The Trojan Princess (22 page)

           
Achilles had neared the gates now and she heard the familiar rumblings from
beneath as the grille was lifted to admit him. Andromache still could not
fathom how such a thing was happening, remembering her husband and the
dishonouring of his body at the hands of the man who now walked towards the
open gates of Troy.

           
From the corner of her eyes she saw Paris leap up onto the stone wall of the
ramparts and for a moment she thought he would jump to his death. Yet now she
saw what he held, and it was not a staff as she had first thought, but a bow.
He clipped an arrow to it and there was silence upon the ramparts as he
released it from his grasp. There was the whistle of the arrow as it shot from
their sight and then a cry of shock from below.

           
Andromache rushed forwards, as did everyone else atop the ramparts, to see the
target of Paris’ arrow, though she already feared she knew. She looked down and
saw Achilles lying on the sand, so close to the gates, the arrow in his heel
and blood upon the sand, the body of the man she hated above all others lying
dead upon the shore.

           
Achilles was dead.

           
It was a joy to Andromache, for finally she thought justice had been done, but
she could not voice this opinion, and she feigned sadness, for these were
dangerous times in the palace and she did not wish to arouse any further
suspicion from King Priam.

           
Though it had been Paris who had fired the arrow that had killed the warrior,
it had not gone unnoticed that Andromache had been atop the ramparts too when
the arrow had been shot, and a guard remembered seeing Andromache and Paris
talking in the darkness upon the ramparts only the night before!

           
Andromache was sure that King Priam suspected she had played a small part in
what had happened, yet she had not been questioned by him, and nor had she
found herself once more confined to her chambers. Yet still she feared that she
would be and so she hid her true feelings and showed solemnity whenever she
left her chambers.

           
King Priam’s rage was said to eclipse any that had come before and Paris,
already so low in his father’s esteem, had not been spared his wrath. It was
announced that Paris would go out to fight in battle for the first time since
the war had begun, and Andromache, as so many others, did not know whether it
was under the king’s orders that the prince sought to fight or if it was to win
Helen over with his bravery, for rumours were rife that Helen and Paris’
marriage was no longer a happy one.

           
Andromache could not find it within herself to like Paris, though it was true
that her feelings towards him and softened somewhat. Still, she knew that he
feared battle and that he had none of his brothers’ skills with a sword, and
she wondered, as he prepared to go to war, whether he would return.

           
It was as Andromache walked to her chambers that she came across Helen, the
golden queen, wiping tears from her cheeks, huddled in a window overlooking the
city. Upon hearing Andromache’s footsteps, Helen righted herself and made to
disguise her sadness, but Andromache could not feign ignorance to her plight
and took her for a walk, so that Helen might have a chance to air her woes.

           
“You fear for Paris in battle?” Andromache asked her, as they strolled beneath
the palisades surrounding the royal gardens. “I grew accustomed to such fears,
when Hector was to fight,” she shared, “And though it does not seem like it,
the feelings shall pass.”

           
“I do fear for my husband,” she said, nodding, though Andromache sensed there
was more than just this that made her cry. “He is not a warrior, and though I
confess that he has often angered me with his cowardice, now that he is to
fight I fear for him and wish him to stay by my side, though I know how it does
not endear him to the people nor his father.”

           
“Is it under his own will that he seeks to fight, or under his father’s?”
Andromache asked. Helen bowed her head, and Andromache hoped she had not
offended the princess in her meaning. “Sorry,” she said hastily, “I do not mean
to offend.”

           
“I do not know why he will fight,” Helen said, shaking her head. “Though I
doubt it would ease my fears if I did.”

           
“He is a prince, and he will have his brothers alongside him,” Andromache
reminded her. “He will have more protection than most, and he has shown his
bravery.”

           
She spoke of his act of killing Achilles, and though many whispered that it was
cowardice to use a bow and arrow from far atop the ramparts, Andromache did not
agree, for she knew that he had faced anger from his father and the council
with his actions, though his motives for doing so remained elusive to her.
Helen, taking her meaning, gave a swift smile, for it seemed she too had wished
Achilles dead, though Andromache did not know why she should.

           
“You were lucky to have such a brave husband,” Helen said. “Hector was a great
man, and he is still missed sorely by all those he fought alongside, I think.”

           
Andromache smiled, for she still received warm wishes from the men he had
battled alongside.

           
“Perhaps your husband just has yet to prove himself in battle,” Andromache
suggested, though she remembered that Paris had confessed himself a coward to
her.

           
“Perhaps,” Helen agreed wistfully. “But it is not only that which pains me.”

           
Andromache turned to her, stopping, and Helen did so too.

           
“I can see your countenance is troubled,” Andromache said. “What ails you?”

           
Helen put a hand to her stomach, and though it was a small gesture, Andromache
took the meaning at once. Seeing realisation dawn upon her face, Helen blushed.

           
“I have not told anyone,” she said at once. “Not even Paris knows that I carry
his child.”

           
“Why do you not tell him?” Andromache asked, her mind racing with such news.

           
“He prepares for battle as we speak,” Helen answered. “I cannot put this news
upon him now, not before he goes to fight.”

           
“Perhaps it is best to keep this from him,” Andromache agreed, “At least until
he has returned from battle. A soldier needs a clear mind when he goes out onto
the battlefield.”

           
“And I fear what this might mean for me,” Helen said quietly, almost a whisper.
“If the king, and the rest of the council, were to learn that I carry Paris’
child –” She trailed off, leaving her fears unspoken.

           
Andromache could not see the reason for such fear, though she found herself
worried nonetheless, not by Helen’s concerns, but for her own. Paris and
Diephobus both sought to proclaim themselves Heir Apparent above her son, the
rightful heir, and yet neither had done much, as far as she had heard, to act
upon these desires they held. Yet if Paris were to learn that he too was to
sire an heir then perhaps he would be encouraged to change Priam’s mind. Though
Andromache was sure that in Priam’s anger he would not grant Paris such a high
honour, there was time enough for his anger to fade, for Paris to plot and
scheme for such an outcome. And Helen could promise him more children; she was
fertile, whereas Andromache could not birth more heirs, for Hector was dead and
as such she had only Astyanax, the lone heir, so vulnerable.

           
“Yes, I think to keep this news quiet for now, would be a wise idea,”
Andromache told Helen, putting a hand to her shoulder, “For Paris’ sake, as
well as your own.”

           
Helen nodded, smiling weakly in thanks. Andromache returned to her chambers
with a troubled mind, worried what such a child would mean for Astyanax’s
future.

*
* *

           
When at last the time came for Paris to go to battle, Andromache could not help
but feel a slight pleasure at seeing his determined, yet nervous, face as he
bid farewell to Helen. She thought of the times, so long gone now, that he had
looked on arrogantly as she had bid farewell to her husband as he went off to
defend the city.

           
She had remained true to her word and not spoken of Helen’s pregnancy, though
she still felt uncertain of what a new heir might mean for her own son. Yet
Priam remained angry with Paris and so she felt secure, at least for now, that
Astyanax would maintain his position, so long as she did nothing to turn
Priam’s wrath upon her.

           
As the men departed from the gates to march upon the shore, Helenus at their
head, commanded them in her husband’s place, Andromache felt strangely empty of
emotion. Where once she would have looked upon the departing army with fear –
for her husband was amongst them, now she felt little. She hoped for Helenus’
safe return, for he alone of the royal princes had shown kindness to her in the
long year since Hector’s death, and she felt compassion for the women who the
men had left behind, for she could understand only too well the fear and worry
they endured.

           
The battle was long and arduous, and Andromache came and went from the
ramparts, no longer compelled to stay for the duration of battle. No longer
would she snatch a glimpse of her husband’s golden helmet amongst the men who
returned.

           
She found herself upon the ramparts as the men returned, and news soon reached
them of another great tragedy to befall the royal household – for Paris was
gravely wounded from his sojourn into war, and had been rushed to his chambers,
Helen tending to him, beside herself with grief and yearning. It was not known
if Paris would last the night.

           
Andromache felt such a whirlwind of emotion, for she had not liked the prince,
but that did not mean she had wished him to die. She did not intrude upon his
sickbed, for it was already crowded by Helen and the royal princesses, and she
could not find it within herself to share in their overt grieving.

           
Though by all accounts the prince was gravely wounded, he did not die.
Andromache listened to news from her maids and from Helenus, who visited his
brother’s bedside often in the passing days. With no end to his suffering, it
was whispered that Paris begged for either a cure or for his death - anything
but the prolonged agony that he felt day and night. Helen took it upon herself,
it was told, to seek out word of Paris’ first wife, Oenone, who was a great
healer and renowned for bringing the wounded back from the edge of death.

           
Andromache could not help but feel compassion for Helen as she readied herself
for the journey to the mountainside, still not breathing a word of her
pregnancy nor daring to think of what the hard journey may do to her unborn
heir. Paris was loaded onto a litter and Helen departed with her husband and a
small party of men to seek Oenone in the home she and Paris had once shared,
before being abandoned for Troy, royalty and Helen of Sparta.

           
It was many days before Helen returned to the city and her husband did not come
with her. Grief gripped the palace once more as Paris’ death was mourned, for
Helen spoke of how Oenone had refused to heal him. Her bitterness and anger at
his abandonment had remained fresh in her mind even though years had passed
since he had departed. Andromache comforted Helen, even as she felt no grief
within her own heart.

*
* *

           
King Priam felt great grief for Paris’ death, for this was the third son he had
seen killed in this never-ending war, and it pained him and angered him that
such tragedy should befall his royal house when he had served his people, and
the gods, well for so many years.

           
In his grief, Priam retreated to his chambers and would see nobody except his
wife.

           
Faced with the king’s absence from the council, Helenus took it upon himself to
call a meeting, knowing that his father would want matters of state to be
discussed even though he were not there to oversee it himself.

           
“This is a great sadness that has befallen us,” Helenus said to his councilmen,
who nodded in agreement, even though the prince doubted Paris’ death was
mourned by these men. “But we are still at war, let us not forget.”

           
“Why should we continue this war?” Polites asked, stepping forward. “The gods
know it has been going on for too long, and we have lost too many men, too many
brothers, to continue in such a way.”

           
“Polites is right,” Laocoon agreed, “How diminished this very council has
become in the long years of war!” He spoke the truth. Helenus looked about, and
seemed to see the ghosts of those who no longer stood in this room with them;
Hector, Troilus, Paris, and now Priam threatened to become one of this number.
“Now that Paris is no longer with us, what reason do we have for fighting?”

           
“Paris brought this wore upon us,” Antenor nodded, his white beard rustling
with the movement. “Why should we continue to fight it when he is no more?”

           
“You think of returning Helen to King Menelaus?” Helenus asked, turning to the
old man. It was a thought he himself had considered when Paris looked to die.
“It has been a long time since he sought to treaty with us, and he was angered
by her marriage to Paris.”

           
“Her family was not consulted, nor did they give their sanction to such a
marriage,” Laocoon argued. “It could be said that Helen and Paris’ marriage was
no real marriage at all.”

           
“He may not be so forgiving,” Helenus said. “What if he only wishes to harm
Helen now, for the indignity she has caused him? Would we send her to her
death?”

           
“Many have died for her,” Laocoon said quietly.

           
“Let us not talk of such things, when we have not even thought to seek
Menelaus’ response to such a suggestion,” Polites said. “He may be willing to
treaty with us if Helen were returned him, he may not, but we will not know
until we have asked him.”

           
“This has been a long war,” Antimachus said. “And the Greeks have been away
from home for many years now. They must surely miss their homes, their wives
and their children. They will be eager to leave these shores - if they can keep
their pride also?”