The Trojan Princess (31 page)

           
It was for Astyanax that she feared most; she did not care whether she lived or
died, as long as her son was saved, but as the rightful future king of Troy, he
would surely not be welcomed by the Greeks. If Priam had fallen already,
perhaps Astyanax was already an unwitting king.

           
She heard screams and spotted a woman a short distance away, two young boys
crying and shrieking as soldiers tore at the woman’s robes and roughly put
their hands upon her bare flesh. As they neared, Andromache stopped. It was
Ilisa that the men sought to do harm, and she made to go to her, but her
captors did not let her pass.

           
“Stop them!” she cried out. Ilisa caught sight of her and Andromache saw, in
the flickering light of the flames, that her maid had already been beaten, for
her eyes were swollen and her lip bleeding. Scratches covered her bare breasts,
and lined her stomach and neck raw. Andromache turned to her captors. “She is a
noble lady; she should not be harmed.”

           
The captors hesitated, and eventually one gave a sigh and waved the men off.
Ilisa and her wailing nephews were brought to them, and Ilisa could not look
her mistress in the eyes for the shame of her state. But Andromache was glad
the woman was now safe.

           
At the point of the sword, they once more made for the palace, Andromache
wondering whether it was to the dungeons they would be taken. She held Astyanax
close to her, and she felt him shaking with fear. But she remained calm, for
she knew that for now they were safe, and that time was all that they could ask
for right now.

*
* *

           
The dungeons were dark and crowded, echoing with the sobs of the captured, and
Andromache stifled her fear as she wondered who else had been brought down to
these cells far beneath the ground, and what fate might await them should they
ever be released.

           
Two soldiers led them down the carved stone tunnel, and faces peered out of the
darkness behind the bars they passed. Andromache hoped that some remained free
to fight in Troy’s defence. She remained silent however, for she was sure that
now was the time to obey these invaders rather than to incite their wrath.

           
A cell was opened a short way down the tunnel and Andromache was grateful, for
there were fewer rats and odious smells here than further below, remembering
Helen’s imprisonment, and wondering what the hands fate had dealt them each.

           
Andromache led Astyanax into the cell and the guard did not close the door, for
he gestured for Ilisa and her nephews too to enter.

           
The door swung shut and the guards said nothing of when they might hope to be
released, but simply retreated back up the tunnel, laughing between themselves,
for Andromache was sure they felt great joy at treating a royal princess as
such.

           
Ilisa sat in the corner of the room, her nephews clutched in her arms, and wept
softly. Andromache could not bring herself to comfort the woman, though she
knew what brutality must have been forced onto the poor girl. She still thought
of freedom and how she might go about saving her son.

           
Movement in the cell across the tunnel sounded, and her eyes went to the dimly
lit bars there, for she could hardly see in the low, flickering light cast by
the torch down the tunnel. A woman with golden hair appeared, and Andromache
looked upon Helen.

           
“The king is dead,” Helen said without emotion. “Troy has fallen, and we must
wait for our judgement at the hands of our enemies.”

           
“So my enemies are your enemies, too?” Andromache asked, for she still did not
trust this woman, though they were both prisoners all the same.

           
“I do not know,” Helen said. “It is for King Menelaus to decide my fate and
yours.”

           
Helen looked upon Andromache and the two women locked eyes, wondering what
would become of the other. Helen began to laugh, a high pitched sound that
quickly subsided, replaced by a distressed scream of anguish that startled
Andromache; she thought then that the golden princess, so hated by many, had
truly lost her mind now.

           
The dungeons beneath the palace were cold and uncomfortable and as the days
passed and no word came from above as to what had befallen the city, Andromache
grew resigned to the fact that she, like so many others had done before her in
these cells, must await a decision of which she would have no say in the
outcome.

           
The cell was cramped with five of them living there and the smell of faeces and
urine soon became overwhelming, so that Andromache thought that the smell might
never leave her memory or her skin. She did her best to soothe the others, but
it was futile, for the others knew that she knew as little as they did of what
fate awaited them.

           
Shouts and screams echoed down the tunnels, and days and nights blurred
together as one, for with no windows nor daylight, they could not tell one hour
from the next, or whether it was day or night. Food was brought to them
infrequently and Andromache did not eat, giving her measly portions to her son,
for she still hoped that he would one day become a king.

           
After the first night Helen did not speak again, though Andromache shouted
questions at her across the tunnel.

           
“How do you know that the king is dead?” she demanded. “What has become of
Helenus and the princesses?”

           
Helen did not answer her, hidden in the dark recesses of her own cell.
Andromache could have thought the golden princess dead, had she not heard quiet
coughs and quieter mumblings from the cell.

           
Ilisa grew sick, whether from her ordeal or from despair, Andromache did not
know, but she tried to ease her suffering and shouted for help and medicines,
but no guards came and nor did anyone answer her. Ilisa’s nephews had grown
quiet and detached, their bodies soon weak and as sickly as their aunt.
Andromache felt great sadness for them, for they still clung to Ilisa, though
her face grew gaunt and pale, and she spoke rarely, succumbing to fatigue and
sleeping often, sweat upon her brow and trembling lips.

           
Andromache knew that their fates rested on King Agamemnon, and she thought that
this did not bode well for her or her son. He had long sought to conquer the
city and now he had succeeded she did not believe he would show leniency
towards the royal family. Yet Troy was one city – a mighty one for sure, with
rich and fruitful lands – but a city all the same, and if Agamemnon sought to
conquer all of the eastern territories he would have many more battles to fight
to rule them all.

           
As such, he could not indefinitely remain in Troy, and she knew that he must
leave a ruler in his place, doing his bidding but capable to run the city all
the same. He would want a man he could trust, she thought, but he also needed
one who could control the people, for she was sure that, try as the soldiers
might, they had not slaughtered all who lived here. He still needed people to
farm the lands and fish the oceans, and he therefore needed a ruler who held the
people’s trust and faith; and her son could do so.

           
Though the thought of seeking an alliance with Agamemnon made her skin crawl
with unease and disgust, she knew that it must be done if her son were to live
and to take his crown and throne as the gods had decided he should.

           
She pleaded with the guards whenever they brought food to her that she must
have an audience with King Agamemnon. She begged and wailed, but they did not
listen to her.

           
At last, when she had thought that hope may be lost, a guard came and informed
her that she was to be granted an audience with King Agamemnon.

           
Her clothes were stained and she knew that she must smell terrible, but she
gratefully followed the guard from the cell and up the tunnel, promising
Astyanax that she would be back for him soon.

           
When they reached the set of steps leading to the palace, Andromache felt her
heart leaping for it had been so long since she had set eyes on the palace. The
guard took her down the corridor, and she saw that so little of the palace had
changed.

           
It was disconcerting, and yet she had no time to think on it for within moments
they had arrived outside the council chambers, and Andromache was beckoned
inside.

           
The huge room was the same as it had always been, but instead of Helenus and
the councilmen standing to welcome her, it was King Agamemnon who sat in a
mighty chair at the end of the room, glaring at her as she cautiously
approached, aware that her appearance was so unbefitting of royalty and knowing
that the king took great pleasure in seeing a Trojan princess brought so low.

           
Around him were no doubt his advisors, and she recognised King Menelaus as one
of them. He looked upon her with suspicion. She saw Sarpedon, one of the Trojan
guards, standing by too, and she knew that he must have betrayed his city, for
he was unharmed as he looked at her, as if daring her to challenge his loyalty
as she knelt before them.

           
“I beseech- you for mercy,” Andromache said, her knees aching on the cold
marble floor. “I beg of you, as a mother –”

           
“I do not care for pleas and tears,” Agamemnon snapped. “If that is all you
have come to do, I shall have you thrown back into the dungeons.”

           
Andromache lifted her head to look into the man’s eyes and saw he meant his
words.

           
“I have come to offer you my allegiance,” she said, her voice wavering. “And
that of my son, Astyanax. He is the rightful Heir Apparent, and he offers that
if you make him king he will govern as you wish, and Troy will forever more be
an ally and at the mercy of your rule.”

           
“What makes you think I do not wish to rule over this city myself?” Agamemnon
asked, though she could tell he was interested in what she had to say.

           
“You have many battles still to fight if you wish to claim all of the east as
your own,” Andromache said. “Troy is a fruitful land, but you will need people
to harvest and work the fields, and my son can ensure that these people do not
rise in rebellion at your rule.”

           
“I could put these people to the sword, every last one of them,” Agamemnon
said.

           
“Then you would have many fields to work by yourself, and very little time to
conquer further lands.”

           
Agamemnon looked at her, scrutinising her, and she thought he seemed intrigued.

           
“How can I be sure that your son would truly work for me and not against me?”

           
“If you spare him, he will owe you his life,” Andromache answered. “He can
offer you insight into the lands you wish to conquer, show you the best routes
to lead your armies.”

           
Agamemnon looked thoughtful and her hope flourished.

           
“I will think on such things,” Agamemnon said, waving a hand to his guards, who
came to drag Andromache back to the dungeons.

           
Andromache was taken back to her cells, where she held Astyanax close to her,
praying with all her strength that her son might be allowed to live.

           
She thought of Sarpedon, the soldier who had betrayed his city, and though she
despised him for such an act she could not but compare herself to him, for she
too had thrown herself at the mercy of King Agamemnon, betraying the royal
family and the city that had been her home for most of her life, so that her
son might get a chance to live.

           
It was as the rest of her captives slept that Sarpedon came to her. He did not
bring a torch with him and Andromache did not recognise him at first, shrouded
in the shadows, whispering for her attention.

           
“You must be wary, princess,” Sarpedon said, when she had come to the bars to
hear what he must say to her. “Agamemnon is a treacherous man.”

           
“And what, pray, does that make you?” she asked.

           
Sarpedon bowed his head.

           
“I did what I must do to survive,” he said quietly. “I may have pledged my
allegiance to the Greek armies, and to their kings, but I do not wish to see my
true heir harmed.”

           
Andromache leaned closer, desperate for what news he must impart.

           
“Has the king made his decision then?” she asked.

           
Sarpedon looked weary, his face lined with dismay, and she knew it must not be
good news.

           
“King Agamemnon considered your words,” he said slowly, “But he still fears
that the Trojan people will never obey him, or a king who they know does his
bidding.”

           
“So he will not accept my allegiance?” Andromache asked, her voice tight with
fear.

           
“He will not,” Sarpedon said. “Furthermore, he believes the city will rally
against him and seeks to put to death all captives, and to burn the city to the
ground so that it might never again be an obstacle to his conquests.”

           
Andromache did not wish to know more, yet she must ask of her fate.

           
“And what is to become of us?”

           
Sarpedon could not meet her eyes, and she thought she saw a tear there.

           
“He has ordered the execution of all the royal family who survived the sacking
of the city,” Sarpedon said. “He is to send for you and Astyanax at first
light, under the pretence of accepting your offer of allegiance.”

           
“He seeks to deceive us?”

           
“Yes, for he wishes that Astyanax, as the royal heir, to be put to death
first.”

           
Andromache gasped, for such words were too much for her to bear.

           
“I cannot let my son die,” she pleaded with him, “I beg of you, please save
him.”

           
Sarpedon looked at her then.

           
“That is why I have come,” he said. “You must not let Astyanax be taken from
this cell, for it is only death that awaits him, though the guards will tell
you different.”

           
“Then what should be done?” Andromache asked.

           
Sarpedon looked beyond her, to Ilisa’s nephews, sleeping in their aunt’s arms.

           
“I could not!” Andromache gasped.

           
“Even to save your own son, the heir?” Sarpedon asked.

           
Andromache let out a long breath.

           
“What is the use of such deception, if we are all to die anyway?” she asked.

           
“Whilst King Agamemnon and his advisors put the boy to death, I will come here
and set you free,” Sarpedon said. “I can take you only as far as the passageway
out of the city, for the guards will be distracted only for a short time. But
it will be enough to see you safely gone from this city.”

           
“And what of the others?” Andromache asked, thinking of Helenus and his royal
sisters, all of whom she feared either already slain or awaiting such a fate in
a cell like hers.

           
“I can only save you and your heir,” Sarpedon said, though he sounded regretful
that it should be so. “Too many fleeing would arouse suspicion.”

           
Andromache knew that he spoke wisely, yet it brought her no peace.

           
“I shall return soon after the guards have come to collect Astyanax,” the
soldier said, as he made to leave the front of her cell. “Think on what I have
said,” he whispered, glancing towards Ilisa’s sleeping nephews. “For it is the
last hope you have of saving him.”

           
He slipped away from the cell and disappeared down the tunnel, and Andromache
looked upon her son and then upon the boys who slept with their aunt, her maid,
and she knew what must be done.

           
As she turned from the sleeping children, she glanced across the tunnel and saw
that Helen stood at the bars, and Andromache knew at once that she must have
heard everything, for she regarded Andromache with questioning eyes.

           
“Please,” Andromache pleaded with her. “Do not speak of what you have heard.”

           
Helen did not speak, but retreated once more into the darkness of her cell.

*
* *

           
It was as Sarpedon had warned her it would be, and Andromache tried to feign
delight when two guards came with the intent of taking Astyanax to meet King
Agamemnon. Andromache fought against the tears and guilt that threatened, as
she relinquished her clasp on the boy’s shoulders and allowed him to be taken
from her.

           
“Why does he go in my place?” Astyanax asked, when the guards had gone, taking
the boy with them. “He is no heir, I –”

           
“Hush,” Andromache hissed, and Astyanax fell silent, for he knew from the look
upon his mother’s face that she was afraid and seeing this, he felt afraid too.