The Trojan Princess (12 page)

           
Before Andromache closed her eyes, she saw a tiny babe held up in Iliana’s
arms, and then the child was nestled against her breasts with Andromache
savouring the clamminess of the babe’s skin, the tiny puckered lips, the hearty
cry from his lips.

           
The pain of a few moments ago had died and though she ached and her mind
screamed out for sleep, she felt exultant as she held her baby to her bosom.

           
She had borne a son, a new heir to the throne of Troy, and now she could rest.

*
* *

           
The birth of the royal heir was much celebrated in the palace and throughout
the city, and gifts arrived throughout the following days and weeks for the new
born prince and a delighted Hector and Andromache.

           
With a babe of such high importance, the naming of the boy was much discussed
in the royal circles and by the council itself, but Andromache and Hector did
not want, nor need, to take advice from any when it came to their son.

           
He was named Scamandrius, after the mighty river that flowed to the ocean from
the mountains, and which just beyond the city walls of Troy, its waters used by
fishermen and tradesmen alike, its beauty etched upon the landscape on which
Andromache had often looked upon from the windows of the palace.

           
Though he had been given his name, the people quickly entitled him with
another; Astyanax. Andromache, upon hearing that her son had been renamed by
the people of the city, was shocked and affronted by such a thing, but
Philomena soothed her.

           
“The people love their new prince,” Philomena said, “Astyanax means high king,
for he will be a great king in his time; and that is his birth rite, is it
not?”

           
“It is true that he will be a great king when his time comes,” Andromache
agreed, “And I suppose I cannot disapprove of such a name, when it is given
with such warmth and love by the people he will one day rule over.”

           
Pacified, Andromache soon thought of her son, not as Scamandrius, the name she
and her husband had given him, but as Astyanax, the name his people had chosen
for him.

           
She knew he would be a great prince and a wonderful king; already the people
loved him, and the royals too. The daughters of Troy gushed over him, the
princes bowing to him as they looked upon him for the first time; even King
Priam and his queen were in adoration of their new grandson.

           
At once, Andromache wanted her son to be a great king and also to shield him
from it all, for her love for him as his mother superseded all other devotion;
she loved him not as a prince, an heir nor a future king, but as her son. She
knew this love to be greater than all other. As she suckled him, his hungry
lips always searching for her breasts, she held him close and offered up silent
prayers for her son. Not of greatness or of glory, though she wished them for
him, but of happiness. She longed for him to be happy, as always mothers would
pray for their children, and though he was to be a king, he would always be her
son.

*
* *

           
King Priam, overjoyed by the birth of his grandson, did not welcome bad news;
and so it was with caution that he received a messenger from the Greek city of
Sparta. He was weary of the Greeks and always had been, for they often looked
to the east and his lands, for expansion, conquest and victory, though so far
they had done little but raid and plunder along the coast to no great
consequence.

           
He informed the council of the message he had received and they summoned a
meeting. It was with relative disinterest that he joined them for discussions
in the council chambers; he would much rather have spent the time in the
presence of his grandson, instead of being surrounded by talk of such trivial
matters.

           
“These negotiations could be of great importance,” Laocoon suggested, when the
king voiced his thoughts on the matter. “After the sack of Thebes, perhaps it
would be wise to consider an alliance with Sparta. They alone could perhaps
curb the appetite that the warrior Achilles and his men have for violence.”

           
“Perhaps,” the king relented.

           
“We divert ourselves, however,” Helenus said, “The messenger said nothing of an
alliance; only that the King of Sparta wished to hold a meeting in which to
discuss trade.”

           
“Of course, but if we were to have trade agreements with Sparta, surely an
alliance is the natural companion of such recourse?” Laocoon countered. “It is
known that old King Tyndareus has abdicated from his throne, and that the
husband of his young daughter Helen now rules Sparta in his place.”

           
“King Menelaus, they call him,” Hector agreed, having heard talk of it from
merchants down at the docks of the city. “He is said to be making his mark on
the kingdom of Sparta already.”

           
“For the better or worse of its people and ours, however?” Antenor proffered.

           
“King Tyndareus was a weak man,” Priam said, remembering the past occasions he
had to meet with him. “Small wonder he abdicated; he was a tired king, and one
who did nothing for the benefit of his people.”

           
“Yet he offered us no cause for concern,” Polites said. “This new king, perhaps
he has his eyes on expansion? And when such thoughts occur to these foolish
Greek men, their eyes often wander heedlessly towards the east and our own
lands.”

           
“True, true,” Laocoon nodded. “Wise words, yet we have none of us met this new
king. He has offered us a hand of friendship, an olive branch from which peace
might flower, so let us not judge him too harshly for crimes he has not yet
committed.”

           
“You think we should send an envoy to Sparta to discuss these trade agreements
he is suggesting?” Priam asked. It was true that such an agreement could be
beneficial to the city, though he had yet to meet a Greek he could trust.

           
“What harm could it do?” Laocoon asked, and the men thought on this.

           
After much discussion, it was agreed they would send an envoy to meet with King
Menelaus of Sparta to discuss these trade agreements. The only matter left for
them to decide was who of the council should go.

           
“It must surely be a member of royalty,” Diephobus said, dismissing the elder
council men at once, though they did not seem insulted by his words. “Then this
new king will know we are serious in our endeavours to negotiate with him.”

           
“In any case, we are too old to go, my king,” Antenor said, gesturing to
himself and Antimachus, who nodded in agreement, papery skin quivering. “Send
one of your sons.”

           
“But which one?” King Priam asked, raising his hands in futility. “Perhaps,
Hector –”

           
Hector shook his head, to the surprise of his brothers, who had never yet seen
him refuse his father.

           
“I cannot accept such a voyage,” he said. “I have my son to think of and I
command the army here. I cannot leave, think of the disruption. It is
unthinkable.”

           
King Priam nodded in understanding. He could not do to lose the commander of
his great army. He looked to his other sons, but they would not do. They were
too young, too frivolous or too astute. At that moment, the doors to the
council chambers swung open and Paris walked in, his face flushed with anger.

           
“I was led to believe that I was now a member of this council,” he greeted them
heatedly, “As a royal prince, I am honoured a place here. Yet I learned from my
dear sisters that a meeting of the council had been called, and yet I received
no invitation.”

           
“Perhaps the messenger could not find you?” Laocoon suggested airily.

           
“Or perhaps a messenger was never sent,” Paris argued.

           
“We apologize,” Hector said, to bring an end to the disagreement so that the meeting
could continue. “But you are here now, and we have much still to discuss.”

           
King Priam nodded, though his eyes remained on Paris, this newly returned son
of his. He had heard that rumours were rife in the city about this new prince,
and indeed he sometimes doubted himself whether this man was truly his son. Yet
an idea had come to him, and he smiled, catching the attention of his council.

           
“My king, does something amuse you?” Antimachus asked.

           
“I have decided who will sail to Sparta to negotiate these trade agreements,”
the king answered him, his eyes on Paris, who looked bewildered at such keen
attention.

           
Yes, King Priam thought wickedly, this is the answer. He would not have to send
a more valuable son across the seas to deal with people he did not trust, only
this man who he did not care whether the sea swallowed him or not. And it would
rid him of this prince who seemed to cause so much rumour and discord in the
palace, for the voyage would take many weeks, perhaps months, and his absence
would not be missed by any.

*
* *

           
Andromache and Hector lay beside each other, their bodies intertwined from
their lovemaking, when Andromache learned of the proposed trip to Sparta.

           
“Are they sending you across the world away from me?” she asked at once,
desperate for it not to be the case, for she could not imagine being apart from
her beloved. “Tell me it isn’t so, please.”

           
Hector smiled in reassurance, kissing her tenderly for her worry.

           
“Fear not, they do not send me,” he answered. “They are sending Paris.”

           
“Paris?” The surprise was clear in her voice.

           
“Yes, my new brother,” Hector said, acknowledging her surprise with another
knowing smile. “My father does not admit it, but I think he seeks to send him
away from the palace so that he does not have to look upon him every day and
wonder if he is indeed his son or not.”

           
“He still doubts it?” Andromache knew it was true.

           
“Of course, don’t we all, if we were honest to ourselves?”

           
Andromache nodded.

           
“He will not be alone,” Hector went on. “He has attendants going with him, and
Laocoon will make the journey with him.”

           
Andromache thought of the bald man; he was as wise as Paris was arrogant, and
she hoped he would at least calm the manner of the new prince.

           
“Will they be successful?” she asked.

           
“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Hector sighed. “At least they can do little harm; the
worse they can do is bring about no agreement, and that is the situation we
have at the moment.”

           
“Some might say his manner offends people,” Andromache said of his brother.

           
Hector looked serious, knowing she was right.

           
“That is probably why my father seeks to send him away from the city,” he said.
“But Laocoon will journey with him, and I have given him strict instruction to
give my brother lessons in royal protocol, so that he may not humiliate our
family or our city.”

           
Andromache nodded, though she could sense the uncertainty of the decision in
Hector’s eyes. He kissed her, and she melted against him, his chest warm
against the palms of her hands as she rested them there.

           
“Let us talk no more of such things,” Hector said, kissing her neck, his hands
caressing her skin.

               
Andromache forgot her concerns
and her anxieties, and pressed herself against him, yet in the recesses of her
mind, not conscious but still not forgotten, a shrill voice spoke of danger;
“His one life shall end a thousand others,” it echoed.

           
It had been a long few months since Prince Paris had departed with Laocoon and
the small party of men to sail for Sparta, and in that time Andromache had paid
them little thought as she watched her husband flourish as General of the
Trojan Armies and her baby grow into a sturdy, delightful son.

           
Astyanax already had a full head of dark hair so much like his father’s that it
fell in tight curls about his face, and he had a mighty cry that Hector
promised would see him well-suited to leading men in battle. Andromache smiled
indulgently at these praises, though inwardly she prayed her son would never
have to face battle, nor live through war.

           
So when ships were seen on the horizon, Andromache paid them little mind; the
docks were full of ships and there were forever bright white sails standing out
against the crystal blue waters of the ocean, from trade cogs and fishing ships
to warships. She did not pay any mind to them as the day wore on, as she walked
with Astyanax along the ramparts, her maids trailing after her and enjoying the
squeals of delight from her son as he spotted birds flying above them. His
little chubby fingers pointed to them and his eyes widened in childish wonder.

           
It was as they ambled slowly back along the ramparts that they heard the cries
of men nearby, calling out that it was Paris returning from Sparta whose ships
had sailed into the docks moments before. Andromache held a wriggling, playful
Astyanax in her arms as she looked to her maids, though they were as surprised
as she was of the news.

           
She gave up squirming Astyanax to Philomena, who retreated within the palace
with Iliana and Ilisa to bathe the child, and Andromache went in search of her
husband, or answers in his place.

           
“Have you heard the cries?” she asked Polyxena, when she came across in the
corridors. “They say your brother Paris has returned from Sparta.”

           
“That is not all they whisper,” Polyxena said quietly. “They say he does not
return alone.”

           
“He has brought his men back with him,” Andromache said, unsure of Polyxena’s
meaning, though she knew her words held some hidden secret.

           
“Yes, he has returned with his men,” Polyxena nodded. “And also, some are
already saying, with a woman.”

           
“A woman?” Andromache repeated. She thought of Paris’ wife, left alone for so
many months living atop Mount Ida, and wondered at the cruelty and disregard
some men had for their wives. “Surely he has not brought a Spartan woman back
with him?”

           
Polyxena shrugged her shoulders, not knowing the answer.

           
“All I’ve heard is a passing rumour,” she said, “That a woman with gold hair
was standing atop the deck, hand-in-hand with my brother.”

           
Andromache thought on this matter as she parted from Polyxena, and continued in
search of her husband. She found Hector surrounded by worried faces, a few
minutes later in one of the courtyards that formed the entrances to the palace.

           
Upon seeing her, Hector extricated himself from the crowd and came to her. She
saw at once that he was troubled, and she knew well enough that it was because
of Paris’ return and she thought of what Polyxena had said.

           
“Has Paris returned?” she asked.

           
Hector did not need to answer, for at that moment, Paris and his companions
entered, looking weary from their journey, and shouts and activity filled the
courtyard. Hector turned from his wife and Andromache saw his dismay as he saw
his brother, indeed still hand-in-hand with the golden-haired woman Polyxena
had described to her just moments earlier.

           
He rushed forward, pushing through the men, and directed his questions to his
brother. Paris wore a defiant look on his face, as if he knew of his brother’s
anguish before he spoke a word.

           
“What have you done?” Hector demanded, looking to the woman that accompanied
Paris. “You were to go to Sparta and negotiate trade agreements, not –”

           
“They sought no agreements,” Paris interrupted him. Hector fell silent,
despairing. “Menelaus may have done, but his brother does not want any agreements
or alliances. He seeks to conquer these lands, and he controls Menelaus, crown
or not.”

           
“And she?” Hector asked of his companion.

           
“This is Helen,” Paris said, a smile alighting his features as he looked at
her. Helen smiled with trepidation as Hector turned his full attention on her.
Andromache could see that Paris was in love with this woman; he seemed
incapable of tearing his eyes from his beautiful companion. “Helen, Queen of
Sparta,” he went on.

           
Hector’s frown deepened.

           
“You have brought King Menelaus’ wife with you?” Hector asked, shocked.

           
Andromache felt her chest constrict, her hands trembling ever-so-slightly. She
had never heard such trepidation in her husband’s voice and this worried her
more than anything.

           
“I am in love with her,” Paris said simply. “We are in love, and we wish to
marry.”

           
“She is already married,” Hector said, his anger building. “To the King of
Sparta, who has surely noticed his wife has fled, with a man he invited to his
home as a guest, no-less. Do you know what this will mean?”

           
“He will be angry,” Paris suggested, and there was nothing in his voice that
gave an indication that he might be worried or regretted his actions. “But
Helen wishes to put him aside in favour of me. He cannot stop her.”

           
All trace of goodwill had vanished from Hector’s face and he spoke through thin
lips, his body trembling with the anger he longed to unleash upon this arrogant
brother.

           
“That will not stop him trying,” Hector hissed, “And for blaming you - and us.”

           
Before Paris had a chance to respond, Hector turned away. He strode across the
courtyard and swept inside, with no glances back at his brother and Helen,
Queen of Sparta. Andromache hurried after him, shooting a last look at the
lovers that stood in the courtyard, surrounded by travel-worn sailors. Paris’
look remained defiant while Helen looked uncertain; surely it was not the
welcome she was used to as a queen.

           
Andromache had to quicken her pace to keep up with her husband. Hector did not
speak, his anger still high. They came across Helenus and Polites in a
corridor, and it took them one look at their brother’s face to know that Paris
had brought trouble with him.

           
“We must summon the council at once,” Hector shouted, making Andromache jump.
Polites bowed in acknowledgement and rushed away, robes billowing behind him.
Helenus hesitated, as if too nervous to ask for news of Paris.

           
Hector paid him no mind and turned to Andromache, who attempted to smile in a
bid to lighten his mood. He seemed to soften at her look, but she knew the
anger remained and that he did not wish to show it to her.

           
“Andromache, dear wife, you must find my sisters and my mother,” Hector said.

           
She nodded, for she knew that he wanted them to hear the truth from her rather
than Paris, who she was sure would make light of the situation when clearly,
from her husband’s pained expression, it was far from so. She bowed her head
and went in search of them.

*
* *

           
“You are not only a fool, but a dangerous fool,” King Priam raged.

           
Hector had never seen his father so filled with anger as now, pacing the
council chambers, the object of his wrath, Paris, standing before him. Paris
seemed unwavering in his certainty, and he offered no apologies, no excuses,
for what he had done.

           
“Do you not hear me, boy?” Priam demanded, stopping in front of Paris and
shouting in his face, so that the prince’s face was sprayed with spittle from
his mouth. Paris remained silent. “Answer me,” Priam screamed, “Tell me why you
have done this!” He raised a hand and struck Paris hard across the face with
the back of his hand. The slap rang loud in the room and seemed to echo off the
walls.

           
Hector remained still, as did the other members of the council.
   

           
Paris blinked hard, lips pursing as he rubbed his reddening cheeks. Priam
lowered his hand, staring at his second son with hatred.

           
“Still you do not speak,” Priam shouted, “Tell me, I pray of you, was it this
silence that so won the Queen of Sparta’s heart?”

           
Hector watched as Paris bit down on his tongue to keep quiet.

           
“You would do well to answer me,” Priam said, resuming his pacing. “Or I may
see fit to send the queen back to her rightful home, and send you to the
dungeons.”

           
Paris swallowed hard at this threat. Hector knew then that his brother was a
coward, for he saw fear flicker in his eyes at the mention of such a treatment.

           
“You would not send her back,” Paris said quietly.

           
“Why not?” Priam snarled, turning on him once more.

           
“I love her,” Paris replied. His voice was quiet, pathetic, yet Hector could
not help but feel some sympathy for him. He wondered what he would say if it
were Andromache who was spoken of in such a manner, but he forced the thought
from his mind. Andromache was not Helen; and he most certainly was not Paris.

           
“You love her?” Priam mocked him. “You love her, you say? Do you have no love
for your brothers and sisters? For your king and queen? For your homeland?”

           
“Cannot I love them as well as Helen?” Paris argued, though his voice quivered
with nerves. Hector thought his father would strike Paris again, but he did
not. He remained quiet, seething, and Paris went on. “I went to Sparta with
good intentions; to prove my worth to you and this council.”

           
“Prove yourself?” Priam snorted in derision. “You have proven yourself a fool.”

           
“I hoped to return in glory, with trade agreements and an alliance with Sparta
and King Menelaus,” Paris insisted, ignoring his father’s mockery. “I wished
for all these things, I truly did.”

           
“And yet you returned with Menelaus’ wife instead!”

           
“Agamemnon, King of Mycenae, who is Menelaus’ brother, did not wish me to
succeed in negotiating a trade agreement,” Paris said. His brow was damp, and
he wiped it with the back of his palm. “I stood no chance against such a
formidable opponent.”

           
King Priam regarded him for a long moment. Then he turned and rounded on
Laocoon who had travelled with Paris to Sparta, and who had been tasked with
guiding the prince in his plans. He had remained quiet since his return, and
Hector knew that the bald man had been hoping to keep a low profile.

           
“Tell me, Laocoon, is this true?” he demanded.

           
Under the direct ire of the king, Laocoon trembled.

           
“Yes, my lord, it is true,” he confirmed. “At first we did not realise it, but
it was soon brought to our attention that King Agamemnon did not have our best
intentions in mind, and that he did not wish us to negotiate any further with
Menelaus.”

           
“What did Menelaus say of all this?”

           
“He did not know of his brother’s scheming,” Laocoon answered. “Or if he did,
he gave no indication of it.”

           
“So this Agamemnon seeks conquest rather than treaties, does he?” Priam asked,
resuming his pacing. “He wants our lands, is that it?”

           
Laocoon let out a long breath in relief now that he was not under such intense
scrutiny. “I believe so,” he answered, his voice braver now. “He certainly
wanted no agreements with us, and neither he did not want his brother to treaty
with us.”

           
“How did you come to know this?”

           
Laocoon swallowed hard, glancing at Paris.

           
“It was Helen, the Queen of Sparta, who informed us,” Laocoon said meekly.

           
Priam’s eyes grew round with anger once more at the mention of her name.
Laocoon took a discrete step backwards, but Priam turned to Paris with a swirl
of his robes.

           
“Is this true?” he asked.

           
Paris nodded.

           
“Yes, she came to me and informed me of what she had learned,” Paris explained.
“That was when I knew that I could trust her, and –”

           
“You fell in love with her,” Priam spat in distaste.

Paris
blushed but remained quiet.

“And
whose idea was it that she should join you when you departed Sparta?” Priam
asked, ignoring his son’s embarrassment. “Hers? Yours?” He gestured towards
Laocoon. “His?”