11

Before I let myself sleep that night, I suffered, envisioning young Trojan men. Since not one of those I liked would survive the war, I just chose three of them for Mother. All were brave, handsome, and kind to their sisters. In the morning, Mother thanked me and said I’d chosen well.

I couldn’t ask her or Father for permission to go to Sparta because permission would be denied.

When I didn’t come home from the sacred grove, my parents would be terrified. Mother would wring her hands red. Both would cry their eyes dry. By the time I returned, they’d believe I’d died.

If only I could tell them and be believed—but then I wouldn’t need to go.

On the day of departure with Eurus, the sky was still dark when I gave Maera her bone in the women’s quarters. I didn’t want her following me and starving at the east gate until I got back. She lay at the top of the stairs, bone between her paws, and watched me descend.

I went back and knelt on the top step. “I’m doing this for you too. If we save Troy, I’ll never have to give you away.”

She thumped her tail. I rubbed her neck and continued downstairs.

Rain was falling and thunder rumbled when I stepped outside the palace. Eurus said he had nothing to do with this weather.

Ai! Had Apollo enlisted Zeus and his lightning bolts against me?

With trembling fingers, I tied Hera’s sash around Eurus and me. I hoped that Zeus, if he truly hated me, didn’t detest innocent Troy as well.

When we rose into the storm, I discovered that clouds didn’t pile all the way up to Mount Olympus. Above them, the sky was blue-gray. Below, the clouds tinted dawn pink and looked like rippled ground solid enough for even a bull to stand on.

We could still go back. I wouldn’t be missed until tonight. If we did, Mother and Father wouldn’t suffer terror and grief caused by me. I’d stay at home and wait for the war, knowing that I probably couldn’t have prevented it anyway.

The air above the clouds was cold. My teeth chattered. I’d worn my himation, but the rain had soaked the cloak, which worsened my shivers.

All day and through the night we passed over the sea. My himation finally dried. Warmer at last, I was able to think.

Might Greeks be able to believe my prophecies?

Probably not, but we’d find out.

Soon after Paris arrived in Sparta, Menelaus would leave to attend his grandfather’s funeral on the distant island of Crete. While he was gone, Paris and Helen would fall in love. Before the king returned, they’d run away together.

What might I do? These were my ideas: Keep them apart. Tell Helen about Oenone and how much Paris loved her. Describe their son. Remind Paris how much more beautiful Oenone was than Helen and how lucky he was to have a goddess for a wife. Say how important his family was to him. Point out his weak chin to Helen. Repeat Eurus’s opinion that Paris was lazy and a coward.

How could I fail?

For the next two days, we flew southwest. I grew so accustomed to flight and even to Eurus’s closeness that I learned to sleep while clinging to his back. When we were hungry, Eurus found spots to land where his wind could whip through a date palm, fig shrub, grape arbor, or almond tree and gather enough fruit and nuts for a meal. My favorite was the dates. At home, we usually ate them dried, but I liked them best straight from the tree.

During our first meal, when I worried that we were stealing from a farmer, Eurus waved a breezy hand. “I bring rain. Without me, farms couldn’t grow dates. Most mortals owe me many more offerings than they give.”

Still, the farmer hadn’t meant for us to have this meal. Mortals and gods seemed to have different ideas about what was right.

We were in a sloping meadow on the edge of an orchard. The land here was moister and greener than at home.

I poked a date pit into the ground. Maybe a palm tree would grow. “How do you choose where to drop your rain and how much?”

He frowned. “When I don’t blow hard or rain for a while, my ribs ache as if something is pressing on them. Then I have to, even if the rain is too much or my wind is too strong. Is that bad?” He brushed grapevine tendrils off his lap. “It is bad.”

Apollo’s crows landed and started to eat his figs. When he shooed them away, they perched on his head and shoulders.

“Wolves judge neither innocence

nor guilt when they pounce.

Tragedy is comedy to crows—

unless one of us is killed.”

They flapped away.

“The crows know I’m terrible.” He jumped up and paced. “Am I sending rain to unworthy farmers and denying worthy ones? How can I tell? Must I make their acquaintance, even though they never bring me offerings?” He stopped with a jerk. “What do you think, Cassandra?”

I was the wrong person to ask! “If I can’t keep Paris and the woman Helen from running off together, I’ll be happy if I just persuade them not to go to Troy. But then people somewhere else will die.” I’d been worrying about this. “Do you despise me?”

He sat on his haunches and smiled. “You’re like me, only without wind.”

I laughed. He always heartened me.

He burst out, “If Apollo had given you the power to see the future of gods too, you could tell me what my weather would cause.”

I’d love to do that!

I did know something of his distant future, though I was silent about it. Mortals would forget the gods. Their altars and temples would be preserved only to be gawked at. I was sure Eurus would be miserable, and I wanted to help his future self. “Will you visit me in Hades—whenever I go there?”

“Of course I will.” He smiled.

“For centuries?”

He frowned. “Yes! I said I would.”

“Good.” I’d welcome him, and he’d be comforted. I would be too.

He said, “Our friendship will last forever.”

We’d have bright happiness in that gloomy place. I said, “Beyond the funeral pyre.”