Chapter 8

Achilles was walking along the beach when the king of Ithaca suddenly appeared. Odysseus looked anxious and troubled when he greeted his friend. "I have had some less than pleasing news," he began ominously.

"Really, what's that?" Achilles asked in a cool tone of voice.

"Well, they are saying that you not only neglected to kill the prince of Troy, but also that you let him get away, back to his father's castle."

"Rumours travel fast, I hear," Achilles snorted. "What else have you heard?"

"They say that the slave girl under your protection in fact happens to be king Priam's beloved niece," Odysseus told him seriously. "And that you failed to inform anyone else about this and sent her back to the city with Hector. Are these things true?"

Achilles nodded, unmoved. "Of course they are."

Odysseus shook his head with a look of astonishment painted across his bearded face. "I don't understand this. I thought you came with us to Troy to win glory. And when you have your chance, you simply turn your back on it, like some coward."

"This war has nothing to do with glory," Achilles answered coldly. "And nor has it ever had."

Odysseus looked at him in irritation. "Will you at least tell me why you let the prince go?"

"Certainly," Achilles answered mockingly. "It was because I had the chance to make a very profitable bargain."

"Bargain?" Odysseus repeated, dumbfounded. "What kind of bargain?"

A nonchalant look was spread across Achilles' face. "Well, you see, the prince's charming wife paid me a little visit and she offered me something much better in return."

Odysseus stared at Achilles like he was a madman. "Hector's wife?" he said in disbelief. "Princess Andromache? She was here?"

"Wrong," Achilles answered flatly. "She is here." Then his face was formed into a cruel smirk. "As a matter of fact, I was just on my way to receive her payment for her husband's life."

The king of Ithaca was a sensitive man and his sharp eyes immediately discovered the truth as he watched Achilles' face. "So she is that woman," he stated quietly, more to himself than to his friend. Then he sighed wearily. "Listen, I don't know what is going on between you and her, but..."

"No, that's right," Achilles interrupted him brusquely. "You don't."

"You personal feud with Agamemnon is one thing," Odysseus continued firmly. "But taking advantage of an innocent woman of noble birth..."

"Innocent?" Achilles spat. "Trust me; this woman is anything but innocent. She is like a boil that has been tormenting me for eight years. But now, I intend to cut it off for good."

"Don't be a fool," Odysseus said in annoyance. "Do you have any idea how the Trojans will react? What do you think Hector will do if he finds out?"

"Oh, I want him to find out," Achilles answered icy. "And then he may come here so that I'll once again have the opportunity to show him who is the stronger warrior. But it would not change anything."

Odysseus just shook his head. Something in Achilles' voice told him that he wasn't as indifferent as he wanted to appear. "Why is this Andromache so special?" he asked. "How come you are prepared to relinquish to your vengeance for her? What does she mean to you?"

Achilles snorted. "Don't worry," he said contemptuously. "By dawn, she won't mean anything."

He turned on his heel, leaving Odysseus behind him. Odysseus shook his head and muttered some curses under his breath. This was bound to end in a bad way; he was sure of it.

He could only hope that Achilles would somehow get his sense back. But the chances of that were probably not great, he thought as he watched the warrior, heading for his tent with firm, determined steps.

----

She had not moved since the moment she first entered the tent. She sat absolutely still, on the narrow cot and looked absent-mindedly in front of her. Her fingers clutched the blanket with white knuckles.

Andromache's breathing was short and irregular and her heart beat fiercely. She asked herself how long he had been away, but she had no idea. Her fear had made her lose all sense of time.

If it was something she truly hated, it was to feel afraid. She had ever since she was a little girl who was scared of the darkness in her room after a terrible nightmare. Even then, she had felt ashamed by her display of weakness. She could not abide her nurse's pity and comfort; it had only increased her humiliation. Fear was an unworthy and disgraceful emotion and it had no place in her life, especially not since she was a princess. She had learned to shield and hide the feeling to everyone else and she had done her best to defeat it on her own.

But right now, she didn't feel a day older than that terrified child who had hidden under her bed to keep the evil shadows from finding her. Her hands trembled slightly and she casually remembered another time when she had felt the twinge of fear in her body.

"It's so beautiful, this country of yours," said the newly wedded bride and indicated the wonderful view from his, no their bedroom, towards the sea. The stars and the silver moon sparkled across the great water, this first of many nights that they would share together.

Hector smiled, but his eyes didn't leave her. "It's our country now," he gently reminded her.

She couldn't help but blush and glanced down at her hands that were folded across her lap, where she was sitting on the edge of the great bed. "Yes... I guess it is," she mumbled.

Andromache smiled slightly when she remembered her nervousness. She had been prepared for what was going to happen, but as he was standing in front of her, this unknown man who she had just married, she knew that none of the preparations could have told her what it would be like.

But her new husband had understood. Somehow he could sense what she was feeling; maybe because he felt the same way? He was not much older than she was, but in that moment he had showed maturity far beyond his years. He had known exactly what to do and how to say the right things to calm her nerves.

Slowly, he had approached her and fallen down to his knees before her. Gently, he had taken her cold, white hands into his own warm and large.

"Andromache," he had told her softly. "We don't know each other, you and I. We are hardly more than strangers to each other."

Then he had silenced for a moment, watching her hands silently. Then he squeezed them a little harder.

"But you are my wife now," he continued, his voice firm. "And that means that you are closer to me than anyone else. And you can safely trust me when I tell you that I would fight to my dying breath to protect you. I would never let anyone hurt you, Andromache, no more than I would ever hurt you myself."

Andromache closed her eyes. The memory was vivid and beautiful, but it wasn't something she should think about right now. That would be the same as defiling it.

She wasn't afraid that Achilles would hit her or use physical violence against her. She was not afraid of pain; she had faced the births of her children with courage. What she feared was that he would degrade her, that he would take her pride from her hands and step on it.

More than anything, she feared that he would make an intrusion to some hidden, tender corner of her soul and expose things that should be left in darkness. If he did, she might lose her sanity forever. She knew that he was capable of something like that. He wanted to hurt her; he had said so himself. This was about getting even, about getting his revenge...

She was so deep inside her thoughts that she flinched violently, when the tent flap was suddenly lifted up. Achilles entered the tent and made sure to pull the flap down behind him.

Andromache watched him wordlessly as he stood before her. He had pulled off the dirty armour and was dressed in a robe of blue velvet. He had not bothered to button it and quite obviously he wore nothing under it. Beneath the fabric, she could make out his smooth body and his powerful muscles.

Achilles looked back at her where she was sitting at the bed, holding tightly onto the blanket. He smiled slowly to himself. "I trust you have made yourself comfortable?" he said drawly. She didn't answer, only looked at him with her lips tightly pinched together.

Achilles smile became smug. He could sense her nervousness and he enjoyed it. This was the moment he had waited for. He was in charge now and he intended to make it clear to her that he was in full control of the situation.

Still smiling, he slowly turned away from her and poured himself a goblet of wine. "Do you want some?" he asked her.

She shook her head slightly.

"Really? You look like you may need it," he remarked mockingly and watched her pale face closely.

When she didn't answer, he simply shrugged and took a sip from his own goblet. He enjoyed the fresh, spicy taste of the wine. It was like the sweet taste of victory.

Over the edge of the goblet he kept watching her. She was still pale, but her face was flat and she kept her back straight. She would never beg him or plead with him, he realized. Her pride would forbid her from doing something so humiliating. But somewhere in her eyes, there was a hint of accusation.

Suddenly the taste of the wine felt acid. There was something about that look in her eyes that bothered him and he suddenly felt some of his confidence diminishing. He couldn't stand that. He would not let her dictate what he was supposed to feel.

In a single movement, he carelessly threw the half empty goblet aside. It hit the ground with a bang that seemed to eco across the silence in the tent and the red liquor fell out and coloured the carpet in red.

Andromache had barely even had time to recover from this unexpected action, before he had moved close to her and pulled her up from the bed, to her feet. He looked deeply into her eyes as he pulled the cloak off from her stiff shoulders and let it fall to the ground.

She wore a simple, grey gown that looked like something a peasant's wife would wear. But it was not enough to hide her elegant, slender body beneath the fabric.

Achilles moved to stand behind her, putting his broad hands on her shoulders and caressing them. Possessively, he lifted up her braid and kissed her smooth neck. His hands kept stroking her shoulders as his lips worked their way down to her back.

Andromache closed her eyes. She was grateful that he couldn't see her face at the moment. Once again, her thoughts drifted back to her wedding night. She could still remember the feeling of Hector's warm and gentle hands as he softly, almost reverently discovered her body.

He had been so careful, so afraid that he would hurt her in any way. Andromache could still remember how they had fallen asleep together afterward, tightly entwined. As she lay in his arms and listened to him as he slept, any nervousness that she still had left inside her heart had disappeared.

I won't think about it now, she told herself strictly. I won't.

Achilles' dissolved her braid and ran his long fingers through the soft, slightly wavy tresses of hair. He lifted a fat curl to his lips and breathed in her wonderful scent. Slowly, he turned her around and pressed his mouth against hers. His arms encircled her waist and pulled her close to him. In his kisses, there were no tenderness, only a wish for control and dominance.

Andromache gave him no reaction whatsoever. She didn't make any resistance and she didn't encourage him. She was absolutely still as his hot mouth devoured her cold lips. Her arms hung limply along her sides. Finally, Achilles couldn't help but pull back. He watched her face, searched for a sign, something that would tell him that she wasn't as unmoved as she appeared, but he found nothing.

As Andromache stared at him, another memory crossed her mind. A memory of a day outside Thebe when the sun radiated from a cloudless sky. They had released their horses and let them taste the juicy grass. But they didn't keep a close eye on them. They were far too engaged in each other, as they were laying stretched out on the soft green beneath them.

Suddenly, he raised himself up to his elbow and leaned over her, gently stroking a stray of hair from her face. She looked anxiously at him as he bent over. When his lips touched hers, she quickly put a hand on his chest to stop him.

"No," she said and sat up quickly.

He frowned jokingly. "I didn't exactly plan to kill you."

"I know that," she answered in embarrassment.

He made another attempt, but she immediately shrank back. "I said no," she said, this time more firmly.

He sighed in frustration. "Why not?"

"Because I can't," she answered, her cheeks blushing. "And you know that."

He shook his head and chuckled wearily. "Andromache, there are no one around here to watch us."

"That is not the point!" she snapped back.

He kept trying to persuade her, but she kept refusing to even discuss the matter. Finally, Achilles became tired of the ridiculous argument. He pulled her close and kissed her, whether she wanted him to or not.

Against her will, Andromache found herself responding to his intimacy. The passion of his kiss made her feel dizzy and her body melted into his strong arms as he held her close to his chest.

She managed to get some sense back and twisted her head away. "Achilles, no...," she mumbled throatily. She was trying to sound stern, but she failed miserably.

He turned her head back to him, gently but firmly and looked into her wide eyes. "You don't mean that," he said confidently and kissed her again. His lips slipped down her throat.

And of course he was right. Because even if her mind said no, no, no, her body was loudly screaming yes, yes, yes and it was difficult to ignore. With all of her soul, she wanted to give in and return his passion. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck and taste his skin with her lips. More than anything, she longed to feel his strong, rough body close to her.

She felt nauseous with herself. What a weak and pitiful thing she was! All that it took was a handsome face and a sweet kiss to make her forget about her obligations. What would her father think about her if he ever found out? She had betrayed him. And her future husband, the prince of Troy? He would not want her, not a soiled and defiled woman...

Her fear brought her willpower back to her and somehow, she managed to push him away. "No! Don't you understand? No."

She was breathing fiercely and staring at him with wide eyes. Achilles stared at her for a moment, before he rose from his sitting position and walked away from her.

Andromache asked herself if he also remembered that moment? One look at his face told her that he did. He remembered and even though so many years had passed it still made him furious to think about it. She had rejected him, like some discarded necklace.

He felt a wave of heat through his body as he thought about this. She didn't want him; she had turned him down. But tonight, he was in control and nothing she said or did was going to change that.

Roughly, he pulled her to him again and kissed her mouth firmly, pressing hard. He released her momentarily to pull back the covers on the cot. With a savage shove, he pushed her onto the bed.

He climbed onto it next to her and bent over to kiss her again. His mouth fiercely glided down along her neck while his hands caressed her hips and sides. He enjoyed the feeling of her white, smooth skin under his mouth and continued to explore her. His fingers moved to the laces of her dress. He longed to see more of her, feel her and touch her. His hands were fumbling with the small strings. His desire was almost overwhelming.

She slowly closed her eyes and turned her head away from him. She was still not moving; she let him do as he pleased. Be strong, she told herself silently. Be brave. For their sake. Hector. Astyanax. For their sake.

Achilles' hand started to pull the hem of her dress up along her leg. He watched as he placed his large, callous hand against her knee. He caressed her soft skin and slowly moved up to her thigh.

He stopped momentarily to look at her. She still lay with her head on the side and her eyelids closed. Somehow, she sensed that he was watching her. Slowly she turned her head back and opened her eyes. This time, there was no accusation in them, only a small glimpse of pain.

As much as Achilles wanted to, he couldn't stay unaffected. He couldn't pretend like her eyes weren't cutting his soul in pieces. And above all, he couldn't keep a familiar voice out of his head. It was his own voice and the words came from a time when he had been another man.

"Andromache," he whispered, looking deeply into her eyes. "I beg you, let me love you. Let me show you how much I admire you, how much I adore and desire you. Let me show you how a woman like you should be loved. Let me make your body sing under my hands."

That was how he had wanted to love her, how he would have loved if she had only let him. He had wanted to love her with so much tenderness and gentleness as he could ever give to someone else. He had wanted to discover her beautiful body, slowly and carefully. He had wanted to give her pleasure and find his own gratification in her response.

He had not wanted it to be like this. He had wanted her to give herself willingly to him. He had not wanted her as a part of a bargain or through extortion. No, never like that.

When he kept looking into her eyes and saw the pain, he also realized that he had been wrong. Andromache was not just something he wanted because he couldn't have her. She was not like a toy that he would throw away once he had used it. She was more than that. And no matter how many times he bedded her, he would still want her. Because it was not her body that he wanted.

With the realization, his lust suddenly died. He moved off from the cot. She was still staring at him as she carefully sat up on the bed. Their eyes locked for a moment that seemed to last forever.

She opened her mouth to say something, but he couldn't bear to listen. He turned away from her and left the tent without a word.