The Trojan Princess (11 page)

           
Antenor and Antimachus narrowed their eyes and shook their heads, looking
scathingly at Cassandra. Andromache did not know what to believe – her eyes
fell upon her husband, who looked as uncertain as his siblings now did.

           
King Priam looked about to dismiss his daughter and call forth the guards
again, when Helenus, the twin of Cassandra and also gifted with visions, rose
to his own feet and walked slowly to stand beside his sister, between the
prisoner and his father.

           
At this, the tension in the room heightened and Andromache instinctively put a
hand over her stomach, as if to protect her unborn son from being witness to
it.

           
“I must confess that I did not believe this man’s claims,” Helenus said,
speaking directly to his father before him. “I do not know this man and nor do
I trust him. But I know my twin, and I trust her. She speaks the truth, I see
that much, and I know that she must have indeed seen such a vision. Therefore,
as I know what she says to be true, I must profess that this man is indeed Paris,
Prince of Troy, and my brother, as Cassandra says he is.”

           
King Priam looked affronted, shocked by such temerity, but he turned and saw
Queen Hecuba’s watery eyes, and his sons and daughters looking bewildered,
unsure of what to do or say. The council were whispering amongst each other,
more uncertain now.

           
“Please believe my words father,” Cassandra implored him, falling to her knees
and raising her hands in pleading to him. “This man, this prisoner, is your son
Paris.”

           
King Priam closed his eyes and was silent for a long moment. The room was
deathly still and Andromache dare not breath for fear of disturbing the man.
When at last he opened his eyes, he held out his arms.

           
“I have heard enough,” Priam declared. “Release this man from his chains, for
he is Paris, Prince of Troy, my believed-dead son returned to the city once
more.”

*
* *

           
The city of Troy was rife with talk of the triumphant return of Prince Paris,
and Andromache wondered how the man, brought into the city a prisoner bound in
chains and now walking the corridors of the royal palace adorned with the
fanciest of garments, had the ability to overlook such gossip and rumour.

           
For though many praised the return of Paris, the older generation, some of the
council amongst them, Andromache suspected, remembered the prophecy of doom
foretold upon the birth of this man, and they did not warm to him. Even those
who doubted the prophecy, suggesting it was said of another prince perhaps,
often questioned whether this man, raised by a shepherd and with none of the
graces or polite manners of the royal family he now belonged to, was really a
prince at all. Could he not simply be the son of a shepherd who had heard
whispers of Paris’ tale and decided to try his luck? Andromache could not quite
believe that such a man existed who could fool an entire royal household;
though she confessed herself unsure of the man.

           
Paris confessed himself married to a nymph he had come to love on the slopes of
Mount Ida, the mountainside he had been left to die upon by the shepherd, and
that he had a son by her, named Corythus. Though he spoke of his wife Oenone
and their son often, he had made no effort to summon them to the city,
insisting that he wanted his wife to stay in their home.

           
“He is a man of much intrigue,” Hector said tiredly, as he disrobed one evening
and lay beside Andromache in their bed. “I cannot feel love towards him, though
he is my own brother.” His voice was full of self-loathing, though Andromache
did not blame him for his feelings.

           
“You are only just beginning to know the man,” she said, massaging his
shoulders to ease the tension within her husband. “And he does not make it easy
for others to warm to him.” She had heard tales of his arrogance, often spoken
through Iliana, Ilisa and Philomena, who had learned much from the other
servants of the palace. “He does not seem to seek a strong relationship with
any of his family,” she mused.

           
“And can we blame him for that?” Hector asked, “My father sent him to his death
as a child and now he is returned, and all of the city questions his story and
looks for flaws in his character! How unkindly we have treated him, both in the
past and in the present.”

           
“You cannot hold it against people for talking of him. It is surely a great
surprise for them, as it certainly was for me, to hear of him. A second son,
returned from supposed death! In truth, I still find myself wondering how
something like this could happen!”

           
Hector turned to her and smiled. His hands went to her stomach, vastly swelled
since even Paris had arrived in the city; it was not long now, Andromache knew,
as did her husband, until their son was born to them.

           
“I do not blame my brothers and sisters for their discontent,” Hector said, and
Andromache knew that he would only speak so openly with her and nobody else.
“Now Paris is here, he is second heir to the throne after me. They are surely angered
by such a change in their circumstances!”

           
Andromache remembered hearing of Diephobus’ reaction to Paris’ welcome. It was
said that, alone in his palace in Thebes, he had been apoplectic with rage upon
hearing of the brother’s return. He had still not returned to the city to
welcome his brother, despite summons from the king and his royal siblings, and
Andromache did not envy Paris, for she would not have welcomed the wrath of
someone as cunning nor as deceitful as Diephobus.

           
As she lay in bed beside her husband, talking of such things, Andromache did
not feel concerned. She could not find it within herself to fear Paris, though
she could not be sure that she trusted nor liked him much. Hector would always
protect her, and if he was not scared then she had no reason to be.

*
* *

           
Knowing that the time for her son to be born was growing close, Andromache
sought the blessings of the goddesses, who had so kindly blessed her in her
marriage, and she wanted the same good blessings to be awarded upon her son
when he was born.

           
It was with Iliana, Ilisa and Philomena, her trusted maids, that she left the
safety and shade of the royal palace to cross the city and pay homage at the
temple. She had sent word to Cassandra, her royal sister and a priestess, to
expect her arrival.

           
She lay on the litter as they made the short journey, Iliana and Ilisa mopping
her forehead with a cool, damp cloth and Philomena massaging her swollen feet
with gentle hands. All three maids knew it would not be long before their
princess had her child, and each of them were as excited as Andromache for the
new arrival.

           
“What will you name him?” Philomena asked, dark eyes gleaming with excitement
on behalf of her princess. “Hector, after his mighty father?”

           
Andromache had not thought of a name yet, though she was sure that it would
come to her when her son was born.

           
The four women talked and laughed as the litter approached the temple, and
there was no sign of anything amiss as they climbed from the litter and walked
slowly up the steps, Andromache clutching her stomach, weary of the walk -
short as it may be.

           
Inside the temple the air was cool and Andromache stood a moment, catching her
breath, before going further inside. Though Cassandra had been told of her
plans to come to the temple, there was no sign of her, so Andromache walked
into the room and towards the dais, eyes searching in each direction for a sign
of the royal priestess.

           
It was upon reaching the far side of the room that Andromache caught sight of
her. She lay on the floor, golden hair tangled about her, her eyes closed. Her
robes were askew from the fall; a breast was exposed and she made no attempt to
cover herself as Andromache approached.

           
“Cassandra? Cassandra!” Andromache called as she rushed to her. Her maids,
hearing the tone of her cries, hurried forwards too and gathered, kneeling,
around the priestess.

           
At first she had feared her knocked unconscious, or dead, but now that she was
kneeling beside her, Andromache could see Cassandra’s lips moving, so fast and
silently that she knew at once this was no ordinary fall; was she perhaps
having a vision, gifted as she was with prophecy?

           
Her maids exchanged worried looks, uncertain of what should be done to revive
her or whether they should even attempt to do so. Andromache leaned closer to
her, and when her face was inches away, Cassandra’s voice became clear, louder,
though she made no sign that she was awake.

           
“The prince has returned,” she spoke in her strange tone, and Andromache knew
at once who she talked of.

           
“Prince Paris?” Iliana whispered, and Andromache nodded, hushing her for fear
they missed a word.

           
“The old prophecy has not been heeded,” Cassandra went on, her body beginning
to writhe on the ground so that Andromache and her maids retreated a short
distance away to give her more room. “Yet it remains as it was told; if the
prince shall live, the city shall fall. If the prince shall live, the city
shall fall. His one life will end a thousand others; and he will bring about
the ruin of the lands to which he was borne.”

           
Andromache felt her blood chilling, a shiver creeping over her. Her maids
exchanged frightened looks, eyes wide with nervous fear.

           
“His one life shall end a thousand others,” Cassandra repeated, her writhing
becoming more fever-pitched, her voice becoming shrill and louder, “His one
life shall end a thousand others,” she said, until she was screaming the words,
“His one life shall end a thousand others.”

           
Then she fell still. Her lips did not move and her writhing had stopped.
Silence filled the temple and Andromache feared for the priestess, but then
Cassandra was blinking rapidly, her eyes opening, her face lined with
confusion.

           
“Andromache, princess, what are you doing here?” Cassandra asked, her usual
tone returned; though full of bewilderment to find herself on the floor,
surrounded by her royal sister and her maids. “What has happened?” she asked,
sitting up, a hand going to her head.

           
“You had a vision?” Andromache asked, ignoring the fearful look upon her maids’
faces.

           
“I did,” Cassandra nodded, her face turning grave. “A terrible one.”

           
Andromache felt fearful then.

           
In her mind, Cassandra’s high-pitched mantra seemed to echo.

           
His one life shall end a thousand others.

*
* *

           
In the days after her encounter with Cassandra, Andromache tried to push
thoughts of her prophecy from her mind, though her maids seemed not so easily
to forget of it. Andromache was sure they spoke of it when they were alone
together; she herself had put it to the back of her mind more easily than she
had thought possible.

           
She had other concerns, more pressing and imminent as she was taken to the
birthing chambers in the palace and readied herself for childbirth.

           
Excitement was rife in the palace, but in the chambers, Andromache’s joy was
soon swept away, replaced by a pain so excruciating that she thought her body
was tearing, and she felt sure she would die here upon the white silken sheets.

           
Iliana and Ilisa mopped at her brow, Philomena massaged her stomach, and
midwives ran about and shouted at her, though Andromache saw all this through
glazed eyes, for the pain was so great that she felt weak, as if in a dream,
and nothing much made sense to her. She would have moments of respite when the
pain lessened, and she would close her eyes as if to rest awhile just as the
pain would return, her breath catching in her chest and her face burning red
hot, before it would begin again, this torment from which she could not escape.

           
Through the small window she caught glimpses of sunlight fading to night, and
then dawn breaking, weak sunlight fighting to break through the darkness; and
still Andromache was in agony. It seemed never ending, this torture, and every
part of her body ached with the pain and exhaustion.

           
In the midst of it all, her maids lifted her from the bed and new sheets were
brought to her. Andromache caught a glimpse of the sheets they were taking
away, drenched with sweat and a smear of crimson blood, bright against the
white of the bedding. Andromache had no time to think of what such a sight
might mean, for the pain returned then, and she closed her eyes, willing for it
to be over.

           
At last, when she thought she could not take much more, she gave a final heave
and she felt as if fire had erupted within the very heart of her, but then the
pain lessened and the women were rushing forward, smiling, relieved.