by JJ Hilton
* * *
At the break of dawn, Andromache watched her husband leave the safety of the gates and lead his men out across the sand with a tight knot of fear in her stomach. She had listened to Hector explain his plan to finally vanquish the Greeks from their lands, but while he had been filled with exhilaration, dread had overwhelmed her.
He had returned safely to her so many times before – how many more times would the gods look favourably upon him? Each time he went to battle, she felt more desperate that this would be the final time he would depart from her.
She smiled, however, for Astyanax was standing beside her, looking down upon the shore as the Trojan army rallied, a mass swarm of soldiers, filing out to defend the great walls. It was not the walls that needed protecting, Andromache thought wistfully, but her husband, and those men who went out to face the wrath of the Greeks.
Along the ramparts, Helen stood and watched, Paris beside her. Helen looked down upon the men who were to defend the city, and Andromache wondered if she wished that her husband was amongst them rather than safely standing beside her.
The Greek armies amassed in response, their vast numbers growing and moving as they marched up the beach towards Hector and the Trojans. Andromache could not help but watch, for though she dreaded the moment when the two armies would collide in a mighty roar of clashing metal and shattering shields, she could not bear to take her eyes from her husband’s gleaming golden helmet, for how else would she know he was still alive and fighting, if she could not see him for herself?
Astyanax called down to the men far below them, and Andromache put a restraining hand on her son’s shoulder. He turned to look at his mother, seeing the fear there though she had tried so hard to mask it.
“Don’t worry, mother,” he said, smiling up at her with her husband’s eyes. “We will win this war and then everything will be as it should.”
Andromache nodded, tears glistening at the corners of her eyes; for what did this son of hers know of peace? He had grown up in the shadow of this war, and though she hoped it would be lifted as Hector had promised her, she could not help but feel more shadows closing in upon her, as the roar of battle commenced and she momentarily closed her eyes to the sight.
* * *
Hector gave a roar as he ran at the approaching Greeks, the enemy running against them, a cloud of sand coming from beneath their feet, and he heard his cry taken up by his men behind him until the sound was deafening. He braced himself, shield raised in one hand and sword ready in the other, as he crashed into the approaching line of the enemy. The first man he collided with went down, buffeted out of his path by the shield, and was trampled beneath the feet of the men following behind f. Hector swung his sword, slicing through another soldier before he had a chance to lift his shield, and soon swords were flying against shields which shattered in every direction - all around him, sand and blood flying in the air.
He dodged a sword and plunged his own into the attacker, who staggered and vomited a pool of blood as he fell to his knees at Hector’s feet. Another came at him, sword raised high; too high, and before he could bring it down, Hector hit his arm out of the way with his shield and slashed his sword, opening his attacker's throat and pushing the standing corpse backwards into another, who fell under the weight of his comrade.
It was then that Hector spotted Achilles; the armour he had grown accustomed to seeing slaughtering his men on the battlefield. So Diephobus had been right, he thought, Achilles could not resist seeking further glory. He pushed through the battleground, making his way towards Achilles, for he was sure that if this man fell, the war would be won. He slashed his way through the enemy, always keeping one eye on Achilles, the other on the men who tried to hinder him and died for their trouble.
Achilles caught sight of him over the heads of fighting soldiers a few metres away, and Hector knew that he sought him out even as he sought him. Achilles headed towards him, slicing his own way through the mass of fighting soldiers and over the bodies of the fallen. Hector readied himself, gripping his sword tightly.
Hector took the first hit, catching Achilles by surprise, though he blocked the sword with his shield and shrugged off the impact, unfazed by the agility of Hector. Hector stepped forward, slashing keenly, keeping Achilles on the back foot, never letting him press an advantage. Achilles parried one of the blows and swung, his attempt missing Hector’s arm by inches, and Hector felt sweat on his brow. He took a quick breath, calming himself, reasserting his focus, and blocked the next blow with his shield, quickstepping forward and lunging, Achilles forced backwards to defend himself from the unexpected strike.
He regained his own composure quickly and was soon sweeping Hector’s blows off his sword with ease. Hector was forced to take a step back to defend himself from a hard strike, and he felt his shield take the blow hard, his arm aching behind the wood. He lunged again – this time catching Achilles off guard; the warrior’s shield shattered. Achilles threw the broken shield to the floor, crouching and ducking beneath Hector’s next sword strike.
Achilles rose, bringing his sword up in an arc, but Hector had the advantage. He swung down, catching Achilles’ sword hand at the wrist. There was the crunch of bone and snapping of tendons, and Achilles hand fell to the floor, blood spurting from the wound, the sword falling with it. Hector dare not draw breath, bringing his sword down again, driving it hard into the gap above Achilles’ breastplate, the blade sinking into the base of his throat. Hector, sensing his advantage, drove it down harder until the blood gurgled from the wound and Achilles moved no more. People around them paused, shocked to see Achilles so defeated. Hector pulled his sword out and Achilles’ body crumpled, falling face down onto the sand at their feet. Hector took a moment to catch his breath and kicked the warrior’s body over, onto his back. Blood stained the sand and continued to flow from the hole in his throat. Hector reached down and removed the helmet. He stared, horrified. It was not Achilles; the man may have worn Achilles’ armour, yet it was not the mighty Achilles he had slain.
Hector forced aside his dismay and lifted his sword once more, to fight on.
* * *
Andromache was grateful to see her husband returned safely from battle, though she saw dismay and frustration in his face and those of the men whom he had fought alongside. It was not long after Hector’s return to the city that Andromache learned of what had befallen her husband in the battle.
“You returned unharmed - that is the important thing,” she soothed him, though his dismay was not so easily lifted, and his mood was sour with regret. “Achilles will fall at your sword, I have no doubt.”
Hector smiled at the thought, but it was with heavy heart that he ate at the high table that evening, Andromache trying to lift his spirits.
“It is Patroclus that I have slain,” Hector said. He had come to this realisation upon the end of the battle, and the thought weighed heavily in his mind. Achilles had not fought, and he would be enraged to learn of the death of the man who was his closest friend. Some said they were lovers, others that they were cousins. Whatever their relationship, Hector knew that Achilles would seek vengeance for the death. He dare not voice these fears to his wife, for she was already weary enough of Achilles.
Andromache did not give voice to her worries at the thought of her husband and Achilles, the man who had killed her family, crossing swords. She thought how easily it could have been Hector slain upon the sands earlier.
An echo rang out from the archways leading out to the ramparts, and though Andromache tried to put it from her mind, she felt a flicker of fear at the distant sound. It continued, and soon a watchman emerged from the ramparts, his look falling upon Hector.
Andromache knew then what the sound was; Achilles’ grief over the slain Patroclus. She knew that he would want to avenge the death and she feared for her husband.
The watchman came to the high table and silence descended upon the royals as he turned to Hector, his face paling.
; “Achilles is at the gates, demanding an audience with you,” the man said. “He shouts and demands you come to face him.”
“Let him scream all he wants,” Diephobus dismissed him, “He shall not enter.”
“He grieves for Patroclus,” Hector said.
Beside him, Andromache’s hand trembled at the thought.
“Stay here,” King Priam said, shaking his head. “Achilles’ grief can wait.”
Hector did not move though he did not dismiss the watchman either. Eyes rested upon him for what he would do, Andromache wanted nothing more than to take him upstairs to their chambers and seal him there forever, so he may never have to face Achilles.
As she had feared, for she knew her husband to be a most honourable man, Hector rose to his feet. Understanding dawned upon the faces of his sisters and they too looked fearful for him.
“I shall come to the gate and speak with him,” Hector said, his voice decisive - if quieter, more resigned, than usual.
“Be careful,” Andromache pleaded. Hector looked at her, imploring her with his eyes to understand that he must see Achilles, and she nodded, for she knew that it was something he had to do for his own sake.
Hector left the room, his footsteps loud in the silent hall, and when he had disappeared beneath an archway, Andromache excused herself and fled upstairs to her chambers, where she threw herself upon her bed and wept.
* * *
Hector approached the gate calmly, the guards looking weary as he neared them. Through the grille of the gate, Hector could see Achilles, golden hair flowing about his shoulders, pacing back and forth, shouting out his name, “Hector! Hector! Come and face me!”
He fell silent at Hector’s approach and stormed the short distance from where he paced to the gate. It remained closed, and Achilles cursed and shouted and kicked out at the gate, though it did not move. The guards eyed him with uncertainty, even though there was no way for the man to get through.
Hector stopped at the gate and looked upon the warrior he thought he had slain. He wished that it were so – for then the war would be over, and they would be celebrating, rather than commiserating – and Achilles looked at him for a long moment.
The guards were frozen as silence filled the gateway and both men regarded each other, sizing up the opponent and thinking the terrible unspoken.
Hector broke the silence.
“You sought an audience with me,” he said.
“I seek no audience,” Achilles said, his words filled with anger. “I seek combat.”
Hector had expected such words, though he did not cherish them.
“You wish for vengeance,” Hector said. “You grieve for your friend.”
“Do not speak of Patroclus, you dishonour him with your words and with each breath you take,” Achilles said, anger flaring, and he kicked at the gate again. Hector wondered if the rumours of their love affair were true.
“I apologize,” Hector said. “But he was slain in battle; it was a fair fight, and he died an honourable death.”
“At your hand,” Achilles pointed out. “So it is you I seek vengeance upon.”
“I believed that it was you I was fighting,” Hector said. “He wore your armour; he fought with your skill.”
“You believed you had killed me?” Achilles mocked him. “If it had been me that you fought, Patroclus would be alive and it would be you who would be left dead upon the sands.”
“But you did not fight,” Hector said. “You let your friend don your armour and die in your stead.”
“You dare think to blame me for his death!” Achilles shouted. “I let it be known that I wouldn’t fight on Agamemnon’s behalf, but now I seek only to kill you and all the men who fight on yours.”
Hector sighed, exasperated. Perhaps Achilles would have sailed away if he had not slain Patroclus, perhaps the war would have been won today? Alas, it did not do to dwell on such things, Hector thought.
“I would gladly face you on the battlefield,” Hector said. “I –”
“No,” Achilles said. “I wish to face you one-on-one. Single combat. Then, when I kill you, I can say that no man helped me.”
Hector considered the man before him. He thought of Achilles’ anger and grief. It made him dangerous, but it also could have its advantages. Achilles was unbeatable when he was on form, but Hector knew him to be filled with anger, and that would make him take risks, and that in turn would make him vulnerable. If he won and killed Achilles, he was sure that the tide of war would change, and the Greeks would lose faith and hope of victory.
Yet the risks were high; he could not fathom leaving Andromache a widow, Astyanax without a father.
“What say you?” Achilles demanded. “I confess I had not heard you called a coward!”
Hector squared his shoulders.
“I am no coward,” he said, loud and clear. “I will meet you in combat, if that is your wish.”
Achilles smiled, his face illuminated by the torches upon the wall.
“Be outside these gates at dawn,” Achilles said. “Or I will find a way inside your mighty city and drag you out to face me.”
Hector turned and walked away from the gate, Achilles silent beyond the gate. Hector's heart was hammering and he wondered what his family would say, what his beloved Andromache would think of his sudden decision. She would be distraught, yet he had no other choice. Achilles would spur the Greeks on to fight harder if he were to live, and this was the best hope Hector had of slaying the warrior.He had killed many soldiers, many heroes as great as the famed Achilles; he knew his weaknesses and that his anger would make him vulnerable in his temper and desire for vengeance. As he passed the guards, he thought he saw dismay in their eyes and hoped that they did not think that he had just agreed to his own death.
Upon entering the palace, he knew whom he must speak to first and so went in search of his wife.
* * *
Andromache was silent as her husband entered their chambers and came to her. She sat on the end of the bed they shared, and he approached quietly, his footsteps slow and his expression unreadable. She prided herself on being able to read the emotions upon her husband’s face, so it was disconcerting that on this occasion she was unable to do so.
He knelt before her and clasped her hands in his.
“Andromache, dear wife, love and light of my life,” he said, and she thought she saw tears threatening in his eyes. “I seek your favour, though I know that what I have to tell you will not be welcome to your ears.”
“You have met with Achilles,” Andromache said. “He seeks vengeance, does he not?”
“He does,” Hector said. “He grieves for Patroclus, as I would grieve for you. I cannot hold it against him, for I would do the same if you and I were in place of them.”
Andromache looked into his face, his eyes, and saw that his love for her was endless. She had no doubt that he would go to ends of the world for her, and she would do the same for him.
“Achilles seeks a fight with me,” Hector said. “Just he and I. One-on-one combat.”
Andromache swallowed hard, the words washing over her, sinking into her heart and making it ache.
“You have agreed,” she said, already knowing this reason for his pain.
“Yes,” Hector said, bowing his head. “He has re-joined the war - not for Agamemnon or Menelaus’ causes, but for personal vengeance against me. He will not rest until he has fought me, and he will kill any who stand in his way.”
“You do this to save others?” Andromache asked.
“I do,” he said softly. “Though that alone is not the reason.”
“What of me and Astyanax?” she asked. “Do you not wish to save us from fear?”
“I have always sought to save you from fear, though I confess I have not always succeeded,” Hector admitted, regret in his voice. “I know that Achilles seeks to do me harm and if I do not face him, he will strike at my loved ones so that I may feel the pain he feels at the loss of Patroclus
. Unless I face him, I will never be free.”
“Free of Achilles’ wrath?” Andromache asked, “Or free of the guilt you feel?”
Hector smiled then, for his wife knew him so well.
“I do feel guilt for slaying Patroclus, it is true,” he answered.
“It was a fair battle; he fell with dignity in war.”
“I do not feel guilt for that, but for the pain it has caused in others.”
Andromache cupped her husband’s face in her hands and stroked his cheeks.
“You are a good man, so honest and courageous and noble,” she said, tears in her eyes. “You think always of protecting others, yet never spare a thought for your own.”
“If I defeat Achilles, this war shall be as good as won,” Hector insisted.
Though Andromache knew that her husband had made up his mind, she could not help but plead.
“And if he defeats you, the war shall be lost.”
“I am a strong fighter, I have defeated many of Achilles’ men,” Hector said. “It will be an equal match, one man against another. Whoever wins shall deserve the victory.”
“How can you speak so bravely of such a thing?” Andromache asked, weeping.
“I have faith,” Hector said simply.
Andromache threw her arms around him and hugged him close to her, tears streaming down her face and she sobbed against him, his arms sliding around her waist and holding her to him until her tears dried and her sobs passed.
She bathed him and prepared him for his battle and when they went to bed, she looked into his eyes as he made love to her. She savoured his touch, his kiss, the smell of him, and held him close to her, wishing as she had so often done for dawn to never come.
* * *