Troy
Page 11
Pyrrhus
My soul blenches—to think I nearly lost her! Helenus found her in a stupor, her heartbeat drifting, her breath gone—how could I forgive myself these deaths, too? And her time is still to come, two months from now; a babe cannot survive alone.
My physician says she will live, but the priest says her soul is already surrendered to Hades. Helenus tells me that for some, the soul walks in limbo throughout eternity, whether the body lives of dies, and the body keeps on until it runs out, like clockwork. I do not want to believe him, and yet, the emptiness in her face compels me. Woman who I have wronged, can you not come back and absolve me of the sin of your death?
Helenus
Despair is written on the face of Andromache who I love. My queen, why are you consumed now? My hands are bound; I cannot save. A slave may rail against his chains—to what avail? Better to cling to the coward’s hope of salvation hence, than the man’s bootless bravado and certain death. But even I may be a vessel for her deliverance. Supposing someone could replace my fettered hands—what, then, would I not dare?
Hermione
Aphrodite is cruel and has done ill by me. It is not enough that she have my husband’s love, but even the slave’s admiration is hers. Ah, I beg pardon of Helen, for I now know the beast that launched a thousand ships: not loveliness, scattered heartless from Aphrodite’s hand, but heartache, when she who made our hearts and broke them cast aside the second half. I turn to Orestes—or rather, his memory, for that prince is beyond the sea, and I am no Helen, for all my hailed fairness. In the depths of my heart, hardly revealed to myself, I pray that I am cherished though no sign comes.
Andromache
The world swims dully into being, and my body groans. The babe is heavy, a man of parts like his father, all unborn. The flesh binding him to me lashes me to this light—a world where dawn is misery, and night relief.
He stands over me, gloating in his triumph over Charon. But no, I mistake grief for grimace. He must fear the loss of his son, for a slave such as I holds no value. Would that I could die as the child first breathes.
My cousin, the steward, is kind. He bathes my brow and hands as though he would undo my slave’s mark. If he were but embalming this empty husk, how much freer I should be…
Pyrrhus
She is out of place here, stupid woman. What can she know of caring for a woman with child, when she has never borne one herself? Her hand is ungentle with Andromache, yet she shrinks from my care as though I would do the woman harm. Out of my way, wretch! When you have three sons, then show your face in the sickroom. But she does not leave until I show her the back of my hand. What shameless hussy requires correction when her husband is occupied?
Hermione
I can feel his slap like a slave’s brand on the side of my face. I have deceived myself—no longer. My marriage is but an alliance, bedded in the hope of more power. I fill a role; playing the wife at tonight’s masque is Hermione of Crete. An actress, with her wig and white paint, may expect only condemnation for her very womanhood. As long as Andromache lives, I can no more expect a filled heart than a filled womb. Thus, with an unkind caress, I shroud my wedded hope.
Is there no way to return to the last stage, a fulfilled pledge of Orestes? Merely to love, and not be despised in return, is a dream nurtured in secret, in terror. And the vast waste of water between us—what more fitting place for a dream to drown?
Helenus
He has bruised more than just her face—I can see it in her stance, as she slinks away. What a fool! But he is so absorbed that he fails to notice. He would rather be alone with his goddess than be attended by his very wife.
She welcomes my attentions, poor pretty thing, as I bathe her cheek with hyssop water. Abuse, perhaps, is more devastating to the soul than to the body; and she is so young to have learned that lesson. My lord misses neither of us in the sickroom, he is so blinded by—well, I dare not presume what emotions roil in my master’s breast. But my lady, she is more transparent. Poor child, to have the mark of knowledge and no experience in hiding it!
Hermione
He is kind, my husband’s slave. I cannot remember the last time someone was so kind to me. He looks as if he pities me—me, his queen! How bitterly I laugh. Who would have thought a queen would be deserving of a slave’s pity?
In this delirium of shame, I wonder if he might help me escape. How foolish: What slave would not escape, himself, if he had the means? And I should know—marriage is just a finer chain. But he is kind; perhaps trust is not here misplaced.
What is left for me to lose?
Helenus
And so it is a letter, a final plea, dispatched through me to the prince. Do not blame me in my weakness for betraying my master; I had rather be condemned for loving Andromache. And my queen, she commits the same sin—what is good enough for the mistress serves for the slave.
White parchment wings over foam-tufted seas, each league one step closer to our redemption. I have as much faith as my lady in Orestes, which saddens me. She has the hope of mutual love, while I have but the promise of servitude and separation. I am my own undoing—yet how gladly, just to rise from inaction!
Andromache
Days pass. Heat gives way to cooler air off the sea, and my babe nears his time. I shall be glad to give over this stranger—half mine, yet somehow wholly Pyrrhic. We wander like ghosts round this dwelling, and I see them as though through a glass. My master is over conciliatory, to no purpose; it is not as though a slave can protest. My lady is pale and silent, the first blush of her beauty fading into a second fairness: lovelier, but infinitely more fragile. And my cousin is listening, on watch, never still, as though guarding against a time to come.
My head aches. Blinds are drawn against the sun, but even so I seem to see the flash of armor in the sea’s glitter. Hector’s voice sallies me out of a dream, and blood covers my couch—waves break in the crash of spears on the sand—Astyanax is falling, falling
Hermione
He has come!
The note, sent last night by my faithful servant Helenus, is in his hand, and he promises the utmost loyalty and love. He has not forgotten me. And now, all that is left is to array myself in my favorite gown, to dress my hair, to pack—and to take as much gold as I can from my faithless, rich husband.
There is a pounding at our gates, a resounding cry. From within, my husband the brute orders his men to battlements. I have no doubt a detachment will be sent to protect me. But a knife, concealed in my bed, thinks perhaps I have less to fear than his troops.
Pyrrhus
We are attacked by the traitor Orestes. How comes he here, when my attentions are elsewhere, on this day of Andromache’s travail? Curse the gods who have brought him safe to shore!
My men are valiant, but we are lazy, caught in the indolence of safety. They are slaughtered, and the walls weep their blood. Orestes comes with a demon blazing from his eyes, determined to do or die. Helenus, faithful one, go to Andromache—shield her from destruction! I will dare our ramparts and save our home—if I can.
Her screams rise above the battle—Hades, let me go to her!
Helenus
She is covered in blood, her teeth bared, when I attain her rooms, and slaughtered soldiers slick the floor. I have seen a maenad in the flesh, and I fear the gods.
Come! and we race into the light, away from her devastation. Like a Fury she gains the sand, the ships, and dare Pyrrhus to detain her.
Orestes, I am here!
And the battlefield falls silent, awestruck and dumb in the presence of woman, triumphant. My breath catches, and the foreigner beside me swears. What quarrel have we over this woman, who indisputably saves herself?
Pyrrhus
And yet, they cease not. I can hear them in the walls, scratching and snuffling, attempting stealth. Their very breath mingles with her cries, but there is nothing—nothing! left to be done. I am undone, in truth, by my wife, who I stole in a fit of pride. I repent—
let the gods see that I repent heartily, and will take no more lives to bolster my own. Let them come—and tell them I died bravely, bearded in my own lair.
Andromache
A chain snaps, deep within. Blood rushes out, coating my legs in an embodiment of pain. He is dead; a scream sounds as air rushes into new lungs, and an old soul departs.
The foreign soldiers are reverent in the presence of life. I feel the favor of the gods overshadow this child, and I think, perhaps life can be salvaged from the wreck.
Hermione
Freedom! It is the wind, the sun, the waves under the keel. I am unburdened of Pyrrhus, baptized by blood into a new world. He is dead, and I live; what more need be said? My beloved and I are bound and destined for the island across the sea.
Helenus
Life is hardly come by; love seems too great a boon to request of the gods, so lately played us false. But we live to rebuild this shattered citadel—they look to us, Pyrrhus’ proxies, exchanged for sons still babes. In ten years, they may reign; in ten years, we may have a people to leave them. Today, we douse the flames, staunch the blood, and struggle free from the ashes.
Andromache
Life is pain. In torment we are born, and our last breath is wrung from unwilling lungs as blood clouds our eyes. And yet, it seems neither chance nor will can hasten death while the Fates hold a longer thread.
Light blooms as shadows fade from my gaze; I cling to the dark with both hands. Oh, take me with you! I cannot bear the light!
A final glimpse of relief—my bronze warrior turns away, the film of death a sad patina on his armor. A death rattle rips through me, refilling with hateful oxygen. One last smile, I beg, to cherish through the coming years of penance!
His smile breaks my heart with its sorrow as light and newborn life assert themselves over me. I may not come to you yet, my Hector; only wait, I pray, wait for me, until the blessed day when I too gain the Elysian Fields.
Epilogue
Orpheus
I am at my end, then; no more shall the chill haunt with the faintest breath on my withered cheek. No, she draws me softly on, sweet Persephone, and my soul is glad of eternal rest.
I seem to hear, on the breeze, my own one’s voice—careless as the day Hades enticed her away with ill-gotten pomegranate seeds. My love, my own Eurydice! The veil thin, but Persephone parts it, at last, and I can see the promised fields.
The world behind me falls away, as when one sleeps and shadows tunnel further, drifting—
What blessings, poor living souls, have I to give you? But a word, left on the last threshold: As you believe in spirits, so too believe in Love; and as you fear the gods, fear Her. What is wrought in heaven cannot leave there uncorrupted.