Andromache woke with a start, the screams of Troy's people resounding in her ears. She brought a hand to her mouth, afraid that she had cried out herself. Her throat was rigid and sore, as though ripped raw by the hoarsest screams of terror. Bare seconds elapsed before she winced and sank back onto the hides. Every muscle in her body seemed aflame, and she realized that she had been mute but agonizingly tense in her sleep.
She brought her hands to her face. They came away wet, and as she grimaced, she felt her cheeks tug against the dried salty trails of tears. But what now covered her was a cloying sheen of perspiration, as she quickly discovered when she tried to shift in an effort to ease her aching muscles and found herself fighting against the damp and clinging fabric of her dress. The air was likewise suffocating, the tight and narrow hold nearly bursting with the collective breaths of four people.
The beating of her own heart, furiously pounding in her ears when she awoke, had gradually eased into a dull rhythm and her chest felt less painful than before. She could now hear sounds other than the inner workings of her own body. The hull creaked and groaned as it continued to ply the sea, rocking gently against the waves, as though attempting to soothe her. The waters had been tame throughout the night; not once could she remember waking.
She turned onto her side, curling up defensively around where Astyanax lay. He hadn't fussed all night, at least not enough to wake her. If he had, she was certain the Myrmidon would have deemed it a suitable excuse to dispose of him without delay, his promise of one full day to the contrary.
The infant stirred and squirmed at his mother's closeness and threw out a fist that, in the darkness, Andromache couldn't dodge. Her mouth received a direct hit and she cried out in surprise. "As―!" she began to admonish.
She froze, eyes painfully wide and staring at the invisible man who lay beside her. She hadn't heard his breathing, so perhaps he had left to return to the deck of the ship, but there were still so many unfamiliar sounds and noises that rang and swam in her ears. She had never been stuffed in a cargo hold before, always sitting or standing on deck in the splendour of her station. The sea sounded like a completely different creature when not imprisoned down here.
No matter whether he was there or not, she thought. Her wits were not about her, and she could very well have consigned them all to death by that careless syllable. She was not entirely confident she had convinced him she was a fleeing widow. His eyes, that unsettling blue like ice, seemed to demand more to assuage his suspicions. She had seen a glimmer in them, a hint of calculation devoid of lust. Something she had done or said, or some stray movement by Astyanax, had prompted him to see through her disguise and recognize something else beneath.
Andromache grasped Astyanax's arm before he could unknowingly hit her again. With her other hand, she reached it out slowly towards the dark space before her. All she would need was the lightest brush of her fingers against the linen of his tunic to settle her fears about whether he was there or not. She had done much the same countless times, on those evenings before battles or weeks-long departures on official business, to reassure herself of Hector's presence. Never had she woken him. Never had he ever been aware of her ritual. She felt her conscience prick at defiling it by doing the same to another, but she pushed it to the back of her mind.
She flinched as sudden brightness met her eyes, and before she could shield them, she heard a soft laugh.
"Reaching out for me, eh?" the Myrmidon continued to chuckle. "I'd have obliged you last night, were it not for your concern for your son."
Andromache snatched her hand away, feeling her cheeks flush hotly in embarrassment. How humiliating to be caught thus, acting like an eager concubine in the eyes of this coarse and bloody butcher.
"I was but determining if I would have some final moments alone with my son," she snapped, feeling her shame flare into anger.
The halo of lantern light bobbed and swayed, and her eyes had grown accustomed to the illumination to discern that he was crouched beside the hides, the source of light dangling from one hand. Her vision was still somewhat blurred from sleep, but she thought he nodded slowly at her blunt reminder of the crime before him. Yet he said nothing, and Andromache pulled Astyanax closer to her in a defensive reflex. The Myrmidon had said a full day, but when would that end? Now?
"Come," he said, gesturing sharply. "We're going on deck. It's dawn and there's business to tend."
She saw the lantern light glint off the sword he had already donned about his waist and felt her heart crushed of all hope. The day had come. All that was left of Hector would be gone in an instant. Indeed, all that was left of her…gone. It had taken many years of marriage to think of herself as Andromache of Troy, Hector's Andromache, and in a rushing wave that consumed her, she regretted every minute she had wasted in not becoming his more fully and quickly, regretted their joined failure to conceive sooner. Trudging across the wastes with Paris and Helen, it had been so easy to be strong amidst such weakness, but now, adrift and bereft, she could not continue.
Pride quickly followed in hope's wake, tears stinging her eyes. "Please…please, don't do this. Don't kill him!"
The Myrmidon rose to his feet quickly and stared down at her mutely, eyes widened in surprise before narrowing with annoyance. "It was your plea that saved him the first time. And a second. If you think my mercy is infinite, you're welcome to test it." He gestured behind him with a snap of his head. "Your son isn't nearly dead yet, but your servant could well be if you continue to blubber on about things beyond your control."
Andromache dragged a hand across her nose and wiped at her eyes as, with one arm still tight around Astyanax, she slid across the hides toward him. When she struggled to her feet, the hem of her dress caught beneath her feet and she staggered. Suddenly an arm was around her, preventing her from pitching forward.
She regained her balance, though her head still reeled. Swaying on her feet, she gradually became aware that she only stood upright through the Myrmidon's continuing embrace. She flinched from the contact and, putting a hand on his forearm, she shoved it away from her, though she did not look at him as she did so. Instead, she picked her way as best she could through the narrow path between the trophies and treasures in the semi-darkness, her free hand wiping away the evidence of her weakness. When she reached where Iasemi lay, she knelt down beside her.
The lantern light was soon warm on her back, and the girl's face was visible. Her skin glistened with sweat, though the sweltering temperature in the hold could be as responsible for that as a fever. The water in the bowl was warm, but she took up the cloth, wet it, and wiped Iasemi's face, neck, and every piece of exposed flesh. The girl did not move, though her chest still rose and fell. The cadence was slow and calm, giving Andromache confidence that she had survived the worst of it.
"Is she well?"
Andromache paused in her ministrations. She thought she had heard real concern in his tone, and it puzzled her. It was still a shock to her that Iasemi hadn't been thrown overboard. She had expected little more from any Myrmidon. Mercenaries carried no more weight than necessary, and certainly not a broken and ailing slave.
She pushed aside her curiosity for the moment. "Yes," she told him. "I am no healer, but the rest appears to have done her good."
He set the lantern down on the floor beside her. "Look to her for a while longer," he said. "Then come on deck for fresh air. I want you healthy."
"What of her?" Andromache heard herself demanding. "She needs it more than I."
He didn't reply, only turned and left the cabin by scaling the ladder to the upper deck. Andromache hissed in disgust and returned to Iasemi. "We'll survive somehow," she told the girl, continuing to bathe her brow. "If we can't escape, then we'll busy him with our presence." The thought cheered her slightly, giving her something to grasp onto when her son was no longer there.
Iasemi's eyes fluttered and she slowly came to her senses. "Where are we, mistress?" she whispered thickly.
"Closer to Greece, I presume," she replied, trying to keep her tone light. "We've been sailing all night."
"I thought I might have died."
Andromache shook her head. "I think you are quite safe, Iasemi. Though our kind captor pretends otherwise." She glanced over her shoulder at where the Myrmidon had left. "He has much on his mind, I feel, and I don't believe it is entirely on account that he has lost his commander." Biting her lip in thought, she turned back to Iasemi. "No doubt with Troy in Agamemnon's pile of victories," she whispered, "he thinks that vile king will be looking to conquer the rest of the Greek mainland."
"But he's dead," Iasemi pointed out. "The princess Briseis killed him."
"Yes," Andromache said with great satisfaction, "but he is not aware of it, and I can say nothing. Let him be tormented, as he is tormenting me."
Iasemi's eyes went to Astyanax. "How is His Majesty?"
Andromache found herself smiling, even though Iasemi had lapsed by recognizing his royal blood. "Admirably well, considering. I envy him his ignorance about what is going on. No doubt he thinks it all an adventure."
"Do you wish me to change him?"
"Of course not! You are in no condition to do anything right now." She sniffed tentatively. "And your nose seems to be sharper than mine at the moment. This stale air and those gamy hides have filled my head with little else." She set Astyanax on the floor beside her and filled a small cup with water. Soon after she had begun tending Iasemi the previous day, the Myrmidon had given her a small pot of fresh water for drinking. It was unappealingly warm, but welcome. Cradling Iasemi's neck in her hand, she urged the girl to drink as much as she wanted and then gently lay her head back down.
"Yes, this hide beneath me smells horrid," Iasemi said. "If I had been well, I don't think I would have been able to sleep on it at all."
"Oh yes, you could," Andromache smiled. "They all smell bad, but I was so weary I went to sleep nearly immediately."
Iasemi's eyes widened and Andromache realized that the girl believed her more brave and accepting of this situation than she actually was. In truth, she wanted to take up one of the swords that hung above her, race to the deck above and slay as many as she could.
But something stopped her. Above all was the life of her son. There was still a chance that he would not be slain after all. The Myrmidon captain – Eudorus was his name – had the coldest eyes she had ever seen, but he had shown more mercy than men whose eyes spat life and fire. Certainly if Tydeus had been in command, Astyanax would not now be beside her. But this Eudorus was different. He was cold, but he did not emanate hate. Could he be reasoned with? That remained to be seen, but she was not going to admit defeat yet. She had tried his mercy twice so far – a third time was not impossible. Perhaps he had done himself a disservice by putting off the deed. Apart from her outburst that morning, she felt calm and her head clear. Had he killed Astyanax on the beach, or even last night, she would be an insensible wreck, having never regained her balance. But now…
She smoothed Iasemi's hair back from her brow reassuringly and turned to Astyanax. "I don't know what I'll change you into, little sprat," she mused. "But I do know one thing I must do. Will you be fine without the lamp?" she asked Iasemi, who nodded.
Andromache retreated back towards the hides and knelt down beside them. She unwrapped Astyanax's blanket and his outer diaper to reveal the jewelry she must toss away. She noticed that an earring and a ring were missing. No matter. She would never be able to wear them again. An errant thought nagged at her to keep them for the possibility of escape and the inevitable need for money in flight. No, on second thought, retaining them could prove dangerous. Some merchants were wealthy, granted, but Andromache knew the earring and some of the other pieces were of patterns too intricate and the metal too fine and pure to escape suspicion.
She hastily cleaned Astyanax, using as much of the precious potable water as she dared, swaddled him with the outer diaper, and returned to Iasemi.
"He wants me to go above," she told the girl. "I'll attempt to rid myself of these." She tossed the jewelry in her hand as though weighing a coin pouch. "When backs are turned, into the water they'll go."
"Must you do it?"
"You wish me to keep them?" she replied, her tone reproachful at the suggestion of such folly even as her heart warred with her head to keep the precious objects. Mementos of a marriage, a life, were clasped in her palm. How could she throw that aside?
Iasemi tilted her head around to get as fair a view of the cabin as she could, given her position on the floor. "There are so many things here," she said. "Maybe they will not notice a few extra pieces of jewelry."
Why should I give them more treasure? Andromache thought, and the angry question was on her lips when Iasemi interrupted her.
"Maybe there is a chance of escape," she went on. "Not now or even soon, but later, and they will be there to use."
"Iasemi, it's likely that as soon as we reach whatever destination we're bound for, everything will be divided between them. The likelihood of it remaining in the captain's possession is slim. There is even no guarantee that we will remain with him for long." A sudden heave of the ship on a choppy swell made her scramble to maintain her balance. "And our safe arrival is in some doubt, it seems."
The girl's face fell in morose acceptance, the disruption failing to pierce her thoughts. "Yes, I know. It was foolish of me to hope."
"Not at all," Andromache replied kindly. "I have been trying to convince myself it's possible to keep them, too, but I don't dare. Even if they wouldn't betray us, they would still become part of their spoils. That I refuse to let happen. I'd rather rob them of some valuable trinket should the time come to escape."
Another swell buffeted the ship and Andromache was forced to lunge for something to keep herself upright. The jewels flew from her hand as she grasped the beam above her, and a curse escaped her lips. "Haven't they the sense to stay out of each others' wakes?" she snapped, giving the unseen men above her a baleful glare. Though she glanced at the scattered ornaments anxiously, she kept still. certain there would be another toss and twist on the unsettled sea.
The hatch lid clattered as it fell back on its hinges and a shaft of light appeared. As though prodded by a hot iron, Andromache fell to her knees and scrambled about on one hand – the other occupied by Astyanax – scooping up the loose baubles. The hollow sound of leather sandals on the worn slats of the ladder seemed to get closer, and Andromache found herself counting them even as she tried to pick up the jewelry. Three…four…five… There couldn't be more than six steps. Her position was hidden from view of the hatch, giving her perhaps a few more seconds.
She righted on her heels, her fist full of gold, and looked around for the nearest hiding place. Her eyes caught sight of a small wooden chest perched among the other spoils, a box measuring as long as her fingertip to her elbow in length. The hasp was loose; there was no lock. She lurched to her feet and fumbled at the lid.
"Damn it, woman," she heard the Myrmidon growl as he huffed upon reaching the bottom of the ladder. "I ordered you to get on deck."
Andromache's motions were so violent, the lid flew back on its leather hinges and struck a shield mounted on the wall behind it, sending a clang throughout the small cabin. Her hand was poised to throw her jewelry into the box when she realized it already contained gold and adornments. But rather than relief, she felt her chest clench at what lay on top, so serenely, as though it had only recently been removed to be gazed at and admired. Or, rather, its uniqueness and worth gloated over.
Her hands now shook and her jewels tumbled from her fingers to join the others, plinking forlornly as they were sent to an uncertain fate of their own.
"Get away from that!" came the Myrmidon's terse order.
Andromache turned and saw him glaring at her in suspicion. "I touched nothing," she said icily, "for none of it is mine."
He could not stride. The quarters were too cramped, but he approached her as fast as he was able. He slammed shut the lid of the small casket with such suddenness that Andromache snatched her hand away just in time to spare her fingers a crushing blow.
His eyes glinted in distrust. Without a word, he grabbed her hand and pried her fingers apart. Barely had she a moment to transfer Astyanax from one arm to the other before he similarly inspected her left hand. Rather than feeling relief, her stomach lurched as those eyes settled once more upon her son. The sensation was soon replaced by dread when his hand went towards Astyanax.
"He certainly took nothing," she said tightly.
"But others might have him carry what they stole." He held out his other hand, forming a cradle into which he silently demanded she place the baby.
Andromache studied the Myrmidon's face, trying to muzzle her rage. Her mind continued to dwell on the object laying in the darkness with her own jewelry. When had this man acquired it? Had he been the one to rip it from her mother's hair?
She remembered the day news had come to Troy through its network of spies that Thebe had fallen, sacked by Achilles and his marauding band. Rumor had it that pique at Agamemnon had driven the brash hero to abandon the rest of the Greek army for these solo raids in order to accumulate spoils, a competition between the two of who could possess more.
Though rumor also asserted that Achilles had spared her mother, leaving Thebe with its queen but robbing it of king and princes, Andromache found little comfort in it. Very likely she would never see mother or city again. All she had was an ornamental comb, gold-gilt tortoiseshell bearing two marks: that of the craftsman, and her own symbol she had tapped into the gold herself. It had been a condition of her deal with the artisan. Yet even so, now it was not hers to look upon whenever she pleased. An heirloom denied a rightful heir.
The Myrmidon glowered at the delay, and Andromache realized she had tarried too long in her thoughts, spending his scarce good graces foolishly. Everything within her recoiled at placing Astyanax in those arms, to literally deliver Hector's son into the hands of the enemy. But she swallowed the bile from her stomach and suppressed her revulsion. As gently as she could, she laid her boy across the broad, coarse palms.
As the soldier went about patting Astyanax around the rump, ear cocked as though to catch a stray cry of help from his stolen gold, Andromache tried to remain impassive, tried to give him no reason to suspect she had anything to hide.
But she was puzzled when his inspection turned up nothing and his eyes clouded in…disappointment? What man was this? He would rather catch a person in a lie so he could dispatch punishment?
As silently as he had done, she held out her arms to receive Astyanax. As much as she longed to have him safely in her embrace, she was curious as to what the Myrmidon would do, not that he had the baby fully in his power. After all the threats and casual reminders that death would come, would he follow through at this moment?
She watched him turn Astyanax around like some fascinating object. His expression had faded from disappointment to calculation. But Andromache again had a nagging feeling that cruelty did not motivate him. As she had mused to Iasemi earlier, so many wrongs could have befallen them since their capture. Yet their confinement had merely been uncomfortable, not humiliating, unlike the poor women who had been left on the deck above. He had not forced her, though he had left room for doubt that he would do it at his pleasure; Iasemi had not been tossed overboard to feed the fishes; and Astyanax was alive. Wonderfully alive.
"He's strong."
Andromache started at the Myrmidon's observation, the words themselves and the tone in which he delivered them wholly unexpected. She watched, desperately trying to smother the soaring of her heart as the Greek shifted Astyanax into a more congenial position.
"He is," she replied simply, still refraining from letting hope show too plainly.
"In mind as well as body, I suspect," he continued. "He surprises me with his endurance." Chucking him under the chin, the Myrmidon laughed softly, as though trying to prompt her son to join him in his mirth.
Andromache found the sight too painful to look upon. It was too intimate, too familiar. She would never see Hector adore their son again. Only in her memories, and all memories faded over time. She would forget the curling of his locks, the exact lilt of his voice when he spoke her name, the details of the many fables he had entertained Astyanax with. Like a pin prick in a waterskin, she wouldn't realize her memories were slowly slipping away until one day she reached for a remembrance and found it empty, dry, uncertain.
Though the Myrmidon's attention still seemed rapt, Andromache hastened to him and plucked Astyanax from his surprised arms. "Please, if you're going to kill him, have done with it. I beg you." She touched her forehead to Astyanax's and closed her eyes. "Do it fast."
She waited, bracing herself for the moment when she would feel Astyanax pried from her arms. But it did not come.
"Open your eyes."
She obeyed, though she was afraid to look at him. From his voice alone, she couldn't tell what his verdict was. The words had been insistent, but not hard or cruel.
"It is pleases you, then he'll live." Before Andromache could gather her wits to voice the incoherent gratitude that churned within her, he went on. "He is truly remarkable, and though it might be the practice of others to eradicate anyone who shows strength, it is not mine." His eyes then hardened noticeably. "Don't make me regret my charity. I will not tolerate dangerous insubordination, in man or child. Now, I order you to go aloft."
"Iasemi—"
"I'll send one of the women down to tend her."
Andromache nodded stiffly, her mind barely comprehending at what had just happened. As simply as he could take her son's life, he had just as simply spared it. She had agonized and dreaded, wept and seethed, so sure death would come. She had harbored hope, nursed confidence, but she was discovering that she had not let it delve as deeply as sorrow. Now she was forced to scramble to this new reality. Had she really reconciled herself to losing him so much?
He stepped aside and motioned for her to walk past him. Clearly, he did not trust her to follow his order of her own free will.
With Astyanax warm and now safe, Andromache would gladly obey any command. She brushed past the Myrmidon, his presence no longer as vile as before. As she made her way to the narrow ladder, her mind swam with questions. What had prompted this change of mind? What had she done or said? Was this another manifestation of the goddess Artemis? Had she now joined those whose steps were dogged by an immortal? With a passing cringe at the impiety of it, she thought that if it were so, there were troubling times ahead. Few mortals had fared well when they were recipients of concern by one of Zeus' brood.
She paused at the foot of the ladder to make certain Astyanax was secure before she mounted it. He was staring up at her, the corners of his mouth curving into plump dimples. His smile prompted her to return it.
It's you I should be asking, she thought. What did you do to the Myrmidon?
Next chapter: Checking in on Paris
and Helen. Are they going to get on the bad side of another king?
Would Pharoah want any part of their plans for Troy?
Thanks for reviewing, Spider/Queen Arwen! I really appreciate you standing by this fic.