The Trojan Princess (16 page)

           
To her affront, Andromache saw Helen, the golden queen, had also come to the
temple with them. Catching her eye, Helen made her way through the flocks of
worried women and sought her out.

           
“I will pray for your husband,” Helen said, bowing her head to Andromache as
she stood before her. “He is a good man; a brave General. I am sure he will
lead his army to victory.”

           
“Do you feel no shame?” Andromache asked, glaring upon this fickle golden queen
as one might look upon a leper or a thief. “You dare to offer up your prayers,
to come to the temple with the women who suffer, yet you have no place here
with us.”

           
“I did not mean to offer offence.”

           
“Your very presence offends us all,” Andromache said. She was joined by Creusa,
Laodice, Cassandra and Polyxena, the daughters of Troy, who had heard
Andromache’s raised voice. The women around them went quiet, looking upon Helen
with scorn, and upon Andromache with delight, for she was speaking what many of
them wished to but dare not. “You pretend, perhaps, that your prince is as
noble, as brave, as courageous as our husbands, our sons and our brothers. Yet
you forget, Helen, that the man you love is, at this moment, hidden within your
chambers, quaking like a coward, whilst our men are out on the battlefield
seeking to drive away the forces that you brought down upon us.”

           
“My heart and prayers go out to your husband,” Helen said, and she opened her
palms, to include all the women who now surrounded her, angry looks on their
faces, “And to all of your husbands, brothers and sons. I wish, as you all do,
for their safe return.”

           
“If you truly wished this,” Andromache said, “Then you would return to your
lawful husband, King of Sparta, and bring an end to this war.”

           
The women around them nodded in fierce approval. Helen, though her eyes
flickered with hurt and nerves, maintained a dignified expression.

           
“You do not know King Menelaus as I do,” Helen said defiantly. Her arrogance,
Andromache thought, was matched only by Paris’. Perhaps they were a good match
after all, she thought. “His brother rules him as a puppet. This war is not my
doing, ladies.”

           
There were snorts of derision from the women.

           
“You shame yourself,” Creusa said, sweeping a white hair off her face, eyes
narrowed as she addressed Helen. “Just as Paris, my brother, shames us all to
bring you here. You have no place here.”

           
“I am sorry that you think that of me,” Helen said, bowing her head to her.
“Though you may not believe my words, I must insist that they are honest; I
truly do wish for –”

           
“A Trojan victory?” Andromache asked. “You say that, yet your husband, your
brothers, your true kinsmen, all fight against us, against Troy. Do you not
grieve for them, should they fall?”

           
Helen looked trapped, as the women pressed about her, hatred permeating the
air.

           
“Of course I would grieve for them,” she said, her voice soft. “I pray for them
too. Yet my place is with the man I love, and Paris is the Prince of Troy, and
so my loyalty is with him and hence with you.”

           
Andromache considered her. Though she hated the golden queen before her, she
saw emotion flicker behind her piercing blue eyes. Did she feel pity for such
an arrogant queen? The man she loved fought on one side of the battle, her
family on the other. Andromache could not imagine such a predicament, such an
intertwining of loyalties and thoughts. If it had been any other, she would
have sought to reassure the woman, yet she could not bring herself to reach out
to this unwelcome queen.

           
Instead of comforting the woman before her, Andromache summoned her maids to
her and squared her shoulders.

           
“I have heard enough of your excuses,” she said. “I no longer wish to be in the
presence of a woman such as you.”

           
With that she gathered her robes about her and walked out of the temple, noble
women parting to let her pass, approving looks on their faces at her words. Her
maids followed her and she knew that they too approved, for their enmity
towards the golden queen was perhaps even greater than her own. Creusa,
Cassandra, Laodice and Polyxena followed after them, without a look nor a word
for Helen, who stood, shoulders slumped, as the women around her deserted her,
ignoring her or giving her loathsome looks.

           
In the sunshine upon the steps of the temple, Andromache wondered if her words
had been too harsh for the woman. Yet her husband was out on the battlefield
risking his life, whilst Paris wallowed in his own self-importance safely
ensconced in his chambers, and Helen had the temerity to pray with them for the
safe return of the soldiers. Perhaps Helen was growing tired of her lover now
that she had seen Paris for the coward he was, Andromache thought, wondering if
the woman just sought a friend. She would not find one in Troy, she thought. If
Helen truly was so lonely, so unhappy – and growing tired of Paris’ cowardice –
then maybe she would do the right thing, the honourable thing, and cross the
shore to her rightful husband and take the armies and this war away with her.

*
* *

           
It was from the ramparts that Andromache and the other noble ladies watched the
first day of battle draw to a close. The Trojan army returned to the walls,
flooding through the gates and the city echoed with the sound of armour and
shouting. She saw from her high vantage point that men had fallen – the bodies
were carried between two or three men, blood staining the sand crimson where
they had died.

           
She could not see her husband – where was that golden armour? – and she felt
her heart beating faster, her palms getting slick with sweat, as each moment
passed and still her husband did not return.

           
Thankfully, Helen had not come to the ramparts after their altercation at the
temple, for Andromache would have been compelled to strike the golden queen in
her state of agitation. Iliana and Ilisa too shared in her worry. Philomena
sent word that even Astyanax would not settle in his crib, crying and writhing
as she had never seen before.

           
Polites returned with Diephobus; then Troilus, his beautiful face unscarred by
the battle, though sweat clung to him and sand fell from his hair as it blew in
the wind. The daughters of Troy fell upon their brothers with relief, hugging
them close and kissing their cheeks. Andromache asked of her husband, but they
did not know; since he had given the command to return to the walls, they had
been separated.

           
At last, Hector emerged onto the ramparts, his armour battered and his brother
Helenus beside him. Andromache ran to him, engulfing him in her kisses, as she
clung to him, her arms thrown about his neck, so that he might never leave her
again.

           
As they dined that evening, Andromache heard the battle stories relived by
Hector and his brothers at the high table. She listened rapt, as did the other
women, for the tension had eased over the halls and corridors of the palace
with the princes’ safe return. Paris and Helen sat too, silent and ashamed, as
the stories were later to be told.

           
“We lost men,” Hector admitted sadly, “But the Greeks lost far more than us.”

           
“That is a good sign,” Priam nodded, delighted at the news. “You were right to
seek a battle with them, Hector. That is why I appointed you my general.”

           
Hector smiled courteously and bowed his head, though Andromache sensed her
husband’s delight at the praise, though he was too gracious to show it.

           
“There are many more Greeks than there are Trojans,” Diephobus pointed out,
spearing a hunk of meat on his plate. “We may have enjoyed a victory today, but
there will be many more days, weeks - perhaps months - of fighting before this
war will be won.”

           
“Indeed, you are right,” Hector acknowledged. “But it is a favourable start.”

           
“That it is,” Diephobus nodded.

           
“They have many warriors of note,” Helenus said, talking to his sisters, who
listened with unbridled interest. “Kings of all the Greek nations; their
princes and lords and heroes too, have come here in support of King Menelaus
and his brother.”

           
At these words, Helen bowed her head, a blush rising up her cheeks. Andromache
felt satisfaction at her discomfort, and Creusa smiled wickedly.

           
“I heard that Achilles was amongst the greatest of fighters in battle today,”
Polites said, and Andromache gasped. Beside her, Hector sensed her shock and
put a warm hand upon hers, knowing the dark thoughts that invaded her mind.

           
“Do not worry,” Hector said to her, whispering so that only she could hear. “He
cannot harm you.”

           
Andromache nodded, but she still felt a chill about her at the mention of
Achilles’ name. He had slain her brothers, her father, and her mother had died
from the grief he had inflicted upon their royal house. His name scared her
more than any other; she wondered if the bodies of Troys fallen soldiers she
had seen being carried back into the city had been slain at Achilles’ hand. The
man was a skilled fighter, brave and fearless they said, and it was a dire blow
to her that he should have come to war against them once more.

           
She forced a smile for her husband, who still looked at her with concern in his
eyes. The conversation was still ongoing as the brothers spoke of their fights
within the battle, but Andromache heard little of their words. Her thoughts
lingered on the sack of Thebes, the slaughter of her brothers and father, and
she wondered if Achilles would deliver yet more heartache and loss to her
before this war was over.

           
Battles and skirmishes soon became a part of everyday life and Andromache woke
every day dreading the moment Hector donned his golden armour and set off
beyond the city walls. Though his royal brothers always accompanied him, Hector
was always the first out of the gates, for he was the general and took it upon
himself to be brave, to inspire his men, his army, to follow his lead and fight
courageously for the Troy. Yet still there was one prince who never strayed
beyond the walls, though many implored him to do so, and though even Helen, the
golden queen, seemed shamed by his actions – Paris refused to pick up a sword
and fight alongside his brothers and his people.

           
Some people told stories that he had deliberately brought about the war, in
vengeance for the king sending him to his death as a child – and others
whispered that Paris did not wish for a Trojan victory nor a Greek one, and
that he had brought about the war in the hopes that both armies would be
decimated, so he and Helen could rule the vast lands to the east unrivalled.

           
Andromache did not believe these stories, though many did, for she thought that
Paris’ reluctance to fight was down to one thing and one thing alone; he was a
coward. Hector shared these thoughts with her, and at the high table he often
chastised his brother for not coming forth with him to fight against the
invaders. His brothers, too, mocked him for his cowardice, yet still Paris did
not pick up a sword and shield.

           
Though both armies had suffered casualties, Andromache wished only for one man
to be slain: Achilles. Yet each time her husband and his brothers returned from
battle, they spoke only of Achilles’ skill in warfare, and to inform her that
still he lived.

           
Whilst battle raged outside the walls, it was becoming a very different kind of
warfare within the city itself. Andromache and the royals did not suffer
hunger, nor want for anything, for their own stores had not yet dwindled, but
in the streets there were cries from the starving, from the sick and from the
dying.

           
The four main gates in and out of the city had been sealed, and were guarded
heavily night and day, remaining closed except for when Hector led his army out
to fight. Yet there were smaller entrances in the walls; passages that ran
beneath the perimeter, concealed by trees or rocks beyond the walls, and
emerging in temples or the homes of the wealthy. These passages were not common
knowledge amongst the people, for they were kept secret. Thus it was through
these passages that food was smuggled into the city, unbeknownst to the Greek
armies, who still hoped that laying a prolonged siege to the city would bring
about a Trojan surrender, while they could fish on the shores of Troy.
Andromache now understood how the city could withstand such long sieges, and
the cause for Philomena’s trust in the strength of the city – yet still the
people went hungry. The farmlands and orchards, olive yards and fisheries, had
been burned or captured by the Greek armies who sought to cut the city off from
any source of food. There were still the passages, yet only small amounts of
food and wine reached them – and the resources were reserved for the soldiers, for
the nobility and the royals, and with the city so overcrowded already, it was
not long before the people began to die of starvation.

           
Andromache did not leave the safety of the palace now, though Hector had told
her that the people no longer felt such animosity towards the royals. They knew
that Hector and his brothers fought hard in each battle so that peace might
return, and they loved their princes for that. There was little talk outside
the palace or walls of the noble houses of Paris’ cowardice, for King Priam
sought to hide his second son’s inactions from the public for fear that it
would change the tide of feeling towards them should his behaviour be known.

           
With such imbalance between the rich and the poor now emerging within the city
walls, Andromache knew that the royal family was treading a thin line, and as
such she constantly feared that public opinion would swing against them. She
remained on constant alert, keeping Astyanax and her maids close to her at all
times.

           
The days dragged on to weeks, then months, and still nothing changed. Battles
were won, battles were lost, and the Greek army remained, and the Trojans did
not surrender. Andromache grew tired of such an impasse; she prayed often for
victory, for Achilles’ death, or for Helen to return to her rightful husband
and be gone from their shores.

           
It was half a year after the ships had appeared on the horizon when, with great
fanfare and delight, allies of Troy began to arrive to support the Trojan army
in defence of the east against these invaders. Hector told his wife that his
father had sent messengers to each King, Queen and nobleman in the east and
beyond, pleading with them to come to Troy’s defence - they had begun to lose
hope that any would come.

           
King Memnon of Ethiopia arrived aboard ships, cutting his way through the Greek
encampment to land and make it up shore to the walled city. His men were
fierce, their skin black as charcoal and their bodies lean and powerful;
Andromache was in awe of these men and welcomed them warmly as the rest of the
city did. Memnon was a skilled fighter and a good friend of Priam’s, and he had
no love for the Greeks.

           
Queen Penthesilia brought her army of Amazonians down from the mountainside,
and was received with warmth but uncertainty by many of the Trojan soldiers,
who did not believe that an army of women, no matter how fierce they might
look, would be of much help in this war. After the first day of battle in which
Penthesilia led her troops against the Greeks, however, the men were in awe of
these goddess-like warriors; for between them they had slain more than any
others on that day, and Penthesilia fast became a hero to the Trojan people;
she intrigued Andromache even more so than did King Memnon.

           
Others came too, bringing with them news of the Greeks ransacking up and down
the eastern shores. It was with heavy heart that Andromache learned of the
destruction of Thebes, her birthplace, and the deaths of its people. Some, she
was told, had been taken as slaves and concubines by the Greek soldiers, the
rest had been put to death. These were the casualties of war, Andromache knew,
so she accepted such news though it pained her to do so.

           
Although such sad stories were told to the people, the Trojan hope was renewed
by the arrival of the allies; it was a happy, optimistic mood that swept over
the city and the palace. Andromache hoped that the Greeks would hesitate now
that such distinguished warriors had joined the war against them, but they did
not.

           
Hector told her that spies within the Greek camp had let it be known that
Menelaus was tiring of war, having come no closer to reclaiming his wife all
these months later than he had been on the first day he had stepped ashore. All
of this gave Andromache cause for hope; and she saw the way Helen now looked
upon her lover, for she could surely no longer disguise her disapproval in
Paris’ cowardice. Perhaps, she thought, Menelaus would seek to negotiate for
peace, and Helen would sail away with him, no longer so in love with Paris as
she had been upon her arrival in the city.

           
Indeed, it seemed to her that Hector hoped to bring about such a treaty with
Menelaus, for they both knew that should Menelaus reclaim Helen, the majority
of the Greek army would leave the shores with him; many had only come to fulfil
the oath they had sworn upon Menelaus and Helen’s marriage, and they longed for
home, no longer sharing Agamemnon’s dream for conquering the eastern lands.

           
The hope for a treaty gave Andromache a renewed strength; but it was during a
feast to celebrate a particularly well-fought battle that day, that the hope
was torn from her breast and trampled upon, grinding her longing for peace into
dust beneath her feet.

           
Paris had made an announcement, standing and raising his goblet high above his
head. Silence had descended over the room, and everyone had looked expectantly
to him – was he to announce that Helen was returning to her husband? Or was he
to finally pick up a sword and ride into battle with his brothers
Andromache at once felt concerned,
seeing the blush on Helen’s cheeks. She did not look scared, though her eyes flickered
nervously to the other royal women.

           
“I have some good news to add this great victory,” Paris said, his voice
carrying across the hall, over the heads of all those in attendance, whose eyes
were upon him. “For I, your noble prince, am to marry Helen, my beautiful
golden queen.”

           
There was shocked silence throughout the room. Andromache’s heart sank and she
felt Hector tense beside her. There would be no hope of a treaty with Menelaus
now; no hope for a peaceful resolution to this long, tiresome war.

           
Paris gave Helen his hand and she too rose to her feet. The couple, soon to be
man and wife, stood before the silent room, Paris beaming about at them all as
if he took their silence for delight. Helen had the decency to look
uncomfortable, Andromache thought, though not the true decency to return to her
true husband, who waited in his camp upon the edge of the shore.

           
Queen Hecuba at last clapped, smiling blindly at her son and his betrothed.
Others joined in upon seeing the queen do so, but it was out of politeness for
her opinion and with trepidation and disapproval that they did. Others, Creusa
amongst them, stared in open scorn at the couple, arms folded across their
chest so that their enmity was clear.

           
Andromache did not applaud, for her hands were trembling too much from rage,
frustration, despair, and what else she did not know.  She thought of the
delicate balance that the royal family must tread, to keep the citizens of the
city, so burdened as they were, at peace with them and one another.

           
Whilst war was fought and people starved, Paris and Helen, the unwelcome
couple, the coward and his whore, were to throw a royal wedding, and Andromache
could think of no greater insult to those men and women, starving beneath them,
mourning their husbands and sons who had fallen on the battlefield.

*
* *

           
Though Andromache’s concerns were shared by many in the royal palace, Queen
Hecuba had given the wedding her blessing and as such, King Priam offered no
objection to the marriage. Hector, so battle-weary and tired from such
tensions, had tried to speak openly with his father about what the marriage
would mean for the war, but Priam did not refuse his wife anything and so the
preparations for Paris and Helen’s royal wedding began. There was to be no
objection.

           
Whilst the betrothal seemed to renew Paris’ arrogance, it seemed to Andromache
that Helen seemed quieter, more withdrawn, in the days and weeks following the
announcement. She no longer joined the royal ladies in their frequent walks
along the ramparts, nor did she attempt to accompany them to the temples.

           
Andromache, though she wished she could hate the golden queen, found herself
wondering if perhaps she had judged the woman too harshly. It was true that she
had caused this war, but when she thought of what the queen must be feeling –
to be so isolated in this palace, whilst her husband’s people fought against
her own – surely she deserved compassion, rather than hatred?

           
Despite Hector and the council’s concerns, Queen Hecuba wanted a lavish wedding
for Paris and Helen, and as such King Priam wasted no expense. Andromache felt
constantly afraid that the people would object to such wasting of the precious
food that found its way to the city, yet they did not. If anything, a royal
wedding seemed to enliven the masses, give them hope that things could return
to the way they had once been.

           
It was in the Temple of Apollo, alone with her thoughts, that Andromache came
across Helen. Her golden hair was braided and knotted behind her head, in the
Trojan fashion, and she wore a headdress of sparkling silver, adorned with
plush white feathers that glistened with crystals. Her eyes had the traditional
black kohl painted around them, and she knelt in prayer, eyes raised upwards to
the roof, tears glistening upon her cheeks.

           
Andromache hesitated at first, for she did not want to disturb the queen at her
prayers, nor did she have any great desire to spend time alone with the woman.
Yet despite her uncertainty, she took a step forward, her gowns rustling with
the movement, and Helen turned at the sound, eyeing Andromache with caution.
Andromache felt a renewed remorse for her treatment of the queen, and
approached her, glancing around to make sure that they were alone, that nobody
lingered in the shadows behind the pillars to eavesdrop.

           
“You are crying,” Andromache said, kneeling beside the golden queen. “You are
to be married soon, you should not be so sad.”

           
Helen wiped at her eyes and remained defiant.

           
“It is not for my marriage, nor my choice of husband, that I weep,” she said,
as if daring Andromache to contradict or question these choices. “It is fear
and regret that bring these tears to my eyes.”