by JJ Hilton
She gathered her maids and soldiers about her, shivering with apprehension.
“I cannot ask you to die for me,” Andromache said. “The city is under attack, it is true, and many I fear will die tonight. I must tell you that you need not stay with me; I bid you go to your families and wish you all hope that we will see each other when this dreadful night of ruination is over.”
Philomena and Ilisa wept as they clung to her. The two soldiers who had been tasked by Helenus with defending her turned and left, no loyalty to her.
“I pray you are safe,” Ilisa said, kissing Andromache first and then Astyanax. “I would not go if it were not for my nephews, I cannot leave them, young as they are –”
“You need not apologize,” Andromache insisted, hugging her close. “Just go.”
“And I too would not leave, but for my husband,” Philomena wept.
Ilisa and Philomena left together, and Andromache watched them go, robes billowing behind them, praying for them and their families’ safety.
Axion alone did not leave her and Astyanax.
“You are free to save yourself too, sir,” Andromache said. “You have been a most honourable guard and loyal friend, but I release you from your service to me.”
Axion bowed his head but still did not move.
“I thank you for that, Princess,” Axion said, “But I must insist upon accompanying you, for I could never sleep again if I were to let you and the prince go undefended about the city on this night. Whether as a free man or your guard, I will stay by your side.”
Andromache considered him a moment and nodded, and Axion gave a hint of a smile. He soon became alert once more as footsteps echoed down the corridors. He raised his sword and drew Andromache and Astyanax behind him so he could defend them.
“Come, princess,” he said, “We cannot stay here where it is not safe.”
Andromache remembered the supply channel that ran beneath the walls of the city, so that the city could receive food even in times of a siege. It was used to bring in food, but surely people could leave the city by that tunnel also. She strained to remember what Hector had said of it and knew it was their only hope.
“We must flee the city,” she said, knowing at once that she was right.
Axion nodded, glancing towards Astyanax.
“I shall lead the way,” Andromache said, gripping her son’s hand tight. “Stay close.”
* * *
Ilisa fled through the courtyard of the palace, Philomena close behind her. Only hours before it had seen the rich of the city gathered here for the royal marriage, yet now it was dark and soldiers shouted, swords clashed and blood stained the ground beneath their feet.
Beyond the gate, it was time for the two maids to part ways.
“I hope you find your nephews,” Philomena said, before disappearing down a side street and into the darkness.
Alone, Ilisa swallowed her fears as she hurried down the streets she knew well, but seemed almost unrecognisable. People fled about her, men wielding swords dragging their wives and children behind them; women screamed for missing children, scratching their eyes and pulling their hair out with terror and desperation, while others seemed to be in shock, wandering the streets with blank faces, as if resigned to the fate that would befall them.
Ilisa too came across bodies lying about the streets. She looked down with horror at the sight of a child, lying lifeless alongside his mother, blood and wounds hiding his identity, and she forced herself to look away, the thought of her nephews driving her forward. She could not abandon them, for her sister Iliana was dead and somebody needed to protect the darling boys.
Greek soldiers ran about the streets in small groups, kicking down doors and screams echoing from the windows of the houses they plundered. Fire had already taken hold of some houses, and the inhabitants fled, faces blackened with soot, only to be cut down by soldiers with swords.
Nobles and the poor alike ran through the streets seeking refuge from the invaders, and Ilisa knew that no wealth or power could save any of them now.
She reached the street she desired, her heart racing and sweat slick on her skin. She was reassured to see that the house was not aflame, nor did it yet show signs of being looted by the invaders. She heard angry cries from a short distance and knew that it would not be long before they descended upon this street as they had done with the others.
Running to the front door, she banged hard upon it but the door swung forward to admit her. She raced inside and saw no sign of her sister’s family, or of her nephews.
She went up the stairs, dreading what she may yet find, and checked in the bedrooms, but there was nobody. She hoped that her nephews had been taken to safety, perhaps having escaped the city somehow, when a cry came from beneath the bed.
Daring to hope, she dropped to her stomach on the floor and saw her two nephews huddled together, eyes wide, shaking with fear. When they saw it was her, they seemed only a little eased in their minds. She pulled them out and held them close to her, weeping with relief that they were not harmed, and with fear that they would be.
“Fear not, we will escape the city,” she said, as she held them.
They still trembled with fear so she took one each by the hand and led them from the bedroom and down the stairs. Shouts and jeering came from the street outside the house and she felt her heart sink, for the invaders had come upon the street and there was to be no escape for her or her nephews.
* * *
Philomena entered her home and found her husband dead upon the floor, blood seeping from his wounds that she slipped in as she ran to him. She fell, the pain coursing through her body matched only by her grief and despair.
A noise sounded behind her and she turned, fearful. A soldier stood in the doorway, blood dripping from the point of his sword, and he bore down upon her swiftly. She tried to crawl from him but the floor beneath her was slick with blood and his hand grabbed her hair and pulled her back hard, throwing her upon her husband as if she were a doll.
Philomena screamed and wept as the man tore at her gowns and his rough hands grabbed at her breasts, a horrific leer upon his face. She fought him but he was strong, and so a woman born so high was brought so low, and her body ached where he had been so rough with her.
She wept afresh when he climbed off her, adjusting his tunic, and picked up his sword. Philomena prayed upon her husband’s body as he brought the sword down on her.
* * *
Andromache would have wept for the city if her desperation to keep her son alive had not been so strong and had not driven all but preservation from her mind.
She forced herself not to look upon the bodies that were strewn about the streets, nor the ash thick upon the air or the wails of the terrified and grieving. She kept close to Axion and gripped Astyanax close to her as they fled the palace and down the streets, for Andromache knew that it was not far to the passageway and it was to here they went.
She feared for so many; her maids, and for Helenus and the royal princesses who would be debased and brought to ruin and despair if the Greeks should take hold of the palace. Even as she thought it, she saw a band of men breach the courtyard to the palace, and the clash of swords erupted, echoing down the street to chill her.
The street was clear but for the dead, and Andromache dared to hope that perhaps they may reach safety without detection.
Torches came into sight at the end of the road and Axion readied his sword. The band of men were upon them and Andromache dragged Astyanax back against the wall, into the shadows, as Axion engaged the men, sword cutting through two of them before a third took his advantage and thrust his sword deep into Axion’s stomach.
Andromache watched her loyal guard drop his sword and fall dead upon the street, and she ran then, pulling Astyanax with her, for she had no sword to protect them.
The men came after her and they were faster, lifting their swords to her.
She had only one form of defence, she knew, and she used
it then.
“I am Princess Andromache of Troy,” she declared. “And this is my son, the royal Heir Apparent of Troy. Do us no harm, I beg of you.”
She threw herself to her knees before them, dragging Astyanax with her, arms around him so that he may not see the men’s faces or the swords coming down should her words fail to move them. The men hesitated and one of them lowered his sword.
“We shall take them captive,” he decided. “The King should decide what will become of them.”
Andromache breathed a sigh of relief, for she had saved their lives for now.
* * *
The Greek soldiers led the princess and her son through the streets at the point of their swords and Andromache knew that they made a path to the palace, where she felt hopeful that Helenus and his men may yet rescue them. Yet she also feared that, if they did indeed made for the palace, perhaps it had fallen into the hands of the Greeks, which did not bode well for her or her son.
It was for Astyanax that she feared most; she did not care whether she lived or died, as long as her son was saved, but as the rightful future king of Troy, he would surely not be welcomed by the Greeks. If Priam had fallen already, perhaps Astyanax was already an unwitting king.
She heard screams and spotted a woman a short distance away, two young boys crying and shrieking as soldiers tore at the woman’s robes and roughly put their hands upon her bare flesh. As they neared, Andromache stopped. It was Ilisa that the men sought to do harm, and she made to go to her, but her captors did not let her pass.
“Stop them!” she cried out. Ilisa caught sight of her and Andromache saw, in the flickering light of the flames, that her maid had already been beaten, for her eyes were swollen and her lip bleeding. Scratches covered her bare breasts, and lined her stomach and neck raw. Andromache turned to her captors. “She is a noble lady; she should not be harmed.”
The captors hesitated, and eventually one gave a sigh and waved the men off. Ilisa and her wailing nephews were brought to them, and Ilisa could not look her mistress in the eyes for the shame of her state. But Andromache was glad the woman was now safe.
At the point of the sword, they once more made for the palace, Andromache wondering whether it was to the dungeons they would be taken. She held Astyanax close to her, and she felt him shaking with fear. But she remained calm, for she knew that for now they were safe, and that time was all that they could ask for right now.
* * *
The dungeons were dark and crowded, echoing with the sobs of the captured, and Andromache stifled her fear as she wondered who else had been brought down to these cells far beneath the ground, and what fate might await them should they ever be released.
Two soldiers led them down the carved stone tunnel, and faces peered out of the darkness behind the bars they passed. Andromache hoped that some remained free to fight in Troy’s defence. She remained silent however, for she was sure that now was the time to obey these invaders rather than to incite their wrath.
A cell was opened a short way down the tunnel and Andromache was grateful, for there were fewer rats and odious smells here than further below, remembering Helen’s imprisonment, and wondering what the hands fate had dealt them each.
Andromache led Astyanax into the cell and the guard did not close the door, for he gestured for Ilisa and her nephews too to enter.
The door swung shut and the guards said nothing of when they might hope to be released, but simply retreated back up the tunnel, laughing between themselves, for Andromache was sure they felt great joy at treating a royal princess as such.
Ilisa sat in the corner of the room, her nephews clutched in her arms, and wept softly. Andromache could not bring herself to comfort the woman, though she knew what brutality must have been forced onto the poor girl. She still thought of freedom and how she might go about saving her son.
Movement in the cell across the tunnel sounded, and her eyes went to the dimly lit bars there, for she could hardly see in the low, flickering light cast by the torch down the tunnel. A woman with golden hair appeared, and Andromache looked upon Helen.
“The king is dead,” Helen said without emotion. “Troy has fallen, and we must wait for our judgement at the hands of our enemies.”
“So my enemies are your enemies, too?” Andromache asked, for she still did not trust this woman, though they were both prisoners all the same.
“I do not know,” Helen said. “It is for King Menelaus to decide my fate and yours.”
Helen looked upon Andromache and the two women locked eyes, wondering what would become of the other. Helen began to laugh, a high pitched sound that quickly subsided, replaced by a distressed scream of anguish that startled Andromache; she thought then that the golden princess, so hated by many, had truly lost her mind now.
Chapter Sixteen
An Uncertain Fate
The dungeons beneath the palace were cold and uncomfortable and as the days passed and no word came from above as to what had befallen the city, Andromache grew resigned to the fact that she, like so many others had done before her in these cells, must await a decision of which she would have no say in the outcome.
The cell was cramped with five of them living there and the smell of faeces and urine soon became overwhelming, so that Andromache thought that the smell might never leave her memory or her skin. She did her best to soothe the others, but it was futile, for the others knew that she knew as little as they did of what fate awaited them.
Shouts and screams echoed down the tunnels, and days and nights blurred together as one, for with no windows nor daylight, they could not tell one hour from the next, or whether it was day or night. Food was brought to them infrequently and Andromache did not eat, giving her measly portions to her son, for she still hoped that he would one day become a king.
After the first night Helen did not speak again, though Andromache shouted questions at her across the tunnel.
“How do you know that the king is dead?” she demanded. “What has become of Helenus and the princesses?”
Helen did not answer her, hidden in the dark recesses of her own cell. Andromache could have thought the golden princess dead, had she not heard quiet coughs and quieter mumblings from the cell.
Ilisa grew sick, whether from her ordeal or from despair, Andromache did not know, but she tried to ease her suffering and shouted for help and medicines, but no guards came and nor did anyone answer her. Ilisa’s nephews had grown quiet and detached, their bodies soon weak and as sickly as their aunt. Andromache felt great sadness for them, for they still clung to Ilisa, though her face grew gaunt and pale, and she spoke rarely, succumbing to fatigue and sleeping often, sweat upon her brow and trembling lips.
Andromache knew that their fates rested on King Agamemnon, and she thought that this did not bode well for her or her son. He had long sought to conquer the city and now he had succeeded she did not believe he would show leniency towards the royal family. Yet Troy was one city – a mighty one for sure, with rich and fruitful lands – but a city all the same, and if Agamemnon sought to conquer all of the eastern territories he would have many more battles to fight to rule them all.
As such, he could not indefinitely remain in Troy, and she knew that he must leave a ruler in his place, doing his bidding but capable to run the city all the same. He would want a man he could trust, she thought, but he also needed one who could control the people, for she was sure that, try as the soldiers might, they had not slaughtered all who lived here. He still needed people to farm the lands and fish the oceans, and he therefore needed a ruler who held the people’s trust and faith; and her son could do so.
Though the thought of seeking an alliance with Agamemnon made her skin crawl with unease and disgust, she knew that it must be done if her son were to live and to take his crown and throne as the gods had decided he should.
She pleaded with the guards whenever they brought food to her that she must have an audience with King Agamemnon. She begged and wailed, but they d
id not listen to her.
At last, when she had thought that hope may be lost, a guard came and informed her that she was to be granted an audience with King Agamemnon.
Her clothes were stained and she knew that she must smell terrible, but she gratefully followed the guard from the cell and up the tunnel, promising Astyanax that she would be back for him soon.
When they reached the set of steps leading to the palace, Andromache felt her heart leaping for it had been so long since she had set eyes on the palace. The guard took her down the corridor, and she saw that so little of the palace had changed.
It was disconcerting, and yet she had no time to think on it for within moments they had arrived outside the council chambers, and Andromache was beckoned inside.
The huge room was the same as it had always been, but instead of Helenus and the councilmen standing to welcome her, it was King Agamemnon who sat in a mighty chair at the end of the room, glaring at her as she cautiously approached, aware that her appearance was so unbefitting of royalty and knowing that the king took great pleasure in seeing a Trojan princess brought so low.
Around him were no doubt his advisors, and she recognised King Menelaus as one of them. He looked upon her with suspicion. She saw Sarpedon, one of the Trojan guards, standing by too, and she knew that he must have betrayed his city, for he was unharmed as he looked at her, as if daring her to challenge his loyalty as she knelt before them.
“I beseech- you for mercy,” Andromache said, her knees aching on the cold marble floor. “I beg of you, as a mother –”
“I do not care for pleas and tears,” Agamemnon snapped. “If that is all you have come to do, I shall have you thrown back into the dungeons.”