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 was 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,’ she said again.
‘They will need to be very, very good,’ Andromache told her. ‘And I am not cowed by crowds.’
‘I wish I was like you,’ said Laodike, 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 didn’t 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 mid-afternoon 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 centre 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 away.
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 honour us by shooting first, Andromache?’ asked Priam.
‘It would hardly be fitting, King Priam,’ replied Andromache 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, notching 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 notched 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 were 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 rear 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 levelled towards 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
