Andromache sat by her, putting her arms around her friend. “What is wrong, Laodike?”
“I am all right.” Laodike forced a smile. “Have you heard from Helikaon?”
Andromache was surprised by the question. “Why would I hear from Helikaon?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I wondered if he had sent a message and I hadn’t heard about it. Nobody tells me anything.”
“No. As far as I know there have been no messages from Dardania.”
Laodike seemed a little happier. “They say he killed twenty Mykene at the temple square. He was like a young god. That’s what I heard. He had two swords, and he killed all the assassins.”
Andromache, too, had heard the obviously tall stories about Helikaon’s prowess, and she had watched the Xanthos sail into the dawn with a heavy sense of loss. She looked at Laodike and understood then that the young woman was infatuated with Helikaon. Sadness touched her. She had seen Helikaon greeting Laodike at Hekabe’s palace, and there had been no sign that he found her attractive. Yes, he had paid her a compliment, but there was no hint of passion in the comment. Then she realized why Laodike had thought he might have been in contact. He had made no secret of his desire for Andromache. “What did you mean about your father shaming me?” she asked, seeking to change the subject.
“He plays games with people all the time. I don’t know why. He doesn’t do it with Kreusa or Hektor, but everyone else suffers at some time.”
Andromache laughed. “He cannot shame me with a bow, Laodike. I can assure you of that.”
“It will be a contest,” said Laodike. “You’ll see. It will be Dios or perhaps Agathon. They are superb bowmen. And Father will fill the gardens with people to watch you beaten by one of his sons. You’ll see.”
“They will need to be very, very good,” Andromache told her. “And I am not cowed by crowds.”
“I wish I was like you,” Laodike said with a sigh. “If I was…” She hesitated and gave a soft smile. “Ah, well, I am not, so it doesn’t matter.”
Andromache took Laodike’s hands in hers. “Listen to me,” she whispered. “Whatever it is that you see in me is in you also. You are a fine woman, and I am proud to have you as a friend.”
“I am a fine woman,” repeated Laodike. “But I am twenty-three, with no husband. All my pretty sisters—save Kreusa—have wed.”
“Oh, Laodike! You have no idea how alike we are really. I was the plainest of my family. No one would have me. So Father sent me to Thera. It was only when my little sister died that Priam accepted me for Hektor. And you are not plain. Your eyes are beautiful, and your smile is enchanting.”
Laodike blushed. Then she looked Andromache in the eye. “I remember when Paleste came to Troy. I liked her, but she was very shy. Father took to her, but Mother didn’t like her at all. She said she was unworthy to marry Hektor. I remember Mother saying that the wrong sister had been chosen. She knew of you even then, you know.”
“I didn’t know. Poor Paleste. She was a sweet girl.”
“Do you like Helikaon?” asked Laodike.
Andromache did not want to talk about it and feared her friendship with Laodike might be damaged by the truth. But she could not lie. “Yes, I do,” she said.
“And he is smitten with you. I could see that.”
“Men always adore what they cannot have. I am to marry Hektor, so let us not allow thoughts of men to come between us. You are my friend, Laodike. I love you like a sister. Now, will you come with me to the gardens later? It would help to have a friend close by.”
“Of course I will. Then I must go to the temple of Asklepios. Mother needs more opiates.”
“I shall come with you. I have a little friend who helps there. His name is Xander.”
It was midafternoon when the two women emerged into the largest of the palace gardens. As Laodike had predicted, there were at least a hundred people present. Andromache had met many of them, but even now there were many names she could not recall. Priam was seated on an ornate gilded chair set on a stone dais. Beside him was his daughter Kreusa, a dark-haired beauty, slim and regal. Her eyes were cold, and she looked at Andromache with undisguised disdain. The soft-looking, round-shouldered chancellor, Polites, was also with the king, as was fat Antiphones and the slender Dios. Once again Andromache was struck by his resemblance to Helikaon. There was another man with them, tall and wide-shouldered, his hair red-gold. Andromache had not seen him before.
“That is my half brother Agathon,” whispered Laodike. “I told you it would be a contest.”
At the far end of the gardens, some sixty paces distant, Andromache saw a small cart with large wheels. On a tall spike at the center a leather breastplate had been fastened. There were long ropes attached to the front and rear of the cart.
“Have you ever shot at a moving target?” asked Laodike.
“No.”
“You will today. Servants haul on the ropes, dragging the cart back and forth.”
Priam rose from his seat, and all conversation among the crowd ebbed. Agathon and the slender Dios both took up bows and walked out to stand alongside Andromache. Laodike faded back a few steps.
“Today we are to witness a contest,” said Priam, his voice booming out. “Andromache, of Thebe Under Plakos, believes Trojan bows are inferior weapons and is going to entertain us with her redoubtable skills. My generals, Agathon and Deiphobos, stand for the pride of Trojan craftsmanship. And there is a fine prize to be won.” He held out his hand, and Kreusa stepped forward, offering him a wondrously crafted battle helmet embossed with silver and bearing a motif on the brow of the god Apollo drawing back his bow.
Priam lifted it high, and the afternoon sunshine glinted on the burnished metal. “May the Lord of the Silver Bow bring victory to the most worthy,” cried the king.
Andromache felt her anger swell. It was a warrior’s prize, a man’s prize, and the offering of it was a less than subtle insult to a female archer.
“Will you honor us by shooting first, Andromache?” asked Priam.
“It would hardly be fitting, King Priam,” Andromache replied sweetly. “It is, I am assured, a woman’s place to follow in a man’s world.”
“Then it shall be Agathon,” said Priam, settling back into his seat.
The wide-shouldered prince stepped forward, noching an arrow to his bow. At his command servants at the far end of the garden took up ropes and slowly drew the cart across to the left. Then the men on the right began to haul the cart swiftly across the paved stone.
Agathon let fly, the shaft striking and piercing the leather breastplate. The crowd cheered. Then Dios stepped forward. He, too, sent a shaft into the leather. Both arrows drooped after they struck, showing they had not penetrated far.
Andromache noched a black-feathered shaft and curled her fingers around the string. As she had watched the two men, she had gauged the time it took for the arrows to fly to their target and the speed of the cart. Even so, it would have been pleasant to be allowed a few practice shots. Calming herself, she drew back on the bow. The cart lumbered across her line of sight. Adjusting her aim, she loosed her shaft. The black-feathered arrow slammed into the breastplate, burying itself deep.
Each archer loosed six more shafts. Not one missed, and the breastplate began to resemble a porcupine. The crowd was less attentive now, and there was a short break while servants removed the ruined breastplate and recovered the arrows.
Andromache glanced at the two princes. Both seemed tense and expectant. She saw Priam speaking to a soldier, who then ran off through the crowd. “What is happening?” she asked Prince Agathon.
“The competition is about to begin in earnest,” he said, a touch of anger in his voice. He drew in a deep breath. “It might be as well, Lady Andromache, for you to withdraw now.”
“Why would I?”
“Because we will not be shooting at targets. My father has other plans, I fear.”
As he spoke, soldiers emerged from buildings to the r
ear of the gardens. They were leading three bound men, each wearing a leather breastplate. The prisoners were taken to stand before the target cart. Then the soldiers, their spears leveled toward the prisoners, formed two lines in front of the crowd.
The king rose. “These wretches,” he said, “are plotters. They were arrested yesterday. Stubborn, rebellious men who have refused to name their confederates.”
Andromache stared at the prisoners. They were in a sorry state, their faces smeared with blood, their eyes swollen. Knowing now what was to come, she walked away from the princes.
Priam saw her. “Not to your liking, girl? Ah, well, this is man’s work.” He turned back to the crowd. “These traitors deserve death, but I am a merciful man. Their bonds will be cut.” Taking a spear from a Royal Eagle standing close by, he hurled it out onto the grass some sixty running steps from the prisoners. “If any of them can reach that spear, they will suffer merely banishment. Loose the first! And let Deiphobos represent my honor.”
A soldier drew a dagger from his belt and walked to the first prisoner, a slim, middle-aged man. The soldier slashed his blade through the ropes binding the prisoner’s wrists. The man stood very still, staring malevolently down the gardens at the king. Then he took a deep breath and broke into a swerving run. Dios raised his bow. The running man increased his pace. The arrow took him through the throat, punching through to the back of his neck. He staggered on, then pitched to the right. He began to choke, his face growing purple. Andromache looked away but could not shut her ears to the grotesque sounds as the dying man fought for breath. Finally there was silence.
“Now the second!” roared Priam.
This prisoner was a powerful man with a heavy beard. He also glared at the king. When they cut him loose, he did not run but strode down the garden. Prince Agathon took aim. Suddenly the man darted to his right, then raced for the spear. Agathon loosed his shaft. It took the man in the chest but did not pierce the breastplate fully. Without pausing in his run, the prisoner sprinted for the spear. Dios let fly. His arrow also thudded home, but the prisoner reached the spear and swept it up. Then he swung toward Priam and charged. The move surprised everyone. A Royal Eagle leapt to bar his way, but the prisoner shouldered him, knocking him from his feet.
Just as he reached the king a black-feathered shaft hammered through his back, burying itself deep and cleaving his heart. The prisoner stood for a moment, then toppled sideways, the spear clattering to the ground.
Andromache lowered the Phrygian bow and stared at the man she had killed.
Agathon moved alongside her. “A very fine shot. You saved the king.”
Priam stepped over the body. “And now,” he roared, “all can see why this woman was chosen as the bride for my Hektor! Let your voices sound for Andromache!” Obediently, a cheer went up from the crowd. Then the king signaled to the soldiers at the far end of the gardens, and the last prisoner was led away.
The following month Andromache learned that Priam had ordered a thousand Phrygian bows for his archers.
II
It was late in the afternoon before Andromache could slip away from the garden. Her status suddenly enhanced by the events of the day, she had been surrounded by well-wishers and sycophants. When at last she feigned tiredness she found Laodike waiting in her apartments.
Her friend ran to her, hugging her close. “You were wonderful, Andromache!” she said. “I am so proud of you. Your name is on everyone’s lips.”
Andromache kissed her on the cheek, then slipped out of her embrace. “Who was the man I killed?”
“A captain of the Eagles. Everyone thought him to be a hero. What makes a man become a traitor, do you think?”
“I do not know. But he was brave. He could have merely picked up the spear and taken banishment. Instead he accepted certain death, for even had he killed Priam, the guards would have overpowered and slain him. Let us talk no more of it. A walk to the temple is just what I need.”
The sunshine continued, though there were rain clouds in the distance as the two women set out arm in arm.
“I think Agathon was impressed,” said Laodike. “He couldn’t take his eyes off you.”
Andromache laughed. “He is an impressive man. Why have I not seen him before?”
“He spends much of his time east of the city. He leads the Thrakian mercenaries and is almost as fine a general as Hektor. They are very close.”
“Do they look alike?”
Laodike giggled. “Are you asking whether Hektor is handsome?”
“Yes.”
“Like a young god. His hair is golden, his eyes are blue, and he has a smile to win any heart.”
“And he is the oldest of Priam’s sons?”
Laodike laughed again. “Yes and no. He is the oldest of Mother’s children and therefore the legitimate heir. But Father was twenty-four when he and Mother wed. And there were other children born to his lovers. The oldest was Troilus. He would have been almost forty now.”
“He died?”
“Father had him banished last year. He died in Miletos. Some think he was poisoned. I expect he was.”
“That makes no sense to me,” said Andromache. “If Priam wanted him dead, why not kill him in Troy?”
Laodike paused in her walk and turned toward her. “You should understand that before Mother was ill Troy had two rulers. Mother hated Troilus. I think she hates all the sons she did not bear. When Troilus plotted to overthrow Father, she thought he should be killed instantly. Father refused.” Laodike shrugged. “And he died anyway.”
“Hekabe had him poisoned?”
“I do not know, Andromache. Perhaps he just died. But you would be amazed at the number of people who have died young following disagreements with Mother.”
“Then I am glad she liked me. So how old is Hektor?”
“Almost thirty.”
“Why has he never wed?”
Laodike looked away. “Oh, probably because of wars and battles. You should ask him when he comes home. There will be great parades and celebrations for his victories.”
Andromache knew something was being kept from her but decided not to press the point. Instead she said: “He must be a great warrior, indeed, if his victories can be anticipated before the battles are fought.”
“Oh, Hektor never loses,” said Laodike. “The Trojan Horse is supreme in battle.”
It seemed to Andromache that such conviction was naive. A stray arrow, a hurled spear, an unlucky blow, could all end the life of any fighting man. However, she let the moment pass, and the two women wandered down through the marketplaces, stopping to examine the wares on display. Finally they reached the healing houses.
They sat in a rear garden, Laodike having sent a servant to seek out the healer Machaon. Another servant, an elderly man, brought them goblets of juice squeezed from various fruits. Andromache had never tasted anything so deliciously sweet. The mixture was the color of the sunset.
“What is in this?” she asked.
“Tree fruits from Egypte and Palestine. They come in various shapes and colors. Some are gold, some yellow, some green. Some are good on their own, and others are so sharp, they make the eyes water. But the priests here mix them with honey. Very refreshing.”
“There is so much that is new in Troy,” said Andromache. “I have never seen such color. The women’s gowns, the decorations on the walls.” She laughed. “Even the drinks have many colors.”
“Father says that trade is what makes civilizations grow. Nations and peoples learn from one another and improve on one another’s skills. We have Egypteian cloth makers in Troy. They have begun experimenting with the dyes from Phrygia and Babylon. There are some wonderful colors being produced. But it is not just the clothes. Hektor brought back horses from Thessaly. Big beasts. Sixteen hands. He’s bred them with our mares. They make superb war mounts. Men of skill and enterprise all come to Troy. Father says that one day we will be the center of a great civilization.”
Andromache listened as Laodike spoke on about Priam and his dreams. It was obvious that she adored her father and equally obvious that he had little time for her.
Laodike’s voice faded away. “I think I am boring you,” she said. “I am sorry.”
“Nonsense. It is fascinating.”
“Really? You are not just saying that?”
“Why would I?” Andromache threw her arm around Laodike’s shoulder and kissed her cheek.
The physican-priest Machaon entered the garden. He looked dreadfully weary, thought Andromache. His face was pale, and there was sweat on his brow. Although a young man, he was already losing his hair and his shoulders were rounded.
“Greetings to you, king’s daughter,” he said. “It is always a pleasure to see you. And you, Andromache of Thebe.”
“How is Xander faring?” Andromache asked.
The young physician smiled. “He is a fine lad, with great sensitivity. I have him working with the dying. He has a talent for lifting their spirits. I am glad he stayed with us.” He turned to Laodike and handed her a small, cloth-wrapped package. “These should last for another week or so. Be advised, though, that soon even these powerful opiates will not keep the pain at bay.”
“Mother says she is feeling a little better,” said Laodike. “Perhaps her body is healing.”
He shook his head. “She is past healing. Only her strength of mind and the courage of her spirit keep her in these lands of the living. There is a small phial in the package. It is stoppered with green wax. When the pain becomes unbearable—and it will—break open the phial and mix it with wine. Then get your mother to drink it.”
“And that will take away the pain?”
His brows furrowed. “Yes, Laodike. It will take away the pain. Permanently.”
“Then why can she not have it now? Her pain is very great.”
“I am sorry; I am not making myself clear. The phial is to be used to help your mother at the end. Once she has drunk it, she will fall into a deep sleep and pass peacefully to the world beyond.”