I still coveted the hidden secret of my mother’s dreams, even though the memory of that long-ago night repelled me. That was what I wanted; not a wedding, not a husband or children. And then it struck me. Apollo had the gift of prophecy; he might yet choose to bestow it on his most devoted followers. The service of Apollo was a noble calling. It would be a convenient route for an inconvenient daughter.
I made it known to Hecabe and Priam the very next day. They made no objection to my choice. The mighty sun-god’s glorious, golden light made our city shimmer, for the city of Troy was as beloved by Apollo as he was by us. But it was not his radiance or his healing powers, or even the melodious music of his lyre, that I longed for when I burned the incense at his statue’s feet, or slit the throat of the sacrificial animals that bled in his honour. When I made my oath to become his priestess, I did not fear that terrible divine privilege of seeing what was to come. As a priestess, I would have no children of my own, no baby that I might be forced to consign to a desolate mountainside, so I was not afraid of what he might show me. If I was gifted by him to see the kind of things that my mother saw – perhaps even more than her – then I might not hang my head and mumble; my voice would be, at last, clear and brave. If I could speak the will of the gods and see the very fabric of fate, I could command attention and respect. With all of my heart, that was what I wanted. To be something other than myself; to speak in someone else’s words instead of my own.
I was dutiful, I was devoted. I knew that Apollo would see me, his dedicated servant, at his temple every day, and I trusted I would be rewarded for my piety.
The day that it happened began like any other. I had no inkling of what was to come. I walked on the shore before dawn, and then I came to the temple as I always did. I sang at his altar and hung flowers about the neck of the statue in its centre, my head clouded by the fragranced oils burning in dishes and the rich aroma of the wine I poured to him. The silent peace of the dim interior was a sanctuary for me, a place of respite. The place I belonged more than anywhere else in Troy.
Light trickled through the soft smoke, melting into it like liquid, streams of gold that suffused the shadows, brightening the air wherever it touched. I couldn’t see where it was coming from. I paused, my hand hovering above the petals I was about to sprinkle. And, as I looked around, I felt something stir: a breeze in the empty room, whispering over the nape of my neck.
The golden light steadily intensified, coalescing around a burning glow in the centre of the room, so bright that I couldn’t see anything else. Panic began rising in my chest and I put up my hand to shield my eyes, stepping back, groping for the doorway that should have been somewhere behind me.
And then, out of the light, he stepped forward. My hands dropped, hanging useless at my sides. There was nothing but his presence – his true, real presence – suffocating, overwhelming, dizzying in its intensity. It was impossible that he was truly there, but he was. Apollo, an Olympian god made flesh, beautiful and terrifying at once.
The burning light dissipated and there was only him, standing before me. The air was as fresh as a summer meadow, as warm as sunshine. ‘Cassandra,’ he said, and his voice was like the soft plucking of mellow strings, humming with poetry; nothing like a human voice.
I’d imagined that he would come to me in a dream, that he’d send me a message to interpret, something vague and cryptic. I had never thought he would come like this. I couldn’t find my voice to speak. But then, why would I need to? He could see into my soul. He knew what I longed for; I’d prayed to his statue a hundred times.
He stepped closer. I was fixed in the centre of his gaze, held fast as he moved, sinuous and snake-like, towards me. I shrank back, afraid that his touch would sear my skin, that he would turn my bones to ashes with the brush of his fingertips. He smiled. And then he seized my face between his hands and pressed his immortal lips to mine.
A chaos of images and a roar of indistinguishable sounds tumbled through my head, too fast, too loud to make sense. I couldn’t stand, only his hands held me upright, but then he released his grip on me, and I staggered away, falling against the wall.
‘You have it. My gift to you.’
The stone was solid against my back; I clung to it, nauseated by the dizzying rush inside my mind. Faces, distorted and unrecognisable, pleading and grimacing, begging for answers, for knowledge. Radiant flashes flickering over them: a baby squinting in the sunlight; oars splashing in moonlit waters; flames leaping into the sky. I felt that my skull would shatter, that it would rain down in fragments. He had breathed it into me; a gift I was sure I would not survive. Prophecy, the prize my mother had warned me never to ask for.
And then his face was against mine again and I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t make a sound. His fingers moved to unfasten the ribbons that held my hair, to slide down the bare skin of my arms, to the bronze clasp at my shoulder that held my robes, the sacred robes of Apollo’s virgin priestess. His gift was not free. I realised the price he wanted to take.
I was frozen, confused and terrified. Only one thought was coherent in my mind. That in becoming a priestess of his temple, I had given myself, pure and untouched. I knew what would happen to me if I broke the oath of virginity, even if it was to lie with Apollo himself. I would be cast out from the temple, the only place in my city that felt like home.
Frantically, I jerked my head, side to side, searching for escape. ‘No,’ I croaked. ‘Please, no.’
His great brows drew together, his golden eyes darkening. His hands tightened like iron bracelets around my arms; his face was so close to mine I could feel the impossible softness of his perfect skin and the sweetness of his breath in my mouth. I thought he would force me down, but he did not kiss me.
I heard the hiss of it, felt the droplets in my throat as he spat. The burn of his saliva in my mouth; the ragged traces of it dripping down my tongue, seeming to writhe and twist as he clamped my lips together with his hand. The heat of his eyes driving into mine; the inflexible power of his divine will.
I swallowed. It was like molten fire. And then he was gone, as suddenly as he had appeared.
I sank to the floor, my legs as useless as the seaweed I had seen rippling in the foamy water when I had walked the shore that morning, a whole lifetime ago. I knew he was truly gone; the air felt empty around me. I did not know why he had left me unhurt.
It wasn’t until the other priestesses came that I realised. I told them the truth, and, when they didn’t believe me, I told them everything I could see, the visions coming in a flurry. Their lives, their hopes, their fates all opened up to me, and I clutched at their arms, at their robes identical to mine, and I told them all of it in my frenzy.
Apollo had blessed me with his gift, and the truth of the world belonged to me. But the other girls, who loved him just as ardently as I did, did not recognise the words I spoke. Their eyes slid across me, met each other’s doubtful stares; they shook their heads almost imperceptibly, and when I saw what he had done, I howled and howled, and I tore at my own flesh until others came and stronger hands restrained me, carried me to my chamber and locked the door on my screams.
I truly had the gift of prophecy, breathed into my mouth by Apollo himself. But no one would ever believe another word I said.
5
Clytemnestra