Chapter 3

Achilles had unexpectedly been summoned to king Agamemnon's quarters. He had agreed to go, although not very cheerfully. He didn't have a high opinion about neither the king nor his brother, Menelaus and he basically considered them a pair of pompous and stubborn old goats. However, he realized that if there was ever a time he needed to stay on good terms with Agamemnon, this was it.

But it had all been a mistake. When Achilles left Agamemnon's tent, his temper was three times more boiling than before he entered.

Naturally, Agamemnon had gathered his faithful puppies, the kings of Greece in his tent. Much to Achilles' disgust, they were practically licking his boots after today's great victory. You would think that old Aggie had single-handedly defeated the Trojan army.

When he spotted Achilles, Agamemnon had ordered his followers to leave them alone. Odysseus, the only Grecian king that Achilles truly respected had reminded him that wars were old men talking and young men fighting, as he left. Achilles knew what Odysseus was trying to say. "Stay calm and don't let yourself be provoked."

But inside, Odysseus was just as much of a politician as Agamemnon was. He couldn't possibly understand. And Agamemnon seemed to know just what to say to make Achilles temper flare. He knew his soft spot, his desire to make his mark, to make his name immortal. And he liked to inform Achilles that even if his father was a king, the truth was that he was just a soldier.

"History remembers kings, not soldiers!" he had shouted. Then he had continued by declaring that tomorrow Troy would be his, as well as all of the glory.

Achilles had listened, furious, but still somehow managing to keep himself under control. Agamemnon hadn't found out that he had spared the life of the Trojan prince, but Achilles almost wish that he could throw the news in the king's face, just to tease him. But he bit his tongue.

It wasn't until Agamemnon called for his guards, who dragged a sobbing girl into the room that Achilles couldn't hold his anger back anymore. The girl was the temple maid, Briseis and apparently, Agamemnon had simply taken her from his cousin's tent.

Agamemnon had called her "spoils of war" and his tone of voice showed perfectly clear what plans he had on her behalf.

Achilles didn't really know why, but somehow, the girl's hopeless situation sent a wave of fury through his body. He didn't know why. Taking women as slaves from the enemy was a natural part of the conquest and he had been to war many times. Perhaps it was the girl's humiliation and her complete helplessness? Perhaps it was because Agamemnon seemed to believe that he could do whatever he liked against him, against Achilles, the mightiest warrior in Greece?

He had ordered the soldiers to release her and when they didn't, he had unsheathed his sword.

But he had been stopped.

Surprisingly, the young girl spoke up and declared that she wouldn't let anyone die for her sake. She had also stated that "If killing is your only talent, then it's you I pity."

Her words had left Achilles speechless, much to Agamemnon's amusement. He had strolled up to the girl and run his fingers through her hair, announcing that he was going to let her give him a nice warm bath.

"You sack of wine!" Achilles had spat. He had continued by declaring that before his time was over, he would look down at the king's corpse and smile. Then he had angrily left. He had marched straight back to his tent. When Patroclus asked him what had become of the girl, he just snapped something in reply. Wisely, Patroclus had not approached him again.

Achilles fury now overshadowed his desire for glory and revenge. He didn't care what anyone said, he would not waste a moment's effort on that pompous fool in the battle tomorrow.

Andromache clutched the sheet under her hands as she sat next to her husband on their bed. Hector's eyes were set on Astyanax, who was lying in his crib, smiling and playing with the wooden lion that his father had carved for him.

Andromache could sense the tension in her husband's body next to her, just as she knew that he could sense hers. They rarely needed words to express their feelings to each other, they instinctively knew.

And there was a reason to be troubled. Priam had held a counsel earlier this evening to discuss how they would make strategies for the next day and how to keep the Greeks outside the walls of Troy.

Andromache and her new sister-in-law, Helen had listened to the conferring from a safe distance. Hector and his brother Paris had sat next to their father. Being the head of Troy's war force, Hector had been at the centre of attention for the king's advisors.

They were all certain that Troy could win this war, especially with the brave prince Hector's assist, or so had Priam's old warrior Glaucus stated. Hector didn't seem too optimistic though and his frown deepened when a high priest of Apollo declared that he had received a sign from Apollo that would help them succeed.

Andromache had sighed to herself when she heard this. Her husband had a sceptic nature and she knew that he would consider this nonsense. The problem was that his father was a devotedly religious man; he had been so ever since the sun god had cured Hector's illness when he was a young child.

Hector told the men that he had faced a Greek who cut the head off the statue of Apollo outside his temple and that the god hadn't struck back. His message was clear; the Gods wouldn't fight this war for them.

That was when Paris unexpectedly had interfered. The king's youngest son had declared that since he had brought this war upon his country, it was up to him to put and end to it. He would fight a duel for Helen with Menelaus. Priam had been stunned, but his son would hear no objections.

As she was sitting next to her husband, staring down at her son, Andromache felt coldness inside her. It was something ominous about the situation. And she knew that Paris' duel wouldn't make things right.

"The man who killed Tactor outside Apollo's temple. I have never seen a spear thrown like that..." Hector suddenly said slowly. He turned to her, looking troubled. "An impossible throw. The man... he barely even resembled a man. He seemed to have been born to fight, almost like a god. He was..."

"Achilles." Andromache finished, her voice quiet.

Hector's eyes narrowed slightly. "Yes," He said. "Yes, I guess it must have been. I have heard of him. The finest warrior in all of Greece."

"Some say that he is better than anyone else in the world," Andromache said flatly, looking intently at Astyanax.

Hector nodded slightly. "I can believe that." He was silent for a while. Andromache could feel that he was watching her, but she wouldn't face him. When he spoke up again, he chose his words carefully. "That man said something to me... He told me to give you... his greetings."

Andromache's face paled, but she didn't turn towards him and she said nothing.

"Andromache, is there something you wish to tell me?" Hector asked. His voice was gentle.

She shook her head. "No," she answered immediately. And she was telling the truth, because there really wasn't anything.

When Hector placed his hand against her cheek, she felt a sudden, icy fear inside her. She fiercely grabbed his hand and kissed it. "Don't go tomorrow," she begged him, her voice shaky. "Please don't go."

Hector tried to calm her down by telling her that Paris would be fighting in the morning, not him, but this was not nearly enough to calm her down. Fifty thousand Greeks had not crossed the seas to watch his brother fight.

Hector smiled lightly and told her – not the first time – that she would make a fine general. Andromache usually loved to be given that sort of compliments, but tonight it was no comfort. Once again, she begged him. He had been fighting his whole life. Why couldn't he, just this time, let other men do battle?

Hector assured her that he didn't wish to fight and risk leaving her and Astyanax behind – but maybe he wouldn't have a choice. Andromache felt tears in the corners of her eyes. She felt like she could tie him up inside this room, to keep him from entering his armour and fight.

"I can't loose you," she stated. "I won't survive." Tears overflowed and fell down her cheeks. Hector did his best to comfort her, taking her into his arms and kissing her deeply, but he couldn't take her fears away and he knew it.

"I must see Paris," he said softly and left.

Andromache stayed in their room, trying desperately to calm herself. She could tell that Hector had been a little surprise by her almost hysterical pleading. He had been fighting during all of their seven years of marriage and had been forced to say goodbye to his wife many times before he rode out to battle. Andromache had always been a strong and controlled young woman and she had never once cried before she saw him off.

But of course, this was one of the things Hector didn't know about her, one of those few things that he could never sense.

Andromache wandered about in the room, scared and anxious. "Why him?" she asked herself. "Why of all men?" Better than anyone she knew what he was capable of. She knew his tremendous skills in battle, his strength and his desire for glory. She knew that she had every reason to fear for her husband's life.

However, his ability to fight wasn't the only reason why she feared him. Although, she was reluctant to admit it, she knew that his presence in Troy was a threat against her piece of mind. For seven years, she had been able to push the memory of him out of her mind, but knowing that he was close made it so much more difficult.

She closed her eyes and travelled eight years back in time, to when she was a nineteen year old princess of Thebe, the only daughter of King Eetion. Back then, she had been alone, contemplative and nervous. She had known that soon, her time would come; the time when she would be sent away by her father to a foreign country, to a stranger that she would call her husband.

Andromache was an obedient daughter and she knew that duty demanded that she followed her father's wishes. But she still couldn't help being nervous. She didn't know anything about her future husband or his country and she really didn't have any idea what she could expect. She had found it difficult to sleep. She had spent, long, restless hours staring up into the ceiling and tried to tell herself that she had to be strong and brave.

It was during those days that her family suddenly had unexpected visitors. After a terrible storm, a reputable Greek warlord and his men arrived, in want of shelter. Being a Theban, king Eetion had not been particularly delighted with the uninvited guests. But he was a far too sensible man to refuse hospitality to the most feared man in Greece: Achilles, son of king Peleus.

However, king Eetion had warned his family to stay away from the Greeks. He wouldn't allow his seven sons to befriend them and he didn't want his daughter to go anywhere near them. Andromache wasn't disappointed, she was as much a Theban as her father and she was far too deep inside her thoughts to care much for the guests.

But it turned out that it wouldn't be so easy to keep her distance.

Andromache could still remember it like yesterday, how she had walked bare-footed along the cliffs down at the beaches of Thebe, downside her father's castle. The air had captured her hair as she turned her eyes towards the horizon and tried to picture the kingdom of Troy somewhere far away.

"Well, hello there," a voice had suddenly said. Andromache remembered how she had flinched and turned around. Her breath had been caught in her throat.

Of course she had heard about him, like everybody else. She knew that he was an extremely skilful and bold warrior. But she had never been prepared for his beauty and his intense, physical presence. He was standing leaned against one of the rocks on the beach with his muscular arms crossed. He was a tall, athletically built and powerful man with a blonde man of hair that was pulled back behind his ears and fell down his shoulders. His eyes were as blue as the sea and they sparkled towards her.

His mouth was formed into a broad grin that somehow immediately displeased her. He didn't look at her with the respect that she was used to, being the king of Thebe's daughter. His smile was audacious, daring and no matter how attractive he was, Andromache felt her anger turn her face reddish.

"I suppose you are Andromache," he had said casually.

She tossed her head. "It's princess Andromache," she corrected him frostily.

He frowned slightly. "But your name is Andromache, isn't it?"

"Yes, of course it is!" she snapped angrily. "But since I am a princess, I would prefer if you addressed me accordingly."

This only made him laugh. "Oh, you would? Well, let me tell you, dear princess that I really couldn't care less what you prefer. I'll call you whatever I please."

Back in those days, Andromache had not yet obtained the self-control she now possessed. She was immediately infuriated by his words. Who did this man think he was? "Well, if you think I'll answer, you are mistaken."

"Oh, I don't care if you answer as long as you listen," he answered, still smiling.

Andromache glared evilly at him. "I am a princess," she repeated with dignity. "And that is what you'll call me."

Achilles chuckled slightly and raised his eyebrows. "You really don't like not to get what you want, do you?" he said. Then his eyes narrowed and fleetingly roamed across her body. "Well, let me tell you, dear Andromache – neither do I."

Then he had given her a final, knowing smile and walked away, leaving Andromache behind him, seething with anger. She immediately decided that the man was impossible, a savage and ill-bred, Greek beast. She was glad that her father didn't want her anywhere near him and she certainly wouldn't approach him willingly.

But it turned out that Achilles didn't care if she wanted to meet him or not. Nor did he care about her fathers wishes. He did as he pleased and came to see her anyway; not bothering about the fact that she clearly marked that she wanted nothing to do with him. If she was out for a walk, he showed up behind a tree and nearly scared her to death, if she was riding, he cached up with her and forced her to stop, if she was in the gardens, or in her room or anywhere else in the castle, he would always find her.

Their meetings always left Andromache furious and consummated by a wish to strangle him. Still, there was something that almost made her long for his company. Achilles was like no other man she had ever met and he both scared and fascinated her.

Despite being the son of a king, he didn't seem to care about what anyone said or did, except himself. He obeyed no orders except his own, he had no allegiances, no loyalties and terms like duty and responsibility were just words to him.

To Andromache, who had always been taught things such as self-control, discipline, dutifulness and devotion by her parents, his ways were a stimulating change. "You must feel more than you show, always think before you talk," her mother had said over and over again.With Achilles, she didn't have to watch her tongue; she didn't have to care about what anyone thought of her.

The memories were bittersweet as Andromache thought about how they had rode their horses together over the sand banks in a wild gallop. She remembered how he had pushed her into the water from one of the bridges, how he had put sand inside her dress, how they had swam together in the deep, crystal blue water. How he had taught her how to use a sword... Of course, Andromache had been discreet and done her best not to let her family find out about her meetings with the Greek warrior. But she found it harder and harder to conceal them. The meetings – and the feelings that blossomed inside her.

She found herself marvelling at his strong male body and his full, flaxen hair. She started dreaming of him at night as she lay in her bed. She found herself wondering what it would be like to feel his strong, hard body close to her and to run her fingers through his blonde mane of hair.

She wanted him and she knew that he wanted her. She saw it in his eyes as he looked at her, the way he followed her every movement. Sometimes she felt like she would burst. Her body, her heart and her soul was screaming for him. But somehow she always managed to keep things from going too far.

Despite her growing affections for Achilles, Andromache never forgot about the fact that she was betrothed. She knew that she could never give her hand to Achilles, no matter what she felt for him. She loved her father and she knew that she had to honour him and her country.

But Achilles wouldn't understand. He kept asking her, almost begging her to run away with him, to his home in Laryssa. When Andromache tried to explain that she couldn't, he refused to accept her words. It was as if he didn't want to understand.

When he was finally forced to realize that she wouldn't come with him, he had left with his men without a single word of farewell. Andromache had been distraught to find him gone, but deep inside, she knew that it was for the best. Still, she sometimes missed him so much her heart almost ached.

But only a year later, she had married Hector and taken her place as his wife. When Andromache started her new life in Troy, she had silently vowed to herself not to let the past hunt her. She had done well. For seven years she had been a happy woman and a loyal wife. She loved and respected her husband. He was the father of her child. She had no regrets. Still, the memories of the Greek warrior had somehow always been with her, buried alive somewhere deep inside her soul.

She had believed that she would never see him again. She had hoped not to see him again. But now he was here and he was a threat to everything she was and everyone she loved. Andromache swallowed. Somehow, she had a feeling that he had not only come to Troy to hunt for glory.