The Trojan Princess

by JJ Hilton

  With so much turmoil settling over the royal palace, Andromache longed to visit Thebes, her homeland, but it was not possible. She wanted to show Astyanax the kingdom his grandfather had ruled, and to check on the lands now that Diephobus was ruler. However Hector was needed at home and she did not wish to travel without him, especially at such a difficult time, so she remained at the royal palace in Troy.

  The first time that Andromache met Helen, Queen of Sparta, properly, was on the ramparts of the palace, overlooking the beautiful shores. Andromache was joined by Iliana and Ilisa, and she held Astyanax in her arms as his beautiful dark eyes, so like his father’s, scanned the horizon and smiled in delight.

  “It’s her,” Iliana gasped, as Andromache pointed out a ship’s sail in the blue vastness of the sea to Astyanax, and she half-turned to her maid, though she had no need to ask to whom she was referring.

  Helen of Sparta was indeed beautiful, Andromache had to admit, though she did so grudgingly. Her hair flowed in golden waves to her waist and instead of a headdress she wore an elaborate gauze of spun silver and crystals. Her lips were a rosy pink, her skin pale and clear as marble, and her eyes were a piercing blue, as perfectly magnificent as the ocean.

  She approached Andromache hesitantly, and Andromache passed Astyanax to Ilisa, who clasped him to her breast protectively as if to shield the child from Helen.

  “You have a beautiful son,” Helen said, her first words to Andromache. “Astyanax, that is his name?”

  “Yes,” Andromache nodded. “Yours is Helen.”

  It was no question; they both knew who she was.

  “And you are Andromache,” Helen said, “Am I pronouncing it right? And-rom-o-kae?”

  Andromache nodded.

  “You are the wife of Hector, the General of the armies and Heir Apparent?” Helen asked. Andromache wondered if she was only imagining the hint of jealousy in her voice, but nodded. Helen smiled. “You are a very beautiful woman, if it is not too bold to say.”

  “You are not without beauty yourself,” Andromache said.

  Astyanax let out a cry from Ilisa’s arms and the maid tried to hush him. Andromache’s fears returned; of what the future would hold, of the possibility of war and of danger. The woman before her was responsible for all of these fears, she reminded herself, and yet she dared to speak of beauty and of husbands, as if she had any right to do so, when she had brought such strife to the palace and to the city.

  “I must go,” Andromache said. She gestured to her maids and stepped forward.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you,” Helen said.

  Andromache narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips, deigning not to reply. She knew that the royal princesses did not speak to her; and neither did King Priam, nor Hector or his brothers. Only Queen Hecuba did, and that was because she was blinded with guilt where Paris was concerned.

  Andromache swept past Helen, her maids beside her, ignoring the surprised, affronted look on Helen’s face as she departed without giving a response. As she retreated from the ramparts to the cool interior of the palace, Andromache felt a certain vindictive pleasure at dismissing the golden queen who had brought so much trouble with her.

  * * *

  After their meeting upon the ramparts, Andromache sensed Helen’s dislike whenever they shared each other’s company. Though they were never alone - indeed, Andromache actively ensured that she was never around Helen without others – whenever they were seated at the high table for meals, Andromache sensed the other woman’s silent scorn and anger towards her. It seemed Helen did not dare show open disregard or dislike, but she let Andromache know her feelings nonetheless.

  Though she disliked the golden-haired queen, Andromache did at times feel pity for the lonely woman. Much to Hector’s frustration, Paris had quickly regained his arrogance and re-joined the council meetings, and with it he seemed to spend less time with his lover. With rumours still being whispered of Paris’ existing marriage, to Oenone, the nymph he had abandoned to live with their son on the mountainside, Andromache often wondered how Helen could hold her head high, and her eyes dry from tears, with so much enmity and rumour circulating about and directed towards her.

  At times, Andromache considered reaching out to Helen and offering a kind word, a sympathetic gesture, yet she always caught herself before she did, reminding herself of that which Helen had brought with her upon her arrival in the city: worry, fear and uncertainty.

  Walking along the ramparts, Andromache once again found herself face-to-face with Helen, who walked alone as she always did, for nobody sought out her friendship or her company. Andromache felt herself compelled to say a kind word, or initiate a conversation, something to show this lonely, golden queen that she was not completely despised, no matter the circumstances of her presence in the city.

  She paused before Helen and felt the concern of Iliana and Ilisa behind her. They did not like Helen; Philomena had heard rumours of the queen’s past behaviours in Sparta, and the maids had spent hours gossiping on such scandals that seemed to follow the queen wherever she went and whatever she did.

  Before she could speak a kind word, an alarmed cry rang out from further along the walls. The cry was taken up by another, then another – and soon the whole of the wall seemed to be a chorus of shouts from the soldiers posted along its reaches.

  Andromache felt panicked at their calls, but did not have to search long to see the cause of their alarm. Looking out beyond the sandy shore and over the ocean to the horizon, she saw the white sails of ships. Hundreds of ships had appeared over the horizon, and it seemed the longer she looked, the more appeared. Though she could not make out their direction, she had a dire feeling that it was to Troy they made haste.

  “So many ships,” Iliana gasped under her breath, clutching Astyanax closer to her.

  “An army,” Ilisa whispered.

  Andromache knew her maids were right. This was the army she had feared, sailing upon the city that held everything she loved so dearly; Astyanax, Hector, her maids, and her royal brothers and sisters of Troy.

  She turned on Helen, who too was gazing out at the ships on the sea.

  “This is your doing,” Andromache said boldly, fear and anger thick in her words.

  Helen looked frightened.

  “I never –”

  “These are your husband’s armies, coming to claim you,” Andromache talked over her, “And if it were up to me, you would be sailing out to meet him already, so there would be no need for them to set a single Spartan foot on our shores.”

  Helen paled at her words, but Andromache did not care. She wanted to strike the foolish queen who had brought this down upon them, but she did not. She gestured to her maids and stormed away; trying to ignore the trembling of her limbs as fear, like an uncontrollable fire, threatened to engulf her.

  Chapter Five

  The Start of War

  The arrival of the Greek armies upon the shores of Troy sent alarm through the city and the outlying lands. In the days that followed the sighting of the sails upon the horizon, Andromache watched from the windows of the palace as farmers, miners, shepherds and fishermen brought their families and livestock over the terrain to the gates of the city and sought sanctuary within the walls. The city soon grew crowded, the spare outbuildings and storerooms filled so quickly that the people flocking to the safety of the city were soon forced to sleep on rooftops or in the streets. Andromache was not the only one to fear the time would come when King Priam would order the gates shut and then the desperate screams of those who had not reached safety in time would drift over the city walls and chill those who were safe within the perimeters.

  Hector, fearing civil unrest in the crowded city, had told Andromache that she was not to leave the palace and Andromache had agreed. The atmosphere on the streets had changed dramatically upon the sight of an approaching army; the people no longer seemed so in awe of the royal family that protected them from strife. And who could blame them, Andromache thought
sadly, for it was a royal prince who had brought trouble to their shores, and yet King Priam had yet to do anything about it. As far as the people were concerned, nothing had been done to prevent these armies from bearing down upon them.

  One of those seeking safety within the city was Diephobus, who had arrived shortly after the first appearances of the vast number of sails on the horizon; Andromache had been surprised to see him roaming the corridors of the palace, and had instantly fallen upon him with questions of Thebes and her people, but he had been evasive in his answers, and Andromache knew then that he had abandoned them to their fates. If the Greeks were to attack the town, Andromache knew what would become of them and she mourned for them even though nothing had as yet happened.

  When the ships eventually landed upon the shore, Andromache felt palpable fear within the confines of the palace. Helen had withdrawn to her chambers and did not show her face, and Andromache was grateful for that small mercy. Paris did not have the good sense of his lover and remained a visible presence, to Andromache’s irritation, and those of the council too, for with each passing day the mood turned further against the selfish prince.

  A glimmer of hope, however, came when an envoy arrived with a message from King Menelaus, whose ship had been one of the first to land upon the shores of Troy.

  “What does the messenger say?” Andromache asked her husband when he joined her in their chambers later that evening. “Are we at war? Is there any hope for us?”

  Hector sighed. It was a sound that Andromache had heard a lot in the last days, and it grieved her that her beloved husband should be so put upon because of the actions of his brother.

  “King Menelaus seeks a meeting with the council,” Hector answered.

  Andromache dared let herself hope. If he sought a meeting, perhaps he hoped to avoid war and wanted to negotiate for Helen’s return. She was sure the council would agree to that; they would probably throw Paris into the bargain if it meant avoiding a war.

  “That is good news, is it not?” she asked.

  Hector let a smile adorn his lips, and Andromache had her answer. There was hope. She kissed his smiling lips, running her hands through his hair. Hope, she realised, was a powerful emotion - perhaps the most powerful of all.

  * * *

  Andromache watched from the ramparts, along with what seemed to her the rest of the royal household, as King Menelaus and his brother, King Agamemnon, travelled by cart from the ships up the shore to the gates of Troy far beneath them.

  As huge a city as Troy was, there were four main gates that allowed access through the walls to the city within; one facing the mountains; one to the east and one to the west; and one approached from the shore, which was the one through which these Greek kings entered the city. Andromache watched until they passed beneath the walls and ramparts and out of sight. She smiled reassuringly at her maids, for she knew of the terror they felt, willing herself to be strong. She caught a glimpse of Helen, set apart from the crowd on the wall, looking out at the sea of ships that ran along the shore as far as the eye could see. On the shore in front of some of the ships, makeshift camps had sprung up, seemingly rising from the sand. Upon catching her eye, Helen bowed her head and retreated inside.

  In the council room, King Priam wore his most elaborate robes and bowed low when King Menelaus and his brother entered the room, flanked by a small number of guards.

  “Greetings, King Menelaus. I am sad that we must meet under such unfortunate circumstances,” King Priam said, hoping to placate the man.

  “Where is my wife?” Menelaus demanded, looking about the chambers as if she might be hidden amongst the pillars or gathering of advisors.

  Hector, standing amongst his fellow councilmen, observed the two kings who had entered the room. King Menelaus was short in stature and though not handsome, he had a comely-enough face and a mass of brown hair. He wore armour over his robes, as if expecting the Trojans to attack at any moment, and Hector sensed that the man had a degree of intelligence at last in comparison to his brother. King Agamemnon, who had so far remained silent, was far larger than his brother. He had broader shoulders over a large stomach, his armour groaning against the mass of flesh it strained to contain, and he had dark brown hair and beard with a hint of red in its colours, and his eyes were small and malicious, thought Hector; this man was far more dangerous than his younger brother. Of the other men, a few of their number looked too noble to be mere soldiers; their beards trimmed and tidy, their skin too clear and their bellies too round for common, but disciplined warriors.

  “Now, now, brother,” Agamemnon said loudly, stepping forward and putting a placatory hand on his brother’s shoulder. “We did not expect to find your wife awaiting our arrival with open arms and open legs.”

  King Menelaus growled but made no other comment.

  Priam attempted a smile. He looked frail and aged by comparison to the two younger Kings.

  “Your messenger said you wished for a meeting,” he said. “And we have much to discuss, my lords.”

  Hector did not like to hear his father speak in such a pleading tone, but it was necessary if they hoped to bring peace to their lands. He gritted his teeth against this travesty and prayed to the gods for the patience and good nature to bear this disrespect.

  “Of course I wanted a meeting!” Menelaus bellowed. “Your son kidnapped my wife! I want her returned to me at once!”

  “And if she is returned to you?” Priam asked.

  “We can sail home,” Menelaus replied.

  Hector felt a flicker of hope. Agamemnon, however, stepped forward, pushing his brother aside in his haste to confront King Priam.

  “Not so quickly,” he said. “My brother has suffered much insult at this abduction of poor Helen. It would not be as simple a matter as just sailing home again.”

  Menelaus shot his brother a curious look, which did not go unnoticed by Hector, though he again remained silent. Menelaus, however, was not in any mood to listen to his brother it seemed, for he shrugged him away and turned to Priam once more.

  “I wish to speak to my wife,” he said. “Alone. Then there may be peace, perhaps.”

  Priam hesitated. Hector knew that Paris would not approve, but he had not been invited to the meeting and he willed his father to think carefully.

  “I shall summon Helen,” his father said cautiously. “I will implore to her that you wish to speak alone, in private. I will make sure she agrees to such a meeting.”

  “Of course she will agree,” Menelaus snapped proudly, though Hector detected the relief in his voice at Priam’s reaction. “She is my wife, she will do as I command.”

  And so the meeting concluded. Hector wished that more had been discussed; too much planning and far too many ships had arrived on the shore to be merely pacified by one man’s happiness, and he distrusted Agamemnon, who looked darkly at the conclusion of discussion. He wondered on what Agamemnon’s true motives were for sailing to Troy and he remembered Laocoon’s words; that Agamemnon had encouraged Helen to flee her husband with Paris. He was under no illusion that Agamemnon wanted anything less than war between them, and he hoped that course of action would not prevail. Hector prayed silently that Helen would leave the city and do as Menelaus requested when they met in private, for she alone could save them from war.

  * * *

  Andromache waited anxiously for the conclusion to Menelaus and Helen’s private meeting as did the rest of the royal household. It seemed that everyone held their breath, so much hanging on such a meeting that it was difficult to know what to do until the verdict had been spoken.

  Pacing before the window in her chambers, Andromache could put her mind to nothing, with the thoughts of what might be happening downstairs intruding upon anything she tried to do. Iliana and Ilisa were both anxious and had spent the better part of the day wringing their hands together and jumping at the slightest of sounds. Philomena was not so affected and she sighed exasperated upon seeing Iliana and Ilisa's exchange
d worried looks.

  “We have nothing to fear,” Philomena said, “We are safe here. Even if it does come to war, our city has enough food stockpiled to last us years, and nobody in the history of all the world has ever broken through our city walls. We will be safe and they will go home.”

  Iliana and Ilisa looked a little more reassured, but Andromache could not feel so secure.

  Astyanax knew nothing of such worries and crawled along the smooth, cool floor of the chambers. Andromache lifted him and lay on the bed, Astyanax wriggling from her to continue his crawling, his little faced bewildered at how the floor had become so soft and the surface so silken. Andromache smiled down at him and Iliana and Ilisa sat at the end of her bed, cooing over him.

  As she looked at her son, she could not think of fear and war – only his beautiful smile and his curiosity as he found a loose thread in the silk and began to pluck at it, his little round lips frowning in bewilderment, forcing Andromache and her maids to laugh.

  It was hours later when Hector returned to their chambers, his face sour and his shoulders slumped in defeat. Andromache composed herself, wanting him to spare her no detail in his telling; she might be but a princess, but she wanted to know all of what was happening.

  “King Menelaus and his brother Agamemnon have left the city,” Hector said. His voice was bitter, and Andromache went to embrace him but he stepped back. “Paris learned of Helen and Menelaus’ meeting and interrupted them.”

  “Why would he do such a thing?” Andromache gasped, her maids shaking their heads sadly from the foot of her bed. “Does he wish us all to be condemned to war?”