Cassandra and Apollo

Chapter 11

They let her stay for the rest of the session, grudgingly, and out of respect for Hector. But she hears none of it. She goes deaf after Priam says: "Very well, we shall send the counteroffer in the morning."

Hector will fight two days hence.

After, he throws his arm around her and escorts her from the hall. It is as if her legs have forgotten how to walk, and she must teach them every step.

When they get to the end of the hallway, finally past the prying ears of Priam's advisors, he asks her, "Where do I take you?"

She looks at him as if he is already dead, her jaw slack and uncomprehending.

He repeats the question. This time, she catches a few words, like a shout piercing a tempest.

"I need to talk to you alone." She thinks for a moment, then adds, "Do you remember the old music room? Where you tried to teach me how to play the lyre?"

He lets out a short, unexpected laugh. "You mean where you tried to break your lyre over my head? No, I've completely forgotten."

This helps. She remembers he is still alive, there is yet something that she can do.

Hope is the sword at her fingertips, making her choke on fate's noose as she struggles to cut herself free.

The music room is empty now.

It is the tenth year of war, there is nothing left to store.

Her eyes scan the corners, searching for the sweep of a walnut arm, a golden string. But it is gone.

When he closes the door, the room darkens more than she'd expected. They have no candles. There is a small, rectangular window stretching near the ceiling, it will have to do.

She cannot contain herself any longer, her blood suddenly boiling.

"After everything I've told you," she begins, voice shaking, "After seven years of warnings, how could you propose a duel with the Achaeans?" Searching his face for any kind of reaction, she continues, "They will send Achilles. You know what I have seen."

He walks to the far side of the room, sitting on the floor beneath the short, wide window. He pats the space beside him.

She remains standing for a moment, arms crossed petulantly. Her bottom lip begins to quiver but she bites it hard, tastes metal.

He waves her over. "Come on," he urges patiently.

Part of her wants to storm out, to thrash against him. To hate him so that she will not die when he dies.

Foolishness.

Her steps echo along the bare walls. Their shoulders and arms touch as she sits beside him, a peace offering.

"There," she mutters, "I'm sitting. Now, tell me."

He's looking at the ceiling, at the thin sliver of yellow light shining through the window. His profile is precisely what you'd expect of a Trojan general. A pronounced brow, straight nose, and carved jaw all signal strength, spin the illusion of invulnerability. Only his small mouth, soft and round like a new rose, betrays the weakness of mortal flesh.

"This can all be over in two days' time. I can finally put an end to it." He has practiced this.

She groans.

"That is what Paris said." Dryly, she adds, "So which one of you is it? Who will stop ten years of fighting in a single afternoon?"

It is impossible to keep the bitterness from her voice. The duels will accomplish nothing. It is not a vision that drives her certainty, but a careful study of the war, and its players.