The Trojan Princess (17 page)

           
“What have you to fear?” Andromache asked, softening towards the queen. “You
are safe within these walls, and you are to marry the man you love, whatever
people may say of him.”

           
“It is a constant fear that plagues me,” Helen admitted, glancing around the
temple as Andromache had done, afraid of being overheard. Andromache put a hand
to her shoulder to console the woman. Helen did not flinch away from her touch,
her defiant look softened. “I know that I am not loved in Troy. I have feared
for many months, since I first arrived on these shores, that I would be sent
back to Menelaus, my husband.”

           
Andromache thought of how long she had prayed for such an occasion.

           
“He does not love me,” Helen went on. “Menelaus, that is. He sought my hand in
marriage because he wanted Sparta, not a bride.”

           
“It is a long way to journey and a costly war to fight, for a woman he does not
love,” Andromache pointed out.

           
“It is his pride that drives him to this war,” Helen said sadly. “And his
brother’s ambitions - not desire for me. I have borne him two children, yet I
know not of their fates. They remain in Sparta, I am sure, but who is there to
care for them?”

           
“I am sure your father and his wife will treat them well,” Andromache said,
thinking of what she would do if Astyanax was away from her. “Surely, you do
not fear for their safety?”

           
“I had another daughter, Iphigenia,” Helen said. “Nobody but my family knew
that she was my daughter.” The confession shocked Andromache, and it must have
shown for Helen hesitated. “I am sorry, I should not have burdened you with
such a secret,” she stammered, “It’s just I have nobody here with whom I can
speak of such things.”

           
“I will not breathe a word of this,” Andromache promised her. “Do you fear for
this daughter of yours too?”

           
“No,” Helen said, tears coming again. “She is dead. Dead by the hand of
Agamemnon, her sworn protector.”

           
Andromache gasped; her heart ached for this poor woman.

           
“He sacrificed her, it is said,” Helen said, by way of an explanation. “He
sought favourable winds to bring him and his armies here to Troy. So, you see,
it is my fault that my first borne is dead; if I had not left Sparta, he would
have had no need to set sail, no need for strong winds, and no need to kill my
beloved Iphigenia.”

           
She wept then, burying her head in her hands, the rasping sobs shaking her
dainty shoulders. Andromache reached out to her and held her in her arms, and
Helen cried against her.

           
As she held her, Andromache thought that this woman had suffered, just like the
women here were suffering, and decided she would not subject the golden queen
to such isolation any longer.

           
When Helen had dried her eyes, she smiled upon her new friend, and Andromache
returned the smile, hoping that this moment had eased the tension between them.

*
* *

           
In the days that followed, it was not only for Helen and Paris’ royal wedding
that Andromache readied herself. One of her beloved maids, Iliana, had sought
her permission to marry. Though Andromache had noticed a change in her maid
over recent weeks, she had not thought to question her on it, and it was only
upon Ilisa’s prompting that Andromache became aware of Iliana’s blossoming
romance with a Trojan soldier, Evander.

           
When Iliana had asked Andromache’s permission to marriage the soldier, the
princess had been only too happy to grant it and had delighted in listening to
Iliana and her excited sister Ilisa discuss the betrothal. As a soldier in the
army, Evander had to seek Hector’s permission for the marriage and Hector
granted it, informing Andromache, under her questioning, that the soldier was
loyal and brave, and would make a good husband to her beloved friend and maid.

           
Andromache could not help but make the comparisons between the two weddings that
were forthcoming; whilst the whole household was readying itself for Helen and
Paris’ luxurious celebration, Iliana was simply excited to become Evander’s
wife. Although from a humble Trojan household, Evander and his family were well
respected, and it was a great honour for them when Andromache asked if she
might attend the ceremonies in support of Iliana.

           
A week before Helen and Paris’ marriage ceremony would commence, Andromache
readied her chambers for the first day of Iliana’s ceremony. She was joined by
Ilisa, Philomena and other maidens who Iliana had grown close to in her time at
the royal palace, and they made their trip to the temple to make their
offerings, and so that Iliana could be blessed by the gods in her marriage and
future with Evander. The following day, Andromache helped Ilisa and Philomena
bathe Iliana, purifying her for the marriage. When Iliana and Evander bowed
together in the temple, joined in matrimony, Andromache had to wipe tears of
joy from her eyes. As a gift to the couple, Andromache presented Iliana with a
beautiful ornate headdress, eliciting delighted gasps from Iliana and jealous
looks from her envious but pleased sister Ilisa.

           
After Iliana’s wedding, which had so caught Andromache by surprise, she
insisted upon paying closer attention to her maids, for she longed to see them
all happy in their lives. Philomena, she discovered, was courting a secret
admirer whose identity she would not divulge, even under Ilisa’s constant
questioning. Ilisa, it seemed, had no such interest in marriage or children,
and contented herself with serving Andromache.

           
When Helen and Paris’s ceremonies began, Andromache did not feel frustrated or
angry as she had expected to, for now she knew that the golden queen was
fragile, as so many women were in these times of war and uncertainty, she felt
only sympathy for Helen. To be marrying such a cowardly prince, she felt her
heart go out to the golden beauty. Creusa and her other royal sisters did not
show such remorse in their treatment, and Creusa even talked of absenting
herself from the ceremonies. However she did not dare ignore her father’s
warning that she must be in attendance, so she watched them joined in marriage
with a sour face and folded arms, unsmiling and disapproving.

           
Andromache could not but think of her own marriage ceremony and what a
difference, she thought. Though this was no less lavish than hers had been,
there was less joy in this than in hers. She had made peace with Helen, but it
gave her a small sense of pleasure to think that her own marriage had started
off with a warmer reception. Helen and Paris stood proud as they were
pronounced man and wife. Queen Hecuba wept with joy, and others wept, though
whether out of joy or anguish, Andromache could not be sure.

           
That night, as the palace filled with music and the sounds of feasting and
dancing, Andromache went out onto the ramparts, looking out across the sands
and upon the string of campfires that signified the Greek armies remained,
shrouded in the night. She imagined what King Menelaus was thinking of this
eve; for surely he had been told by spies or messengers of the marriage between
Paris and Helen. As she turned from the sight and headed back inside the
palace, she fancied she heard an angered cry in the darkness.

           
It had been five long years since the start of the war and Andromache watched
Astyanax playing with his wooden sword, swinging it in an arc as he battled
against his tutor, armed similarly with a wooden shaft. Andromache cheered him
on as her son kicked up dust in the training yard looked on by a small crowd of
other combatants. Though she cheered for her son, she felt fear in her heart at
the thought of her son wielding a sword – even a wooden such as he had now –
for how long would it be before wood was replaced by steel, and joyful laughs
turned to moans of the dying, dust for bloodshed?

           
Her son was six and he bore resemblance to his father in every way; from his
dark locks of hair to the beautiful eyes, and his shoulders were already
broadening, his arms growing strong from training. Hector was one of the
spectators, for there was to be no battle today, the blood still drying upon
the sand from such recent ventures out beyond the walls against the Greeks.

           
Beside her, Ilisa watched on, sharing in the princess’s concerns, for she too
had watched the boy grow, cared for him and nursed him, soothed him when he
awoke in his crib. Andromache had seen enough, and she waved to her boy and
then to her husband, watching proudly as his son struck a blow to his tutor,
and she walked slowly along the corridors, Ilisa a step behind her, much more
quiet in the absence of her sister. Andromache thought on the tragedy of
Iliana; who had seemed so happy in the year after her marriage to Evander. Then
Evander had been slain in battle, leaving Iliana a widow with a young son and
another child unborn. Ilisa spoke of her often when she found herself alone
with Andromache in her chambers, and Andromache knew that Iliana lived with her
late husband’s family in the city, no longer in the service of the royal
palace, raising her two sons without their father.

           
Philomena met them at the end of the corridor, falling into step beside Ilisa.
She too had come close to losing her employ in Andromache’s service, for
Philomena had married a servant far beneath her noble family’s status and in
doing so had brought about her father’s ire. He had soon mellowed, and
Philomena, happily married now, continued to serve Andromache with her father’s
blessing.

           
The three women continued along corridors and up winding stairs of marble, to
the ramparts. She looked out over the shore at the familiar sight of ships and
the camp that ran along the beach before them.

           
She felt tired. She had now become used to that feeling; the hunger that they
all felt, both in the palace and across the city, was now commonplace. The
Greeks had attacked a supply channel to the besieged city and food and wine had
quickly dried up.

           
Tensions were constantly fraying within the city walls and though trouble had
not yet spilled over into the palace, Andromache feared it would be only a
matter of time. She had ensured that her son did not want for anything, though
even he would soon feel the strain if things continued as they had done for the
last weeks.

           
She thought once more of how Iliana was coping; no longer a member of the royal
household, nor allowed to venture into the palace, she was surely suffering
more than they. The cries of anguish and anger rose regularly from the city,
and Andromache often found herself wondering if one of the numerous bodies that
had begun to pile up at the gates to the city might be hers. But she was sure
that if such a tragedy occurred, Ilisa would not be able to keep it a secret
from her.

           
Turning her thoughts from such misery, Andromache tried to feel hopeful for
tomorrow. Hector and his brothers were planning to attack the small force of
Greeks that held captive the supply channel to the city, and if they succeeded,
perhaps food would soon flow again and free them from this hunger, this
tension. Whilst hopeful, she felt also fear, for each time her husband went out
to battle and returned, she wondered if the next time would be his last. It was
a vicious cycle of hope, fear, relief and then fear once more and though she
knew that it was Hector’s duty, she found herself exhausted by it.

           
That evening, as was her custom, she bathed her husband and massaged his body,
bruised from so many ventures into battle -though thankfully not wounded nor
scarred - and then lay beside him, savouring his presence and dreading the dawn
all at once, feigning strength for Hector’s sake and yet wishing him to remain
at her side forever.

           
When dawn did break, Andromache rose with her husband and helped him dress, her
hands gentle as they fitted his armour across his chest, kissing his face
tenderly. Astyanax would come in to their chambers and bid his father well.
Andromache could already see her young son envied his father the glory of
battle and she knew that when he was of age he would seek the life of a soldier,
like his father, and it added to her woes. She still remembered the days when
her boy had been afraid of Hector’s helmet, and now he longed to don it himself
and go into battle. Andromache wished he would stay but a boy forever, but the
sands of time did not cease to flow upon the wishes of a distressed mother.

           
Hector bestowed a kiss upon her lips and was then gone. Andromache tread the
familiar path to the ramparts, Astyanax bounding ahead, from where she could
normally watch her husband, golden helmet gleaming in the sunlight, lead his
army to battle. Today would be different, she knew. Hector was leading his men
out of another gate, one nearer to the supply channel, so that he would have an
element of surprise and could strike the small force of Greeks that guarded it
before the rest of their army could rise to defend it.

           
Though she could see no sign of her husband from the ramparts, Andromache
savoured the sight nonetheless. The Greeks in their distant camps did not seem
to be readying for battle and she knew that they did not know of the plans to
retake the supply channel and bring food back into the city.

           
Astyanax played a short distance from her and Andromache put her hands upon the
wall, praying that the gods might grant yet another prayer and keep her husband
safe for another day.

*
* *

           
Hector led his men, a far smaller force than he usually left the city with, out
of the gate and out across the plains towards the spot in the land he knew was
guarded by a Greek battalion.

           
His sword was light in his hand, but his chest was slick with sweat beneath his
gold plated breastplate and a bead ran down his nose beneath the helmet. He did
not think of his wife, nor of Astyanax; thoughts of his loved ones were too
distracting and filled him with conflicted loyalty, so he kept his mind blank
as he walked, kicking up dust beneath his sandals and keeping an eye on the men
who followed him, apprehension and anticipation on their faces.

           
Helenus, his brother, was amongst the men. It had been he who had suggested a
raid and Hector had at once agreed to the plan.

           
He quickened his pace as they neared the channel; a gentle slope protected them
from the sight of the Greeks, but once they broke over the ridge they would be
in plain sight of the defenders, and he knew that they must bear down fast
before they could sound the alarm and draw larger numbers to their aid.

           
Signalling to Helenus and his soldiers to quicken their footsteps, Hector broke
into a run as they went over the ridge. He saw instantly that the number of
Greeks was larger than they had assumed there to be, but it was too late to
call for more men. He raised his sword, uttered a cry to battle, and bore down
upon them as the soldiers scrabbled for their weapons, fear and surprise upon
their faces as Hector led his charge.

*
* *

           
Upon Hector’s safe return to the city, victorious in freeing the supply channel
to the city once more, Andromache knew at once that something was amiss and
that her husband was not sharing in the victory as others were. He kissed her
and hugged Astyanax close to him, but when he left to meet with the council,
Andromache sensed there was trouble.

           
In the council room, Hector looked about at his fellow councilmen and sighed.

           
“Congratulations,” Antenor said from his stool, for he never stood for longer
than a moment now, having celebrated his ninetieth year a short while before.
“This city owes you a great deal, Hector.”

           
“Do not thank me too soon,” Hector said. “I bring grave news back to you.”

           
“The supply channel is freed, what could be more important?” Polites asked.

           
“One of the soldiers I have slain imparted some dire tidings before he died,”
Hector said, sighing. Helenus nodded in confirmation, for he had been there
too. “He goaded us before his death that there was no reason for us to seek to
regain control of the supply channel, for tomorrow at dawn the Greek armies
intend to bear down upon the walls with all their might.”

           
“Let them,” Diephobus shrugged complacently, “They will break their spears and
swords on the stone walls, and our archers will puncture them with so many
arrows that the beach will be as a tide of blood.”

           
There were murmurs of agreement at Diephobus’ words, but Hector was not so
easily won over and neither was Helenus.

           
“It is not such a simple matter,” Hector said. “Our walls can withstand an
attack, but watchers have seen some of the ships being dismantled and used to
build shields, large enough to provide a roof for some thirty men each. And
siege towers – how can we defend ourselves against such things?”

           
“This city has withstood many an army’s attack,” Antimachus said. “We can
withstand another.”

           
“Indeed, we could,” Hector nodded. “But I propose that we meet them on the open
battlefield, fight them on equal ground, give them no chance to even reach our walls.”

           
“That is foolish,” Polites said, shaking his head. “Why let our men be slain
when we can simply watch theirs die?”

           
“I have heard rumour of strife within the Greek camp,” Laocoon said, stepping
forward, speaking to Hector. “Achilles and Agamemnon are in the midst of a
dispute, and from what my sources tell me, Achilles is refusing to fight.”

           
“Refusing to fight? Achilles?” Diephobus sounded sceptical. “No, a man such as
him would not let others seek glory that could otherwise be his.”

           
“I am but a messenger of my sources,” Laocoon said humbly, though Hector could
tell from his tone that he believed indeed that Achilles refused to fight.

           
“If Achilles and his men do not fight, we have no reason not to meet them
head-on,” Helenus pointed out. “Perhaps, if we slay enough of them, and with
Achilles not fighting, many of them will fear the war is lost and set sail from
here.”

           
“That would be a most wondrous thing,” Antenor said, “But can it be so?”

           
“We have no choice but to try,” Hector said. He turned to his father, for King
Priam had remained quiet throughout the discussion. “Father, my king, what say
you?”

           
He considered what had been discussed, and sighed.

           
“I believe you are right, you should lead the men out at dawn to stop the men
so much as touching the wall,” Priam said, and Hector smiled as others frowned,
shaking their heads. “If Achilles does not fight, we may have enough strength
to push them back to their ships and let them be gone from our shores at last.”

           
It was decided and Hector felt triumphant, hopeful that they could finally win
the war. As he departed the chambers with the other men, Helenus clapped him on
the back, for he too shared his brother’s optimism.

Along
the corridor he caught a glimpse of Andromache, awaiting his return. Her face
was lined with worry and he did not treasure telling her of his plans for
tomorrow. He knew she worried, though she tried not to show him. She would not
like this plan of his, but the thought of ending the war gave him courage and
he hoped it would give her strength too, for after tomorrow, perhaps they would
be free from the burdens of war and fighting. Perhaps peace and prosperity could
return once more.

*
* *

           
At the break of dawn, Andromache watched her husband leave the safety of the
gates and lead his men out across the sand with a tight knot of fear in her
stomach. She had listened to Hector explain his plan to finally vanquish the
Greeks from their lands, but while he had been filled with exhilaration, dread
had overwhelmed her.

           
He had returned safely to her so many times before – how many more times would
the gods look favourably upon him? Each time he went to battle, she felt more
desperate that this would be the final time he would depart from her.