by JJ Hilton
Holding tight to her mother, she guided them through crowds of terrified people, down the streets she knew so well, pushing past the people her father ruled over, fear driving her forward, her senses in overdrive.
It was only as she reached the outskirts of the town that Andromache slowed, allowed her pulse to slow, her breathing to grow even. Her mother was beside herself, tears clinging to her face, hands clawing at her eyes, lips moving in silent prayer for her husband and sons. Andromache thought then of her maids – for Iliana and Ilisa, the two ever-quarrelling but lovely sisters – had been lost to her back in the palace when the Greeks had burst in upon them. She prayed for them, and for her father, for she had not seen nor heard of King Eetion’s whereabouts as she had fled the palace. And Podes, dearest Podes, she prayed for him though she knew it was of no use. She knew that her eldest brother would not have saved himself, for he would have stayed and slain all the invaders he could until he himself had been slain.
With trepidation, she guided her mother into an abandoned house and waited for a sign that the invaders had left. She was shaking, but her mother offered no reassurances, praying for her husband and sons, her eyes not even glancing towards her daughter.
* * *
King Eetion watched as his town fell to the warriors led by Achilles. He had known Achilles was a worthy enemy, but he had not foreseen that such a downfall would be possible in such a short space of time. He had ruled over his lands for so long, and none had defeated him! Yet now it lay in ruins.
From the top of his palace he saw the town burn. A hundred Greeks had sailed onto his shores and brought ruin and devastation with them. He looked to the small docklands, now wooden debris smouldering in the waves, and the three Greek warships in the waters beyond. The way the invaders had come through the city was clear, a path of black, burning ruins showed him their route. Yet the fires had spread, sweeping through homes and hovels, shops and stalls, and the calls and smells of the dying rose on the warm air to meet his senses and chill his blood.
He scanned the town beneath him for some sign that his daughter and wife may have reached safety, yet there was nothing he could see except the burnt and the burning. Smoke was thick in the air, and he glanced down to see that even his own palace was beginning to burn. Though made of stone, the interior was aflame, and the gardens he had so loved to walk amongst were charring even as he turned at the sound of footsteps on the rooftop behind him.
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 l
ands.
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.
As they pressed forward on the journey, Andromache prayed that the walls of Troy would soon come into view; that alone, she knew, would be enough to encourage her loyal subjects. She prayed for her mother, too, who needed a temple or a doctor. She prayed with every step, with every movement and with every ache that grew in her limbs and her muscles as she walked.
* * *
When finally the great walls of Troy rose from the horizon, large and unyielding, emblazoned by the sinking sun, Andromache knew that her prayers had been answered. Though it was still a day’s journey to the city, she knew that they had been saved. She felt some of the tension, the desperation, lift itself from her small party of travellers, and wanted to rejoice, but she knew that she could not celebrate until they had reached the safety of the walls themselves.
They made camp for the night, her mother still not taking water or food, and despite Iliana and Ilisa’s protestations that they should travel through the night to reach the walls by morning. Andromache had been tempted to agree wi
th her maids, but Axion had begged to differ.
“It is dangerous to travel at night,” he had warned her, when she had voiced her thoughts to him. “We are a small, lightly protected group. We would be an easy target for thieves, and the path ahead is dark by nightfall, and it would be only too easy to fall and suffer injury or –”
Andromache had nodded then, understanding his reluctance.
“We would be best to wait until morning,” Axion had continued. “The city of Troy has stood tall and impregnable for many, many lifetimes,” he warned, “And they will not let strangers beyond their walls in the dead of night, not when –” He trailed off, looking abashed at the princess. Andromache knew his words to be true and free of menace. She knew how they must look to others – their clothes filthy and their sandals now but torn to shreds on the hard ground – and she knew that no guardsmen would accept her for a princess, not by the light of the moon.
“We will wait until dawn,” she had decided then, and Axion had nodded in relief at her words. Though Iliana and Ilisa had not been pleased, they had settled down willingly enough, their bodies too exhausted to offer protest, and soon they were asleep.
The two maids lay either side of Andromache, their maidenly duties not forgotten even in such circumstances, so that neither of the three soldiers could approach their princess without their consent. Andromache smiled down at them as they slept, slipping away from them, bare feet silent on the ground as she went to the cart and to where her mother lay.
In the moonlight, she could make out the sleeping forms of two of the soldiers. Axion, she knew, was not asleep; she could see his hunched figure, sat on a rock, keeping watch over their small camp. She decided that she would reward him well for his service to her during this time.