David Gemmell - Shield of Thunder

Andromache did not reply, but the question echoed in her mind. Was she proud? Was that the feeling she had experienced as the two champions had pounded their fists against one another, splitting skin and spraying blood? Was it pride that had caused her stomach to turn so that it required all her will to prevent herself from vomiting? She had turned her eyes away during much of the contest, watching instead the reactions of the men surrounding her. Priam had at first seemed unconcerned, merely waiting for the inevitable victory. Slowly she had watched his confidence fade. The man seemed to age ten years in a matter of heartbeats. Only at the end, as Achilles fell for the last time, did he surge from his seat.

Yet despite her revulsion at the brutality of the fight, Andromache was elated by the outcome, especially as she gazed upon the stricken face of Peleus, the Thessalian king. This was the man who had raped Kalliope, ripping her childhood from her. This was the wretch who had left his daughter damaged beyond repair. Even in the sanctuary of Thera, where men were forbidden, Kalliope would wake screaming, her body bathed in sweat. Then she would fall into Andromache’s arms, weeping at the awful memories.

With the fight over, Andromache had returned to the king’s palace with Hektor. He had said little during the walk. His breathing was labored, and he held his left arm to his side. Andromache had been with him when the physician came. Three ribs were broken, and several of his teeth had been loosened. She had sat with him for a while, but then he had patted her arm.

“Go back to the farm,” he said, forcing a smile. “I will rest here awhile.”

“You fought well,” she told him, “with great courage.”

His reply surprised her. “I hated it,” he said. “Every brutal heartbeat of it. It hurts me to think of what Achilles must be feeling at this moment, his pride in the dust.”

She gazed at him, at his bruised face and his bright blue eyes. Without thinking, she lifted her hand and gently stroked the golden hair back from his brow. “We are what we are, Hektor. You need have no sympathy for Achilles. He is a brute, from a family of brutes. Come to the farm when you can.”

His huge hand reached out, and he took her fingers gently and raised them to his lips. “I am glad you are my wife, Andromache. You are everything I could ever have desired. I am sorry I cannot be—”

“Do not say it again,” she said, interrupting him. “Rest now and come to the farm when you can.”

Leaving the room, she had walked out onto the gallery beyond, her eyes misting with tears. Sadness clung to her. It struck her then that Hektor and Kalliope were not so unalike. Both had been damaged. Both, in different ways, had been cursed by the Fates.

Servants moved by silently, and she could hear the sound of raised voices from the megaron below. Priam’s voice suddenly boomed out.

“Are you insane? She is the wife of my son.”

Andromache moved away from the balcony to the gallery rail, staring down into the columned megaron. Priam was seated upon his throne, facing the Mykene king, Agamemnon, and some of the kings of the west. Andromache recognized the vile Peleus and Nestor, Idomeneos, and Menestheos. Helikaon, Antiphones, and Dios were standing alongside Priam.

“You must understand, Priam King,” said Agamemnon, “that there is no intent here to cause undue offense. You sanctioned the marriage of Paris to the woman Helen. This was not your right. Helen is a princess of Sparta, sent here by her father during the recent war. My brother Menelaus is now king of Sparta, and Helen is his subject. He has decided, in the interests of his people, to wed her.”

Priam’s laughter was harsh. “Menelaus led a Mykene army into Sparta and killed the king. He seized the throne and now faces insurrections. In order to bolster his fabricated claim to the crown he seeks to wed someone of royal blood. You think I would send Helen home to rut with the man who murdered her father?”

Agamemnon shook his head. “You have no choice. All of us here are allies, and we are allies because we have agreed to respect each other’s rights and borders and internal laws. Without such respect there can be no alliance. Let us suppose that one of your daughters was to visit a kingdom of the west and that the ruler there suddenly married her to one of his sons. What would be your reaction? And what would you expect when you demanded her return?”

“Spare me the clever words, Agamemnon. You desire a war with Troy, and you have been seeking allies in that venture for years now. I tire of your duplicity, the fair speeches that cloak foul deeds. Let me make it simple for you. Helen remains in Troy. The alliance is at an end. Now get you gone from my city.”

Agamemnon spread his arms, and his reply was full of regret. “It saddens me to hear you speak in this way, Priam King. However, as you say, the alliance is at an end. You may come to rue this decision.” With that he turned and strode out, followed by the other kings.

Back in the present the voice of Cheon cut through her memories. “Do you wish to stop by the shrine to Artemis?” he asked as the chariot neared the little stream.

“Not today, Cheon. Take me home.”

The journey seemed interminable, and the afternoon sun blazed brightly in a cloudless sky. By the time they reached the old stone house, Andromache felt weary beyond belief. They were greeted by Hektor’s housekeeper, the elderly Menesthi, a Hittite woman, whose true age was a mystery. Cheon maintained she was the oldest woman alive, a claim Andromache could well believe, for the old woman’s face had the texture of pumice stone.

Inside the main building Menesthi’s husband, the equally ancient Vahusima, prepared a bath for her. Shedding her yellow gown, she stepped into it, laying her head back on a folded towel. The feeling of the cool water on her overheated skin was exquisite. She called Menesthi to her to remove the gold wire that bound her hair, then ducked her head below the surface.

Menesthi brought her fresh clothing, a simple loose robe of white linen. Rising from the bath, Andromache stood naked, allowing the warm air to dry her body. Then she moved to the rear window and stared out over the fields toward the wooded hillside.

In that moment she saw two men duck into the trees. It seemed to her they were acting furtively. She stared out, seeking another glimpse of them, but there was no further sign of movement. The first of the men appeared familiar, but she could not place him. He must be one of Hektor’s woodsmen, she thought.

Donning the robe, she walked back through the house. Cheon was sitting on the porch in the shadows, watching two youths leading a powerful gray stallion around the paddock. The beast was high-spirited and nervous, and when one of the boys tried to mount him, he reared and threw him to the grass. Cheon laughed. “He has no wish to be ridden,” he said. “Those lads will have some deep bruises by this evening.”

Andromache smiled. “I see you are still wearing your laurel crown. Are you intending to sleep with it on?”

“I think I will,” he said. “I think I will wear it until it rots and falls off.”

“Does that not seem a little vain, Cheon?”

“Entirely,” he agreed with a grin.

Andromache seated herself beside him. “The farm seems deserted.”

“Most of the men went to the city for the last day. They’ll be getting drunk about now. I doubt we’ll see them until tomorrow, when they will drift in looking sheepish and bleary-eyed.”

As the light began to fade Andromache moved back inside. Menesthi brought her a simple meal of bread and cheese and a dish of sliced fruit. Andromache finished it and stretched out on a couch, resting her head on a thick cushion.