Cassandra and Apollo

Chapter 8

Author's Note:  Hi!  The end of this chapter closes Part I of the story.  After this, we hit some dark themes of fate, self-destruction, and the overall ugh-ness of the Iliad (which I change quite a bit).  

Also, enjoy my latest sketch of Cassandra--poor thing. 

**

By the time the Greek ships crossed the horizon, King Priam had ordered Cassandra to remain in the palace. She wrote to Briseis and the others, offering them shelter within the city walls, but they refused. The temple was their home, and they believed themselves safe in their faith. After all, no Trojan would dare break the peace of the god's mountain and, therefore, no Greek would either. And so it was. At first.

First, came the raids. Villages burned and toppled, soldiers stripped what little valuables could be found, oysters shucked from their shells. The Greek soldiers licked their lips and piled their spoils.

But the city had stores enough for years. Such a tragedy, those poor villagers, the nobles would cry and dip their figs in honey.

King Priam, for his part, thought about the matter more carefully. He was too old to be baited into an early battle, while the Greeks were yet hale and buoyed by their tailwinds. We must wait for them to tire, we will take as many villagers as we can during the night, after the raids have quelled, he would say.

Hector and his guard would go out each night, serving as escorts for the refugees. Paris, to his credit, offered to join him, once. But Helen held him back, fat tears clumping her thick blonde lashes and streaming down her rosy cheeks. Please, I am afraid you'll die! She cried. But it was no concern of hers if Hector risked himself.

"Let me come with you, an adept of the temple might bring the people hope. Those who cling to their homes might be persuaded with hymn and verse," said Cassandra one night, catching Hector before he could slip through the side gates.

She might as well have suggested he bring her to the vanguard.

"Have you gone mad?" he gasped. He looked nearly unrecognizable, bronze and treated leather from head to toe. His face was darkened with soot from the bridge of his nose to his copper brows. It was Trojan custom. Black out the eyes so that the Unseen One might pass a soldier over in the field.

Vambraced arms shook her shoulders.

"You are staying here; promise me you will approach no soldiers with this idea." For the first time, she saw him truly fearful.

She persisted. "I am useless here, and the Greeks are sleeping in their tents. And what's more." she stepped closer to him, trying to find the ivy beneath the soot. "You will be there to protect me, will you not?"

He let out a long breath, brushed her wild, sable curls from her face.

"I would only think about protecting you," he sighed, "to the detriment of my crew and those we rescue."

She looked down, sheepish.

"Stay here, we'll find something else for you to help with."

A kingly pronouncement, for he was growing into the role with each passing minute.

**

And so it went for three turns of the moon.

The Greeks would pillage and plunger, setting fire to the meanest of homes, ravaging as they went. And Hector and his guard would collect the survivors.

It wasn't about spoils anymore—there were none to be had, for these were the poorest of the poor. It was about cruelty. It was about breaking the Trojan spirit. Here is a tireless force, without mercy or morals, and when it breaches your walls, you will yearn for the deliverance of iron. That was the message behind each raid.