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 then they will suffer merely banishment. Loose the first! And let Deiphobos represent my honour.’ 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 fully pierce the breastplate. 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 towards Priam and charged. The move surprised everyone. A Royal Eagle leapt to bar his way, but the prisoner shoulder-barged 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 signalled 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 towards 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 she 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 colour of the sunset. ‘What is in this?’ she asked.
‘Tree fruits from Egypte and Palestine. They come in various shapes and colours.
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 colour. The women’s gowns, the decorations on the walls.’ She laughed. ‘Even the drinks have many colours.’
‘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 colours 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 centre 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 round Laodike’s shoulder and kissed her cheek.
The physican-priest Machaon entered the garden. He looked dreadfully weary, thought Andromache. His
