The Trojan Princess (32 page)

           
Ilisa wept, for she knew well enough what would become of her nephew. She had
seen the guilt in Andromache’s face when she had told her of the need for the
pretence, and yet she had not spoken in protest, and nor had she alerted the
guards to the truth. Now she wept silently, holding her remaining nephew close
to her as if he too might be stolen.

           
Andromache could not bring herself to look at her maid or her nephew, fresh
waves of guilt overcoming her whenever she thought of how fearful the boy’s
eyes had been as the guards had taken him away. She prayed his death would be
mercifully quick.

           
Sarpedon soon came to the cell, keys in his hand, and he opened the cell door,
stepping aside so that Andromache and her son may pass. He glanced towards
Ilisa, who remained in the corner on the floor, clutching her nephew to her.

           
“We cannot be seen,” Sarpedon reminded her, sensing that Andromache wished for
them to accompany them. “It is too dangerous.”

           
“Take my nephew,” Ilisa pleaded, “See that he has a chance at life.”

           
Sarpedon relented at the look upon the maid’s face, and went into the cell,
pulling the frightened boy from her clasp. He cried, but quietly, pressing his
face against Sarpedon’s chest as he was carried from the cell.

           
“We must be quick and silent,” Sarpedon instructed them, as he led them up the
tunnel. Andromache did not follow,  instead turning to Helen’s cell.

           
“I wish you luck,” she said into the darkness.

           
There was silence, and Andromache did not linger, hurrying to follow Sarpedon
to safety and freedom.

           
“Luck cannot save me now,” Helen’s voice drifted after her, “Luck has deserted
us all, I fear.”

*
* *

           
King Agamemnon watched as the boy was led across the ramparts to kneel before
him, a guard clasping him under each arm so that his escape was impossible.

           
The boy trembled and the king wondered at how even royalty trembled when
brought to him.

           
“Astyanax, royal heir, your mother has tried mightily to spare you your fate,”
he said. “Yet it is in vain that she betrays her family and her city. I hereby
sentence you, Prince Astyanax, Royal Heir Apparent, to death.”

           
The boy started to cry and Agamemnon’s face soured; he did not like such
displays, for it was with dignity that he thought royals should accept their
fate, not this childishness.

           
“Fling him from the walls,” Agamemnon demanded.

           
The two guards hoisted the boy to his feet once more, dragging him towards the
edge of the ramparts, where there was a mighty drop to the sand beneath. It
would be sure to kill the boy, and when he realised what the guards meant to do
he screamed and cried, kicking and writhing, but the guards held him tight.

           
King Agamemnon watched as the guards reached the precipice and threw the boy
over the edge. The boy’s scream echoed over the ramparts and then fell suddenly
silent, so that Agamemnon knew that the boy was dead.

           
“Send me another prisoner,” Agamemnon demanded.

*
* *

           
Andromache felt her heart racing like never before as she followed Sarpedon out
of the doors that led back down towards the dungeons. She glanced about the
corridors but there were no soldiers to see them, and she knew that she had
been right to trust Sarpedon.

           
Astyanax was quiet beside her, gripping her hand tightly with his, and Ilisa’s
nephew was frozen with fear in Sarpedon’s arms, hardly daring to breath.

           
“This way,” Sarpedon beckoned, and they crept along the corridor and towards
the servant’s door that led to kitchens and out of the palace via a small
courtyard used to deliver food and supplies to the palace.

           
Andromache was used to seeing it filled with noises and delicious aromas, but
it was quiet and deserted today. She wondered what had become of all the
servants, but smears of blood upon the walls seemed to signify an unpleasant
end for some of them at least.

           
Passing through the kitchens, they reached the door to the courtyard, and
Andromache held her breath as Sarpedon slid the door open slightly and peered
out. He slowly opened the door further, so that they might go through, and took
a step out onto the course ground of the courtyard.

           
Andromache made to follow him but at once shouts filled the yard and men came
towards them, swords aimed at them. Astyanax and the young boy let out
terrified cries, and Sarpedon looked to Andromache with desperation, yet she
had no words to offer him.

           
“They seek to escape the palace,” one man said. “She is from the dungeons; she
must be a princess or some other royal.”

           
“And this one?” another soldier asked of Sarpedon.

           
“He pledged allegiance to King Agamemnon,” came an answer.

           
“Then he is twice a traitor,” the soldier said and plunged the sword into
Sarpedon’s chest. The man died at once, dropping the boy to the floor and
collapsing, blood spraying the walls as he fell. The frightened boy made to
run, and another sword severed his head from his shoulders.

           
Andromache grasped Astyanax and held him to her.

           
“What of this one and her son?” the soldier asked. “Perhaps we could make a
whore out of the princess?”

           
“Step aside,” a commanding voice shouted, and the soldiers obeyed at once. The
man who had spoken came forward and stopped before Andromache. He was tall and
golden haired, with broad shoulders and he wore the cloak of a general. She
looked upon his face and recognised his features. “You are a princess?” he
asked of her.

           
Andromache bowed to him and nodded.

           
“I am Neoptolemus, son of the great warrior Achilles,” the man said, and
Andromache knew at once why she recognised such a man, for his father had
killed her family and her husband, and his son now poised to kill her.

           
“I know of your father,” Andromache said, anger at the memory of Achilles
making her angry rather than afraid. “He slaughtered my father and my brothers,
and then killed my husband, Hector, before dishonouring his body and bringing
shame upon himself.”

           
Neoptolemus regarded her with narrowed eyes, for he had never heard anyone
speak of his father without reverence, and the princess showed no fear.

           
“You are Andromache, the wife of Hector,” he said.

           
Andromache nodded.

           
“No harm is to come to Princess Andromache or her son,” Neoptolemus declared,
and his men nodded grudgingly in acceptance. He turned back to her.

           
“Thank you,” Andromache bowed again.

           
Neoptolemus laughed.

           
“Do not thank me too soon, for I do not set you free,” he said. Andromache’s
face creased in question. He smiled, amused by her. “I am taking you and your
son as slaves. I have claimed many, but none quite as beautiful, nor as
intriguing, as you, and I believe I will find great pleasure in laying my hands
on the wife of the prince my father himself has slain.”

           
His eyes swept over her body but Andromache did not recoil; she held his gaze,
her eyes coldly observing such a man. She did not expect kindness from him, for
he was the son of Achilles, who had been a brutal and wicked man, and she
expected nothing less from a son of his. That he should find pride in his
father’s actions told her all she needed to know.

           
She bowed her head once more, grateful only that she and her son would live.

           
“Take them to my ship,” Neoptolemus said. “I wish to set sail with haste,
before these favourable winds are likely to change; and take my other
acquisitions as well. I wish to survey them before we set sail.”

           
Andromache held his gaze and did not return the smile he gave to her.

           
“Do not worry,” he said to her. “You will find me a kind master, for the most
part.”

           
Andromache walked past him with her head held high as she followed the soldiers
into the courtyard and into a new life of servitude.

           
Spray from the waves cooled her a little in the fierce heat of the sun, and
Andromache watched as the city of Troy became but a small dot on the horizon.
Beside her, Helenus stood, watching his home disappear from sight.

           
“It is a sad sight to behold,” he said at last, when all trace of the city and
the shore had vanished into the distance. “I never thought to see such a
thing.”

           
“No doubt our fates are better away from the walls,” she said, for she had
heard tell of what had become of those who had remained. King Priam had been
slaughtered and thrown from the walls. Neoptolemus had claimed that he was the
one who had done the deed, yet another captive had said that Priam had leapt
from the walls to spare himself such a fate. The boy they had believed to be
Astyanax had been thrown from the ramparts too, if the stories were to be
believed, and the rest of the royals murdered or taken as prisoners.

           
Andromache shuddered at the memory of Polyxena’s murder, for how could she
forget such a thing? Neoptolemus had slaughtered her before the watching eyes
of his men and his captives, hoping that her death would grant them favourable
winds. Creusa alone of the royals seemed to have escaped the city unharmed, but
Andromache could not help but wonder whether she was one of the thousands who
lay dead and rotting in the city’s streets, for so many had died in the sacking
of the city that who was to know if her body lay amongst them.

           
She was at least grateful that Astyanax and Helenus had survived alongside her,
and Andromache, though she despised Neoptolemus and his men, was reassured that
they did not mean them harm, for he had taken them as slaves and brought them
aboard his own ship, which was not the act of a man who intended to kill them.

           
Helenus’ face was pale and his eyes drawn as his gaze continued to look out at
the horizon as if he hoped to set eyes upon his home once more, though
Andromache knew that even if they were to return it would be to rubble and
little else.

           
That evening Andromache was summoned to the cabin of Neoptolemus. She had been
awarded new robes, for the ones she had worn upon their first meeting had been
stained beyond repair by her time in the dungeons, and it was wearing these new
robes that she went to him. Neoptolemus looked at her as she entered the room
and closed the door behind her.

           
Though it irked her to be summoned as such, when she was the mother of a king
and far above his rank and title, she did as she was bid, for she thought only
of protecting her son.

           
“You are a fine woman,” Neoptolemus noted. “I am surprised you did not marry
after the death of Hector. It was several years ago, was it not?”

           
Andromache pursed her lips, for she knew that he asked her such to upset her,
as he must know when his father had slain her husband.

           
“I did not require a husband,” she answered.

           
Neoptolemus looked at her closely as he approached her.

           
“You intrigue me,” he said softly, reaching a hand to her face and stroking her
cheek. She willed herself not to step away, so unused to such behaviour as she
was. He put a finger to her lips and gently caressed them. She leant away, acting
on impulse, but anger flashed across Neoptolemus’ face. “You think yourself
above a man such as I?” he demanded, voice rising. Andromache met his gaze.

           
“I am but your servant,” she said, though she did so with anger.

           
Neoptolemus did not smile, but she thought the look in his eyes softened
somewhat.

           
“Leave my sight,” he snapped, and Andromache did as he had bid her.

           
Outside his cabin, she wondered why he had not laid his hands upon her. She
knew from stories that men could do whatever they pleased to their captured
women, or concubines, and she had boarded the ship with resignation, knowing
what duty she would be expected of her by the son of Achilles.

           
Yet he had not forced himself upon her, and she felt steady though the ship
swayed about her, for she thought that perhaps Neoptolemus was not as bad a man
as she had feared. She was certain that he was a better master than Agamemnon
or his ilk would be, and she felt her heart go out to Cassandra, who had become
his concubine.

           
Helenus came to her then, his eyes fearful, but when he saw that she was not
hurt nor in distress, he was surprised.

           
“Did he hurt you?” he asked.

           
Andromache shook her head and followed him down to the bowels of the ship where
the slaves slept on the hard wooden floor, the sound of rushing water always
about them, and she curled up beside her son as she lay down to rest, Helenus’
arms about her also, and she felt safe despite the circumstances in which she had
found herself placed.

*
* *

           
Neoptolemus had set a course for Epirus, where his grandfather’s lands would
provide him with supplies and a fresh group of soldiers to replace the
exhausted ones that travelled with him now after years of fighting in the war.

           
As the weeks passed on board, he grew increasingly fascinated by Andromache,
for he had never met a woman who had such beauty and such fierce pride. He knew
that he had been right to spare her and the boy she travelled with, though he
did not ask of the boy. He suspected that the boy may be Astyanax, the heir of
Troy, whom Agamemnon and the Greeks believed to be dead, and yet still he did
not endeavour to find out. He did not wish the boy harm, for there was little
he could do to rule Troy now, ruined as it was.  More than this, he found
that he did not wish to cause Andromache any more suffering.

           
The man she travelled with, Prince Helenus, did not like that Andromache was
his concubine, and he often noted that whenever he summoned Andromache to his
cabin, Helenus’ face soured and his eyes glimmered with barely controlled rage.

           
Though he often called Andromache to his cabin he did not lay a hand upon her.
She aroused such desire in him, but she was too proud a woman that he did not
wish to bring her so low as it would do if her were to force himself upon her.
Yet his desire for her made him weak and he wondered if his men spoke of it
when he was not around and he felt torn between appeasing the woman’s proud
nature and asserting his dominance over her.

           
He called her one night to him and closed the door firmly behind her as she had
entered. She wore her hair loose and he ran a hand through it, the other
slipping around her waist and pulling her up against him. She did not think to
fight him but he felt her body tense, though her eyes as he looked into them
showed no fear or distress.

           
His lips went to hers and her lips parted for him, her mouth warm, and he felt
the tension from her body slowly ease as she leaned into him. He wondered if he
had awoken desire within her after she had endured so many years of celibacy.

           
He stripped her naked and carried her to his bed, where he lay her down and
disrobed himself. Andromache did not offer any words or any resistance as he
went to her, their naked bodies pressing against each other.

           
When he was finished, she lay against him and still did not speak. He wondered
what she was thinking but he did not ask her, his arm around her, holding her
close against him, and they lay like that until both drifted into sleep.

*
* *

           
The journey had taken many years now and still they did not reach Epirus,
though Andromache often wondered whether she truly wanted to reach these
foreign lands that Neoptolemus spoke of, for surely when they did everything
would be so different, and she had grown quite accustomed to life aboard the
ship.

           
She was heavy with her second child by Neoptolemus now, and her stomach
strained against the folds of the gown she wore. Astyanax was excited that he
was to have another brother or sister, though Andromache insisted that he was
not to tell anyone, for she still feared that Neoptolemus and his men would
discover the boy’s true identity, though something in the way Neoptolemus
looked upon Astyanax made her wonder if he knew the truth and remained silent
anyway.

           
Neoptolemus was pleased that she was carrying another of his children, but
Andromache feared that she would have to give birth on board the ship and,
remembering how painful it had been to birth Molossus, she did not wish for
such a thing.

           
She grew more exhausted with each passing month, and soon she only went on deck
for a short time each day before retiring beneath the decks to lie  on her
bed and sleep.

           
Molossus, her golden haired boy, was adored by all and Neoptolemus was careful
always to show that it was this child, and not Astyanax, who was the most
important. Andromache allowed him this small act, for though she loved
Molossus, and the child she carried within her womb, she loved Astyanax most of
all because he was Hector’s son.

*
* *

           
When the time came for childbirth, Andromache feared for her life and that of
her child’s, but Helenus acted as midwife and delivered the baby safely, as he
had done before with Molossus. Neoptolemus was pleased and adored this second
son she had borne him, and he named him Pielus. As she watched him look with
delight upon their son, Molossus peering eagerly at the new brother he had, she
wondered if perhaps she had grown to love this man, the son of Achilles.

           
“You have done well, and you should rest awhile,” he told her when he visited
her.

           
Andromache rested, and when days had passed and she was recovered, Neoptolemus
sent for her to join him in his cabin. He came to her as he done so many times
before and put his arms about her, his lips seeking hers, but she pulled away from
him, still tired from her labour, and from looking after Molossus and Pielus,
and yet he insisted.

           
She remembered, in that moment, that he was her master and she was but his
concubine, a woman with whom he could satiate and satisfy his desires whilst
aboard this ship, an amusement for him when darkness fell, and she dutifully
let him have his way.

*
* *

           
When at last the ship arrived in Epirus, Andromache was once more heavy with
Neoptolemus’ child, and it was with relief that she left the ship and set foot
on dry land. She felt unsteady on her feet, so accustomed had she become to
standing aboard the ever swaying and rocking ship in the long years that their
journey had taken.

           
Neoptolemus was eager to reclaim his lands and yet his grandfather did not
welcome him and it was not long before word came of great trouble in the land.

           
“I must go to my grandfather’s aid at once,” Neoptolemus said, taking
Andromache by the hand and leading her aside from the others. “I will leave you
and our child in Helenus’ care. He will take care of you, I am sure of it.”

           
Andromache nodded, for she knew indeed that Helenus would take care of her, for
on their long voyage she had grown certain that Helenus was in love with her.
For how long he had held such feelings, she did not know.

           
She often questioned whether she had feelings for the prince, for it was true
that she enjoyed his company and trusted him above all others, and she could
not deny that he was a handsome man, but he was the brother of her beloved
Hector, and she could not be sure that her feelings for him did not stem from
her love for his brother and desire to share such memories of him with Helenus
who had been so beloved of him.

           
Neoptolemus too she had warmth for, yet she knew that she did not love him as
she had loved Hector. Though he had blessed her with two sons, and another that
even now she carried, she knew that even though they had shared many nights
together, it was not love that was between them. Neoptolemus held her in high
regard, yet he longed for another, a wife who would bring him political sway,
wealth or lands, and Andromache could offer none of these, for her lands were
overrun with ruin and the people she would have influence over were dead or in
captivity.

           
She kissed Neoptolemus goodbye and watched as he led his men to yet another
battle. Helenus came to her side, Astyanax beside him and she noticed, not for
the first time, that her son looked so like his father - Molossus and Pielus
both already had the golden hair of Neoptolemus - as Astyanax stood holding
their hands, adoring of his younger half-brothers. Neoptolemus allowed him
this, for he had grown to like the young man, Andromache thought, but she was
always wary, always worried that one day he would proclaim Astyanax the heir to
Troy and order his death.