The Trojan Princess

by JJ Hilton

  “What will you name him?” Philomena asked, dark eyes gleaming with excitement on behalf of her princess. “Hector, after his mighty father?”

  Andromache had not thought of a name yet, though she was sure that it would come to her when her son was born.

  The four women talked and laughed as the litter approached the temple, and there was no sign of anything amiss as they climbed from the litter and walked slowly up the steps, Andromache clutching her stomach, weary of the walk - short as it may be.

  Inside the temple the air was cool and Andromache stood a moment, catching her breath, before going further inside. Though Cassandra had been told of her plans to come to the temple, there was no sign of her, so Andromache walked into the room and towards the dais, eyes searching in each direction for a sign of the royal priestess.

  It was upon reaching the far side of the room that Andromache caught sight of her. She lay on the floor, golden hair tangled about her, her eyes closed. Her robes were askew from the fall; a breast was exposed and she made no attempt to cover herself as Andromache approached.

  “Cassandra? Cassandra!” Andromache called as she rushed to her. Her maids, hearing the tone of her cries, hurried forwards too and gathered, kneeling, around the priestess.

  At first she had feared her knocked unconscious, or dead, but now that she was kneeling beside her, Andromache could see Cassandra’s lips moving, so fast and silently that she knew at once this was no ordinary fall; was she perhaps having a vision, gifted as she was with prophecy?

  Her maids exchanged worried looks, uncertain of what should be done to revive her or whether they should even attempt to do so. Andromache leaned closer to her, and when her face was inches away, Cassandra’s voice became clear, louder, though she made no sign that she was awake.

  “The prince has returned,” she spoke in her strange tone, and Andromache knew at once who she talked of.

  “Prince Paris?” Iliana whispered, and Andromache nodded, hushing her for fear they missed a word.

  “The old prophecy has not been heeded,” Cassandra went on, her body beginning to writhe on the ground so that Andromache and her maids retreated a short distance away to give her more room. “Yet it remains as it was told; if the prince shall live, the city shall fall. If the prince shall live, the city shall fall. His one life will end a thousand others; and he will bring about the ruin of the lands to which he was borne.”

  Andromache felt her blood chilling, a shiver creeping over her. Her maids exchanged frightened looks, eyes wide with nervous fear.

  “His one life shall end a thousand others,” Cassandra repeated, her writhing becoming more fever-pitched, her voice becoming shrill and louder, “His one life shall end a thousand others,” she said, until she was screaming the words, “His one life shall end a thousand others.”

  Then she fell still. Her lips did not move and her writhing had stopped. Silence filled the temple and Andromache feared for the priestess, but then Cassandra was blinking rapidly, her eyes opening, her face lined with confusion.

  “Andromache, princess, what are you doing here?” Cassandra asked, her usual tone returned; though full of bewilderment to find herself on the floor, surrounded by her royal sister and her maids. “What has happened?” she asked, sitting up, a hand going to her head.

  “You had a vision?” Andromache asked, ignoring the fearful look upon her maids’ faces.

  “I did,” Cassandra nodded, her face turning grave. “A terrible one.”

  Andromache felt fearful then.

  In her mind, Cassandra’s high-pitched mantra seemed to echo.

  His one life shall end a thousand others.

  * * *

  In the days after her encounter with Cassandra, Andromache tried to push thoughts of her prophecy from her mind, though her maids seemed not so easily to forget of it. Andromache was sure they spoke of it when they were alone together; she herself had put it to the back of her mind more easily than she had thought possible.

  She had other concerns, more pressing and imminent as she was taken to the birthing chambers in the palace and readied herself for childbirth.

  Excitement was rife in the palace, but in the chambers, Andromache’s joy was soon swept away, replaced by a pain so excruciating that she thought her body was tearing, and she felt sure she would die here upon the white silken sheets.

  Iliana and Ilisa mopped at her brow, Philomena massaged her stomach, and midwives ran about and shouted at her, though Andromache saw all this through glazed eyes, for the pain was so great that she felt weak, as if in a dream, and nothing much made sense to her. She would have moments of respite when the pain lessened, and she would close her eyes as if to rest awhile just as the pain would return, her breath catching in her chest and her face burning red hot, before it would begin again, this torment from which she could not escape.

  Through the small window she caught glimpses of sunlight fading to night, and then dawn breaking, weak sunlight fighting to break through the darkness; and still Andromache was in agony. It seemed never ending, this torture, and every part of her body ached with the pain and exhaustion.

  In the midst of it all, her maids lifted her from the bed and new sheets were brought to her. Andromache caught a glimpse of the sheets they were taking away, drenched with sweat and a smear of crimson blood, bright against the white of the bedding. Andromache had no time to think of what such a sight might mean, for the pain returned then, and she closed her eyes, willing for it to be over.

  At last, when she thought she could not take much more, she gave a final heave and she felt as if fire had erupted within the very heart of her, but then the pain lessened and the women were rushing forward, smiling, relieved.

  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 h
umiliate 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.

  Chapter Four

  Helen, The Unwelcome Guest

  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.