He was a thoughtful little boy, still shadowed by grief. Sometimes at night, when he was afraid to sleep because of nightmares, he would creep into her bed and whisper to Andromache about his mother, whom he called Sun Woman, and Gray One and Old Red Man. She had learned that Gray One had been his elderly nurse, and Old Red Man the Dardanian general Pausanius, both killed in the Mykene attack on Dardanos. The little boy would chatter about them, mixing them up with stories of gods and goddesses he had been told. He recited the same tales over and over, comforting himself with their familiarity. One night recently he had brought “Mama” into his stories. She recognized herself, and her heart lifted. He was starting to add his present life here in Troy to his past life with the dead of Dardanos. He was still heart-scarred, but she believed the boy eventually would heal.
She put Astyanax down and, taking both boys by the hand, led them into the palace. She passed through the anteroom and found her handmaids Penthesileia and Anio talking together in whispering voices. They blushed when she appeared and made a show of looking busy, polishing the heavy gold jewelry once worn by Laodike, now left unused in a carved ivory box. Andromache smiled at the two girls and walked out to the pleasantly shady terrace.
Axa bustled about, bringing the boys sweet cakes and milk. She handed Andromache a goblet of water, and the princess drank it down gratefully. The taste was sublime. “I have put a basin of water in your chamber if you want to wash,” the maid said.
Andromache looked at her sternly. “I’ve told you, Axa, that we cannot waste water on washing. I do not expect you to wash, or the boys, or your babies.” Before the fall of the lower town, Axa’s three small children had been moved into the palace.
“But lady, Prince Polites has asked you to meet him and the generals tonight. You will want to wash before you change your dress,” the maid said pointedly.
Andromache looked down at her saffron gown, which was stained from her day working with the sick and wounded in the healing house. “Why would I get changed?” she asked. “I have nothing clean to wear.”
“I have ordered six white gowns for you,” Axa told her. “The dyemakers cannot work, but the seamstresses can. And it gives them something to do,” she added defensively.
“But white cloth is needed for bandages.”
Axa shook her head vigorously. “I asked Zeotos, and he said since there are few injured these days, he has enough bandages stored away to last for ten years.”
Andromache laughed. “Then you are right, Axa,” she admitted. “There is no reason why we shouldn’t have clean white dresses. Order some for yourself and for Penthesileia and Anio. But you must still pour that water back into the water barrel for drinking.”
“But I have already perfumed it, lady,” her maid replied stubbornly. “No one can drink it now.”
“Then give it to the horses. They won’t mind the taste of rose petals.”
“But—”
“Now, Axa. The horses will be grateful.”
Axa fetched the basin, grumbling to herself, then left the apartments. Andromache walked across the terrace, which overlooked the stables in the Street of Bright Dancers, and looked down. Eventually she saw the plump figure of her maid walking from the palace, the water basin cradled in her arms. The woman paused and looked up. Andromache waved at her. Axa walked on into the stables.
Smiling, Andromache threw herself down on a couch. Strange days, she thought. There was a listless stillness in the city she never had known before. The heat lay like a wool blanket, stifling movement and keeping everyone indoors in the shade. The streets were empty except in the evenings, when weary people lined up for bread and water. No one had enough water or enough to eat.
Although they all lived under the daily threat of death, Andromache felt strangely content. Her husband and her lover were both away at war, and she no longer felt the exhausting conflict of desires and responsibility. Her choice had been made. She would stay with her son and with Dex until the end came and the blood-hungry soldiers poured in and then protect the boys with her life.
Each day she worked in the House of Serpents. It was more than fifty days since the last major attack by the armies of Agamemnon, and the only injuries now were arrow wounds and broken limbs sustained when soldiers who had received their wine ration tumbled off the walls. The work at the healing houses was not hard. Xander had disappeared mysteriously, and Andromache wondered what had become of him, but most of the priests and healers had stayed. The dying were not fed and were given only enough water to moisten their mouths. Those thought likely to recover were given water until they complained of hunger, when they were fed as well. Andromache hated being in the palace all day, with its air of heavy anxiety, and preferred to keep herself busy working among the injured and dying, feeding them, talking to them, sometimes holding their hands until they died.
The truth was, she thought, no one had enough to do. The daily routines of the city had broken down because of the lack of supplies and exhaustion brought on by the shortage of food and water and the energy-sapping heat. Most people, when not standing in line for food, stayed home. Inactivity sparked gossip and fueled people’s fears. Her handmaids Penthesileia and Anio had too much time on their hands, she thought, and spent it discussing the plight of the city with other royal servants.
Her mind drifted back to the previous autumn and Kassandra’s words to the girls when she last had been in these rooms. “You must learn to shoot! The Women of the Horse with shaft and bow! You see? You see, Andromache?”
“Yes, Kassandra,” Andromache said to the empty room. “I see now.”
Polites was waiting in the megaron with Banokles and Kalliades when Andromache arrived. She smiled at the two warriors, the one blond-bearded and powerful, the other tall and dark. She always would remember them running down the hillside to her rescue on the night Kalliope died. Then they were Mykene rebels fighting assassins who had come to kill her. Now they were the most respected soldiers in the Trojan army. She had heard of the death of Banokles’ wife and was filled with sympathy, but the only time she had tried to raise the subject with him, he had ignored her and rudely walked away.
“I assume,” she said to Polites, sitting on a padded chair and folding her hands, “that we are to discuss rationing and the care of the wounded. You would not have asked me to a meeting of strategy.”
Polites sighed. “Our only strategy is staying alive. We have not been attacked for fifty-five days. The heat and lack of food and water are our worst enemies now. Our food will only barely last until the autumn. The wells may run dry any day.”
“Is that likely?” Kalliades asked.
“It has happened before.” General Lucan hurried into the megaron alongside the king’s aide Polydorus and Ipheus, the young commander of the Eagles. “Both wells ran dry in the summer heat some forty years ago,” he explained. “The rivers were down to a trickle, too. It was a hard summer. All the livestock died. We had to slaughter most of the horses. I’ve never seen its like. But the rains came early that year, and we survived.”
“The enemy is suffering, too,” Kalliades put in. “They have water aplenty, but their food supplies are not getting through. We have Hektor and Helikaon to thank for that. Agamemnon’s armies have ravaged the countryside all around the city. There are no crops left, no livestock. And hungry soldiers are unhappy soldiers. We know one army of mercenaries departed ten days ago, heading south. Others will start defecting if they see no end to the war.”