The Trojan Princess (18 page)

           
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.