surface. He should have sunk to the seabed, been eaten by fish, watched in silence by the sea-nymphs. But they had not weighted him down properly. No wonder he had washed up a day later on the sands near Troy.
She saw that his face had been battered long before he met the rocks on the Trojan shoreline. Her beautiful brother had been beaten before he was killed by the treacherous Greek king, who had thought no one would ever find out. Cassandra tried to cling to this – the unspeakable man’s vicious motivation – as she watched Odysseus talking to his slaves, telling them to invite their king to come and visit his tall ships, and be made welcome by the conquering heroes of Troy. She watched the messengers scurry away, taking word to Polymestor. She saw her mother’s lips disappear into a thin line. She saw it all.
Again the scene disappeared and this time it reappeared as Polymestor strode down the grass-tufted sand. He was dressed in all his finery: a heavily embroidered robe, gold chains around his throat, gold rings on his fat fingers. His thinning black hair was oiled in the Trojan style, and Cassandra saw a spasm of distaste pass over Odysseus’ face before he accepted the man’s two great hands in greeting. Cassandra could smell the suffocating sweetness of cinnamon and myrtle with which the man had scented his hair oil.
‘Odysseus,’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘This is an honour.’
‘Yes, so your slaves led me to believe,’ Odysseus replied. ‘You have been anxious for news from Troy, it seems.’
‘Of course, of course,’ said Polymestor. ‘We have sacrificed many heads of cattle in the hope of winning the gods’ favour towards the Greeks.’
‘Generous of you,’ Odysseus said. ‘You didn’t want to join the war effort yourself?’
If Polymestor heard the faint edge in Odysseus’ voice, he did not allow it to show. ‘My Thracian kingdom is the bulwark of Greece,’ he replied. ‘I knew I must be sure to keep our dominance secure in case you needed our aid. I sent messengers to Agamemnon, my lord. He has always known we were ready to assist. He had only to send word.’
‘Agamemnon never spoke to me of these messages,’ Odysseus said.
‘He is such a private man,’ Polymestor agreed.
‘That hasn’t been my experience at all. But no doubt you know him better than I do.’
Cassandra saw Odysseus’ men, going about their business. Building a small camp they knew they would never use. No wonder they had found the Trojans so easy to trick, she thought. Duplicity was second nature to the Greeks, to these Ithacans. They went about it as naturally as cleaning weapons or fetching water.
‘I know him only by his great reputation,’ Polymestor said. ‘I suppose there is a temptation to fill in the gaps in one’s knowledge by imagining what sort of man behaves in such a way.’
‘In what sort of way?’ Odysseus asked.
‘Refusing all offers of help so generously. Never wanting to impose on another man’s good nature.’
‘Ah, I thought you were being modest, but I see you have spoken nothing less than the truth.’
‘I’m not sure I understand.’ The black pupils of Polymestor’s eyes were the only thing that conveyed his unease.
‘You really don’t know him,’ Odysseus replied. He laughed, and clapped the Thracian king on the shoulder. And Polymestor broke out into a great bark of laughter himself, relieved to find he had not spoken amiss.