LITMIR.BIZ

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were labouring men and farmers, weather beaten and gnarled like old olive roots by longs years of hard work in the fields. They did not resemble each other at all except for the eyes. They all had the same expression. They were all terrified.

      `Ten years ago,' said the master slowly and loudly, so that those outside could hear, `an oracle from Epidavros told you that your well was cursed, and ordered you to dig another higher up the hill. The god also ordered you to clean your houses, wash your clothes, and dig new privies on the lower side of the village. Did you obey?'

      `Yes, Lord. We would not disobey an oracle,' said the stout man.

      `I came into Kokkinades to find the houses full of dead children. So I thought about your village and how this could have happened. How could such simple people have offended a powerful god?'

      `It was the bull,' said another man. `I told you, Pilis. We should not have sacrificed the bull.'

      `It was the oracle of Apollo!' roared my master. `In Kokkinades there is a well which lies lower than the drain from the market place. From the look of it that is where you have been getting all your water. Is this true?'

      `Yes, Lord. The new well was too far from the village,' said Pilis timidly, `so we opened the old one again.'

      `Apollo has cursed you. You have two choices. You can move - all of you - to Tiryns, or you can obey the oracle. Apollo Sun God is not to be denied. He does not speak to many and his words are to be instantly obeyed if he deigns to speak to men. But if you decide to go to Tiryns you must wait here for a month - at this temple - and not go on until there is no sick person amongst you. Choose, men of Kokkinades. I will wait for you outside. Who is related to this priest?'

      `He is my grandfather, Lord,' said Pylis.

      Glaucus took the old man's hand and placed it in his grandson's.

      `Look after him. It is because of the disobedience of the village that he is god struck.'

      Glaucus swept out. He was magnificent. He could appear dignified while wearing only his tunic, stained with sweat. He stalked over to the horses and stood patting Banthos' nose and whispering to him. I got close enough to hear what he was saying.

      `Men,' said my master, `are the most idiotic pernicious animals to ever crawl on the earth. Why do you tolerate them, Lord Apollo?'

      I was surprised to hear him call on the gods, in whom I knew he did not believe. However, I had enough sense to stay silent and occupy myself by grazing Pyla along the verge, where some dry but edible grass had been missed by the temple goats.

      The villagers were engaged in a debate which would certainly occupy them for at least the whole night and probably the next day. The master gave Banthos a final caress and said over his shoulder, `Find a dry spot for us, boy, and preferably some water - but go up the hill for it, never down. Then light a small fire and boil the water.'

      `Master, I have no cooking gear at all. How...?'

      `The priest lives there.' Glaucus pointed impatiently. `He will not grudge us a pot. He'll never need it again.'

      Entering the small hovel, I found a bronze cauldron. I hauled it out and scrubbed it with sand, then dragged it up the hill to where I had heard a stream. It looked clean, but I rinsed the pot and carried out my master's orders. He would not let me come with him to tend the women and children in their camp further down the hill, so I rubbed down the horses and sat huddled over my small fire, feeling very alone and isolated in the night, with the men of Kokkinades' voices and the hooting of lady's owls my only distraction.

      A watch later the master came back, ate some bread, gave me the empty cauldron to refill and lay down naked on his cloak to sleep, having discarded his tunic ten paces from our camp. I heard him groan as he turned over.

      `Are they very ill, Master?'

      `Yes. Ten have died so far. All the children will die, I think at least those under three. Tomorrow we shall look for fresh vervain and hyssop.'

      `We have some dried, Master.'

      `We had, but I used it all. And the herbs which grow in the place are suited to the diseases of the place and the people. Tomorrow, Chryse, we will discuss the doctrine of signatures. And tomorrow these morons will have decided what to do and we can leave.'

      `But master, what about the women and children?'

      `There is nothing I can do for them but to persuade or daunt their dim-witted men to obey the oracle. It was a sensible oracle, that one, and would have saved their lives.'

      `A sensible oracle, Master?'

      `Yes, I composed it myself. Go to sleep, Diomenes.'

      V

      Cassandra

      Nyssa was right. I was growing up.

      Ordinarily, I would have moved from my Nyssa's house to the Temple of the Maidens, where the Trojan women were taught rituals, songs, herbs and skills which they might not have learned from their own mothers. This includes spinning, carding, weaving, dyeing, embroidery - we are famous for the beauty of our textiles - and some house-making, metal smithing and tiling. After a few years in the temple, the maidens specialise in whatever it is that they are best at. We are the well-skilled maidens, we Trojan women, and men come to marry us from all over the world, even the Achaeans who dislike our customs and say we are too free. Men come seeking Trojan wives from as far as the Black Mountains on the borders of Caria, where the language is utterly strange.

      Those who have no skills are still valued, because we are also, they say, the most beautiful women in the world.

      Some, of course, never marry. They stay with the maidens to teach or carry on their own trade or become priestesses of the Maiden. A few go every year from Troy to wander with the Amazons, the women who fight like men. Our friend Andromache would have gone with them if she had not been promised to Hector.

      The fate of the women of the royal house is stricter than that of the common people. We must marry where we are given, if there is a political reason. No other women in Troy are so constrained. Others can make their own marriage agreement with their new husband. The daughters of Priam must go where we are sent. Our reward is peace for the city of Troy and for that we would do anything.

      Still, it has its advantages. Because I was a princess, and also a royal twin, I was allowed to stay with my brother Eleni and Nyssa our nurse for longer than the others.

      At night, in our common bed, Eleni and I discovered new things about ourselves. I was growing breasts. Eleni, in the course of a year after I had seen Clea's child born, had grown tall and slim, and there were other developments, with which we played and gave each other pleasure.

      I remember the surprise I got when after handling the papyrus-root phallus, it spurted seed. It smelt of wormwood. I was afraid I had hurt Eleni, but his skin was flushed and he gasped with pleasure. I reached the same delight when Eleni's exploring fingers happened upon the thing which the Trojans call the goddess' pearl. The pleasure was so strong that I felt that my bones had been filled with honey.

      Sweet Eleni, sweet twin, so close to me that we were one flesh. But never one flesh in truth. We knew that I was still a maiden and must remain so until the sacrifice to Gaia, otherwise the goddess would curse both of us. Our seed would wither, our bones ache, our sight dim, and the children of such an unholy union would fail in the womb and die untimely. We knew that if Eleni made full union with any woman before he had cut his hair for the father Dionysius and made the sacrifice of wine and honey in his temple he would sprout disfiguring seed and no one would marry him. We ended our nights locked in each other's arms, flushed and sticky but still technically virgins.

      Oh my own Eleni. His face on our pillow in the morning light was so young, unlined and pure, his hair lapping my shoulder, his mouth open against my breast. I was twelve before I found out that I could not marry him.

      Nyssa told me. We were sorting wheat seeds, a peaceful occupation, sitting in the shade under the vine. The vine leaves made patterns on the marble floor, dark green outlined in gold.

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