by JJ Hilton
“Easy for you to say, with your devoted husband, and your –”
“Jealousy is an evil trait in a princess,” Creusa snapped, flaring up to her considerable height. Cassandra squared her shoulders, though she was shorter than her elder sister and the affect was not so intimidating. Creusa put a hand on her sister’s shoulder, the others watching, as if used to such disagreements amongst them. “You should go to the temple and make your prayers if you aren’t able to behave in such company –”
She trailed off, but Cassandra seemed cowed.
Pushing aside both of her sisters, Laodice swept up Andromache in a warm hug. The most beautiful of all the princesses, Laodice had dark hair that fell to her waist in ornate curls, and Andromache was awed by her appearance, feeling plain and ordinary in comparison to her.
“Welcome, dear sister,” Laodice whispered in her ear, holding her close, “We are so pleased to have you here.”
Then the youngest of the daughters of Troy, Polyxena, with her dark hair and petite figure came forward. Andromache realised that Polyxena was younger than her, and the pair at once sensed that they perhaps more than any of the others would share a great bond.
Introductions over, Andromache sat amongst them and soon grew used to the laughter of the girls, and the bickering between them too. At first, Andromache was weary of the disputes, but she soon came to understand the warmth and strong bonds between the sisters, and that whenever they fought, they remained protective of each other, and after each argument they would quickly reconcile their differences and were laughing and giggling between each other once more. Their happiness was infectious and Andromache soon felt at ease whenever she was with them, whether in their chambers or at the frequent feasts the royals seemed to hold.
Polyxena often visited Andromache in her chambers, and Iliana and Ilisa soon warmed to the youngest princess, so the four women would sit and Andromache and her maids would listen with rapt attention as Polyxena relived fond memories aloud to them, or regaled them with lively stories and tales of Trojan history.
Hector, who adored all of his sisters so much, was obviously delighted that Andromache had bonded with them so quickly and strongly, and Andromache was pleased that she had so endeared herself to him and him to her.
“My brothers will love you just as much as my sisters do,” Hector assured her that evening after the feast, and Andromache was so delirious with happiness that she did not think much further on his words. “But none of them, whether my brothers or my sisters, could possibly grow to love you as much as I already do.”
Andromache smiled at that, leaned in close to him and kissed him gently on his mouth, his lips warm and his breath smelling of sweet wine. He kissed her back, his tongue exploring her mouth, one hand sliding around her waist and the other tousling a lock of her dark hair, his fingers slipping through her hair, eyes closed.
Footsteps sounded on the floor down the corridor and Andromache put a hand to his chest, gently pushing him away from her, their lips breaking apart. Hector’s lips were moist, and the taste of him lingered on her tongue. His eyes were mellow as they gazed upon her, and she could hardly bring herself to pull away from him. He took a step back, though reluctantly, she could tell, and he smiled wickedly at her, his love for her clear at that moment.
“You should return to your bedchamber,” Hector said quietly, the longing in his voice clear to them both, so that they almost laughed with the obviousness of it. “Should I walk you?”
“No, you should return to the feast, your father will be expecting you,” Andromache said, though she wished that he would walk her. Hector bid her goodnight and she felt his eyes watching her as she retreated down the corridor and began the ascent to her chambers.
Both Andromache and Hector were thinking of the days, or rather the nights, in a not so distant future when they were man and wife, that they would share their bedchambers, and they would not have to say goodnight at all.
* * *
The following day, it was with great trepidation that Andromache went into the court to meet the council of Troy. Hector had explained to her that whilst King Priam ruled the city and their lands, the council provided advice and debate to the king and, in minor matters of city and state, they presided without need to consent the king, for not all matters required a man as noble and busy as the king to preside over.
“Do not fear them,” Hector had told her, taking her hand. “The men of the council all love this great city, and they love me as their heir. They will love you too, as my bride.”
Not entirely reassured, but with little other recourse, Andromache had nodded and forced a smile to her lips. Hector, upon seeing her smile, kissed her softly upon her lips and that in turn had brought about a real smile from her. As if knowing what reaction his kiss had elicited, Hector smiled playfully at her and squeezed her hand in reassurance.
“Trust me, you have nothing to worry about,” he said.
The doors to the council chambers were thrown open and Andromache let Hector lead her across the marble floors, down a corridor of ornately decorated pillars, to the centre of the huge room. A large rectangle had been cut from the floor, and steps of marble went down to the lowered floor, reminding Andromache of an amphitheatre.
It was on this stage, of sorts, where the men of the Trojan council waited to greet her. Andromache approached them cautiously, Hector releasing her hand, so that she might grasp of each of the men’s hands in turn and receive their warm welcomes to the city.
As Hector had told her, several of his brothers made up most of the council. As the eldest of Priam and Hecuba’s legitimate children, Hector was the Heir Apparent and would inherit the crown when Priam passed away, but his other legitimate brothers had some sway in matters of politics and rule, each with a place in the distinguished council.
Diephobus, the second in line to the throne after Hector, was the first to greet the princess. He had dark hair like his brothers, but he did not have a warrior’s physique like Hector, and his shoulders seemed slightly stooped to Andromache. His eyes were dark but held none of the warmth his brother’s did and when he smiled and kissed her hands with warm lips, she fancied that the smile did not reach his eyes. His lips lingered a little longer on the skin of her hand than was necessary, and Hector gave a quiet cough, that seemed to bring Diephobus to his senses. He stood up straight again, letting go of Andromache’s hands, and she noticed that he was tall, though his slumped shoulders made him seem less so than the others. His eyes watched her closely as she moved on to the next brother.
Helenus was fair-haired, taking after his mother more than his father in that respect, but his skin, like those of his brothers, was lightly kissed by the sun to a warm bronze hue. He looked so like Cassandra, Andromache thought, remembering that they alone of all the King’s children were twins, and she wondered if Cassandra was right and that he had inherited the gift of prophecy as his sister had. Like Hector, Helenus was a soldier and he stood tall and proud, though his shoulders did not yet have the width or strength of his older brother’s. He had a pleasant, if serious, face and he greeted her warmly.
Polites, the fourth son, was also fair-haired, and he shared the thin, wiry frame of Diephobus. He was a scholar, not a fighter, as Hector had explained to her as he talked of his family. He greeted her kindly, clasping her hand in a loose grip, but made no bow nor kiss to her, his eyes, so used to studying texts, ran over her, sizing her up. Andromache did not feel uncomfortable at his look, as she had with Diephobus, and she smiled. Polites inclined his head politely to her, and let her withdraw her hands from his.
The youngest of the brothers that still remained in Troy, Troilus was clearly the prized child of Priam and Hecuba. Tall and fair-haired, he shared the look of Helenus, but his face was full of beauty. Indeed, Andromache recalled Iliana and Ilisa’s words; they had said that Troilus was the most beautiful of all the princes, and she now saw the truth in their words, though she much preferred Hector to this young, pretty
prince.
“My youngest brother,” Hector explained, after Troilus had kissed Andromache’s hand and proclaimed her worthy of his brother’s hand in marriage, “Yes, even younger than our fair Troilus,” he said, indulging Troilus with a warm smile, “Has been sent to Greece, with my sister Ilione, where he remains her and her husband’s ward.”
Andromache nodded in understanding; it was not uncommon, especially in royal households, for one sibling to take another under their protection. In such a royal family as this, Andromache thought, it was perhaps necessary for such a thing – after all, the poor little prince would be so far along the line of succession, and there was so much more of a future for him as ward to a foreign King and his queenly sister.
Next in the line of counsellors was Laocoon, whom she had already met. Short and squat, he remained steeped in fine purple robes, and he smiled warmly at her, his bald head still shining with a sheen of sweat. She briefly wondered whether it was the heat or nerves that made him sweat so, yet she found it was rather cool in these marble chambers.
“Once again I welcome you,” Laocoon said sweetly, his jowls wobbling with his words, “I hope you have settled in well to our beautiful city and this wondrous palace.”
“Thank you, I have indeed,” Andromache said, as graciously as she could.
Beside Laocoon, two white-bearded men hunched, both grasping walking sticks of polished wood. Antenor and Antimachus both greeted her kindly with lilting, rasping voices, but did not bow to kiss her hands, for they were too frail, so Andromache inclined her shoulders a little and kissed their withered hand, noticing their papery, pale skin on the backs of their hands. One of the men, Antenor, the eldest on the council, his years greater by far than even King Priam, seemed to shake constantly with the strain of remaining standing.
When Andromache suggested he sit down awhile, he protested, shaking his head side to side, looking affronted at the suggestion that he may need rest.
“I have been stood at this council for over fifty long years,” Antenor said, still quivering. “I have not yet needed to sit when greeting a guest, and I do not yet need to do so.”
Andromache bowed her head in silent apology, and Antenor seemed appeased, though his eyes, more alive and youthful than the rest of his body, watched her closely. Hector had warned her before her entry into the chamber that the council was difficult at times – so many men wanting different things, different personalities clashing over the wills and wishes of the people they presided over, and all the while having to appease the king. Andromache did not envy him his role in the council, grateful that she would have nothing to do with the running of the city, only as part of the royal family, which the people of Troy, she had been told, seemed to put above all else.
With the greetings done Hector made to take Andromache from the council room, when the doors swung open at the end of the room and King Priam entered, gowns billowing about him as he walked towards them, arms opening as he sighted Andromache.
“My darling princess,” he cried out, embracing her warmly, “I am glad that you have met our most respected council.” He turned to Hector, “I trust you are enjoying the company of your betrothed.” Hector nodded. “Wonderful, wonderful,” Priam cried, and then turned to his council. “We have much to discuss, gentlemen,” Priam said, descending the steps to the central stage of the room.
Andromache, feeling Hector’s hand on her forearm, allowed herself to be guided from the room. She felt pleased to have met his brothers and fellow councilmen, yet something troubled her. Diephobus’ lingering lips on her hand; Antenor’s eyes that seemed to bore straight through her; and Polites’ studied look into her eyes, they all played on her mind.
“See, there was nothing to fear in meeting them,” Hector said, when the doors to the council chambers had closed firmly behind them, and he guided her back down the corridors to her private chambers, where Andromache had no doubt Iliana and Ilisa would be waiting excitedly to hear of her morning. “Now you can rest assured, you have met all of the family,” he said, though his eyes narrowed as he said the words, and Andromache slowed, concerned.
“Is anything amiss?” she asked, reaching to stroke his face, for his brow had furrowed.
“Just a memory resurfacing,” Hector said, shaking his head, regaining his manner. “Nothing to worry yourself over.”
Andromache walked with him back to her chambers, her mind on the men she had left in the council chambers. She wanted to share Hector’s easy belief that they were all great men, wise men, men they could entrust with the running of the city; yet something told her to be wary around them.
* * *
As preparations for the royal wedding began, Andromache realised that she had not yet really thought upon the wedding, nor married life itself, until she had arrived in Troy. She reflected on the weeks spent in Thebes after her betrothal had been announced; she had too preoccupied with fears, proved justly so, over her brothers to pay much heed to the life she would lead when she became a royal princess in Troy.
She had certainly thought of how grand and lavish the ceremonies would be; though she had sat with Queen Hecuba and the princesses and talked of such things since her arrival, it still stunned her when she heard talk of the plans – Iliana had heard that a thousand pheasants had been sent for by the king, and that a huge games, consisting of sword fighting, discus, and javelin, would be thrown in her and Hector’s honour.
Though she was aggrieved over the deaths of her father and brothers and her heart was still raw with the pain of the tragedy, she could not feel sad for long in such a place as this. She longed for her mother to regain her strength, so that she might share in the joy of the wedding, but she did not hold out much hope for such a recovery.
Even as she doubted it so, Andromache often visited her mother’s small chambers to talk of the wedding and the excitement that had filled the royal palace as the celebrations drew nearer. She spoke of her adoration of Hector, and her warm welcome from his family, but she spoke to herself, for her mother did not answer her, struck dumb by grief and mourning.
The chambers that had been given over to her mother were small but comfortable and she had a view from the window of the shore and the sea beyond. For all the beauty of such a scene, Andromache was saddened that her mother had not yet gone to the window and would therefore not appreciate the wonder of such sights.
Her maids Iliana and Ilisa took it in turns to wait upon the widowed queen, but Andromache knew that they dreaded these hours spent nursing a ghost. They did not mention their feelings, but Andromache had known them for years and they did not have to speak for her to read their thoughts.
Though a healer was treating the queen with herbs and potions, Andromache had soon noticed that the royal family did not take an overt interest in her mother’s health. Hector asked after her often, though she knew it was for her welfare that he asked and not out of concern for her mother. Polyxena, too, worried for her new friend the princess, but they were alone of the royals in showing interest.
Diephobus, the sly brother of her betrothed, sometimes asked after her, and Andromache would reply politely but did not elaborate any more than was expected of her; she found something about this particular prince underhanded and she did not trust him.
But who could she trust? She often wondered on this. She trusted Hector, and Polyxena too, and the other daughters of Troy seemed to love her as one of their own, but she was not one of them, she often remembered, as she came to adjust to their customs. She was still getting used to wearing an elaborate headdress, as was the fashion amongst wealthy Trojan women, and Hector had presented her an ornate one; a gold band that fit over the top of her head, adorned with plush feathers from a peacock, so beautiful that Iliana and Ilisa had at once been filled with jealousy and admiration.
She could not forget, at times like these when her suspicions were rife, usually after spending any length of time in the presence of Diephobus, that she was alone in this world. Her father
and brothers, her protectors, were slain. Her mother, for all intents, had gone too. She had her maids and Axion who remained a loyal guard to her, still suspicious of such overt wealth and displays of warmth by the inhabitants of their new home, but that was all.
Perhaps it would be different after her wedding, Andromache often thought. Then she would truly be a part of the royal family, she would be the wife to the Heir Apparent, and she would have nothing to fear.
* * *
Each day the royal wedding drew closer, and Andromache found herself the object of intense curiosity. Though she was used to it by now, for so many of the royal household had been intrigued upon her arrival, she had not yet experienced the interest of the citizens of Troy.
The first time she rode out onto the streets of the city as a princess and the bride of the people’s heir, she was overwhelmed with nerves. Hector rode on a horse alongside the litter that carried her. The litter was adorned with silk curtains and cushions, and the people strained to see her as they went down the streets.
Frightened as she was, she soon began to grow bold. With each wave she granted them, she received applause; women held their babies up to her as if she might carry the powers to bless them with good fortune; children rode on their fathers shoulders so they might get a better look at this future queen of theirs; and old women and young soldiers in training alike waved, cheered and bowed as she passed them.
Though the palace was mighty, it was as nothing compared to the enormity of the city. Houses, small and large, filled every space within the walls, broken only by the narrow, crowded streets, made smaller still by the market stalls, carriages and fountains that seemed to fill each of them. There were small squares in the places where the larger of the streets met at intersections, and a myriad of narrow alleyways wound and weaved from the main streets. From the balconies of the royal palace, Andromache had seen that there were small patches of greenery in the city (the courtyards and gardens of the rich) but from these streets she could see none, hidden as they were within the confines of the wealthier citizen’s private lands. Though the city had so many citizens, all of the inhabitants of Troy came to welcome their new princess; wealthy noblemen and their wives, adorned in their robes of bright colours; the women themselves, with their tall headdresses and piercing eyes adorned with dark black powder; even the poor street urchins in rags, smiling and giggling, running barefoot to keep pace with the litter that carried her and hoping to be graced by her attention - even their mothers, laden with wriggling babes in their arms, robes stained and hair braided simply.
