Chronicles of St Mary's 03 - A Second Chance, page 14
All of Troy was arming itself. To defend themselves and their homes. It wouldn’t do them the slightest bit of good.
My heart bled for them. A ten-year war. Sickness. Earthquake. Devastation. And now they were defenceless and the Greeks were back. Truly, the gods had deserted them this day.
This would not be the glorious victory or heroic defeat of legend. This would be a slaughter. Too weak to resist, taken unawares, feeble with hunger and sickness, they stood no chance at all. It was as if all the Horsemen of the Apocalypse had gathered here today in this one spot, to oversee the razing of that most powerful of cities—Troy.
We pushed our way through the crowds of screaming people. Many buildings were still upright or partially so, but the street patterns had disappeared under the rubble.
We scrambled over the wreckage of people’s lives.
The Dardanian Gate was unguarded. Soldiers had more important things to do. We entered the citadel, where the panic was no less widespread than in the lower part of the city.
Men ran past on their way to what was left of the walls. Fires bloomed everywhere. Ash and dust floated on the wind.
Markham insisted we stay together, arguing he wasn’t Solomon’s baby and couldn’t cut himself in half. A small corner of my mind registered that our Mr Markham was not only extremely good at his job but also considerably more intelligent than he would have us believe.
We filmed the broken buildings, especially the Temple of Athena, now badly damaged, with one side completely cracked away and leaning dangerously. Somewhere in there, if legends were true—and after the last few days, who could say what was true and was not?—Kassandra and other noble Trojan women and priestesses would seek sanctuary. That would not end well.
We filmed as much as we could, with Markham chivvying us along like an anxious sheepdog. I could hear Prentiss dictating into her recorder. We found a gap in the buildings and climbed over tumbled stones to try to get a view of what was happening on the plain.
Van Owen was right. The Greeks were back; flying on the crests of powerful waves crashing on to the shore. A thick, black wall of ships, hundreds of them, were followed by hundreds more. Their sails billowed fatly in the same stiff wind that flung dust and ash in our faces.
Prentiss recorded the ships. I filmed the ruined city. Markham, ignoring historical accuracy in the way that only the security section can, clutched a stun gun in one hand and a thick wooden staff in the other and shifted anxiously from foot to foot.
‘Max …’
‘Yes. We’re finished. Come on.’
I don’t know how it happened.
Prentiss slipped.
Her foot skidded sideways. She gave a cry of pain and fell heavily and awkwardly, dropping her recorder.
Markham was there in an instant.
‘Can you get up?’
‘Yes, of course. Aaaah! No.’
‘Let me lift you.’
‘It’s not that—my foot’s stuck.’
Markham handed me his gun and I kept watch although no one was taking any notice of us. They were all far too busy trying to get themselves to safety.
He crouched awkwardly and investigated.
‘Does it hurt?’
‘No. It’s just wedged in there.’
In there was a gap between two white limestone blocks that had once been part of a grand house to the south of the palace.
He wiggled her leg.
‘How’s that?’
‘No bloody good at all.’
‘Can you get your sandal off?’
‘No.’
‘Well try, will you? I really don’t want to have to amputate your foot. I haven’t had breakfast yet.’
I stood up and looked out to sea. The ships were very close now.
‘Guys …’
‘Hold on,’ said Markham, wedged the end of his staff under the smaller rock and heaved. Good old Archimedes and his lever.
The rock shifted an infinitesimal inch and then settled back again.
The ships were almost within touching distance of the beach. The noise in the city grew to a roar. Many people were scrambling over the rubble of the walls and streaming across the plain in a vain effort to escape the oncoming invaders.
I said to Markham, ‘Try again. I think we nearly had it that time.’
Prentiss said, ‘Go. Both of you. I’m stuck. You’ll never get me out in time. Better only one dead than three.’
‘Shut up,’ said Markham. ‘Only those who don’t actually have their foot in a hole are entitled to a vote.’
He shoved his staff in again, spat on his hands, and heaved. There wasn’t very much of him, so I joined in. The rock lifted again.
‘A bit more,’ shouted Prentiss. ‘Nearly.’
Markham grunted with the effort.
Away to my right, the first Greeks, desperate to reach land had driven their boats far up on to the beach and were leaping onto the sand.
That they had no clue what had happened to the city in their absence was clear from their demeanour. They hadn’t returned to attack. They had sought only a refuge from the Earth-Shaker.
Now, looking around them at the fallen walls, the shattered city, and its disorganised populace, they could hardly believe their luck. They had been prepared to establish and defend a disputed beachhead. It could never have entered their wildest dreams that the city would drop into their laps this way.
All might not have been lost for the Trojans. The Greeks were as confused and bewildered by events as they were. If they could have mustered a force and got down to the old Greek ditch, and held firm, they could still have pushed the Greeks back into the sea.
But they were sick, shocked, injured, and disorganised and they were lost. I don’t know where their generals were. Hector was dead, Priam taking refuge somewhere, and Aeneas would soon be on his way out of the city to Carthage. They never stood a chance.
I heard one voice, bellowing orders like a bull. That would be the High King, Agamemnon, directing the attack. Trumpets sounded, and with a mighty roar, the whole Greek army swept up the beach towards the fallen gate, hacking down everything in their path.
People screamed and fled back into the city.
‘Come on,’ said Markham. ‘We’ve got to do this.’
We heaved again. The block shifted again.
‘Yes,’ shouted Prentiss.
I seized her under her arms and pulled. Markham let out a hoarse cry. ‘Hurry. Can’t hold … much … longer.
‘Nearly there.’
‘Nggaahh! It’s slipping. Get her out. Get her out.’
I heaved. Prentiss braced herself against the rock with her free leg and pushed.
‘Bloody get her out, will you?’ cried Markham. ‘I want to have kids some day.’
I pulled so hard we both fell over backwards. Markham let the stone drop and stood panting.
I said, ‘So, to sum up. One historian with a damaged foot and one security guard with a hernia. Could be worse.’
She grabbed her recorder and we ran. We had to move fast. The pods were at the other end of the city. We stared in dismay at the lower part of the town.
‘You should have left me,’ said Prentiss, angrily.
‘Fine,’ said Markham. ‘Do you want us to put you back?’
We needed to get away as quickly as possible. From up here on the citadel, we had an excellent view of the Greeks, streaming across the plain and heading straight for the Scaean Gate. Or rather, where the gate used to be.
The Trojans had rallied. They were weak, but they weren’t giving up. Everyone had seized a weapon. A small group of soldiers held the gate with reinforcements moving in.
‘We’ll go out through the Dardanian,’ said Markham, pushing us both along. ‘We’ll make our way along the east wall and then cut across to the pods. If they can hold the gate for ten minutes or so, we’ll have a chance. Move.’
We clattered along the streets, pushing our way through hysterical people running away from the fighting. I don’t know where they thought they were going to go.
The ground was rough with tumbled buildings to scramble over or try to get around. Fires bloomed with orange flames and I could hear the crackle of burning all around us. Acrid smoke caught in my throat and stung my eyes. All the time, I was listening for the sound of approaching soldiers. For how long could the Trojans hold the pile of rubble that used to be the Scaean Gate?
Not long was the answer to that one. We all knew how this was going to end. But maybe they could hold it long enough for us to get away.
A group of men, clutching shields and swords but with no time to don armour, raced past us, shouting to one another. Whether they dislodged something, I don’t know. The already leaning building to my left leaned even further. The front portico crumbled. Markham seized Prentiss and pulled her one way. I jumped the other. The building collapsed in a welter of stone and timbers and dust.
Coughing, I became aware of Markham shouting. ‘Max? Can you hear me?’
‘Yes,’ I said, brushing off loose pieces of stone and picking myself up.
‘Where are you?’
On the other side of the house. I’m fine. Nothing broken.’
‘I’m coming to get you.’
‘No! Stay back. None of this lot is very stable. You go on. I’ll work my way around to the next street and catch you up.’
‘Max …’
‘That’s an order, Mr Markham. Go.’
They went.
I shook out my stole—one of the most redundant things I’ve ever done—and looked for a way out. Squeezing between two wooden beams that held up a second floor, I found myself in a room open to the sky. The walls had sagged, but the door lintel was intact and, being very careful not to dislodge anything, I eased my way through and into what I thought might have been a small porch. Pillars lay criss-crossed on the ground. Looking around I could see lots of sky—it was simply a case of wriggling out through the most stable-looking gap. I looked up. There was an awful lot of house still to come down on me if I was too hasty.
For God’s sake—there were fifty thousand murdering Greek soldiers on their way here and it really didn’t matter whether I died under a pile of rubble or at the end of someone’s spear, did it?
I threw myself at the largest gap I could see and wriggled. Sharp edges dug into my ribs. I cut and scraped my hands, trying to pull myself through. My tunic was caught on something. No time to fiddle about. I yanked. Somewhere behind me, I heard the ominous clatter of falling stones.
I had nothing to lose. I heaved myself forward—much too hard—and tumbled, head-first down a pile of rocks to land, sprawling, on a comparatively rock-free pavement.
I raised my head and looked around. The Temple of Athena stood opposite, still with one crazily leaning wall, although the wooden vestibule and main part of the building still seemed intact.
In the other direction was the Dardanian Gate and even as I looked the first Greeks piled through, weapons drawn, ready for anything.
I hoped the god of historians had seen Markham and Prentiss safely down into the lower city. They would stand a better chance there.
I pulled myself up and, keeping as much as I could to the shadows, flitted across to the Temple. The wooden front was still intact. The doors stood open.
I slipped inside.
I took a moment to adjust my eyes to the cool, dim, silent interior. Glancing behind me, I could see soldiers fanning out across the square. They would be here in seconds, eager to plunder.
And to rape.
I remembered, too late, the fate of Kassandra and possibly all the other women taking refuge here in the temple. This was not the place to be.
Far too late.
They were already clattering up the steps.
I edged along the wall to a far corner, sliding my feet silently across the smooth marble floor, crouched, and pulled my stole around me. Perhaps—just perhaps—they would take the treasure and the highborn Trojan women and leave a poor slave in peace.
I really was kidding myself.
Now, they were through the door.
If the legends were true then the first one in—the leader—was Ajax of Locris—Little Ajax. Although if he was little then God knows how big the other one, Big Ajax, could be.
They piled in. And stopped.
Now that my eyes had adjusted, I could see more clearly.
The statue of Pallas Athena stood at the far end, bathed in a shaft of dusty sunshine. Not the big public statue, destroyed in the earthquake. This was a smaller, more intimate representation of the dual nature of the goddess, with a lance in her right hand and a distaff and spindle in her left. The statue was surrounded by broken lamps, hastily reassembled and lit. Pools of oil and shattered earthenware lay on the floor where they had fallen in the earthquake. Apart from the pool of flickering light around Athena, the rest of the room lay in deep shadow.
There are many contradictory stories about what happened next.
Some say Kassandra was torn from the Palladium itself, the symbol of Troy’s indestructibility, but I can say now that that ancient statue was not there. Maybe had never been there, since the current statue looked as if it had been in place some considerable time. The Palladium, if the legends are true—and why wouldn’t they be?—was even now being smuggled out of Troy by Aeneas, to make its way, eventually, to Rome. And maybe … maybe … if other legends are true—and why wouldn’t they be?—from there to Britain. Taken to Britain by Brutus, his descendent, who gave his name to the island. Maybe, deep down, we’re all Troy’s children.
This is what actually happened.
Kassandra and her women are clustered at the foot of the statue. Great Athena stares unblinkingly over their heads.
More Greek soldiers clatter into the temple, into this inner room, this domos. Their echoes reverberate off the marble, but no matter how much noise they are making as they enter, they fall silent in the presence of the goddess.
Nothing happens for a long time. From where they stand, they cannot see me. But they can see Kassandra and the other women. They can see the statue and the temple treasures. They can see what they have come for.
Only the presence of the goddess holds them back.
What will they do?
One woman steps forward. From her air of authority, I would say this might be Theano, priestess of Athena and daughter of a king. She is royal in her own right. Years ago, she and her husband, Antenor, spoke out against the war.
She speaks now and her voice, trained for ritual and ceremony, carries effortlessly around the big space.
No one moves.
She speaks again. She gestures at Kassandra who stands like the goddess herself, brilliant red hair blazing in the lamplight. For the first time, I see her face clearly. She is indeed beautiful, but it is an intense, a heart-breaking beauty. I once stood close to Mary Stuart and she too had that same air of tragic destiny.
Kassandra lifts her chin defiantly at their scrutiny but does not, even for one second, let go of Athena’s foot.
For that is the law. The law of sanctuary. And it applies to everyone. From the lowest slave in the land to the king himself. So long as she can touch the goddess, Kassandra is under her protection. That is the law.
Except today. There is no law today. Today, many things will change for ever.
There is still silence in the great Temple. Finally, Ajax jerks his head. I know Theano is spared. Legend tells us that she and her husband sail away with Aeneas and the Palladium.
Not everyone is so lucky. At this moment, Priam is being hacked to pieces in the Temple of Zeus. The baby, Astyanax, is being torn from his mother and hurled from the walls. Hector is already dead. I had no knowledge of the fate of Paris.
But Theano is spared.
Not so Kassandra.
She watches the other women trail from the Temple. Only Theano looks back and then she too is gone. From Troy and History.
Kassandra is alone.
I know what will happen now. As does she. As does everyone here. I wish there was something I could do. But I can’t. I can’t do anything. I don’t even want to watch. I remember again that shared moment on the walls. When she looked at me.
Ajax walks slowly forward and speaks to her. Some sort of command.
She laughs at him. Defying him.
He cannot afford to lose face.
He steps forward again, knots his hand in her hair and pulls.
His men gasp.
Such sacrilege in the presence of the goddess.
She tightens her grip on the statue.
He pulls. Her head is wrenched back. I can see the tendons in her neck, but she will not let go.
He seizes her hair with his other hand as well. Now he pulls really hard. Her scalp tightens. Slowly, her left hand begins to slip. And then her right.
Still no word is spoken. The only sound is Ajax’s harsh breathing. Both Kassandra’s hands are slowly sliding off Athena’s smooth feet.
And then … then … she turns her head the few inches she can manage and looks at me.
Straight at me.
Again.
Again, I can’t look away. She speaks. In English …
‘I see you,
Golden-eyed girl.
Watcher of time’s brave pageant.
Beloved of Kleio.
Weep for your dreams
For today they die.
Your heart will grow cold.
And as the leaves fall
The golden-eyed girl
Will leave this world.
Never to return.’
As she says the last words, her hands slide away and she is no longer under the protection of the goddess.
Who does nothing to prevent this outrage. This sacrilege to her temple. Which is typical of any bloody god you care to name. It doesn’t matter whether it’s the small, local gods who live in the hollow tree outside your village: the ones who knew you, your mother, and your mother’s mother back to the beginning of time. Or the big, male, sky gods with their intolerance and cruelty. All gods are the same. They’re big on the worshipping and the ceremonies and the imposing buildings, but when you really need them—they’re never there.
