“It is our best hope,” Polites said.
“No,” Banokles put in, scratching his beard, “our best hope is that Agamemnon and his bunch of poxy kings lay down their arms and surrender to us. But it’s not very likely.”
The men all smiled, but Andromache said impatiently, “What are we here to discuss, Polites? The situation at the House of Serpents is the same as it was before, when we met three days ago. Many old people and babies are being cared for now, suffering from the heat and drought. Ten more injured bowmen have been brought in. Two died. Three have infected wounds and are likely to die. The others will live, Zeotos says.”
Angrily, she added, “I don’t understand why our bowmen are being put in danger when we are not under attack. Taking potshots at the enemy below the walls achieves little. If each of our archers was to kill one enemy soldier every day, it would still be like a drop of water in the Great Green.”
“We need to remind the enemy, Sister,” Polites replied, “that Troy is stoutly defended. Each attack, even a single arrow shot over the battlements, has to be met with an answer from the city.”
Kalliades added gravely, “And if the city falls, lady, and the Scaean Gate is opened, then a few bowmen will not make a difference to our fortunes.”
“It only takes a single arrow to kill a king,” she answered him briskly.
They went on to discuss more stringent rationing, for Polites was concerned about the rapidly dwindling stores of grain. Andromache told them she had visited every baker in the city, gathering advice on keeping grain fresh and free of weevils and ensuring that all the bakers knew of it.
When the men started to talk about rotating troops at the Scaean Gate, she left the megaron. She was feeling restless and, on a whim, gathered her bodyguards, who were playing knucklebones in the portico, and made her way to Priam’s palace. With Polydorus busy in the meeting, Andromache had a sudden urge to speak to the king alone. The young soldier was constantly at his side, and although she liked Polydorus, she felt constrained from speaking openly to Priam when he was present.
She was shown up to the queen’s apartments, where the king had resided since the death of Hekabe. She had expected to find him resting. But when a soldier showed her into a chamber, she was surprised to find the old man out on the wide stone balcony. He was standing staring at the darkening sky, wrapped in a white wool cloak despite the heat. He turned to her, and for a moment she was reminded of the man she first had met on the Great Tower of Ilion. He was still powerful and vital then, and she was a girl of twenty who was risking death because she refused to kneel to a king. Such arrogance, the older Andromache thought ruefully, such pride.
“I hope I find you well, my king,” she said to him.
“Andromache of Thebe!” he cried, and in the torchlight his eyes glittered with life. She realized that this was not the confused old man of recent days but the powerful and capricious king she once had feared, though she did not show it.
“Come, stand with me and gaze upon our city.” He held out his hand, and she took it. He drew her out onto the balcony. She gazed sideways at his profile, the high beaked nose and firm jaw, and wondered if mischievous gods had transported her back to her first days in Troy.
“Tell me of the Eagle Child,” he demanded, his voice strong. And he quoted the prophecy of Melite: “Beneath the Shield of Thunder waits the Eagle Child on shadow wings, to soar above all city gates till end of days and fall of kings.”
“Astyanax, they call him,” he went on. “Lord of the city. Foolish old women try to touch his tunic as he walks in the streets, I’m told. He is the hope of Troy.” His voice changed and became more urgent. “He must stay in the city, Andromache.”
She was about to agree with him when he grabbed her by the arms, pushing her against the stone balcony. “I will not let him leave Troy!” he rasped, his voice angry in her ear. “I know what you’re thinking, girl! You will smuggle him out of the gates, bundled in a basket, just a soldier’s whore with a bag of clothes. But you will not. I will have him guarded night and day. My Eagles will see that you do him no harm!”
With manic strength he lifted her off her feet, attempting to push her over the wide stone wall of the balcony. “I will stop you now!” he cried. “You will not take him!”
She tried to fight against him, but her arms were pinned, and she was helpless as he pushed her out over the high drop to the stones below. Forcing herself to stay calm, she made herself go limp in his arms. Recalling her last interview with Queen Hekabe, she whispered seductively to him the words she had heard, though they meant little to her, “Where do we sail today, my lord? The Scamandrios is waiting.”
His body jerked with shock, and he released her. Andromache dragged herself back to safety, her heart pounding, and stepped away from him, watching him carefully.
“Hekabe?” he asked her uncertainly, his voice quavering, his eyes pained and confused.
“Go to your rest, my husband,” she said softly. “I will join you in a heartbeat.”
Priam hesitated and then shuffled over to his wide bed, lifting his feet up with effort, and lay there as obedient as a child. Andromache gazed at him, emotions warring in her breast. Fear of the powerful king on the balcony quickly gave way to pity for the confused old man. She hurried from the room.
Deep in thought, she was walking down a torchlit corridor when a voice behind her said, “Lady, are you all right?”
Turning swiftly, her nerves in a jangle, she saw that it was Kalliades. She realized she must have looked flushed and disheveled, and she collected her thoughts.
“I am glad you are here, Kalliades,” she told him. “I wish to talk with you. I need any bows and arrows you can spare brought to me in the palace gardens tomorrow. I am going to teach the Women of the Horse to shoot.”
“Women of the Horse?” he queried, frowning.
“They are daughters of riders of the Trojan Horse who died in the service of the city. They are given places in the royal household. My two handmaids are the daughters of a rider called Ursos.”
“I knew Ursos,” Kalliades replied. “A good man. He died in the battle for Dardanos.”
“His daughters are among many young women still in the city. If the walls fall, their fate will be appalling. I would like to teach them how to defend themselves.”
The warrior looked gravely at her, as if reluctant to say what he was thinking.
“Speak your mind, Kalliades,” she demanded.
“When the enemy armies come, lady, they will come in the thousands. A bow and arrow will make little difference to a woman’s fate.” He looked down, unwilling to meet her eye.
“You were at the palace siege,” she said to him.
“I was with the Mykene invaders, with Banokles. It is well known, but that part of our lives is past.”
“I did not mention it to embarrass you. Did you see me there?”
He nodded. “With your bow you killed and injured many of our men.” He paused and then said, “You were magnificent, lady.”
She blushed at his unexpected words.
“But,” he went on, “we Mykene came ready for hand-to-hand combat. There were few bowmen in our ranks. Had there been, you would have been a dead woman.”
She accepted the truth of his words but said, “Kalliades, if you were being attacked by armed men, would you rather be completely helpless or armed with a bow?”
Kalliades nodded. “I will see you have the bows and arrows you need. It can do no harm. How many?”
“There are more than thirty Women of the Horse in the city still.”