For the Most Beautiful (7 page)

Suddenly one of the lookouts positioned on the battlements gave a cry. ‘The princes' ship is making land, my king!' he shouted, shading his eyes from the blinding sun and pointing out to the bay across the plain to the west.

I squinted in the same direction, trying to ignore the stinging salt of the sweat in my eyes and the pounding beginnings of a headache, until I found the royal ship among the fleet of trading vessels making for the beach, the gilded figurehead of Apulunas, protector of Troy, just visible at the prow. Little figures had jumped out and were splashing through the waves, carrying ropes to pull the ship up on to the sand. They began to furl the sail, which flapped loosely in the wind as the ropes slackened. Then we could see slaves unloading the vessel. The crowd on the walls applauded.

I turned to Cassandra, wishing to congratulate my friend on her brothers' safe homecoming. The air before me seemed to shimmer in the heat-haze, and it was a few moments before I found her. My hands faltered mid-clap as I caught sight of her under the royal canopy and I saw the expression on her face. My smile died before it had formed.

Cassandra looked as if she were being subjected to the most exquisite torture. Her eyes were stretched wide in horror, her fingers clenching and unclenching, her body heaving with bone-racking pain.

‘Cassandra!' I shouted, terrified. I tore away from the battlements and pushed my way through the crowd of nobles until I reached the royal canopy, rushing over to her side and taking her stiff white hand in mine.

Troilus was staring at her with his mouth slightly open. Aeneas and Deiphobus were frowning.

‘Cassandra, what is wrong?' I asked. ‘What's happened?'

She could not speak. She was gurgling, spluttering, choking.

I whirled around to summon one of the slaves for help. ‘Please – someone – anyone – we need help for the Princess Cassandra! Some water, at least! Quickly!'

But my words were drowned by an ear-splitting scream.

‘No! No!
Noooooo!
'

I stopped still in shock.

The sound was coming from Cassandra's mouth, but it sounded unearthly, like the shrieks of the Harpies: foul monsters with the bodies of eagles and the grotesque, twisted faces of women. Her whole body twisted as she let out repeated, agonizing screams as she gestured towards the parapet at the edge of the tower, the beached ship and the figures moving on the shore.

I stood transfixed, horror-struck, my fear mirrored upon the faces all around me. I had no idea what to do or how to act, except to listen to that awful, piercing voice, which was not her voice at all.

‘Cassandra …' I faltered.

‘Troy will fall!' she screamed, her beautiful red hair blazing over her shoulders, like flames, as she shook her head wildly from side to side. ‘I see fire – burning – people screaming – dying—'

The nobles near her were backing away, muttering and glancing over their shoulders.

King Priam and Queen Hecuba were like statues sculpted from marble as they stared at their daughter.

‘The prize that is not theirs will be our ruin,' Cassandra continued piercingly, tears leaking from the edges of her eyes. Then, without warning, she stood up straight and pointed towards the sea, her hair fluttering down her back, her eyes wide. ‘Turn back! Take her back! The prize of Troy that is not Troy's shall be its ornament and its ruin! Troy will burn – burn—'

Her hand wavered like a leaf in a breeze, and then, slowly, gracefully, her legs folded beneath her and she fell to the ground. I tried to catch her, but it was like trying to lift a pine tree fallen in a storm.

‘Cassandra!' I shouted, shaking her, but she was as still as death. ‘Cassandra – wake
up
!'

She did not move.

I covered Cassandra's limp, faint body with her veil and summoned a few young slave-boys to pick her up and carry her further into the shade of the canopy. I followed them, fanning her face, watching her eyelids for any signs of consciousness.
Let her be alive. Please, Apulunas, let her be alive.

I knelt beside her, as they laid her gently on the ground, and covered her forehead with my hand. It was blazing hot and covered with sweat. Thank the gods, it was not cold in death. I let out a sigh of relief and bent down to stroke the damp hair from her face.

‘Cassandra,' I whispered in her ear, as if I were calming a frightened horse. I took a cushion from one of the nearby stools and set it beneath her head. ‘Hush, it's all right, Cassandra. I'm here. Everything will be all right now.' I picked up a goblet that one of the slaves had brought, and tried to pour water between her parched lips.

There was a loud bang of a door being thrust open, and sounds of commotion by the entrance to the tower. A messenger had burst on to the walls, wearing a deep blue tunic, the colour of Hector's servants. He was panting hard, clutching at a stitch in his side, but he ran straight to King Priam, half bent over, until he was standing before the king's throne. Then he knelt on one knee and touched his forehead to the ground in a deep bow.

He drew a deep breath. ‘My king,' he said, in a loud, clear voice. ‘I bring news from Prince Hector and Prince Paris.'

The murmuring of the nobles quietened to a low buzz, then died away.

‘The princes have arrived,' the messenger continued, ‘but they do not come alone.'

King Priam gazed down at him. ‘Whom do they bring?' he asked. ‘An ambassador from Sparta, come to return our pledge of friendship? Lord Menelaus himself, perhaps?'

The messenger bowed. ‘No, my king,' he said. There was a long silence. It seemed he was struggling to find the words. ‘They have brought …' The messenger swallowed. ‘My king, they have brought Lord Menelaus' wife, Helen of Sparta.'

There was a sudden low buzz, like the humming of a swarm of angry bees.

I could see Troilus standing very still, gripping the arm of his father's throne, his knuckles white.

‘I do not understand,' Queen Hecuba said, looking from her husband to the messenger. ‘What queen travels without her husband? Is this some foreign Greek custom? Why would she come to pay her respects alone?'

King Priam held up a hand to silence his wife. ‘Go on,' he said to the messenger, his voice deep with foreboding.

The messenger bowed again. ‘Helen of Sparta is Helen of Sparta no more,' he announced, his voice ringing in the deep silence on the tower. ‘Prince Paris begs that you accept her into the Trojan royal household. Helen has come, my queen, not to pay her respects, but to stay. She is Prince Paris' chosen wife.'

The crowd of nobles erupted into exclamations of shock and surprise.

I stared at the messenger, one hand still tight around Cassandra's limp fingers, the other still clasping the goblet.

Queen Hecuba leant back on her throne, her lips pressed tight together, her eyes on her husband.

King Priam looked as if he was still trying to take in the news, to understand the enormity of what had just happened. ‘She comes with Paris?' he asked slowly. ‘She comes as his wife? Does her husband, Lord Menelaus, know of this?'

The messenger opened his mouth to speak, but the hubbub around him was still too loud for him to make himself heard. Slowly, the nobles muttered themselves into a scandalized silence, waiting to hear what the messenger would say.

‘My king, I have not yet told you all,' the messenger said. ‘We stopped at Athens on our way from Sparta. We had news from their ruler that Lord Menelaus has sworn to burn the city of Troy to the ground and to take Helen's life with his bare hands. The Athenians told us that every one of the Greek lords pledged a binding oath of protection to Menelaus and his wife, and that Menelaus' brother Agamemnon, king of all the Greeks, has already sent out the summons to muster their forces. They say he is gathering the greatest expedition the world has ever seen. There is word of a thousand ships being called to his command.'

There was a stunned silence.

King Priam sat forwards on his throne. ‘When was this?'

‘About two weeks ago, my king.'

The king leant back, frowning. The crowd of nobles was as hushed as the sea before a storm.

The messenger took a deep breath. ‘My sovereign king, we have it on good authority that Achilles, the most fearsome warrior alive and son of a god, has agreed to join them.'

‘I don't care what you say, Hera. A thousand ships is far too many.' Zeus sips at his nectar with supreme nonchalance. He has had his throne moved out into the garden of his palace to get a breath of fresh air, and he must say he is enjoying it. He watches, amused, as a butterfly flits towards him, lands briefly on his hand, and then, unaware that it has just communed with the divine, flies off again. ‘Pass the ambrosia, Hermes. You're taking it too personally.'

‘Personally?' snaps Hera. ‘How am I supposed to take it, when Paris gave the prize to that tart?'

Aphrodite, who is reclining near the rose bushes on a chaise longue forged from golden cloud, raises one arched eyebrow, but says nothing. She does not need to. No man, not even a god, would let a goddess so beautiful go undefended.

‘I really don't see what the problem is,' Hermes says, popping a bunch of ambrosia into his mouth, then passing the remainder to Zeus. ‘You asked Paris to judge, and he did. I'm afraid you may just have to admit, my dear stepmother, that Aphrodite won the contest fair and square.' He grins at Aphrodite, who gleams a smile back at him.

Hera ignores Hermes and continues. ‘I'm the queen of the gods,' she thunders at Zeus. ‘I'm your wife! And look at Athena – your own daughter!' She motions to Athena, who is sitting beside her, her arms crossed over her breastplate. ‘Don't you want to teach the Trojans to show us a little respect?'

Zeus sighs and turns his goblet round in his hands. ‘It's not that simple,' he says. ‘We can't just burn down the city of Troy because of a slight to your beauty by one Trojan prince.'

Hera puts her hands on her hips. ‘And why not?'

‘Because there is more to it than just you, my dear wife. We are supposed to be looking after the mortals, in case you've forgotten. This is a job we're doing. Do you remember the last time I had a holiday?'

Hermes starts muttering something about a summer trip to the Ethiopians, but Zeus silences him with a single gesture.

‘Exactly. We look after them, answer some of their prayers, and in return we get honour and praise and the fat from their sacrifices. In short, we need them, they need us. We can't just wipe them out.'

‘Who said anything about wiping out?' asks Hera. ‘It's just one city, not the whole race of men. All I want is Troy.' Her eyes flash. ‘And I might remind you, Zeus, that you're not so holy either. Remember the flood? When you tried to wipe out the whole earth because one man didn't pay you enough respect?' She snorts. ‘And you say I'm overreacting.'

Zeus passes over the reference with regal indifference.

‘It might be “just Troy” to you,' he says. ‘You'd batter down the gates singlehanded, given the chance. But you know how much I love that city. Priam and his sons are good people. They never leave my altars empty. I won't punish them, not even for you.'

She hesitates for a moment, thinking. The fountain at the centre of the garden – a dolphin spraying nectar from its snout – tinkles in the silence. Then she glances at him from the corner of her eye, a sly look on her face. ‘Maybe not for me. But would you do it for a city?'

Zeus' head jerks up, so that his beard ripples like the River Styx. ‘What do you mean?' he asks.

‘I'll do a deal with you,' says Hera, leaning forwards. ‘Give me Troy, and I'll give you three of my most beloved cities in return. How does Mycenae sound? And Sparta, and Argos? Imagine – whenever you feel like it, I'll step back without a word, and you can smash them to the ground. The three biggest cities in Greece,' she adds seductively.