The Trojan Princess

by JJ Hilton

Andromache held her husband close to her as he prepared to set forth from the palace to fight Achilles. She wished the gods would strike Achilles down so that he may be punished for killing her family, and now wishing to kill her husband – but the gods did not heed her prayers, and so she said goodbye to her husband.

  He wore his golden helmet and breastplate with pride, his sword and shield awaiting him at the gate. The royal princesses were tearful in their distress, his brothers brave and proud. Queen Hecuba wept with her daughters and even King Priam looked as if he would shed tears for his son. Andromache longed to cry, to wail and cling to his feet in a desperate attempt to stop him from leaving her, but she did not. She did not cry, nor did she plead with him not to go.

  She remained composed and watched as Hector knelt before Astyanax.

  “Never forget to look after your mother,” he said, and Astyanax nodded, not comprehending the situation but knowing that something important was taking place. “I will always love you, my darling prince.”

  He hugged his son to him, and Andromache bit on her lip to stop herself from crying out in despair. Hector rose to his feet and came to her then.

  They looked at each other for a long moment. She remembered the first time she had set eyes upon him in the dining hall of her father’s palace in Thebes and she had known then that she would love him.

  “I love you, Andromache,” Hector said. “In this life and beyond, I always will.”

  “And I you,” she said.

  She held him to her and kissed him boldly. Hector’s lips were soft and warm on hers. She longed for more time, but then their lips were parted and he gave her hand a final squeeze in his, and then was gone.

  Andromache clutched Astyanax’s hand and hurried from the courtyard, through the palace, so that she might reach the ramparts and see him as he left the gates.

  Upon the ramparts she looked down at the shore and saw a lone figure already awaiting her husband. Achilles stood with sword and shield far below her. He was quick and agile, smart and strong, Andromache thought, but so was her husband.

  She was joined on the ramparts by others yet she paid them no heed. The sound of the gates opening rumbled from below and then Hector was walking out across the sand to where Achilles stood.

  The two men were motionless, separated only by a small stretch of sand. Andromache held her breath as did the rest of the people gathering on the ramparts. A cry went up before Hector and Achilles raised their swords and ran at each other.

  * * *

  Hector charged across the sand and raised his sword, bringing it down with force upon Achilles' shield, but the warrior had been expecting it and dodged the blow, the swords tip barely glancing off the shield as Achilles spun around. He struck hard and fast, and Hector deflected the blow with a second to spare.

  He turned, and he and Achilles circled each other, swords ready, breathing hard. The sun beat down hard upon them and Hector felt sweat beading beneath his helmet, though he paid it little mind. He watched Achilles, nimble on his feet, though his face was hard and determined. He wanted vengeance, nothing else on his mind but killing the man before him.

  Hector did not seek such vengeance; but it was a battle that only one man could survive and that meant that he must kill Achilles.

  Achilles darted forward but Hector was ready and parried the blow with his sword. He cut back, but Achilles stepped backwards, avoiding the blow. Hector closed the gap, pressing down on him. Achilles deflected the next blow, and Hector in turn, blocked the response that followed.

  Hector observed the man he was trying to kill and thought of how sweet victory would be when Achilles lay at his feet. He swung again, hitting Achilles’ shield, and Achilles pushed him away. He struck upwards with the point of his blade, and Hector jumped back to avoid it, stumbling in the sand. He righted himself and parried Achilles’ next blow, his arms aching, seeing the hatred in his attacker’s eyes.

  * * *

  Andromache could hardly bear to watch the fight though she could not tear her eyes away from her husband either. Hector and Achilles struck and parried, paced and circled each other - struck and parried again.

  It seemed that the fight went on for hours though it could not have been so long, she thought. She sent Astyanax inside with Ilisa and Philomena, not wishing him to witness any more of the fighting, for she knew that the outcome must be death for one of them.

  She watched as Hector almost stumbled and righted himself in time to deflect Achilles’ sword, then swung his blade around and narrowly missed Achilles’ calf as he dove out of the way just in time. Achilles blocked another blow with his shield and cut up with sword, Hector swerving to avoid the blade and lashing down, catching Achilles’ shoulder - drawing blood.

  Andromache felt hope flutter as Achilles stepped back, blood coming from the wound, though it did not seem to weaken him. If anything the man seemed angrier, striking hard several times in quick succession so that Hector was forced to step backwards as he defended the blows with shield and sword.

  Then Hector swung hard and Achilles stumbled. Hector pressed his advantage, bearing down upon the man and striking again, Achilles only just raising his shield in time. Hector swung again fast, his speed taking Achilles by surprise. Hector raised his sword, and Andromache was sure this would be the blow to finish his opponent. However, Achilles was swift, and with Hector raising his sword, jabbed forward with his blade into the exposed flesh of Hector’s stomach, so that the sword pierced him beneath the breast plate.

  The two men froze for a moment and Andromache’s breath caught in her chest. Achilles pulled his sword away and in the sunlight she saw the point was crimson with her husband’s blood. Hector dropped his sword to the sand at his feet. Andromache screamed then, for him to pick up his sword and to keep fighting. Achilles did not move as he stared at Hector. Andromache screamed, but they could not hear her.

  Hector fell to his knees upon the sand and Achilles raised his sword. Andromache’s scream pierced the hot air as the blade rose and fell upon her husband’s exposed neck in a swift, lethal arc. As her husband fell to the floor, so did Andromache, and tears wet the marble beneath her as blood wet the sand beneath Hector - her heart ripped from her as Hector’s beat its last upon the sand of the battlefield.

  Chapter Eight

  The Dishonouring of Hector

  Andromache lay upon the ramparts, unable to watch as Achilles dragged her lifeless husband to the chariot on which he had travelled up the shore. He pulled a length of rope from the chariot, tying one end about Hector’s ankles and the other to the back of the cart. Andromache heard the shrieks of horror and disgust from the others who watched from the ramparts as Achilles kicked the horse into motion and the chariot shot forward, the rope dragging Hector’s body across the shore.

  Though she wished to be spared the dishonour of such actions, Andromache rose to her feet and let out another shriek of despair. Achilles drove the horse and chariot up and down the length of walled city before him; his prize, Hector’s body dragged behind him, blood trailing after him. Andromache felt darkness descend over her and collapsed to the floor.

  When she awoke, she found herself in her bedchambers, Ilisa mopping her brow with a damp cloth. Upon seeing her eyes flickering, Ilisa put a hand to her shoulder.

  “You need rest, princess,” Ilisa said, but Andromache sat up regardless of the maid’s protests.

  “What has become of my husband?” she demanded.

  She remembered Achilles’ cruel act and hoped that her husband now lay safely within the palace where she could prepare his body for the afterlife. Ilisa’s look told her it was not to be so.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, eyes brimming with tears. “Achilles has not returned him.”

  “How can he do such a thing?”

  “Who knows what drives people to do such evil,” Ilisa asked, shaking her head in despair. “He took him back to the Greek camps. Priam has sent word for him to return Hector so that preparations can be ma
de, but so far, there has been no word from Achilles.”

  Andromache felt bile rise up in her throat but swallowed it down.

  “I must speak with the king,” she said, making to get out of the bed, but Ilisa put her hand back to her shoulder. Andromache slapped it away, and Ilisa rose, backing away, bowing apologetically. Andromache swung her legs off the bed and rose. “Where is Priam?”

  “I think he’s gone to meet with the council,” Ilisa answered quickly.

  Andromache hesitated, feeling the urge to apologize, but swept from the room, her grief and desperation to have her husband’s body returned to her overcoming any manners or feelings of guilt. She hurried down the corridors, ignoring the alarmed, pitying looks from those she passed.

  She thought of her son, poor Astyanax. Did he yet know of his father’s death? Had somebody told him whilst she lay unconscious in her bedchambers? Did he even now mourn alone for his loss? Andromache stopped halfway down the corridor. She was torn between demanding Priam took action to return Hector’s body and going to seek out and comfort her son.

  Making her decision, she turned and rushed back up the stairs in search of her son. She found him sobbing in Philomena’s arms. The maid looked surprised to see her as she rushed into the room, but relinquished her clasp over him at once. Andromache dismissed her and cradled her son in her arms, his eyes red from crying. She was reminded, for all his sword play and bravado, that he was but a young boy, now grieving for his father.

  She held him close to her for a long time, her own eyes watering as her son's did. She thought of her husband’s greatness, his bravery and his kindness, and wept tears for the man she loved, clutching Astyanax to her, for now he was all she had left in this world.

  * * *

  King Priam received Andromache, his heir’s widow, with great trepidation.

  “You have sent a command for Achilles to return Hector’s body?” she said at once upon entering the council room. She looked around and seemed pleased that they were alone. “Yet he does not send word back, nor does he return my husband.”

  “I have sent another messenger,” Priam said, his voice quiet. He too was grieving for his son, his eldest child, his beloved heir, who he had always hoped would rule over Troy in upon his own passing. He had never thought to outlive Hector. “I fear, however, that Achilles will not be reasoned with; he seeks vengeance upon Hector even in his death.”

  Andromache put a hand to her breast, as if her heart was aching once more.

  “It will not do,” she insisted. “Hector must be returned; he must be prepared for the afterlife.”

  Priam knew how worried she must be. Andromache had believed that she and Hector at least would be reunited in the afterlife, yet if Hector’s body was not prepared, if their rites and rituals were not performed, then Hector would spend eternity wandering in a no-man’s land, halfway between life and death, alone.

  “I have tried,” Priam said. “The man will not listen to reason.”

  “Then someone must make him,” Andromache said. “And if you shall not –”

  “If there was some way –”

  “I will do it,” Andromache said.

  “I will not allow you to debase yourself in front of the Greeks,” Priam insisted. “I will not allow such a thing.”

  Priam reached out to her but she was already turning and walking from him out of the council chamber. He let his arm drop to his side. He felt reduced to a feeble old man, to be left so powerless though he was a king, loyal and just, kind and brave.

  He wondered what Andromache intended to do to and began to pray for her, and for his beloved son.

  * * *

  Andromache knew that what she faced was dangerous. She could easily be caught and if she was, she dreaded to think what would become of her. A Trojan princess would not be treated kindly, she was sure, if the Greeks caught her slipping into their camp in the dead of the night.

  Ilisa and Philomena looked frantic, desperate to persuade her not to go through with such a drastic plan, but Andromache had yet to think of any other way to make Achilles see sense. She would have to confront him, in person, and implore upon him her grief and desperation for the release of her husband’s body.

  “Allow me to go in your place,” Ilisa begged her, as Andromache pulled the black cloak about her so that she might be concealed in the darkness. “They will not treat me as they would you, princess.”

  Andromache felt touched by the offer, but she knew that it must be her.

  “He will not listen to messengers, nor maids, though I thank you,” Andromache said, clutching Ilisa’s arms and smiling weakly at her. “It must be me.”

  Ilisa wiped at her eyes, and Philomena shook her head.

  “Think of your son!” Philomena insisted. “If anything were to happen to you –”

  Andromache bowed her head. She had thought of such things and it made her want to throw the cloak from her and remain in the safety of the palace, yet she could not leave her husband’s body with Achilles, so that her husband might never find peace in his death.

  “I know you both mean well and think only for my safety,” Andromache said quietly, “But I must do this, I must see Achilles and tell him of the grief he causes me and my son, what he does to all of Hector’s family. He must see the grief on my face, in my eyes, before he will consider listening to reason, I know it.”

  Ilisa and Philomena nodded, though she knew they wished she would reconsider. She hugged them both close to her and slipped from her chambers, hoping that she would not be discovered and stopped before she had even made it out of the palace walls.

  The atmosphere within the palace was one of mourning, and so it was that she encountered nobody as she slipped down corridors and staircases, her heart beating fast and her palms damp with nervous sweat.

  She had reached the courtyard when a hand clasped her arm and she let out a moan of terror. She spun around and found herself looking into the determined face of King Priam. He too wore a black cloak, and Andromache considered him for a long moment.

  “You seek to meet with Achilles?” she asked at last.

  Priam nodded, a wan smile upon his lips.

  “I realised what you must intend to do,” he said. “And I could not allow you to place yourself in such danger. Hector would never forgive me if I were to let you go. I must go in your stead, to appeal to Achilles’ humanity.”

  “If he does not heed you –” Andromache began, and then trailed off. The thought of Priam being captured or killed terrified her, for now that Hector, the heir to the throne, was dead, Paris was next in line to inherit the throne, as Astyanax was as yet so young. But would Diephobus, who had been second in line before Paris’ unwelcome return, allow his brother to take his place? Andromache knew how duplicitous Diephobus could be, and she did not doubt that he would do anything in his power to ensure that he, not Paris, got the throne. She shuddered. Priam, reading her thoughts, stroked her arm reassuringly.

  “I will be safe,” he promised her. “I will bring Hector home.”

  Andromache nodded, for she believed the conviction in his eyes. She watched as he slipped resolutely across the courtyard; surprisingly fast for such an aged man. As he disappeared into the darkness, she turned and retreated to her chambers, feeling conflicted for the relief that she did not have to make the journey, hopeful that her husband would be brought back to her.

  * * *

  Andromache did not sleep easy that night, even after drinking the herbal tea her maids had forced her to drink to calm her grief. Her fear for King Priam and for her husband’s body weighed heavily on her mind, and when she awoke it was with great tiredness that she arose. Ilisa and Philomena joined her, and they were smiling down upon her.

  “King Priam has returned,” Ilisa said, clasping Andromache’s hands at once.

  “And he has brought Hector’s body with him,” Philomena smiled.

  Andromache felt overwhelmed with relief, for she had been so sure that Achi
lles would not release her husband's body, but would continue to seek vengeance beyond death for the slaying of his lover and friend.

  At once she dressed and went to her husband’s body. It hurt her heart to look upon her husband as he lay on the marble slab in the crypts, for Achilles had done a great deal of damage to Hector in dragging him across the shore behind his horse. Andromache was reassured, at the least, that Hector had already been dead by then and so he had not suffered the pain nor the indignity of what had followed.

  Andromache washed Hector's naked torso - her hands trembling as she cleansed him were reminded so painfully of how she had bathed him and massaged his skin before each battle in which he fought. She wept as she cleaned his face and hair, for she could remember when smiles had lit up his features, and when he had kissed her with his warm lips, now so cold. She would not allow the priestesses close, performing the cleansing rites herself, incense and heavily scented oils overwhelming her with their aroma in the enclosed crypt.

  When she had finished preparing his body, she stood and looked down upon him. The blood and sand had been swept away and he bore resemblance to the man she had loved, still did love, with all of her heart.

  As she stood beside Hector's body in the crypts beneath the palace, the royal princes and their guards were building the pyre that would help Hector on his journey to the afterlife. She did not think of this, nor of the days or years that were to follow in which she would have to live without her husband. She held his hand in hers and though his was cold and still, she commanded herself to remember when they had not been so and smiled at the memories.

  When the time came and evening had begun to fall, Helenus and his brothers came to the crypts and found her standing beside him. Ilisa and Philomena had tried to lure her from her husband, to eat or rest awhile, but she had refused to leave her him unattended. Helenus approached her quietly, his head bowed respectfully.