Hector looked around. Paris had the boy on his knee. Scamandrius was squealing in pleasure, pulling his uncle's curls. Helen clapped her hands in delight, her golden earrings jangling as she threw her head back and laughed. Even Andromache was laughing loudly, her mouth hidden by her hand, as was appropriate for a royal woman.

Before them was a table laden with fresh fruit and little cakes, and nearly dozen ladies-in-waiting stood around with cups and food in their hands, dressed in their finest white chitons. The women had obviously been celebrating Paris' victory and the man of the hour had decided to join them, in order to reap his laurels in the form of their adoration.

The laughter stopped when Hector came in.
"Paris," he said calmly. "We need to prepare to attack."
He smiled at them all, though he really felt like wringing his brother's neck.
"If Achilles is dead, we must use their confusion to our advantage," Hector added as some of the women aww-ed in disappointment. Paris, as ever, was the life and soul of every party, particularly one full of pretty women.

Behind him, Hector could almost sense the Kalion Queen stiffen. She'd followed him wordlessly, almost dazed, down the halls. He'd pointed out the courtyard, the entrance to the throne room, making polite conversation, but she'd looked at him blankly, her mind clearly elsewhere. Hector knew that she'd shared something with Achilles; his mention of the man's death had made her bristle, take a deep breath like she was being ducked underwater.

"If he's dead - ?" Paris cried jovially, handing the baby back to Andromache. "I'd say he's dead!"
Hector felt the pinch of a headache and avoided answering by smiling at the women assembled.
"Leave us," he said to the head lady-in-waiting and she left, taking the other women with her. They filed past, mustering the strange woman who stood in his shadow in the doorway.

Hector led the red-haired woman out by the hand and presented her to his brother and the two women.
"That's the seer!" said Paris.
He looked slightly confused.
Hector smiled at Relta. "You know my brother, my lady? Yes, well, Paris, this is the Queen – "
"The former Queen," she murmured.
"This is Relta, the former Queen of Kalios. This is Helen, the current Queen of Sparta, and my wife, Andromache, the future Queen of Troy."
The two women gasped and Andromache admonished him with a soft, "Hector!"
Her husband laughed his deep laugh.
"I think there will be no secrets amongst us," he said. "Let us all know who we are and what we are. Paris, let's go."

Hector embraced Andromache, stroking her cheek tenderly, then bent to whisper in her ear. He scooped up a honey-cake from the table and left the room, followed by his brother, rushing to keep up.

xXx

"Find out what you can," Hector had whispered. "Everything you can."
Andromache nodded, squeezed his hand.

She had heard about the Kalion Queen.
It had been a delicious piece of court gossip: King Kalios of Kalios, that rocky little kingdom down the coast, had already had one wife but she'd died of something unspectacular – a fever or ague – years before. That had allowed him pursue the one they'd called his real true love, a little Egyptian with slanted eyes and soft lips, one that wore robes as fine as any king.
But what of it?
Kalios had a brother and that brother had sons.

Then the mad king had actually allowed two witches into his court and – gods on high! - he'd married one of them, a young one. A pregnant one! There had been much talk about it – could he father a child? Was it even his? They'd said that his new wife was significantly younger, barely twenty, and she was said to have a head of ghastly orange hair and skin so white it was like marble, covered in blue veins.

Andromache looked at the miserable woman in front of her and could attest to the fact that yes, she had that odd hair – but it was more copper than orange, almost streaked blond at the front from the Greek sun, and her skin was fantastically pale. When she looked up and straightened her back in an attempt at queenly stature, she noticed the former Queen's blue eyes, ringed with dark shadows.
So this was the she-wolf, the woman who rode into battle on a huge horse with a dozen dogs, to slay the enemies of Kalios?
Andromache was disappointed. She'd expected something more ... more formidable.

"Take a seat," she said and she handed the little boy to his nursemaid before she sat down elegantly on a divan. Helen sat beside her, drawing a clear and unspoken line between the Trojan princes' women and the red-haired queen.
Relta hesitated and sat opposite them.

"Please," Andromache said. "Help yourself."
She poured the woman a cup of sweetened wine and smiled at her.
"Thank you, Lady Andromache," the queen said.
She spoke with the slightest of accents, like a musician hitting a chord incorrectly – the tiniest of intonation that gave her away.
"How did you come to be here?" Helen asked.

The White Queen turned to her, studied her for the briefest of moments before she said,
"I was taken captive by the Greeks. Given to them by Nikephoras. Well, Damaris probably."
She laughed drily, shaking her head. "She never particularly liked me. I think I was supposed to be tribute for Agamemnon."
She smiled at the two women but the smile held no mirth. Andromache indicated the silver platters and the Queen leaned forward to take a slice of apple.

"Who took you?" Helen asked.
Her voice sounded a little breathless.
The Queen bit the apple and chewed, swallowed, before replying.
"Odysseus. Achilles."
Helen looked at Andromache, her eyes bright.
"Did they hand you over to my brother-in-law?"
The woman across from them looked confused for a moment, then realised who they were talking about.
"Agamemnon? No, no they didn't."
"Why not?" Andromache wanted to know.

The White Queen looked at them, chewed her apple.
Swallowed.
"Achilles kept me for himself," she answered in a matter-of-fact voice.

Helen said nothing, glanced over at Andromache for help.
"So his death must be ... of meaning to you," the older woman said, as kindly as she could.
The Queen looked from one to the other on the divan opposite, then bowed her head for a second or two before looking up, looking at them squarely.
"We were lovers," she said. "I did not want it at first, but it was ... he was kind. Then I asked to leave and he let me go."

Her voice was steady and clear.
"Prince Hector seems like an honourable man," she said, inclining her head towards Andromache. "I have already told him that I will tell him the truth and he, in turn, promised to let me continue on my way home."
"Are you sorry he has been slain?" asked Helen.
Her face was openly curious.
"I knew he was planning to climb the wall and I told him not to, but he would not listen. I knew he might die. I am sorry he did," the Queen said in a toneless voice.

She looked at them both emotionlessly, her face composed, but her long hands twisted the material of her robe into a tight knot in her lap. When Andromache glanced down, she immediately released the cloth, stretching her fingers out as though she were trying to keep a glaze of calm on her entire demeanour.

"He was a great warrior," Andromache said kindly.
"Yes, I believe so. He was very brave, very fearless. His men loved him dearly."
"He is with Zeus now, no doubt celebrating his many victories with the gods."
The red-haired woman nodded, smiled her mirthless smile.
"No doubt," she said, her voice hoarse.

xXx

So he was dead. The golden one in the black armour.
Relta nodded as Andromache spoke, but her mind was over the walls of Troy, down by its sandy shore. Every time she blinked, his face flashed in front of his eyes.

How could he be dead?
Really dead?
How many days ago since she'd lain with him? Not many. Two? Three?

She'd woken to his leg pressing between hers.

"No, Achilles, no," she said, putting her hands over her face. "Go away, you pest. Go and fight someone."
He laughed.
She peeked through her fingers; he was balanced over her on his forearms, his nose brushing hers. He wasn't wearing any clothes, she could smell his skin, the musky smell of his sweat, and she shook her head again as he pressed his knee, trying to part her legs.

"Achilles," she said, unable to stop herself laughing, "Could you leave me alone? Let me sleep?"
"You sleep too much," he grumbled, "There are more interesting things to do in this bed."
His blue eyes were crinkled with fun and he shook his head over her face so his plaits fell into her eyes.
"We've done them all, you scourge," she said and allowed her legs to be pushed apart.

"Enough sleeping," he said. "Why do you need to sleep so much, anyway?"
He rolled over so he was beside her, pulled her robe up to her waist, up over her breasts.
"Because this country is too damned hot," Relta grumbled.
"And your country isn't?" he asked, pretending to be busy stroking her nipple. She had steadfastly refused to tell him about her family, her country, her life with the king. Now, when he asked, he did so casually. Stealthily.

She stroked his blond head, pushed a strand of hair behind his ear.
She couldn't answer, overcome by a sudden wave of homesickness.

"It's cold and dark and rainy and beautiful," she said wistfully. "The sky is wider and the clouds are bigger. Danu's power is everywhere, in everything: the mountains, the winds, the rivers and ... and the sea."
Oh, the sea.
"Who is Danu?"
"The goddess, the all-powerful."
"A woman?" Achilles said, raising an eyebrow.
"She would beat your Zeus with a snap of her fingers," Relta said and yanked one of his plaits.

"Why do you miss the sea? We have a sea in Greece," Achilles grinned, tracing a finger down her stomach. "Lots of sea. Sea everywhere."
"You have a pretty blue sea," she replied mockingly. "Like your pretty blue eyes. We have a big, grey sea with angry waves, full of sea creatures with big teeth and whiskers that bite – "
She leaned over and nipped his shoulder.
He yelped but he didn't remove his finger.
"And it's fierce, Achilles. Our sea is fierce," she said, as his fingers tiptoed downwards. "The rivers run freely, not pathetic little trickles in the bottom of dry riverbeds. At night we lie under thick woollen blankets, not this scratchy linen, and we sleep well, not tossing and turning and sweating and groaning. Oh, and we wear beautiful furs, not your stinking wolf – "
"In fairness," he said, dipping his fingers between her legs. "Only you wear the stinking wolf fur."

She put her balled fist in her mouth, screwing her eyes shut.
"You nuisance," she whispered and he stroked gently, kissing her collar bone.
She writhed beneath him, breathing quickly. Achilles moved above her, positioned himself to thrust inside her.
"I will get you beautiful furs," he promised, kissing the tip of her nose. "And make you a palace of marble that's even cold enough for your icy blood."
Her eyes shot open and she stared at him as he pushed gently between her legs. He grinned at her in return, his broad, handsome smile, and lowered his head to kiss her neck.

And Relta had felt a wave of – what? Affection? Pity? Regret?
She didn't know.
She'd spontaneously grabbed his blond head and pulled him close, kissing his hair, the rough stubble on his cheek, digging her fingers into his back to hug him tighter.
Delighted, he'd kissed her enthusiastically in return, and she'd had to try hard not to cry.

xXx

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