Ãndrõmakhê

The epic story of Troy and a woman’s triumphant valor

Volume II: Diaspora, Sons and The Pillar

By

Kristina O'Donnelly

In memory of Louise Halley Forshaw,

who laid the groundwork.

BooksForABuck.com

U.S.A

©Kristina O’Donnelly, a.k.a Kristin V Donnelly, 2006.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used as fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information or storage retrieval system, without the express consent of the copyright holder.

ISBN: 1-930574-63-0

Author’s websites:

www.kristinaodonnelly.com – www.trojanenchantment-novel.com

Publisher’s website:

www.booksforabuck.com

From the Lady of the Unicorn in Keltia, to Mevlana Jelaleddin Rumi in Anatolia,

Do not let the light go out!

Author's Note: As in my other novels in this series, Ãndrõmakhê Vol II, contains a lot of mythological/historical background woven into the story. Advised by some to delete these parts on account of that "the Readers’ eyes will be glazing over," I have chosen to let you decide.

Yes, dear Reader, I believe that it is your prerogative to either make notes to return later, or skim through, or skip altogether, those paragraphs that do not hold your attention.

I live to learn, and to tell; my soul's urge is to be the conduit of news and knowledge – so let the information be available, and it is up to you what to make of it. "From Keltia to Anatolia, do not let the light go out."

Warm regards,

Kristina O’Donnelly

Publisher’s Note: Volume I—Mysteries, Blessings and Tragedy tells the story of Andromakhe from the time she was a young girl learning the mysteries of the Great Goddess, through her attempts, with her great love and husband, Hektor (Hector) to confound the fates who pronounced Troy’s doom, through the fall of that great city.

Volume II—Diaspora, Sons and The Pillar continues Andromakhe’s story from the time of her captivity by the victorious Greeks. Andromakhe Vol. I is available from BooksForABuck.com at the following URL: www.booksforabuck.com/sfpages/sf_06/andromakhe_vol-i.html.

Table of Contents

Ãndrõmakhê

Introduction

"The end of Troia will never end ... The flame that consumed it, will itself never be consumed." [G. K. Chesterton]

Discoveries made at the beginning of the 21st Century A.D. on site in Chanakkale, Turkey, provide strong new evidence of a sophisticated Bronze Age city and fierce armed battles in the right area, at the right time. Simply put, archaeology and mythology support each other to a surprising degree. For example, many of the towns and locales mentioned by Homer, obscured during the time he wrote the Iliad (circa 8^th Century B.C.) are now proven as real Bronze Age settlements; 13th Century B.C. tablets recently unearthed in Greece list names of women abducted from Troy, and Hittite tablets from the era, mention a Wilusian nobleman/king in hand-to-hand combat against a rival. In the Iliad, the Olympian gods were closely involved with the affairs of the warring parties, and the original Homeric tale, in its core, is of Gods and Men, and of how they manipulate each other for their respective agendas.

PART IV: The DIASPORA

… and did unfriendly men do thee hurt upon the land ...?"

Homer: Odyssey, Book XI Lang & Butcher translation

Chapter 24: Skyros

Dark, tall waves washed the stony edge of the green island of Skyros draped with mists, sloshing back from shore to ship.

I dozed fitfully. I was in a narrow bed in a palace I had climbed a steep hill to on the evening before, high above the foaming sea. Yet I was not there; I was dancing naked, barefoot, in Hades, leaping over circles of flame—circles marking the Dance of the Maze—the Maze of Life.

A tall man’s shade…somewhere in the maze, ahead of me. Hektôr? It is hazy, I cannot be sure. O my husband! The last time I had danced the Maze, was with you, and you were so good at it!

Where are you now? I need to find you, you must be here, somewhere, all alone, and doing your own Maze Dance.

As I leapt, whirled, bowed and contorted, flames appeared, roaring down the darkening, crumbling walls of Troia. At once thick, spiky bands of iron clasped my ribs, pressing against my lungs, strangling my breath. Gasping, I watched unquenchable fires consuming everything, flickering over gutted houses and broken towers aglow atop the hill, smoldering silhouettes black against the spreading light of dawn. From mountaintop to mountaintop across the sea, signal-fires began to broadcast victory—and defeat. Along the inward curving bay, myriad campfires embered. On a hillock near ruined Troia, Sesamon plucked out a chant with his lyre, mourning the fallen city.

Now I saw myself being dragged to the Trojan Bay, cluttered dark with black-hulled ships, fire-breathing gryphons with long curved necks topping their prows. Pyrrhos thrusted me into the large tent where Achaian warriors drew lots for captive women. I stood stiffly aside, hands clutching the Dea Madre concealed in a pouch beneath the folds of my cape, inwardly fuming over that Pyrrhos took my dagger away before I could cut him to ribbons. It was this boiling hot anger, this icy fury that kept me up on my feet, my dignity befitting Hektôr’s wife and mother of his son.

O, Skamandrios!

A five-year old little boy who terrified the entire Achaian army.

It was not just Kalkas’ prophecy of him one day avenging his father’s death that had set them upon this small child, but the Cyclopean renown of his sire: Hektôr, Hero of Troia, that fully human, righteous Defender, against whom Akhilles, a demi-god, needed divine trickery to vanquish.

As I stood there, dry-eyed despite my gut-wrenching grief and the swirling, acrid smoke in the air, I swore upon Dea Madre that I would not grovel at any man’s feet asking for mercy, neither would I, ever, no matter what torture and humiliation they would subject me to, allow any Achaian to witness my tears.

But despite the psychic and physical wounds knifing me, I was keenly aware of what was happening around me.

Hekabe stood facing me from the other side of the tent, ghostly pale but stoic, swathed from head-to-toe in purple cloth. Though as Queen of Troia, she constituted the greatest war-prize, Odysseus’ offer to ransom her was accepted unanimously. Odysseus then came to her, bowed formally, gently held her arm, and together they left. She never looked at me, or perhaps had not recognized me.

Then I heard more.

Deiphobos, rendered helpless from the drugged wine Helen made him drink, was hacked to small pieces by Meneláos, in bed.

Meneláos and Helen had collected her dowry and already set sail for Sparta.

Antenor and Theano were spared by the enemy, their considerable possessions exempted from looting. Their son Helikaon, husband of Laodike, had been wounded tonight, but before being killed by the enemy, recognized by Odysseus and carried off to safety. Alas, Laodike had perished, raped to death by Achaian soldiers in the temple of Athené. Her son Munitos, whom I had seen run through by swords, though gravely injured, had survived, and claimed by his real father, Akamas, son of Theseus.

Among other survivors were King Anchises, Prince Aeneas, and Aeneas’ son, Askanios, who had been my Skamandrios’ playful friend and possible rival for the Trojan throne. Safe passage from Troia was granted for the three of them.

But Kreusa, wife of Aeneas and sister of Hektôr, had perished.

So had the two other wives of Priam.

With the exception of Helenos, whom they had captured before The Fall, no son of Priam was left alive. My heart leapt as I thought of Polydoros, Hekabe and Priam’s youngest, in Thrakia, protected by their son-in-law, King Polymestor. Could it be that he too was killed?

More talk: Agamemnon had decapitated Ajax the Lesser atop Kassandra, midst raping her at Athené’s altar. Though despoiled now, as Priestess of Apollo and daughter of Priam and Hekabe, she was indeed a most prestigious prize of war, and he claimed her for himself.

There was no clear word of the fate of the two generals, Polydamas and Turkus. However, some said that Turkus had saved a dozen of his men and many of the swift, strong horses who had been bred by Hektôr in his farm, and was on his way to the deepest parts of Asia. As I listened to them, Turkus’ name chimed in my mind, and the assuring thought came to me that some day, his descendants would return to Anatolia with a horde of Kentaur-like horsemen, superseding the Achaians and Hittites.

Then the creeping gold of sunrise put sparks upon the water and yellow into the dark green of trees. Broad fields, their green trampled down long ago, stretched barren in the heat of early summer. Pale clouds piled up and crossed to the distant blue-gray Ida Mountains that were tipped with morning silver. Everywhere Troia’s high wind swept along, carrying the moans of women and cries of children.

A boy…with flaxen curls, sobbing, screaming, falling…FALLING!

I tried to leap after him to catch him midair, but someone clad in gold held me back. I began trashing around, choking, weeping.

Painful consciousness slapped me in the face and I found myself back in a bed, on Skyros, outside my door hurrying footsteps slithering. I half wakened as other feet joined, with murmuring; the worry-sounds of trouble. The click of a closing door.

I braced myself against entering the Here and Now, needing to stay in Hades to find my loved ones. I dozed again and the searing heat and flames returned.

The scream of a little boy, then silence.

“I washed him in the river for you,” Kiron’s disembodied voice.

I fell against Hektôr's tower-shield propped on the pole of an Achaian tent, grasping the strap where the impression of Hektôr’s hand still showed. Hektôr’s gleaming bronze shield, the engraved horse forever galloping on its front, tipped aside, fell, and when I looked down, I saw what lay at my feet: a gold-embroidered purple cloth, covered with colorful field flowers.

Under it was a mass of flaxy curls and crushed bone where red blood seeped. Skamandrios!

“Calm yourself, he is not dead,” Kiron’s voice, gentle despite its gravelly sound. “But don’t speak of it to anyone!”

I waked gasping and thrashing; hands pressed my shoul­ders. “Lady Ãndrõmakhê, I'm here,” Thalpia said. “I will take care of you.”

“What place is this?” I pushed her away, strugg­ling to sit up. Dawn was brightening the sky, gilding the edge of a window. “Skamandrios! Where is Skamandrios?”

“Oh, my Lady…”

“Don’t look at me like that, Thalpia! Where is Skamandrios?”

“You were there, you saw what happened….”

He is not dead…but do not speak of it to anyone.

Had someone—Kiron?—really said that, or…was it just a dream, sent as a cruel joke by the Fates?

Thalpia spoke now with deliberate formality, “Lady Ãndrõmakhê, we are in the palace of Lykomedes, on the island of Skyros.”

“That accursed palace from where the noble Theseus was thrown down to his death?”

“That was long ago, Lady. Pyrrhos told me himself you are to be honored as his most valued slave, first in his household until he marries Hermione.”

I fell back down. A fresh breeze wafted in. “I, Queen of Kilikia and Princess of Troia, to be honored as a slave.”

“You are Queen of Troia, too,” Thalpia said quietly.

“Queen of Troia? What about Hekabe?”

Hesitating briefly, she replied, “So you forgot that, too. She is gone to Elysium, by her own dispatch. After Polydoros’ body was swept ashore with the tide. You were there, you saw it happen.”

Shocked wide awake, I sat up with a cry, “What? Polydoros? Who was being watched over by King Polymestor, in Thrakia?”

“Polymestor murdered him to gain favor with the victors.”

I let out a long shaky sigh. “Also to claim the treasure Priam had entrusted him with.”

“Yes. But before she killed herself, the Queen blinded him.”

“O my dear, noble Queen,” I sobbed, “I trust your hand was steady when you brought your son’s murderer to justice! And I hope Thanatos [1] was mercifully swift-footed when it came to take you.”

“That he was,” Thalpia replied with a small smile.

Sounds within the palace could no longer be ignored; they were not ordinary ones. “I'm going to find out what happened.” Thalpia was dressed in an undyed sack-robe of coarse linen.

The door closed softly behind Thalpia as she left the room.

Shuddering, I looked around, noting the Dea Madre, placed upon an altar-like stand at the footend of my bed.

As my gaze fastened on Her small statue, I recalled last night’s events bit by bit, and they took on a brutal clarity.

King Lykomedes had come in torchlight procession to welcome his victorious grandson Pyrrhos Akhilleides at the wharf. Pyrrhos had leapt from the ship, leaving his captives to follow under guard. I had walked uphill, in company of my old friends Briseis, Diomede, and Lanassa, Thalpia following me closely. I was then placed in this room, and was pacing its narrow confines when Thalpia had told me Pyrrhos expected me immediately in the Megaron.

The rectangular throne room had been lit by slender bronze torches blooming with white alabaster oil-bowls. Everything had shimmered before my eyes as light reflected upon gold and silver cups and the electron mixing-bowl. Through the dazzle I had barely distinguished the bulky king in his royal chair of ivory-inlaid ebony, swathed in multi-toned brocades. His white hair hung over his shoulders, held back from his brow by a wreath of gold leaves and amber drops. On either side sat his daughters draped in iridescent silk.

Beyond, I had seen Pyrrhos sitting with a woman, pale of face with unnaturally red cheeks, eyes shadowed by illness. Her blond hair had been in a net of gold threads. His mother, Princess Deidameia?

Thalpia had given me a tiny push forward.

“Now, Mother, here she is.” Pyrrhos.

“So this is the wife of Hektôr…” Princess Deidameia, wife of the slain Akhilles, had exam­ined me as Hektôr would a prize-breeding mare. “Turn around… slowly.”

I had obeyed stiffly, the huge throne room prisming through tears of humi­liation.

“Ah,” Deidameia had smiled. “What a lady for you! She is so tall! Wide though Hektôr’s fame, we have also heard praise of this ideal mate for a great warrior. What more can the gods give? You can indeed boast among your friends. But you will have to free her before marriage, my son.”

Pyrrhos had laughed. “Ah, you don’t know my other news, you haven’t heard. Meneláos promised to send Hermione for my queen, and that will give me claim to Lakedaimon.”

Claim to Lakedaimon? O dear Alexis! You so wanted to give it to your father Priam, to show your gratitude to him, he who had exposed you to die, yet rejoiced in that you did not, and took you to his heart.

“So, the daughter of Helen as wife,” Deidameia had spoken, “and the widow of Hektôr as concubine. My son, you have indeed brought home honors with you.” Her eyes had moved over my face and body, their burning light showing the fevers of illness. “You must dress her suitably; she is your prize for valor. No one must say that you do not value the relic of your father’s bravest enemy. See those smooth arms preserved so whitely from the sun’s burn, that curve and fullness in the breasts that have already proven her fertility, and the—turn around Ãndrõmakhê—plumpness of those round buttocks—I said turn around, Ãndrõmakhê!”

“How could I not take her for me?” Pyrrhos, laughing. “Who could ignore those curves where Hektôr once slid his hands—”

I had turned and fled, Pyrrhos’ voice fading behind me.

“Bring her back!” Deidameia had ordered.

“Enough!” Lykomedes had roared. “Would you have us appear crude before these Trojans?”

I had stopped, grateful to the old king. Then I had noticed the three other women being brought into the Hall.

Pyrrhos had turned to his mother, “This is Lanassa, daughter of Telephos and Astyoche; Telephos was a son of Herakles, and Astyoche daughter of King Laomedon, sister of Priam. Lanassa has a daughter of Andros, Ãndrõmakhê’s brother.”

Lanassa had stepped forward, pride in her eyes.

He had motioned her to step back. Then, pointing, “And this is Diomede Phorbas from Issa, which she calls Lesbos.”

Diomede too had stepped forward and retreated, face blank.

He had motioned to the last captive. “Briseis, from Lyrnessos. Her father was Brises, chief priest to Zeus in Pedasos. She was married to King Mynes of Lyrnessos; my father sacked both cities, but she learned to love and comfort my father. For her sake, he left the battlefield and almost lost the war for Agamemnon.”

“Ah.” Deidameia had hesitated, her eyes on Briseis’ face. Fondling the largest of her rings, one made of solid amber, she had said warmly, “Come here, Briseis.”

Briseis had obeyed, kneeling before Deidameia.

Deimadea had removed the ring from her finger. “Tell me: Did you truly love my husband, or merely hate your own?”

“Both are true. I shed bitter tears when Agamemnon took me away from glorious Akhilles, slave though I was. And when he was placed upon his funeral pyre, I tried to join him, but your son held me back by force.” Sighing, “And I love and serve your son for his father’s sake.”

Deidameia's thin face had lit up with a smile, dropping the ring restlessly from one hand to the other. “Indeed!” Her breathing ragged, she had added, “Take this, dear lover of the love of my life. May this ring bring you happiness.” Leaning forward, she had taken Briseis’ hand and pressed the ring in her palm.

“But I can’t accept it!”

“Sure you can. With me, you share consuming love for a godlike man. Keep this, and think kindly of your master’s mother. May this ring bring you good fortune with Pyrrhos.”

“Mother, no! You may not do this!” Pyrrhos, shouting, was reaching for Briseis to retrieve the ring.

Deidameia, restraining him gently, “I no longer need it, son. My life is over, I am ill, and have nothing more to wish for now that you are safely home again. Briseis is young. I have heard directly from your father of his fondness for her, and her love for him. So be kind to her in memory of your father.” She had smiled, her expression one of unconscious benignancy as she motioned the speechless Briseis away.

“But my father loved Polyxena, too,” Pyrrhos had said coldly.

“Polyxena?”

“Yes, a younger daughter of Priam. She is not here; I sent her to him in sacrifice upon his tomb.”

“Ah, yes. I had heard about it, but did not quite believe it.”

“Why? Did you doubt my loyalty to my father?”

“No, not your loyalty. Only that you could be so cruel. You killed a noble young princess, who had been loved by your father, by cutting her throat from ear to ear.”

Upon hearing Deidameia’s last words about Polyxena’s fate, I had collapsed on the floor. The last thing I had heard before being claimed by darkness was Deidameia’s softly spoken command to their minstrel, “Sing to me of Akhilles, and sing to me of his sweetness before Odysseus came to make him a Hero.”

The echo of the minstrel’s chant had followed me through my entrance into Tartaros, below Hades, searching for Hektôr.

Now it was daylight, and I was fully conscious, in a world bereft of my loved ones.

Sounds of wailing and keening seeped in from the walls and door. I left the bed and slipped into my sack-dress. Someone had died—these were the sounds of mourning.

As I opened the door, I almost collided with Thalpia.

“It's Deidameia,” she replied to my unspoken question. “She had been ill a long time, my lady.”

“But she didn’t seem close to death last night….”

“The gods allowed her to live until Pyrrhos’s return.”

“Too bad, Thalpia, for she seemed kind. Her death might worsen our situation.”

Thalpia scrutinized my clothing. “You heard what she had said—you are to wear clothes denoting your rank. Go to the bath now and I will find something suitable. We are not called upon to share Pyrrhos’ grief.” She pointed down the stairs. “The bath-chamber is under here.”

“Meanwhile, Thalpia, inquire discreetly about an old man named Kiron, a native of Krete. Of average height, brown-eyed and white haired, perhaps bald by now, no distinguishing marks other than a pair larger than usual hands. He used to be my teacher, and then fell captive to Akhilles. The last I heard about him, about four years ago, he was teaching Pyrrhos. If so, he must have lived on this island. And let’s pray that he still is.”

“You cried out his name in your nightmares,” Thalpia said.

Tempted to tell her why, I did not. I had seen the purple-covered, inert body of my son, for Pyrrhos had him brought from the rubble he had been tossed into. But there had been no funeral pyre for him, neither had I been allowed to attend his burial. So, even though my eyes beared witness to Skamandrios’ death, my heart preferred to cling to hope, however miniscule it was.

The bathing area was at the end of the long corridor, a vaulted, marble chamber with benches built around three walls and a table of cosmetics in one corner. Lanassa was already there, piling bits of charcoal into a firepan under the huge kettle that steamed on its tripod.

“You bathe after me,” Lanassa announced, loosening the rope about her waist.

Briseis entered with a clay jar balanced on her head. She emptied it into the blue-glazed terracotta tub, and then went to the cauldron. “Help me with this, Ãndrõmakhê,” she said, taking one handle.

I seized the other grip in both hands and together we staggered to the tub and dumped the boiling contents into it.

Lanassa released the clasps at her shoulders and dropped her dress about her feet, revealing a figure still holding on to its firm, youthful voluptuousness. Trampling the crumpled linen, she kicked it aside and bent over to test the temperature of the water. “Be sure there is enough here for rinsing,” she said over her shoulder.

Briseis went out. I stood silently for a moment.

Lanassa turned to face me. “Pyrrhos prefers me.”

“I’m happy to hear that you are Pyrrhos’ chosen bedmate, old friend.” I sat on the massage-bench to wait. But I shivered as I noticed the shape of the tub—like a sarcophagus.

“Mama—Mama! I'm lost!” A curly red-haired small girl ran in, leaned against the tub, reaching for Lanassa’s bare shoulder.

“Leave me alone, Okyone.”

“No—Mama, no, don’t abandon me to those people!”

Ignoring the child, Lanassa began luxuriantly sponging herself. “Hand me that oil, will you, Ãndrõmakhê?”

“Whose child…?” I went to the table and among the clutter there found a small battle of scented unguent.

Lanassa snatched it from my hand. “Oh—your brother’s. Can’t you see the freckles? Born three months after his death.”

“Andros’ child! Okyone, come to me.” I knelt, coaxing the child.

Okyone stood frozen, staring at me. “Who are you?”

“Your father was my very dear brother. Come.” I leaned and drew the slender girl close to my breast.

“She is shy—don’t maul her and she’ll get used to you.” Lanassa said. “I don’t have any time left for her. Here, wash my back.”

I took the proffered sponge just as Thalpia entered and snatched it from me, “Sit over there, Lady, this is not your work!”

I led Okyone by the hand and sat down, but the girl stood stiffly, staring back at her mother.

Lanassa spoke to her, “You’d just as well get used to that woman, little one, for I have to be with Pyrrhos; he is a more demanding master than his father had been.”

Briseis and Diomede came in and emptied jars of cold water into the heating cauldron. Thalpia grasped a big ladle and poured rinsings over Lanassa. Diomede went for more water and Briseis gathered Lanassa’s dress and hung it over the rail at the other end of the room.

Lanassa stepped from the tub and Thalpia rubbed her down with a rough cloth. Briseis went out and returned with fresh clothing.

“Briseis,” Lanassa spoke imperiously, “pour some of that violet-oil on my breasts, and a bit musk—you know where. I want hyacinth for my feet and a tad of attar of roses on my hair.”

Lanassa stretched out on one of the benches while Briseis slowly complied, massaging the various oils.

We used to be close friends, princesses of equal ranking…oh, my Hektôr, the many battles you fought, the broken bones and wounds you suffered, to spare me the life of a slave…

“Are there any others from home, who escaped?” I asked calmly.

“I’ve not seen any of your family since that horrible day,” Lanassa replied fretfully, “all I could think of was how to survive, what with the endless fires and slaughter and raping going on. Akhilles left not one stone standing in Thébé. Or any woman unravished.”

“I…was told they were all…gone. But perhaps…one?”

“False hopes are butterflies lacking wings,” she said practically.

“Sigeia had told me that you were staying at Polymestor’s. How come you ended up in Pyrrhos’s hands? Did he betray you, too?”

“No, he did not betray me. After he had conquered Thebe, Akhilles was the one who had left me in Polymestor’s care for two years. But then he came and reclaimed me.”

“So Polymestor’s betrayal of our trust goes back that far?”

“What do you mean that far? He never was on the side of Troia! Right from the beginning.”

“But Ilione, a daughter of Priam and Hekabe…”

“She had no say in how Polymestor managed his alliances. And because I was property of Akhilles, Pyrrhos claimed me after his father’s death. I am glad he did, for now I can look forward to a more secure future.”

Rising, she allowed Thalpia to dress her, and then sat down for her hair to be coiffed.

“May I…take care of Okyone?”

“By all means! I thought I had made that clear. She’ll be useful for errands. I’ve waited for the opportunity I have now, and she’s not going to endanger my future with Pyrrhos. Just keep her out of my way.” Lanassa hastened the fastening of her dress and flounced from the chamber.

Okyone ran crying after her.

I moved to follow but Thalpia reached for my hand. “Let her be. She’ll come to you later. Come, your bath is ready now.”

I slipped the sack dress from my shoulders, asking, “What are we celebrating? A funeral, or a marriage?”

Thalpia laughed sharply. “Perhaps both! It is a divine blessing that Deidameia is out of her misery; even Pyrrhos knows this. His mother was sick for a long time. When they found her around dawn, her face was drowned in a pool of blood that the merciful gods had drawn from her mouth.” She caught my expression, and spoke with a curt voice, “My lady! You have enough grief of your own! Do not shoulder others’ as well. So, now, your bath.” She held up a tunic of turquoise linen bordered in white embroidery. “This is the best I could get my hands on. It will do until I get around better, and gather up things.”

Later, I came out to the assembly hall where the princes were already preparing funeral meats on spits thrust over the firepit. Pyrrhos and Lykomedes were not there. I stopped to lift a small chunk of bread and some herbed bonemarrow paste and went out into the courtyard. Paid mourners were gathering, some beginning their dirges. Beyond the gateway, crowds of citizens came and went or stood and stared, some joining the cries of grief from within the palace.

I escaped through the town and went down to the shore, which was away from where Pyrrhos’ ships lay at anchor. Passing through a grove of trees, I found a small but sandy beach where the sea washed up and away in soothing rhythm. I found myself smiling. No one had followed me, and for the time being, I was free.

Sitting on a log within sight of the waves, I ate my rations. Strange how, though all my loved ones were no longer in the flesh, my still earth-bound body demanded sustenance! Stranger yet, was that the Fates had tossed me upon this island, which, in the past, had often crossed my mind as the place where King Lykomedes had hurled noble Theseus to his death, from its sharp cliffs.

I had to sigh. Akhilles’ name too was woven into these shores and hills, and it was poignant that on the night before her death, Deidameia had asked the minstrel to sing of his ‘sweetness before Odysseus took him to be a hero,’ to be forever known as Sacker of Cities and Slayer of Troia’s Champion, Hektôr.

I turned, gazing up at the soaring heights. Grim Thanatos, draped in black, beckoned me from the lofty summit. Excitement coursed through me. I was free for now, and if I could gather my strength and climb up, I could leap down into blissful release from bondage.

But I was dizzy from thirst, and decided to find water to strengthen me before I started the long upward trek. Rising, I went back into the wood where I found a clear stream flowing from a grotto. At the entrance was set up a small votive pillar crested by a crudely cut stone bird. I lifted my arms in homage to the Goddess, then knelt and scooped up miniature goblets of water in my cupped hands.

“Hello,” said a small voice into my ear. Startled, I lost balance and plopped down on the damp earth. When I looked up, I saw Okyone staring at me curiously.

“O—hello,” I replied, getting to my feet. “Are you alone?”

“Yes. No one plays with me.”

I smiled. “Then I will.” I reached out, but she moved back a step. Remembering Lanassa’s advice, I added, “It’s all right, sweetheart, I won’t bother you.” Evidently, the child did not know how to respond to affection, and therefore its display frightened her off.

Okyone stood straight-backed, looking at me with penetrating intensity, then moved toward the beach. “I need help!” she cried, and broke into a run.

I ran after her. We stopped beside a depression in the sand with a soggy mound beside it. Okyone lay down in the hollow.

“Cover me up,” she said, and closed her eyes.

“Why?” I stood motionless.

“Because I am dead like the princess! They are going to put her ashes in a box and cover her with a hill. So I am dead, too.”

I scolded her through the constrictions that roiled in my throat, “You are not dead!”

She kept her eyes closed. “I want to know what it’s like. They say there is a field of asphodel to eat in Elysium, and I want some.”

“No you don’t.” I sat down beside Andros’ little girl, the daughter he had not lived to see, to love, and gently touched her shoulder. “You are full of life, Okyone.”

“Do you have children?” She opened her eyes and sat up, staring at me intently.

I was silenced a moment by pain, then replied slowly, “I used to have one.”

“A girl like me?”

“No—a boy. About your age.”

“Where is he now?”

“With his noble father.” Terrible grief rose in my heart and struck full force. Gasping, I had to turn my back to her and covered my face with my hands.

At once Okyone’s small hands patted at my hair, and the young body leaned against my back. I reached around and seized the child; for a moment she responded, then pulled away. My mind chimed with the thought: Perhaps, for this lonely child, my little niece, I ought to stay alive a bit longer, to be of some comfort to her.

“I’ll be his sister,” Okyone said, “and maybe one day we can go to live with him.”

I dried my tearing eyes with the edge of my tunic. Dear Andros’ little daughter. “Yes, one day, we shall.” I smiled through the tears. Standing up I held out my hand. “Come now—let’s get some flowers for a garland.”

“Yes, to put on the bier!” Okyone took my hand and skipped along with me.

“No, not for the bier but to wear them to celebrate our meeting. You see, we didn’t really know the princess, and they don’t want us among the mourners because we cannot truly mourn for her.”

We gathered flowers as we went back into the copse. Okyone made a basket with her skirt, and it was soon filled. We returned to the shore where I taught her how to weave the stems together. By noon, we wore our wreaths, and Okyone had built a little house of sand and decorated it with the remaining flowers.

She is so pretty, I thought, my Skamandrios would have loved running through the fields with her.

With a happy laugh, Okyone declared, “This is for our welcome when we go visit your little boy and his father! Now let’s go back to the palace and eat. I’m hungry, what about you?”

I thought of the succulent meats with an embarrassing longing, and then revulsion of the bier that would be set in the Hall. “No, you go,” I replied, “I have to stay here awhile longer.” I had had too much of death, and could not force myself to face those who mourned—or made a show of mourning—Deidameia’s.

Okyone ran back to the palace on the hill without another word. I stood watching her, and when I was sure she had gone in through the gate, walked back and forth alone the shore. Whenever I looked inland I could see men bringing logs for the funeral pyre, but by late afternoon they had ceased. Would I be able to escape from captivity as easily as I now walked alongshore contemplating my own death, when the pyre was set aflame?

When the sun hung low to guild the sea, I got frantic. I must make a decision about my life. It seemed that his mother’s death had caught Pyrrhos off guard, causing him to loosen his grip upon his captives. And I was failing to take advantage of that! Less painful than hurling myself off the cliff, was the option of simply walking into the sea and float out, until I tired and drowned.

Okyone.

No! Okyone was Okyone, and not Skamandrios.

And I had seen Skamandrios’ broken body, lying inert beneath purple cloth and a pile of field flowers.

Yet…suddenly I felt hope.

Just the tiniest flicker, but hope, nonetheless.

I sat on the sand to rest before starting back to the town and climbing up to the palace. Fortunately, the acropolis was not as steep from this side as from where the ships had anchored last night at Lykomedes’ private quay.

As I rose to my feet a few minutes later, I noticed a man in white robes, distinct against the trees, coming toward me. He must have seen me, for he stopped and looked toward me for a long moment.

I held my breath. I had recognized the priestly apron of white fleece, denoting dedication to the sky gods—it was Helenos.

We moved toward each other as if by signal and met at the sandy edge of the forest. His drawn face, marred by a purplish scar from his left eye down to his mouth, seemed lit by the burning of his blue eyes as he seized me, pressing me close to him.

My deep sobbing separated us, but then he leaned my head against the hollow of his shoulder. I felt his own warm tears damp on my cheek, my neck, and his head bent down over mine. Now he was not the self-controlled Priest of Apollo, but a man, demanding love. I was not able to return his passion, but responded to his tenderness. To my soul still captive in this flesh-and-bone frame, Helenos, the boy I had cared for before finding everlasting love with Hektôr, was a haven of sunlight.

When his sobbing lessened I drew back a little, and tried to smile, my eyes misting as I looked at his haggard, contorted face.

“Helenos, oh, dear Helenos,” was all I could say.

He stepped back from me, holding my hands tensely in his own. “You—are you—all right?”

“Yes, considering the circumstances.” Tears broke out again like tiny fire pins. “I did not know where you were. I thought you were taken by Odysseus.”

“Yes he was my captor, but Pyrrhos ransomed me and sent me here.” His eyes shadowed and a vein throbbed in his throat. He released my hands. “I was not there to defend you!” Stepping back, he gave me a probing look. “Pyrrhos will have to free me soon; he is obliged to! Priests are not slaves. He must let us marry because your husband was my brother.”

I looked away.

Helenos turned and glanced toward the palace hill. “I must go. Pyrrhos summoned me from the Labraunda.”

“But you...”

“I serve as he orders.” Helenos drew aside his apron and showed me the ceremonial labrys hanging from his belt; it was a double-headed axe made of gold on a green diorite handle. This was to be used in the sacrifice honoring Deidameia.

Helenos strode quickly up the path.

* * * *

It was almost dawn when I went to my window. Stars were melting in the blue-gray sky. I could barely see the wharf where silvering waves crinkled, rushing over rocks and slowly receding. Beyond was Troia, the marital home I would never return to. Already ten days had passed since my arrival on Skyros. Thalpia had found that Kiron had stayed here, teaching Pyrrhos. In fact, Pyrrhos had been fond of him, respecting his skills and counsel. He had taken Kiron along to his campaign on our shores, but kept him under guard lest he escape. During the melee after Troia’s fall while everyone was engrossed apportioning the loot and captives, Kiron had vanished. The timing of this fed my hope-against-hope that indeed I had heard his voice reassuring me that Skamandrios was alive, and no one was the wiser of it. If so, Kiron must have found a way to spirit him to safety. But... how, and to where?

Meanwhile Helenos was made Pyrrhos’ official seer, and as such was in frequent demand during the mourning period for Deidameia. “Pyrrhos relies on him altogether,” Thalpia had told me yesterday.

“Why would he trust an enemy?”

“His advice has always been good. But it’s whispered that he told the Achaians the means of conquering us.”

“No! He could not have been a traitor.”

“Who knows? There is no question that he is held in high esteem by our enemies.”

Tossing on a light veil, I crept outside and to the cliff-edge. Here, beyond the palace wall, I stared down, looking for a place away from Pyrrhos' moored ships. Spume-capped rollers gushed over rocky outcroppings, and between them, I saw shelt­ered beaches. What a different view than what I was accustomed! In Troia, I had sat in the rocking chair made for me by Alexis, embracing Hektôr’s tomb with my eyes. And our little son had been with me….

Nimbly I went down the palace hill, carrying in a corner of my veil some bread and cheese left from the night before. Passing through a grove of wind-bent trees, I came out onto a smooth-sanded private enclosure where the sea washed in soothing rhythm. I sat down on a log within sight of the water, and ate my rations.

Then I went back to the grove, where I found the wellspring of a stream. Skyros was a blest island, rich with so many trees and streams. Beside the spring, a long-handled, double-headed ax leaned against a massive oak tree. I started back, fearful of de­secrating the Labraunda – Place of the Ax. I lifted my arms in homage to the Bull-god, then knelt and scooped enough water to quench my thirst.

Back on the beach, Skamandrios was running.

Skamandrios?!

I blinked, and the emptiness of the beach affected me like a vicious slap on the face.

I could not move, or breathe.

A pelican landed farther along the beach, a small slim figure leapt forward: Okyone. I had to smile. A red-haired sprite she was, and sweet and lively as my flaxen-haired son had been—no, was still.

I paced along the shore feeling the soft arms of my son about my neck, seeing him hurled by those demons into fiery nothingness. Could he have survived the fall?

But I saw him with my own eyes…yet, what did I see, exactly?

A child’s body, inert, covered with bloodstained purple cloth, a spill of flaxen curls visible from a corner of the cloth. Pyrrhos had prevented me from looking at his face. I had wept so loud and ceaselessly, violently thrashing against him to free me, that he had struck me several times; the last I remembered was hitting my head against the tentpole and collapsing into darkness. When I came to, Thalpia had told me that I had been unconscious for a full day and night.

Could Skamandrios have been in a coma rather than dead, and Pyrrhos complicit in keeping my son alive? But…why?

True, on the wall, he had resisted Odysseus’ urgings to kill him, speaking of his value in the future—a notion quite likely put in his head by Kiron. Thus, it had been Odysseus’ slapping hand that had loosened his grasp on my son. But if he did have the foresight to spare the life of a little boy for future gains, why not let me in on the secret?

The only answer I could produce was that if Skamandrios was still alive, it was no thanks to Pyrrhos but to a great feat by my old teacher.

I was spending most days with Okyone, who often left the other children and ran to me as I walked beside the sea. Flowers were always for the taking, and plenty good sand to build villages and grand palaces. All small pleasures I had never allowed Skamandrios to partake in, because of the constant siege! As Okyone and I twisted stems or patted down sand-walls, I would tell the child stories of Thébé, and of her father, Andros. The initial pain of talking about my brother soon eased the pressure of my own brooding.

Pyrrhos was a long time preoccupied with the ritual of his mother’s death, whom he seemed to have loved sincerely, and during this time Lanassa took her place in a chair adjoining his, at meals.

Even though at first he ignored her, slowly he began to respond to her attentiveness.

This morning, as every morning for these past ten days, I sat on the sandy beach, played back Kiron’s whispers about Skamandrios’ having survived the attempt on his life, and waited for my little sprite of a niece to come to my side.

* * * *

"By Olympian Zeus!” Pyrrhos sprang to his feet while the last notes vibrated on minstrel Charops' lyre. “You bring bad news, old man. My father's father, driven from Iolkos by those sons of Akastos! I'll kill them all.” Grimly he glared around, nostrils flaring.

“King Peleos is in refuge on the isle of Ikos,” the mins­trel said quietly, then bent over his lyre and crooned softly to it.

“He's not had enough of war?” Lykomedes spat.

“My song is not ended,” the minstrel said, chanting the words into cadence of his narrative. He went on without stopping. He sang of old King Peleos, the king of Phthiotis and Thessaly, lands which Akhilles would have ruled today. He sang of Peleos’ current exile at the court of his former friend Molon, King of Ikos.

Pyrrhos remained in his seat, with creased forehead and darkened eyes. He looked much older than his years, and if I had not known the truth, I would have judged him as well over twenty. The resemblance to his father was eerie, and at times such as now, I glimpsed in him the Akhilles I had first met in Thébé.

Charops continued for another hour until his tale was ended. The old man lovingly rewrapped his lyre in its linen coverings and picked up his stool, moving with slow deliberation back to his seat of honor and the well-earned wine awaiting him.

Pyrrhos nodded thanks to him, then to his grandfather, and strode from the room.

Lanassa remained in her chair, leaned toward Briseis on the other side, and said, “Now Pyrrhos will stay here.”

“I doubt it. Pyrrhos would not take the coward’s way by leaving the enemy to enjoy his gains.”

“Then why not return to Troia, where he has already won a war?”

Briseis glanced at me with concern, watching me sit quietly with my wine cup untouched. I was then startled by Diomede’s voice close to my ear, “I would prefer him to go back to Issa, and rebuild what his father wrecked at Bresa!”

“Useless talk,” Briseis cut in impatiently. “He will go forth to claim his own heritage. He has to. People do not often inherit through their mothers anymore. Just wait and see!”

With a deep grunt King Lykomedes, forever etched in my mind as the murderer of Theseus, heaved his big body from the elevated royal seat. Glancing from one woman to the other as though we were household furnishings, he passed us in slow silence and went after Pyrrhos into the courtyard.

Pyrrhos ordered his ships made ready and the reassembling of Akhilles' Myrmidon troops. He sent for Helenos to make au­gury for a safe voyage under divine protection.

When Helenos came from the Labraunda, I started down the path with the other women.

“You are not to go about alone, Lady,” Thalpia warned.

“I’m only a slave now, it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“You’d surprised,” she clipped, a hard look turning her dark eyes opaque. “You are a female, a beautiful one at that, and I know Pyrrhos is a jealous master. He will not be for sharing you with anyone, now that his mourning has ended.”

“He hasn’t had me yet!”

“Thank the Dea Madre. So far, she has watched over you, but we are in a foreign place, Lady, their own gods also are powerful.”

I bit my lips and resumed walking downward. She followed me closely. I found us a place to stand for the ceremony where I could see Helenos. His head was wreathed in ritual wool threads as he sacrificed a frisky white goat on Poseidon's altar. Its blood ran down a trough; as it flowed into the sea, he poured wine into it. Slitting the belly, he lifted out something and held it up before it dropped in two pieces.

Lowering his arms, he turned to Pyrrhos, “A warning. For three days, Poseidon allows no sailing northwestward.”

“Akastos will not hold back his sons for my convenience,” Pyrrhos growled. “Thunder in Hades!” He moved forward threateningly, but stopped. “Peleos might be dead even now, and dread Poseidon wants me to sit idle for three days?”

“The gods would protect you from disaster. Pay heed.”

“What is this danger you speak of?”

Helenos’ eyes turned inward, and when he spoke again, it was in blind trance, as I remembered so well of Kassandra. “We must remain here two days and three nights to avoid death. I see death, destruction, misery—behold, for the Trojan gods control these waters.” His voice rose, trumpeting awe through the small group, seeming as if he were reading from invisible tablets. “Only few of my country’s enemies will ever return whence they came; none will live in peace! There is an overflowing of warlike strangers into your Achaian lands—they bring along darkness that will last through many life times.”

Pyrrhos waited in deadly silence as two of King Lykodemes’ sons came forward and removed the sacrifice from the spits for cutting into roasts. Pyrrhos watched them unseeingly, and then whirled back upon Helenos, “How can I trust you, Priest?”

Helenos' stance was unbending. “I only interpret the omens of the gods, no more than that.” He took an oval shaped black stone from the leather pouch that always hung from his belt. “I will try one more thing.” He held the stone against his forehead. “I hear the seas roaring their anger.”

Pyrrhos sneered. “That stone is no shell, you can’t hear the sea.”

“This is my Stone of Troia; it has its own soul, its own power.” He replaced it in his pouch. “It fell from the sky just as did the Palladium, when Ilos took rein of Troia. If you put to sea now, you will never reach Peleos, for you shall be shipwrecked before three days have passed. Ignore the omen if you so choose.” Helenos shrugged and strode away toward the Labraunda precinct.

Pyrrhos stared at the ships’ masts where the half-furled sails billowed invitingly with a pleasant mistral, as if in defiance of Helenos’ warnings. Then he strode to the nearest vessel and spoke to the captain. The man boarded, returning at once with a signal-shield for all men to see, first showing the red side outward, and then the white.

“Continue preparing my ships; seal in the food and wine against spoilage,” Pyrrhos ordered as he strode from ship to ship, closely inspecting each.

I walked away, following the rocky shore with Thalpia, looking ahead into the misty distances embracing my loved ones’ ashes.

Finding a sea-washed boulder, I sat down with her, forearms on knees, hands dangling. Memories of the sailing from Troia to here, with images I had so valiantly suppressed, began returning. I recalled that first stop at verdant Chersonesos, then the tragic scenes at burnt Kynosema. Now I moaned, hands on my ears; remembering more:

We were on the shore ready to embark for the far horizons, to lead us to enemy lands. A look of horror spread over Kassandra’s face, and Hekabe, going toward Odysseus' ship, turned and looked.

The receding tide's slap against the shore was like lips vomiting the pale object lying among shallows. It was a naked male body. Howling like a she-wolf the aged queen lunged into the spray. “My son—Polydoros—my baby!”

Odysseus stepped forward to pluck her from the water; she bit his hand, tearing the flesh. “If Polymestor hadn't killed that boy, we'd have done it for him,” he grunted, shaking his bleeding hand. “There must be no seed left of Priam to challenge us ever again.”

“You beast! I curse you! You shall be lost forever in the seas!”

Seizing Hekabe by the hair, Odysseus yanked her to her feet. She kicked and clawed at him with inhuman strength, and flung herself back into the water, clinging to her son’s dead body.

Polymestor appeared, striding towards us. When he reached the edge of the water, he stood staring at the Queen of Troia, lying in the water embracing her child. Bewildered, he spoke, “He was embalmed and left in a proper cave. Why is he here?”

She rolled away from the corpse, but stayed close and stared up at the Thrakian king.

Odysseus entered the water and plucked her to her feet. “Now you know, old woman! He killed Polydoros for the gold Priam had sent with him for safekeeping.”

Queen Hekabe whirled around on her feet, and with eyes dilated to bursting and foam on her lips flung herself at Polymestor. She stabbed and gouged her fing­ers into his eyes until they hung from bleeding sockets, while he roared from shock and pain.

Odysseus grasped and flung her away from Polymestor, and she ran in widening circles, keening. Faster than Odysseus racing after her, she sped up a near cliff, opened her arms wide and sailed off onto the sharp rocks below.

“Lady Ãndrõmakhê, you are screaming!” Thalpia's voice shocked me back to the present.

Drawn back into the Hear and Now, I was blinded by tears.

“I stopped shedding tears years ago, for they helped nothing,” she added gruffly. “But I can't bear to see you suffer as I have suffered.”

“Oh, loyal Thalpia! We’ve come such a long way from home.”

* * * *

When the last days of waiting ended, Helenos made another augury. Pyrrhos strode to him afterward. “I've had word that a ten-ship fleet returning from Troia was lost in a great storm; men and booty perished at those currents leav­ing the Strait.” He lifted an arm in salute to Poseidon. “You saved me from destruction. And you, Helenos, you spoke truly. Never yet have you misinterpreted an oracle.”

“My truth is from the Immortals.”

Pyrrhos turned to face our group. Placing one hand on the shoulder of the seer, his face softened with emotion as he spoke, “I will not forget this, and your other services. One day you will have your freedom, when more urgent tasks are done and my grandfather returns to his rightful kingdom.”

“Free Ãndrõmakhê is all I ask.” Helenos met him eye to eye.

Pyrrhos' face hardened. “You presume! Hektôr’s wife is mine by right of conquest. You shall never usurp my place in her bed.”

“Helenos holds no lascivious thoughts!” I protested, “But as my husband’s brother, he has first right to claim me as wife.”

Pyrrhos laughed. “Get to your duties, Priest! I swear by the Foam Born Aphrodite: Ãndrõmakhê will mother no man’s sons but mine.”

The fragile cord that kept me bound to life, snapped, and I ran from him toward the sea, stopping on a boulder that overhung a small whirlpool. Both men raced after me and slammed by to struggle against each other at the edge.

“Step back, beast!” I shouted at Pyrrhos, “Hektôr will meet me in the Blessed Land.”

The men fought as though I had made no sound, then I heard the splash, but in the dim light, I could not see which one was thrust down into the water. Worry for Helenos made me pause on the edge.

But Pyrrhos seized my arm.

I screamed, “You killed him! He is a Priest of Apollo! Murderer of Priam and Skamandrios, now you have killed Helenos too! Behold! Apollo will strike you down!”

“You shall die too!” He slapped my face with a ringing sound.

Just as my feet swung over nothingness, he caught and dragged me back. As his hands moved roughly over my body on its way below the waist, he pressed to kiss my mouth but I spat out against his lips and beat his massive shoulders with all the strength of my fists.

“You are most desirable in anger,” he panted, breath seething from his nostrils. “If I’d cared less for Lanassa I’d have more time for you.” He tore at my skirt, pulling it above my hips.

Rage sent my knee against his genitals so that he howled and had to let me go. While he struggled to regain his breath, I raced from the rock down to the water, and stopped as a figure darkened the ripples.

The sounds of dropping water and heavy breathing presented Helenos, climbing up the silvery boulders onto the sand. His hair scaled his neck and skull, gleaming wet in straggled ends over the wet, wrinkled tunic that molded his long, lean body.

Gaining the last rock, Helenos’ eyes flashed toward me as he sprang through a receding wave and stopped erect beside me, bringing with him the creature-filled smell of land-washing water. He flung the wetness from his eyes and faced Pyrrhos, grasping in one hand the dripping bag that held his magic-imbued holy stone. His eyes flocked back to me in the dim light and I involuntarily stepped forward.

Pyrrhos regained his bearing and strode between us, his back to me. “Priest! Get on board and stay there.”

Rebellion flashed in Helenos’ eyes.

“Do as I say,” continued Pyrrhos, “now, lest I toss Ãndrõmakhê over to my men.”

As Helenos turned toward the ships, I raced up the hill faster than I had known was possible.

* * * *

The sky was blending with gold-tipped waves when I joined other women at the wharf. Pyrrhos' pilot ship was in berth, and I watched him lead Lanassa aboard. The old king had just given his blessing to Pyrrhos. The morn­ing sun framed him in a nimbus as the captain greeted them.

For a heart-stopping moment, I admitted Pyrrhos Neoptolemos’ beauty: Built like Wargod Ares, yet sun-golden like his father. He was sixteen years old. Overgrown though he was, how could such a boy be the same evil Neoptolemos who had decapitated Priam at his altar, and tossed Skamandrios away like a split wineskin?

“Now you know you must not go about by yourself,” Thalpia had whispered after the three of us came from the palace door.

We went out together down to the ships, Trojan captives following after. Okyone ran to me, seizing my hand in both of her small ones. The child was crying loudly; I bent down to comfort her, kissing the heart-shaped, flushed face.

“Mama doesn’t love me anymore,” she sobbed.

“But I love you,” I said soothingly. “You will be my little girl from now on.” I smoothed back her damp hair while others walked by.

“Come on,” Thalpia hissed urgently. Each holding one of little Okyone’s hands, we led her stumblingly down the hill, hiccoughing as she went.

As we boarded the vessel, I heard Pyrrhos’ ironic Achaian greeting as he met his captain, “Rejoice!”

Sails cupped the breeze as ship by ship pushed from land, leaving wide-dancing wakes. I kept my back to the island and the beloved, lost land beyond it. Soon the vessels had swung away and the sails fattened on strong winds.

I was compelled to gaze into the horizon where the sky melted into the sea, and an unknown female voice spoke in my mind:

- Troia sleeps, but trust in that her people will rule again. There will be another name, as proud as ours’, and in that name, Troia’s conquerors will fall!

Holding myself stiffly, I went aft to the tent-cabin assigned to the women. At midmorning, the smooth motion roughened and the wind veered sharply. Sails were shortened, later furled, and oarsmen strug­gled while progress slowed. The wind was soon a gale and the six-vessel fleet scudded over surging waves. By afternoon, the nor­therly winds turned easterly, but it was evening before land was sighted. We dropped anchor in a bay between high bluffs.

On dry land, Pyrrhos summoned Helenos, “What of these winds?"

Helenos dipped seawater, and Pyrrhos ordered wine. Mixed in a silver ceremonial bowl, Helenos poured a libation to Po­seidon. Dipping a finger into the remaining liquid, he held it to the wind. He raised his arms and face in prayer, “O Lord Poseidon-Hippios, sacred Horse God of Troia! Holy Sea-Mover, look upon me with favor! God Boreas, King of the Air, give us fair sailing!”

The wind whipped about his robe and teased sand-colored strands of hair over his face. Poseidon’s answer was long in coming, but at last, he turned to Pyrrhos, and his voice trumpeted on the air, “Be warned! Sail in the direction to Athos.”

“That is a longer course,” Pyrrhos growled.

“I only know the warning.” Helenos emptied the bowl in final libation. “Sail north and you will never see your father's land.” He moved away with a brief shrug.

Pyrrhos swore and stalked to confer with his captain.

Diomede came shortly with an order signaled from Pyrrhos. “We remain on board with night, and return to land at dawn. He means to burn the ships.”

“I don’t understand…why?” Diomede did not reply. I pressed, “What is this place?”

“Pyrasos. [1]”

“Where is Okyone?” I stood up and looked around. Then I saw her under Briseis’ watch, playing with the other captive children. Boarding the ship, I went into the women’s cabin for a restless night. The last thought in my mind before I closed my eyes, was that I owed a debt of gratitude to Lanassa’s skills in bed, for she kept Pyrrhos intrigued and away from me. I slept fitfully until the scent of perfume roused me.

“Smell what I found!” Thalpia exulted. “Come now, I’ll freshen you. The men have already landed.”

I stepped out and looked down at the water. Early mists swirled so that I could barely see the ripples, and land not at all. I leapt to the gangplank and dropped myself into the water. The chilling coolness revived me and I felt strengthened by the time I climbed out, heavily dripping in my shift. There were shouts of greeting and scrapings from the shore, and dim figures going about along the quay.

Following Thalpia into the cabin-tent where she removed my wet shift, I let her drape a yellow cloth about me and fasten it at the shoulders with enormous crystal-headed straight pins.

“No style!” I grunted, looking down at the flowing linen.

“Better than nothing, Lady; it’s all I could find here.”

“Where did these come from?” I wondered, fingering the point of one pin that protruded near my left breast. “Some noblewoman of Dardania must have worn these….”

“You’d better have a brooch instead,” Thalpia said suspiciously, reaching for the pin.

I drew back. “No. These are friends! If Pyrrhos comes too near—”

“If you give me your word you’d not use them against yourself.”

I nodded. Thalpia then secured the pin more firmly in the cloth, and we joined the other women going down to land. I drew my veil close like a wrap as I went silently down to the brown, warm earth, followed by Thalpia carrying our small possessions in a sack.

Okyone raced by laughing with other children, still overseen by Briseis. Helenos passed us from another ship, leading one of Pyrrhos’ stallions into the sheltering grove of trees. Briefly, his eyes lingered over me but he said nothing. His pale skin was flushed, his lips and throat tensed as he mastered the big-boned restive animal. Ah, I thought with affection, Hektôr’s little brother, doing him justice!

I then went and stood with the other women waiting for their tent to be removed from deck and set up on land. Some of the ships were ready for the torch, and Pyrrhos tossed the first flame.

I looked behind me, toward the inland mountains, beautiful and formidable, green with craggy peaks sharply serrating the sky. Before me seethed the gulf, fully as large as Andramyttion—my home.

Pain stabbed my eyes.

Diomede whispered softly, “I hear we must go south to Methone.”

“Where is Methone?” I asked, not really carrying. Those flames from the burning ships…leaping skyward…

“A town near Iolkos,” she replied. “Akastos holds court at Iolkos, and Pyrrhos has an ally king ruling in Methone—one Podarkes, brother of that famous Protesilaos the Achaians praised so much early in the war.”

By now, the strange, eerie light of fire flickered crimson and orange against the tent, reflecting darkly as more ships began to burn.

Far across that sea in almost straight line, was deserted Troia. And my husband’s tomb and my son’s…body, in a grave I knew not where.

- He is not dead, Kiron’s voice whispered in my ear, but do not speak of it to anyone.

- Not even to Thalpia?

- Not even her; it’s better so. What she doesn’t know, she cannot reveal if put to torture.

- Torture! No!

The flames turned taller, crackling, spewing smoke and cinder. Just as Hektôr’s chariot had been burned ceremoniously after he brought me home to Troia to be his wife—as per ritual, to prevent me from returning to my parents’ home—so now burned the means of return for me to my husband’s home.

I must have revenge, I thought bitterly, the gods must send justice.

- Divine justice exacts its price from all men.

I sunk my teeth deep into my lips, restraining a gasp. Whence that voice? It belonged to a woman, but not to Kassandra, neither to the Goddess who had spoken to me years ago, in my room, in Thébé.

I want to see them all suffer, I replied silently to the entity, for I hate them so! Yes, hatred breeds hardness, but I’ve had my time of softness, when I had the noblest man as husband, and was mother to his loving child.

- Yes, you had that softness, as Hektôr’s wife. Therefore, remember this: He was not vindictive.

- Who are you? I cried out in my mind.

- Once I was Kupra, Goddess of Nature, but am now a Spirit of the Sea. I live—exist—by doctrines that weave a slower but surer comeuppance.

- Kupra? YOU are Kupra?

- That I am, Ãndrõmakhê, once known as Kiara Kupra. Know that you possess great power, but take heed and do not abuse that power.

- WHAT power? My husband and my son are slain, my parents and seven brothers are long gone, and you talk to me of POWER?

- Ãndrõmakhê Kiara Kupra, you do have power; use it to bestow blessings, and never for curses.

I felt sharp prickles running through me, perceived the beach and the men through a red haze, and thought of the opal, in the pouch together with the Dea Madre. Then, for the briefest of moments, I saw Skamandrios, with Kiron, in a vessel rocking on an angry sea.

The world turned dark and I fell in a heap to the ground.

This concludes the opening chapter of ANDROMAKHE: Volume II. To read the entire eNovel for only $2.99, click the Buy Now button: