4

MaryScot

Andromache sighed, pulling her cloak over her head.  The thick, indigo fabric did nothing to promote her beauty but it was very warm, and that was how she preferred.  There was a line of demarcation between looking good and being comfortable, and Andromache figured she had no one to impress.  The season was uncharacteristically cold, and the thin flowing fabrics of Trojan fashion were poor shields against the wind.  

Andromache stood at the entrance, not quite resting against one of the huge stone pillars.  Dread and impatience had warred with her ever since she arrived, but eventually the anticipation won and she longed to meet Hector.  All she had heard of him was good, and she was familiar enough with a palace grapevine to know that no one went through pains to make someone else look good.

"Princess Andromache," called King Priam, beckoning the girl closer.  She had not even heard his approach.  As she neared, he moved closer to meet her as if he meant to share something he did not want everyone to overhear. 

"Yes, King Priam?" she asked.  When she had first arrived, she realized the Trojan king was chipping away at the walls she had erected around her heart.  Those walls had rivaled those of Troy itself, but Andromache had found they were not as strong.  But King Priam was a good man, and quickly Andromache found that he was making her feel more at home.  It was impossible to dislike him, and the man was definitely making an effort to ease her troubled mind.

King Priam also loved his sons dearly, evident as he continued indulging the youngest one, whom Andromache felt was nothing but trouble.  Inordinately charming, young Prince Paris could never claim to be as virtuous as what she was hearing about Hector, yet he had the maids swooning.  Andromache could only hope Hector's priorities were different.

Andromache had kept mostly to herself, catching only glimpses of Paris and the king's niece, Briseis.  Briseis was Paris' age, and Andromache hoped she could later make a trusted confidante.  The romantic tales of Paris' many conquests were notorious, and Andromache knew she could not trust someone with such poor discretion.  The palace servants were always talking about its royal occupants; Andromache learned a great deal from accidentally overhearing countless conversations and whispers. 

"My dear, you're going to have to break your habit of hiding from us," King Priam scolded gently when he reached her side.   "Though you'd best conceal yourself from Paris, for if he actually lays eyes on you for more than a minute, he'll probably fall madly in love."

Andromache smiled, not quite betraying the earlier direction of her thoughts.  "Then I shall not come into his sight, for my heart shall break the very next minute should a palace maid choose to enter the room."

King Priam looked at her amusedly.  "I am fortunate that I have only one son whose eyes wander so freely."

"Then I am relieved that the man I shall marry has both eyes fixed firmly in his head," Andromache murmured.  She paused for a moment before continuing very carefully. 

"Hector sounds like a good man, King Priam.  When I meet him I want to form my own opinion, not rely on what others say to shape it.  But no matter how hard I try, information about him always reaches my ears."

"He is a very respected man," King Priam said, his heart swelling with admiration.  "I could not ask for more.  Hector is the most loyal man I know."  And odd look shone in his eye as he said this, and a strange smile settled over his face.

"…Are you alright, King Priam?" asked Andromache, not recognizing his expression.  She regarded him carefully, realizing then what it was.  Pride. 

"When Paris was ten, he stole my horse from the stable and decided to ride it on the beach.  The horse was a gift from your father, and the animal was a very spirited one.  Paris has no skill with animals, and the beast threw him.  The creature fled, leaving a stunned and anxious prince behind.  Paris ran back into the city, crying in desperation and shame.  But he did not come to me.  He went to Hector."

"Hector?" asked Andromache.  "But why?  It was your horse."

"Yes, but Paris wanted to make it right," explained Priam.  "Paris told Hector what happened, and Hector risked my wrath to stand up for his brother.  Hector told me what happened, and promised to find the horse.  I told him that if it were not found, it would be he who would be punished, not Paris.  And Hector said that was acceptable."

"…Did he find the horse?" inquired Andromache, wondering if it was Hector who received the punishment his brother deserved.

"Yes, he did," King Priam said.  "Hector is quite talented with managing horses.  They trust him explicitly.  It did not take him long.  When the horse was returned, Hector told me that he would not have come back without it."

"Because he didn't want to be punished?" Andromache wondered.

"Because he wanted to help Paris make things right," corrected Priam.  "Paris has good intentions, but he is never able to do things on his own.  Hector recognizes that about his brother and has always done for Paris what he could not do for himself."

Andromache thought this over carefully.  More helpful than anything she had heard from servants, the tale of such loyalty confirmed her greatest fear.

I will not lose my pride, she thought with dismay.  I might lose my heart.

Curious nature unable to be suppressed for very long, Andromache began to spend a lot of time with Briseis, occasionally with Paris.  Both were energetic and good-natured, and they both tried their hardest not to tell Andromache too much about Hector.  Seated at the base of one of the palace's finest fountains, both girls wore the typical white garment of a Trojan maiden.  The indigo cloak, which puzzled Briseis to no end, once again accompanied Andromache but currently the younger girl was focused on her cousin.

"I still wish I could tell you about him," pleaded Briseis, holding Andromache's hands in a gesture of supplication.  "There's so much to say!"

"I want to discover that on my own," Andromache reminded her.  "But I've already heard so much about him already.  He sounds so wonderful…what if he doesn't like me?"

"How can he not like you?" Briseis asked.  "You're so strong!  You can shoot arrows as well as Paris."

Andromache smiled.  "He is far more skilled than I.  I shot five and only four hit the target.  They weren't even all together.  Every single one of his hit within an area the size of his fist, right in the middle of the target."

"But you still shoot very splendidly," Briseis assured her.  "I'm not even allowed to shoot."

"The only reason I can shoot at all is because of my brothers," Andromache told her.  "When you have seven of them, at least one of them manages to find time to teach their baby sister something that might get her into trouble someday.  Besides, I'd much prefer to sew.  I brought countless bolts of rare cloth with me as a dowry, but King Priam refused to take them."

"Why don't you make something for Prince Hector?" Briseis suggested.  "He could probably use a new toga.  He hates having to go through the trouble of procuring clothes, and absolutely abhors having to make visits to the palace tailor.  I'm sure he'd appreciate it very much.  His favorite color is blue."

"I'd feel ridiculous," Andromache said.  "Like some silly little maiden out of the pages of a Greek tale…awaiting the return of her husband anxiously.  I can't imagine being that dependent on anyone."

"But how would that be a bad thing?" Briseis asked.  "Wouldn't you like to feel completely safe in someone's arms…someone who could give you everything you'd ever hope for?"

"I want a man, not a warrior," Andromache murmured.  "And I want love, not protection.  Hector's marrying me out of duty, not love, and I have no right to expect anything from him.  I don't want to fall in love with him."

"Oh, it wouldn't be bad to fall in love with him," consoled Briseis, moving to embrace the older girl.  Andromache did not cry, but a look of pensiveness had descended upon her features.

"Yes it would," Andromache whispered.  "He will owe everything to Troy as its ruler.  That will always come first…the love of others, not my own.  I don't like being selfish…but it's so hard to accept."

"Why don't we go out in the city…maybe it'll cheer you up," suggested Briseis.  "Perhaps we could find you some papyrus for drawing and—"

"Drawing papyrus?" asked Andromache, a peculiar strain to her voice.  "What made you suggest that?"

"Oh, when Paris sneaks around at night he said he sometimes sees you outside with slips of papyrus.  He's never gotten close enough to see what you're doing, which is none of his business, but he suspects you've been drawing.  He wonders why you do it late at night.  Isn't it hard to see?"

"No," Andromache replied softly.  "I draw at night because it's so peaceful.  The torches in the garden are exquisite…somehow it reminds me of home.  It's quiet, wide open, and the firelight just…makes me feel better about being here.  And the irises…they're so lovely.  My mother loved irises very much…but she was killed when I was very young.  Artemis herself shot her in our palace."

"Why do you like them if they make you sad?" Briseis asked.

"They don't make me sad, they just remind me of her," Andromache mused.  "They've always been my favorite flower, but they die so quickly.  There was an apothecary in Thebe who could seemingly use all the parts of the iris."

"Like what?" Briseis asked.  Such practices had always entranced her, which was why she took such satisfaction in the ceremonial prayers at the temple.  The olive oil, incense, and spices were fascinating.  

"Well, he used the dried stems to make orris root powder, which he used in deliciously scented perfumes," gushed Andromache, not caring that she sounded uncharacteristically childish.  At home with seven brothers and a father, she had not the opportunity to indulge in her feminine side and was now relishing her current audience.

"What else did he do?" Briseis persisted. 

"He dried the stamens and used them to extract the most beautiful dye I've ever seen," Andromache sighed.  "He told me it was called saffron, and the most astonishing yellow shade it produced was as vibrant as the sun."

"I think my mother told me about it before," Briseis said.  "But it is incredibly complicated to extract and is completed meticulously by hand.  I'm told it is very rare…I cannot think of anyone in Troy who might have any at the moment, but I'm sure if we look into it some can be found."

"What of the orris root powder?" Andromache asked.  "I'd much prefer to find that.  My mother bought me a bottle when I was a little girl, a gift for me to save for sentiment, I suppose, instead of immediate use.  One of my brothers knocked it down by accident when I was twelve.  I'd really like to find some again, just for the sake of having it back."

"Hmm," pondered Briseis.  "I've never heard of orris root powder though.  I've never even heard of that before."

"Oh," Andromache said softly.  "I was hoping I could find it here…this is such a large city and I had hoped—"

"Why don't we look for some?" suggested Briseis.  "I'm sure we shall find some of that perfume somewhere.  The vendors on the beach could have it, or at least be able to tell you where to find some."

Briseis feared that Andromache might refuse, for the conversation's recently pensive turn had seemed to depress her.  But she appeared to have brightened at the prospect of a search, and to the younger woman's relief, agreed to go.

Weary from his demanding mission, Hector smiled in relief when the city of Troy came into the horizon.  Keen to straighten out the situation in the Dardanelles out with his father, Hector wished fervently that he were already back home.  The excruciating wound on his ear had nearly healed, but it still caused quite a lot of pain, which Hector had learned the hard way when he attempted to slip his helmet back on once they had disembarked from the merchant ship.

I hope I can rest before meeting the princess, thought Hector grimly.  My armor reeks of blood and must look like absolutely wretched.  I'd frighten any prospective bride out of her wits.

Ordering his men to prepare to land, Hector ran over the information he'd present to his father one last time.  Shortly after, the men disembarked, met by a small party sent as soon as their sail were spied on the horizon.  Several Trojans accompanied by horses rushed to meet them on the beach.

Hector hated the sea and relished the idea of riding his horse again.  It was the horse than Paris had stolen as a boy, which Priam had allowed Hector to keep after it was returned.  The gesture surprised the older son, but the Priam told him warmly that it would prove more useful to a man capable of unleashing its full potential.

The familiar bustle of the market was welcoming, and the many booths and vendors scattered across the beach made him happy.  Troy was such a wealthy, flourishing city and it was truly its occupants that made the city richer.  Everyone did their part contribute to the society, and the beach was filled with all kinds of customers, from royalty to farmers.

The people were so accustomed to seeing their prince amongst them that most went about their daily business after a brief wave or smile in his direction.  Hector returned their gestures graciously, savoring the return to relaxing familiarity.  He would fight anyone to be able to come back to this.

I'd best return and tell Father what happened, Hector remembered.  And Paris, I'm sure, has plenty of horror stories he cannot wait to tell me about my future bride. 

"Hector!" a voice called, and Hector stopped his horse.  He did not dismount; instead he waited for her to reach him.  White gown billowing, she ran to her cousin.

"Briseis," he answered fondly, smiling at her and taking her hand.  "It's nice to see you.  Why don't you head back to the castle?  I'm headed there now; we can talk later."

"I'm with Andromache," Briseis explained.  "I left her to shop by herself, so I don't know—"

"You let her lose on the market with no one to watch her?" Hector demanded.  "It is not a safe place for anyone, let alone someone new.  If a vendor doesn't swindle her then she's sure to fall prey to a pickpocket.  And you should have brought Paris with you, Briseis.  You're only sixteen."

"She can handle herself without my help," Briseis said.  "And I can handle myself without yours.  Stay right here, I'm going to go find her."

"Forget it," groaned Hector, exhaustion and irritation seeping into his voice.  "I'm tired, filthy, and I need to talk with my father.  I have to go."

"Fine, go!" snapped Briseis, uncharacteristically curt.  "I'll just tell her you've got more important things to do than to talk to her."

"Briseis, that's unfair," Hector growled.  "She will just have to wait.  Give her my apologies, but I simply must be on my way."  With that, Hector urged his horse to the gate.  At a steady trot, he headed steadily away from his angry cousin.

"You can apologize yourself!" Briseis called after him.  "If you ever decide to meet her, that is!"

As Hector rode away from the furious girl, a wisp of brilliant violet flitted across his vision.  For some reason he could not explain, it captured his attention.  He sought the image again, but could not see it before him.  His head turned, catching another short-lived glimpse of the fabric before it disappeared again.  Unable to explain why it was even remotely important, Hector entered the city gate.