The Trojan Princess

by JJ Hilton

  Andromache lifted her head to look into the man’s eyes and saw he meant his words.

  “I have come to offer you my allegiance,” she said, her voice wavering. “And that of my son, Astyanax. He is the rightful Heir Apparent, and he offers that if you make him king he will govern as you wish, and Troy will forever more be an ally and at the mercy of your rule.”

  “What makes you think I do not wish to rule over this city myself?” Agamemnon asked, though she could tell he was interested in what she had to say.

  “You have many battles still to fight if you wish to claim all of the east as your own,” Andromache said. “Troy is a fruitful land, but you will need people to harvest and work the fields, and my son can ensure that these people do not rise in rebellion at your rule.”

  “I could put these people to the sword, every last one of them,” Agamemnon said.

  “Then you would have many fields to work by yourself, and very little time to conquer further lands.”

  Agamemnon looked at her, scrutinising her, and she thought he seemed intrigued.

  “How can I be sure that your son would truly work for me and not against me?”

  “If you spare him, he will owe you his life,” Andromache answered. “He can offer you insight into the lands you wish to conquer, show you the best routes to lead your armies.”

  Agamemnon looked thoughtful and her hope flourished.

  “I will think on such things,” Agamemnon said, waving a hand to his guards, who came to drag Andromache back to the dungeons.

  Andromache was taken back to her cells, where she held Astyanax close to her, praying with all her strength that her son might be allowed to live.

  She thought of Sarpedon, the soldier who had betrayed his city, and though she despised him for such an act she could not but compare herself to him, for she too had thrown herself at the mercy of King Agamemnon, betraying the royal family and the city that had been her home for most of her life, so that her son might get a chance to live.

  It was as the rest of her captives slept that Sarpedon came to her. He did not bring a torch with him and Andromache did not recognise him at first, shrouded in the shadows, whispering for her attention.

  “You must be wary, princess,” Sarpedon said, when she had come to the bars to hear what he must say to her. “Agamemnon is a treacherous man.”

  “And what, pray, does that make you?” she asked.

  Sarpedon bowed his head.

  “I did what I must do to survive,” he said quietly. “I may have pledged my allegiance to the Greek armies, and to their kings, but I do not wish to see my true heir harmed.”

  Andromache leaned closer, desperate for what news he must impart.

  “Has the king made his decision then?” she asked.

  Sarpedon looked weary, his face lined with dismay, and she knew it must not be good news.

  “King Agamemnon considered your words,” he said slowly, “But he still fears that the Trojan people will never obey him, or a king who they know does his bidding.”

  “So he will not accept my allegiance?” Andromache asked, her voice tight with fear.

  “He will not,” Sarpedon said. “Furthermore, he believes the city will rally against him and seeks to put to death all captives, and to burn the city to the ground so that it might never again be an obstacle to his conquests.”

  Andromache did not wish to know more, yet she must ask of her fate.

  “And what is to become of us?”

  Sarpedon could not meet her eyes, and she thought she saw a tear there.

  “He has ordered the execution of all the royal family who survived the sacking of the city,” Sarpedon said. “He is to send for you and Astyanax at first light, under the pretence of accepting your offer of allegiance.”

  “He seeks to deceive us?”

  “Yes, for he wishes that Astyanax, as the royal heir, to be put to death first.”

  Andromache gasped, for such words were too much for her to bear.

  “I cannot let my son die,” she pleaded with him, “I beg of you, please save him.”

  Sarpedon looked at her then.

  “That is why I have come,” he said. “You must not let Astyanax be taken from this cell, for it is only death that awaits him, though the guards will tell you different.”

  “Then what should be done?” Andromache asked.

  Sarpedon looked beyond her, to Ilisa’s nephews, sleeping in their aunt’s arms.

  “I could not!” Andromache gasped.

  “Even to save your own son, the heir?” Sarpedon asked.

  Andromache let out a long breath.

  “What is the use of such deception, if we are all to die anyway?” she asked.

  “Whilst King Agamemnon and his advisors put the boy to death, I will come here and set you free,” Sarpedon said. “I can take you only as far as the passageway out of the city, for the guards will be distracted only for a short time. But it will be enough to see you safely gone from this city.”

  “And what of the others?” Andromache asked, thinking of Helenus and his royal sisters, all of whom she feared either already slain or awaiting such a fate in a cell like hers.

  “I can only save you and your heir,” Sarpedon said, though he sounded regretful that it should be so. “Too many fleeing would arouse suspicion.”

  Andromache knew that he spoke wisely, yet it brought her no peace.

  “I shall return soon after the guards have come to collect Astyanax,” the soldier said, as he made to leave the front of her cell. “Think on what I have said,” he whispered, glancing towards Ilisa’s sleeping nephews. “For it is the last hope you have of saving him.”

  He slipped away from the cell and disappeared down the tunnel, and Andromache looked upon her son and then upon the boys who slept with their aunt, her maid, and she knew what must be done.

  As she turned from the sleeping children, she glanced across the tunnel and saw that Helen stood at the bars, and Andromache knew at once that she must have heard everything, for she regarded Andromache with questioning eyes.

  “Please,” Andromache pleaded with her. “Do not speak of what you have heard.”

  Helen did not speak, but retreated once more into the darkness of her cell.

  * * *

  It was as Sarpedon had warned her it would be, and Andromache tried to feign delight when two guards came with the intent of taking Astyanax to meet King Agamemnon. Andromache fought against the tears and guilt that threatened, as she relinquished her clasp on the boy’s shoulders and allowed him to be taken from her.

  “Why does he go in my place?” Astyanax asked, when the guards had gone, taking the boy with them. “He is no heir, I –”

  “Hush,” Andromache hissed, and Astyanax fell silent, for he knew from the look upon his mother’s face that she was afraid and seeing this, he felt afraid too.

  Ilisa wept, for she knew well enough what would become of her nephew. She had seen the guilt in Andromache’s face when she had told her of the need for the pretence, and yet she had not spoken in protest, and nor had she alerted the guards to the truth. Now she wept silently, holding her remaining nephew close to her as if he too might be stolen.

  Andromache could not bring herself to look at her maid or her nephew, fresh waves of guilt overcoming her whenever she thought of how fearful the boy’s eyes had been as the guards had taken him away. She prayed his death would be mercifully quick.

  Sarpedon soon came to the cell, keys in his hand, and he opened the cell door, stepping aside so that Andromache and her son may pass. He glanced towards Ilisa, who remained in the corner on the floor, clutching her nephew to her.

  “We cannot be seen,” Sarpedon reminded her, sensing that Andromache wished for them to accompany them. “It is too dangerous.”

  “Take my nephew,” Ilisa pleaded, “See that he has a chance at life.”

  Sarpedon relented at the look upon the maid’s face, and went into the cell, pulling the frightened boy
from her clasp. He cried, but quietly, pressing his face against Sarpedon’s chest as he was carried from the cell.

  “We must be quick and silent,” Sarpedon instructed them, as he led them up the tunnel. Andromache did not follow, instead turning to Helen’s cell.

  “I wish you luck,” she said into the darkness.

  There was silence, and Andromache did not linger, hurrying to follow Sarpedon to safety and freedom.

  “Luck cannot save me now,” Helen’s voice drifted after her, “Luck has deserted us all, I fear.”

  * * *

  King Agamemnon watched as the boy was led across the ramparts to kneel before him, a guard clasping him under each arm so that his escape was impossible.

  The boy trembled and the king wondered at how even royalty trembled when brought to him.

  “Astyanax, royal heir, your mother has tried mightily to spare you your fate,” he said. “Yet it is in vain that she betrays her family and her city. I hereby sentence you, Prince Astyanax, Royal Heir Apparent, to death.”

  The boy started to cry and Agamemnon’s face soured; he did not like such displays, for it was with dignity that he thought royals should accept their fate, not this childishness.

  “Fling him from the walls,” Agamemnon demanded.

  The two guards hoisted the boy to his feet once more, dragging him towards the edge of the ramparts, where there was a mighty drop to the sand beneath. It would be sure to kill the boy, and when he realised what the guards meant to do he screamed and cried, kicking and writhing, but the guards held him tight.

  King Agamemnon watched as the guards reached the precipice and threw the boy over the edge. The boy’s scream echoed over the ramparts and then fell suddenly silent, so that Agamemnon knew that the boy was dead.

  “Send me another prisoner,” Agamemnon demanded.

  * * *

  Andromache felt her heart racing like never before as she followed Sarpedon out of the doors that led back down towards the dungeons. She glanced about the corridors but there were no soldiers to see them, and she knew that she had been right to trust Sarpedon.

  Astyanax was quiet beside her, gripping her hand tightly with his, and Ilisa’s nephew was frozen with fear in Sarpedon’s arms, hardly daring to breath.

  “This way,” Sarpedon beckoned, and they crept along the corridor and towards the servant’s door that led to kitchens and out of the palace via a small courtyard used to deliver food and supplies to the palace.

  Andromache was used to seeing it filled with noises and delicious aromas, but it was quiet and deserted today. She wondered what had become of all the servants, but smears of blood upon the walls seemed to signify an unpleasant end for some of them at least.

  Passing through the kitchens, they reached the door to the courtyard, and Andromache held her breath as Sarpedon slid the door open slightly and peered out. He slowly opened the door further, so that they might go through, and took a step out onto the course ground of the courtyard.

  Andromache made to follow him but at once shouts filled the yard and men came towards them, swords aimed at them. Astyanax and the young boy let out terrified cries, and Sarpedon looked to Andromache with desperation, yet she had no words to offer him.

  “They seek to escape the palace,” one man said. “She is from the dungeons; she must be a princess or some other royal.”

  “And this one?” another soldier asked of Sarpedon.

  “He pledged allegiance to King Agamemnon,” came an answer.

  “Then he is twice a traitor,” the soldier said and plunged the sword into Sarpedon’s chest. The man died at once, dropping the boy to the floor and collapsing, blood spraying the walls as he fell. The frightened boy made to run, and another sword severed his head from his shoulders.

  Andromache grasped Astyanax and held him to her.

  “What of this one and her son?” the soldier asked. “Perhaps we could make a whore out of the princess?”

  “Step aside,” a commanding voice shouted, and the soldiers obeyed at once. The man who had spoken came forward and stopped before Andromache. He was tall and golden haired, with broad shoulders and he wore the cloak of a general. She looked upon his face and recognised his features. “You are a princess?” he asked of her.

  Andromache bowed to him and nodded.

  “I am Neoptolemus, son of the great warrior Achilles,” the man said, and Andromache knew at once why she recognised such a man, for his father had killed her family and her husband, and his son now poised to kill her.

  “I know of your father,” Andromache said, anger at the memory of Achilles making her angry rather than afraid. “He slaughtered my father and my brothers, and then killed my husband, Hector, before dishonouring his body and bringing shame upon himself.”

  Neoptolemus regarded her with narrowed eyes, for he had never heard anyone speak of his father without reverence, and the princess showed no fear.

  “You are Andromache, the wife of Hector,” he said.

  Andromache nodded.

  “No harm is to come to Princess Andromache or her son,” Neoptolemus declared, and his men nodded grudgingly in acceptance. He turned back to her.

  “Thank you,” Andromache bowed again.

  Neoptolemus laughed.

  “Do not thank me too soon, for I do not set you free,” he said. Andromache’s face creased in question. He smiled, amused by her. “I am taking you and your son as slaves. I have claimed many, but none quite as beautiful, nor as intriguing, as you, and I believe I will find great pleasure in laying my hands on the wife of the prince my father himself has slain.”

  His eyes swept over her body but Andromache did not recoil; she held his gaze, her eyes coldly observing such a man. She did not expect kindness from him, for he was the son of Achilles, who had been a brutal and wicked man, and she expected nothing less from a son of his. That he should find pride in his father’s actions told her all she needed to know.

  She bowed her head once more, grateful only that she and her son would live.

  “Take them to my ship,” Neoptolemus said. “I wish to set sail with haste, before these favourable winds are likely to change; and take my other acquisitions as well. I wish to survey them before we set sail.”

  Andromache held his gaze and did not return the smile he gave to her.

  “Do not worry,” he said to her. “You will find me a kind master, for the most part.”

  Andromache walked past him with her head held high as she followed the soldiers into the courtyard and into a new life of servitude.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Neoptolemus

  Spray from the waves cooled her a little in the fierce heat of the sun, and Andromache watched as the city of Troy became but a small dot on the horizon. Beside her, Helenus stood, watching his home disappear from sight.

  “It is a sad sight to behold,” he said at last, when all trace of the city and the shore had vanished into the distance. “I never thought to see such a thing.”

  “No doubt our fates are better away from the walls,” she said, for she had heard tell of what had become of those who had remained. King Priam had been slaughtered and thrown from the walls. Neoptolemus had claimed that he was the one who had done the deed, yet another captive had said that Priam had leapt from the walls to spare himself such a fate. The boy they had believed to be Astyanax had been thrown from the ramparts too, if the stories were to be believed, and the rest of the royals murdered or taken as prisoners.

  Andromache shuddered at the memory of Polyxena’s murder, for how could she forget such a thing? Neoptolemus had slaughtered her before the watching eyes of his men and his captives, hoping that her death would grant them favourable winds. Creusa alone of the royals seemed to have escaped the city unharmed, but Andromache could not help but wonder whether she was one of the thousands who lay dead and rotting in the city’s streets, for so many had died in the sacking of the city that who was to know if her body lay amongst them.

  She was
at least grateful that Astyanax and Helenus had survived alongside her, and Andromache, though she despised Neoptolemus and his men, was reassured that they did not mean them harm, for he had taken them as slaves and brought them aboard his own ship, which was not the act of a man who intended to kill them.

  Helenus’ face was pale and his eyes drawn as his gaze continued to look out at the horizon as if he hoped to set eyes upon his home once more, though Andromache knew that even if they were to return it would be to rubble and little else.

  That evening Andromache was summoned to the cabin of Neoptolemus. She had been awarded new robes, for the ones she had worn upon their first meeting had been stained beyond repair by her time in the dungeons, and it was wearing these new robes that she went to him. Neoptolemus looked at her as she entered the room and closed the door behind her.

  Though it irked her to be summoned as such, when she was the mother of a king and far above his rank and title, she did as she was bid, for she thought only of protecting her son.

  “You are a fine woman,” Neoptolemus noted. “I am surprised you did not marry after the death of Hector. It was several years ago, was it not?”

  Andromache pursed her lips, for she knew that he asked her such to upset her, as he must know when his father had slain her husband.

  “I did not require a husband,” she answered.

  Neoptolemus looked at her closely as he approached her.

  “You intrigue me,” he said softly, reaching a hand to her face and stroking her cheek. She willed herself not to step away, so unused to such behaviour as she was. He put a finger to her lips and gently caressed them. She leant away, acting on impulse, but anger flashed across Neoptolemus’ face. “You think yourself above a man such as I?” he demanded, voice rising. Andromache met his gaze.

  “I am but your servant,” she said, though she did so with anger.

  Neoptolemus did not smile, but she thought the look in his eyes softened somewhat.

  “Leave my sight,” he snapped, and Andromache did as he had bid her.

  Outside his cabin, she wondered why he had not laid his hands upon her. She knew from stories that men could do whatever they pleased to their captured women, or concubines, and she had boarded the ship with resignation, knowing what duty she would be expected of her by the son of Achilles.