Cassandra, Princess of Troy

Cacophonous sounds of terror pierced the air. An orchestra of chaos wreaked havoc all around. Curdling screams, obscene battle cries intertwined with the shrill clanging of swords and the striking of arrows as they hit their targets. Horses pained brays’ go unnoticed as champions force their chariots to ride through the fray. Blood soaked the earth, the blood of enemies, the blood of allies and the blood of innocents. Bodies littered the floor, the preponderance of them lay in the most perturbing positions and disgusting places. The fight has lasted too long already. 

Flags flew high, each side fighting for their honour and their belief. Yet their wake will leave only destruction behind. They would make widows out of women, orphans out of children, scared little boys out of soldiers, empty men out of champions, calamity out of peace and terror out of joy. War brought devastation to everyone but the heartless who found pleasure in bloodshed and entropy. 

Amid this massacre, a temple stood above the battlefield. It’s white pristine marble untouched and untainted by mortal blood. So far, it is safe. It wasn’t a big temple. Compared to the other beautiful, looming buildings around it, it was small. It was slighted and inconspicuous. It was perfect. 

Hidden within the ivory-coloured walls of the temple, she huddled close to herself, hunched over as muted sobs wracked her body. Her hand clasped her mouth tightly, suffocating her wails of anguish. She was Cassandra, Princess of Troy. And here she sat, trembling -no, cowering- in the Temple of Athena. Raising her trembling hands to her face, she desperately tried to claw away the tears from her face. She was Cassandra, Princess of Troy. She needed to be courageous, powerful. Worthy of her title as a monarch of Troy. But her tears wouldn’t subside, they wouldn’t stop. 

Every heart-wrenching sound of the war below echoed faintly throughout the sanctuary. Every sound made her quiver with fear. Gasping for air, she breathed erratically, painfully. Each breath she took felt as suffocating as if she were trying to breathe underwater. The horror of the war outside was distant now. All she could hear was her heartbeat. It’s rapid, rhythmic melody taunting her as an unwanted reminder of her mortality. Her eyes were wide with terror, too petrified to blink. No amount of self-assurance could make this hysteria wane. 

Oh, how cursed she was, Cassandra of Troy. A High Priestess, a Princess, a favourite of the god Apollo. ‘Beautiful’, everyone had praised. Be them mortal or divine. Adored by all, she enamoured everyone. Even the god of the Sun, Music and Prophecy Apollo, was besotted by her. And as proof of his enthrallment, he approached her with gifts. 

“I will bestow upon you, prophecy and foresight. In return, you will heed my requests and fulfil my desires,” the god had offered her, “you will become a priestess of Apollo.”

“I accept,” Cassandra had said. A humble smile on her face, but a flicker of defiance gleamed in her eyes.

How foolish she was, to try and defy a god. Anyone would think it senseless to deny one of the Pantheon. Anyone but her.  

Apollo was outraged that she dared to refuse him even after their deal. Furious that she wouldn’t comply with his advances onto her, the seething Apollo did not see it fit to refute the gift he’d bestowed upon her. Oh no. That would be far too kind. No instead, he placed a curse on the human he once desired.

“Every prophecy you tell will tell only the perfect truth,” he spat, “But no one will ever again believe any truth you speak.”

It was all because of one god’s fury that no one heeded her forebodings of the Fall of Troy. She had done everything in her power to try to get them to listen. To make her people listen. It didn’t work. It never did. Every prophecy she foretold from the day she was cursed, was never acknowledged as veracious. Every truth she spoke was rejected, ridiculed and dismissed. She could only watch as every divination, every revelation she had foreshadowed whether it was exhilarating or heartbreaking, it would always come true. And no one believed her until it was too late. 

Sitting on the cold marble in Athena’s Temple, Cassandra closed her eyes and gave one last prayer as the pounding of footsteps grew louder. She’d known what was to come. Cassandra had seen it thousands of times. Its visions plagued her dreams, leaving her with sleepless nights in her wake. This tragedy had been burned into her mind until she knew the events to the second they would occur. 

The Greek soldiers would storm into the temple, dirtying it with their bloodied bodies, Ajax leading the assault. He would examine every corner and every crevice hungrily for a suitable enough, beautiful enough trophy to claim as his prize. He would look everywhere. He would murder the women. Slit the throats of the children and completely defile every sacred artifact on the holy grounds. And eventually, he would find her kneeling behind the statue of Athena with her eyes closed, her face tear-streaked but still as beautiful as she was known to be. And he would decide then and there, that she would become his prize. 

She ended her soundless prayer and opened her eyes. Standing there, in twisted glory, was Ajax, whose sword was held tightly in his hand, soaked with the blood of her people. And now, it pointed at her throat threateningly. Cassandra straightened her back and held her head up high, looking Ajax in the eyes. She refused to submit to a man like him. Her body trembled as tears fell from her eyes. But she did not recoil from his looming figure. She repulsed to let him see her cower beneath him. Even if she were to die, she would do so with pride. 

“Curse the gods,” she rasped as she mustered her last act of defiance, eyes livid.  

“Curse the truth.”