The Trojan Princess (4 page)

           
Achilles was bare-chested, his sword in his hand, dripping crimson blood, and
his hair was windswept, his look triumphant.

           
“You have no reason to attack my lands,” Eetion condemned him. “You had no
right to slaughter my people and burn their homes. You have no cause –”

           
“Your sons sought to kill me,” Achilles cut across him, swaggering towards him,
not afraid of the king before him. “I promised I would avenge the men they have
slain.”

           
“Many must have tried to kill you –” Eetion countered.

           
“And all have died in the act of trying,” Achilles finished.

           
“Do you have no mercy?” Eetion protested. “You, surely, must not wish to harm
children, innocent women. You have killed four of my sons, that is vengeance
enough, no?”

           
“Seven,” Achilles corrected him. Eetion felt his heart sink. “I have killed all
seven of your sons. Their bodies lie on the floors of this not-so-mighty
palace. Your eldest son –”

           
“Podes,” Eetion said, “My eldest, his name is Podes. Or was, if what you say is
true.”

           
“Rest assured, I speak the truth.”

           
“Then you have murdered all of my sons,” Eetion sighed, eyes watering, and he
felt utterly defeated in that moment.

           
“Your daughter lives,” Achilles reminded him. “She is not in the palace.”

           
Eetion thanked the Gods that she had escaped the palace walls, though he knew
that she may not have gone much further if Achilles’ men had discovered her.

           
“Please, spare her,” Eetion pleaded. “She is young, she has done you no harm.”

           
“I cannot deprive my men the joys of a beautiful young princess,” Achilles
said, enjoying the affect these words had on the desperate king. “Nor myself,
for that matter.”

           
“Please, Achilles, spare her,” Eetion repeated. “She is to marry the son of
Priam, and if she is spoilt then Troy’s mighty wrath will befall you.”

           
“Alas, my enemies are already innumerable,” Achilles offered with a smile.
“What is another to add to the list?”

           
With shaking legs, Eetion went down on his knees. He hoped none of his
townspeople would see the scene, him kneeling before the likes of Achilles, but
he would do anything if it meant saving the life of his daughter.

           
“You kneel before me and beg?” Achilles mused, taking a step forward. “Many a
man has begged me to spare his life.”

           
“I do not ask you to spare my own,” Eetion said, feeling his age at that
moment. He was glad that he had arranged his daughter’s betrothal, hopeful for
her future, if only she lived to see it. He had hope yet, if the Gods were
true, and looked upon him favourably. “I do not ask you to let me live,” he
repeated, as Achilles bore down on him. “Just spare my daughter, spare dearest
Andromache.”

           
“I am glad you do not ask me to spare you,” Achilles said, raising his sword,
“And as for your daughter, I can make no promises on behalf of my men.”

           
Sword raised, he brought it down swiftly, and King Eetion’s head rolled across
the rooftop of the palace of Thebes. Royal blood spilt as easily as any other,
Achilles thought, as he scanned an eye over the burning town.

           
He thought a moment that he may look for Andromache, this beloved daughter of
Eetion’s, but there was not so much time as he would have liked, and besides,
he did not relish the idea of going after a young princess just for the joy of
slaughtering her. No, he and his men would return to their ships, taking
whatever treasures and riches they could find, Achilles decided as he made his
way back inside the shade of the palace.

           
He would allow his men to bring some women aboard, and who knew, perhaps one of
them may be the princess? He called for his men to ready themselves to leave.
He did not betray fear, nor feel it, but word would soon reach Troy of the
sacking of Thebes and when Prince Hector bore down on the town with an army at
his command, Achilles did not wish to fight them. Perhaps he could win, he
mused, but it was far easier to be gone by the time they arrived.

           
As Achilles and his men retreated from the town, snatching what they could,
Andromache stirred herself from her silent vigil across the town and extricated
herself from the hiding place she had found with her mother.

           
She could no longer hear the sounds of fighting, though the cries of heartache
and grief echoed from all corners of the town. She guided her mother back down
the street, weary of being noticed, but none paid her any attention, too
consumed were the survivors in their own personal losses.

           
Entering the palace, Andromache felt her heart tear. Her brothers lay dead upon
the floors, axes still tight in their grips. Her mother knelt at each one,
tears pouring down her face, her heart breaking a little more upon the
discovery of each one.

           
When they found her father, the king, Andromache watched her mother’s face
crumple as she let out a shriek of despair. Andromache tensed, fearing Achilles
and his men would hear and set upon them. But they were alone in the palace,
the only survivors, and Andromache knew, even in her grief, where she had no
choice but to turn.

           
She must go to Troy.

*
* *

So it
was in the throes of grief for her slain brothers that Andromache left Thebes
and made for Troy, her heart breaking for dearest Podes whom her thoughts
lingered on most of all, who had fought so valiantly until Achilles’ blade had
pierced him, and who had given his life so that she and her mother might find
sanctuary. Then there was her beloved brothers and her father, who had been so
wise, so harmonious, even to the end although she had not been witness to it,
even when he had tried to reason with the band of warriors who had lain waste
to his once peaceful lands.

Her
mother was sick with grief and fever, unable to walk, shrinking away from
sunlight and the touch of all except for her daughter. She rode in the back of
a cart, a blanket thrown over her, so that those they passed on the road
towards Troy thought they were carrying a body and not a widowed queen.

Andromache
herself walked, though the few men who had survived the assault and who now
guided their small band to the safety of the great city along the shore, urged
her to rest awhile, for they believed she must be in a state of grief much as
her mother was. Andromache waved off their concerns and continued, sweat trickling
down her face from her brow, the hot sun that beat down upon them drying the
salty liquid on her pale skin. Her feet ached, her sandals worn thin from the
march over hard rocky trails and blisteringly hot sands on the shoreline.

Her
maids suffered too, Andromache saw. Iliana and Ilisa had both wept openly as
Andromache had gathered them to her when the violence had died down and the
warriors had retreated to their ships, taking with them whatever treasures and
whichever women took their fancy. She shuddered at the thought; what if those
men - those awful Greeks who loved violence and blood so much – had discovered
her? She once again thanked Podes for his sacrifice, for giving her and her
mother a chance to hide. She was grateful too that her maids had been
untouched; they had hidden in the cellar behind empty wine barrels. Thank the
gods, the Greeks had not discovered them!

The
tears had dried on Iliana and Ilisa’s faces now, and grief had given way to
anxiety and exhaustion. Andromache could see the energy fading from their
bodies, their limbs slowing and the footsteps growing smaller as they trekked
away from their home, further than either of them had travelled before. Dust
and sand caked the sisters’ robes, and their hair, once scented and elegantly
worn in knots, as hers had once been, now fell in tired, wistful curls down
their backs, slick with sweat and dried from the sun. Andromache did not judge
them, though, for she knew that she must look just as forlorn – perhaps more
so, she reasoned – for she had been the most elegant lady in the land, a
princess as she was, and now she too was a ruin of her former beauty.

She
wondered, as the three soldiers guided them over paths and through bracken,
whether the Trojans would even allow them into their great, beautiful city. She
had never been to Troy before, but her father had told her stories of its
greatness, its huge impenetrable walls, and its people – oh, how magical they
sounded! – and of course, Hector had shared his own stories of his homeland.

Hector,
her dearest betrothed, Andromache thought wistfully. Would he still want her to
be his bride now? She had no Kingly father whom King Priam could count upon as
an ally, she had no jewels or dowry, for Achilles and his men had taken all of
her wealth with them, and she was no beauty, not now, ravaged by sun and
hardship and sorrow.

Alas,
she thought, it was a long journey and she could not even promise the few who
had stayed true to her that it would be worth it; how could she know what fate
had in store for them? If Hector did not wish to marry her, what would become
of her? What would become of them all?

She
looked around at her small party when they stopped for a short rest. Iliana and
Ilisa sipped at a small skin of water, taking hardly any for themselves, before
passing the skin to her. Andromache thanked them and took a grateful sip. The
water was hot and far from soothing, but it quenched her thirst nonetheless.
She refastened the skin, wishing that she could offer her faithful maids more
than just a few sips, but she did not know how much further they would have to
journey, so she passed it back to them in silence and watched Iliana go to the
Queen. It was but a gesture, and a futile one at that, for the Queen had not
taken any water, nor food, since they had left the ruins of Thebes three long,
tiring days before. It concerned Andromache, this unwavering grief her mother
displayed, for if her mother was to die – and if she continued much longer to
refuse water – then who would she have then? Her maids, surely, but what
family? Her mother was all she had.

Forcing
her mind away from such dark thoughts, or perhaps encouraged by them,
Andromache went forward to her mother and sat gently on the end of the cart,
taking the skin of water from Iliana and touching her mother on the arm,
cajoling her.

“Mother,
dearest Queen, you must drink,” Andromache said quietly, but her mother gave no
response, except to turn slightly away from her, her frail hands checking that
the blanket still covered her from head to toe. She fell still once more, and
Andromache sighed.

She
returned the water to Iliana, who stowed it away, and looked at the three men ,
once household soldiers to her father, who were now her guides. The men looked
tired and pained, Andromache thought, yet they were faring better than her
maids and indeed herself, she mused. But looking at them, their faces damp with
sweat, rubbing their blistered feet with calloused hands, she knew that they
neither could go on for much longer. Soldiers they may be, she thought, but
even men such as these needed water and rest.

“We
should carry on, Princess,” one of the men said, approaching her with head
bowed, though Andromache had told him before that she did not expect such
courtesies in a situation such as this. His name was Axion, and she knew he had
been a loyal soldier to her father throughout the years. “It is daylight, and
we are still not in sight of Troy.”

“Can
we not rest awhile longer?” Iliana complained, coming closer still, “We have journeyed
all day and for much of the night.”

“How
far from Troy are we?” Andromache asked.

“Another
day, perhaps,” Axion answered. He glanced towards the cart, which Andromache
knew was slowing down their progress. If her mother could walk, perhaps they would
be quicker, but she knew that if they were to abandon the cart, it would mean
abandoning her mother, their Queen, for she would never consent to walk. “And
we are still close to the shore,” he continued, and Andromache followed his
gaze, to where she could just make out the shimmering blue of the ocean on the
horizon. She understood his meaning, but he spoke her fears anyway. “If
Achilles and his men were to travel up the shore and spot us, we are
undefended, we have only three swords and –”

Andromache
held up a hand to stop him, hoping not to frighten Iliana and Ilisa. Axion
nodded in acknowledgement, and retreated from her to rejoin the other men, who
shot dubious glances towards the cart, much as he had done before. Andromache
wondered whether these men would abandon her if Achilles and his men should
hunt them down. Would they remain loyal to her father, even though he was dead?
Would Iliana and Ilisa stay and face the swords with her and her mother, even
though they must surely know that if they fled alone she was powerless to
command them to stay by her side?

Such
thoughts did not do her well, she reasoned, and she tried to put them from her.

“We
should go on,” Andromache decided. Iliana and Ilisa groaned softly, but nodded
in acceptance. The men stretched their limbs, ready to go on. Two men grabbed
the wooden bars of the cart and began to drag it forward, heaving from the
effort of moving the cart and the grieving widow it carried.