She Who Knows

Cassandra stood at the door of the temple, holding a knife.

She was dressed in white, a cloth she had weaved herself, which would never again be as pristine as now. White was an impossible color to keep. Dirt, mold, human sweat... all would conspire to turn the white into dull grey. Like a flower too hot under the sun. That was why most women dyed their garment with some attempt at color.

But Cassandra wanted to stand out. She would only need the white for one night.

Her dark hair was woven, finely threaded with strings of gold, tipped with dangling pearls. She had even bitten and scraped her lips, chafed until they were deep red, overlaid them with white soot mixed with blood. They were ruby now, but tomorrow would be purple with bruises.

Only one night, Cassandra told herself. One night to know her fate.

Carefully, she examined the knife. Old, the wooden hilt rotten, the blade rusted. Not sharp anymore, stolen from the kitchen trash heap. But Cassandra had whetted the tip, turned the little nub into a sharp point. One last chance for the tool to be useful.

She hoped not to need it.

Careful not to cut herself, she slipped the knife into the sleeve of her peplos, nestling there beside her wrist. Straightened, took a deep breath. And stepped into the temple.

The columns were tightly spaced, evidence of how old the building was. Newer structures were stronger, better designed, did not need as much support for the rooftops. But Apollo was an old god—and Troy was an old city. The temple was the first building here. The marble was stained bitter grey with soot.

These columns funneled visitors forward, a narrow hall that tightened at the back of the temple. There was the graven image of Apollo, wreathed with laurel about his head and shoulders, looking more clay lump than living man. In front of this was a giant dish as wide as a dog laying supine, alight with fire for the sacrifices. Incense hung, heavy, gritty against the eyes.

“Lord of Prophecy,” Cassandra bowed to the image, letting one of the pleats in her clothing slip down her shoulder, baring her collarbone. “Let me serve you this night.”

She stepped back to tend the fire. Tossed more incense, tossed flowers, kept her gaze to the floor except the occasional coy glance. The idol did not move. She continued her ministrations.

The night billowed through the temple columns like wind. Cassandra shivered. Did not fix her drooping garment. Nobody else would come here this night, the eve of Apollo’s birthday... she herself should not even be here... who knew how long she had until her absence was discovered...

Under the drift of the moon, she was becoming uncertain what she had even come to do, the smell of burning and smoke heavy in her nose, the weight tilting her head down as if in sleep...

I’ve failed, she thought, lifting another branch of laurel to the fire, prodding to make room so it could burn that much better. As she withdrew, the flames came alive and seized her arm—

No, not fire. A hand.

She leapt back, but too late; she was caught. Following her jerky retreat, the rest of whatever it was emerged—a long arm, muscular and lithe, the shoulder bursting with muscle from bending a bow, the brow sculpted down to a flat peak of a Grecian nose. At last the hair gave him away: bright and shining as the sun.

Here is my chance, thought Cassandra, though she was already at a disadvantage—and she tried to escape. She jerked her arm again, but the god did not let go, so she had to clumsily pretend she was bowing into a one-armed prostration. The folds of her draped shoulder further concealed the knife.

“Beautiful girl,” the voice echoed like a far-off song from the hills. “Why are you here?”

“I wish to serve,” Cassandra did not dare look into the face now that she knew who he was. He must have taken this flirtatiously as she intended, for his grip tightened.

“But your city of Troy usually grants me privacy in my temple tonight, yes?”

The voice was playful, small jabs, teasing. Cassandra hesitated. This did not sound demanding and cruel like she expected from the god who ate up hecatombs of her father’s cattle—drank the blood of one hundred beasts in a single day. No, this sounded like a young man on the street, calling praise to her, just to rejoice at her glancing at him. An innocent game, well intended, perhaps even to be treasured when she would eventually be old and barren and crusty.

But his hand still held her wrist.

There was only one way forward: “Maybe I wished to be alone with you.”

“Hmm,” said the voice, and then without anything else, his lips were upon her.

Cassandra stiffened, for the shock on her raw lips stung. But the note from his throat continued, a low purr like the strum of the deep side of a harp, one long call from deep below. She found herself merging with the sound, melting into his arms. The taste of his skin was like honey—and why not, for he was also god of beekeeping? There was buzzing in her ear—

Her thoughts caught with alarm, for a bee sting was terrible indeed. This was pain on her lips, not pleasure. She could not lapse like this. Not until her goal was achieved. Arching against him, she freed her mouth to ask, “Give me a gift.”

Somehow he spoke without interrupting the long, humming note, “Oh? And what is that?”

“To prophesy,” she whispered, tense against him. “Let me see my fate.”

“See your fate?” a chuckle. “What good does that do? Seeing and not being able to change?”

“I don’t care about changing fates,” Cassandra admitted, her lips brushing his as she spoke. Small prickles of pain kept her grounded in the moment. The eyes boring into hers flashed with annoyance, but he did not seem at all intrigued.

In truth, she had long ago realized that very little of her life was hers—as was the case for all mortals, and especially women. But she was the sort who could endure anything, as long as she knew what was coming. Like the bite of a leech—if only she knew when and where the little teeth would sink into her skin, she could endure the medicinal treatment.

The worst part of living was the unknown.

She stared at him, willing him to see how badly she wanted to know everything, how much she would give in return. But the arms around her did not seem to understand, nor did he seem to care. He leaned in for another kiss, and when she moved her head away, went to her neck instead.

“Apollo,” Cassandra hissed. “Give me my gift.”

The chuckle this time was dark. “Why would I trade a gift for what I already have?”

And then everything went wrong. Her body tightened, every muscle seizing as she struggled, fighting touch and mouth and night wind and smoke. What now?—she waited for her mind to ask the question but she was already giving the answer: never, never, I will fight until I die.

Her anger was blinding. She groped fingers among the folds of her ruined white garment, searching, seeking—lost somewhere in the fabric was—

The knife.

She bit his shoulder, a distraction just enough for her to flail and stab—

Apollo howled. Wetness struck her skin, sizzling like coals from the fire. He pulled back, the knife caught between his ribs, and she was dragged upright because she refused to let go. No matter what, she could not lose the knife.

He struck her, but he had already been bruising with his grip, and she had expected the hit so it meant nothing to her. In retaliation, she twisted the handle. His scream echoed.

Then he ran, dragging her—into the fire. The flames were too hot and she let go. She blinked furiously in the smoke, frantically wiped at the tears of irritation. She must see. He could at any moment turn the knife against her—in her rage, she was thinking like he was a mortal man—

But he was gone. She realized she was at the edge of the flames and her skin was searing, boiling like the fury of her insides. She flung herself away, bruising her knees against the stone.

Her clothing was torn, leaving her crumpled and naked and sooty. All the better to look herself over: she was covered in red chafing from his grip... spattered across her breasts were small shiny pockmarks of burns, but this could not be from the fire, it looked like raindrops...

Where was the knife? Her scan turned up nothing—except—

Just before the dish of the bonfire was a small puddle of wetness. Golden, glimmering in the flames, radiant with the shimmer of a rainbow. Cassandra was spellbound. She had never seen such a thing, except perhaps with a small shimmer of water in a metal saucer.

Kneeling down like a dog, she sniffed. The smell was sweet as honey.

And the hypothesis arose: blood? The blood of a god?

I did stab him, Cassandra considered. The gods bleed, don’t they? Didn’t a story tell of Ares bleeding after being hurt in battle and went running home screaming to his father Zeus? But I recall that they don’t have red blood, like us mortals... they have ichor... liquid gold.

It was said to be poisonous.

Glancing back to her own skin, Cassandra considered the shiny speckles. Burns, must be. She had stabbed the god and he had bled on her. So the legends about ichor being dangerous must have been true.

All the same, a small whisper of doubt rose: if she had been a god, then she would certainly have told everyone that her blood was dangerous, poisonous, just to avoid people wanting it...

Were not the gods the sources of life?

Apollo drank the blood of one hundred cattle, one hecatomb at a time... adding up all those lives, all that blood and power, truly he must be an incredible being, and she was lucky the knife worked at all.

Was the blood truly dangerous... or was it valuable? Or... perhaps both?

This was the worst of all: the unknown. Cassandra sat, naked as the day she was born, covered in darkening bruises, and considered her misfortune. The thing she feared most was not having something bad happen—it was being unprepared for the bad thing.

Indeed, what had prompted her to risk this very night was the unknown—for her parents had been whispering in the halls, growing silent when she passed, and surely therefore were talking about her. She was almost of age now. It was not hard to reason out that they were talking of suitors. But Cassandra did not want such a thing. She wanted to enter a temple as a virgin just to avoid being taken away by some prince to a faraway land.

Like that poor woman who her brother Paris had just abducted. Helen, from Sparta, who had already been married before Cassandra’s idiot brother had taken her. Nothing good could come of this...

But there were so many bad things that could happen.

Cassandra knew she was only one person, she could not stop whatever was coming. If only she could just know. That would make it all better. Knowing what was coming, so the unknown was not stalking her, slavering over her fear. She could face what was coming with some measure of dignity.

And at once, she knew: she was going to drink the blood on the floor. Perhaps it would kill her. Perhaps not. Apollo was god of prophecy. Perhaps she could see through his eyes. Or she could just die. It was the unknown, the worst of all enemies.

Yet as she knelt and pressed her lips to the wetness, Cassandra understood: either way, this was the last time she would ever have to face the unknown. The taste was bittersweet.