Priam pulled his cloak more closely around him and stepped over to the south wall. He gazed down at the ruined lower town, his face blank. He looked into the distance. Suddenly he pointed and commented, “Hektor is coming.”
Polydorus looked to where he was pointing and saw two horsemen riding at a walking pace from the Scamander plain toward the lower town. He could see that one of them was a big man, as big as Hektor, riding a black horse, but he could see neither man’s face.
“My son. My son is coming,” the old man said happily.
Polydorus’ thoughts went to his own son, as they always did when they were allowed to. The boy was still at the breast, and the young aide found himself breathless when he thought of the boy, his wispy dark hair, his soft dimpled cheeks and happy smile. Polydorus had made his decision long since. When the city fell, he would abandon the old man to his fate and hurry to Casilla and the boy. He would defend them with his life. It was all he could do.
“Who is that with him?” the king asked.
Polydorus peered again at the riders. They were crossing the wide new bridge the enemy had built over the fortification ditch. In the silent afternoon he fancied he could hear hooves clopping on the wooden planks. With a jolt, he realized it was Hektor, riding casually, one hand on his reins, one holding his high crested helm in front of him. Beside him rode the king of Ithaka. What is Hektor doing riding into the enemy camp? he thought.
“Odysseus!” the old man cried, waving his fist. “Treacherous dog! Cut the head from his shoulders, my son! Kill the cur!”
Now there were cries and shouts from below, and men started appearing from the shadows of the ruins. Hundreds of soldiers—Mykene, Thessalians, and mercenaries alike—were running to the main street where Hektor rode. They lined up on each side of his path, watching as the Trojan prince passed, Odysseus riding by his side. There were some jeers, but they were smothered quickly. Then there was silence as the two riders made their way up to the Scaean Gate.
Polydorus hurried to the side of the tower that looked down on the gate. There stood a huge dark-haired man in black armor. Polydorus knew immediately who he was. What is happening? he thought.
There was a brief conversation among the three men in front of the gates, and then Achilles stepped aside and walked away, apparently satisfied. Hektor looked up, and his voice boomed out. “Open the gate! Hektor, prince of Troy, commands it!”
Polydorus ran to the inward side of the tower and leaned far over the battlements.
“Open the gate!” he shouted down to the guards. “Hektor has returned! Open the gate now!”
Andromache was resting on a couch on the east terrace when the distant sound of cheering came to her ears. She sat up and glanced at Axa, who gazed at her in puzzlement. They both rose and went to the terrace wall but could see nothing from the vantage point. The cheering was getting louder all the time.
“I will go and find out what is happening,” she told her maid.
“Perhaps the enemy has left and we are saved,” Axa ventured.
“Maybe,” Andromache replied doubtfully, and left her apartments and hurried through the palace.
Outside the Royal Guard also was uncertain about what was happening. They had unsheathed their swords, ready for action. Then Polites appeared with his bodyguard, looking alarmed.
“Why is there cheering, Polites?” Andromache asked, but he shook his head.
Then a rider galloped up the stone streets toward them. He threw himself off his horse and cried, “Prince Hektor is back, lord! He is here in the city!”
The sound of cheering came closer, and now Andromache could hear the words repeated over and over: “Hektor! Hektor! HEKTOR!”
Hope blossomed in her heart, immediately followed by a stab of fear. The summer had been tedious but uneventful. Although the enemy was at the gates, it was impossible to stay frightened all the time, and eventually a complacent calm set in as long hot day followed long hot day. Now the wheel of events was starting to turn again, and something inside her told Andromache that this was the beginning of the end.
When her husband finally came in sight, walking his horse slowly up toward the king’s palace, he was surrounded by a mob of cheering Trojans. Soldiers had formed a circle of protection around him, but people kept trying to break through in a bid to touch his robe or sandals. The black horse fidgeted nervously, but Hektor kept him walking steadily on a tight rein. As he reached the palace, the Royal Guard pushed the mob back, but the people continued shouting his name and cheering.
Hektor smiled when he saw Andromache and reined in his horse. He dismounted wearily, then embraced her, holding a hand out to his brother. “Andromache. Polites. It is good to see you both.”
“We thank the gods you are here, Hektor,” Polites replied. “But why and how? You come unlooked for.”
Hektor shook his head. “I must speak to Father first.”
“But Father is not well,” Polites told him.
“I know,” Hektor countered, sorrow in his voice. “Nevertheless, he is still the king, and I must speak to him first.”
He gripped Andromache’s hand tightly for a heartbeat, then let her go and turned and walked toward the king’s palace with his brother. Andromache returned to her apartments, her mind in a whirl. Waiting never had come easy to her, and she found herself pacing up and down the terrace, restless with uncertainty and anticipation. The sky darkened, and the two boys went to their beds, but still Hektor had not come.
Finally the door opened with a whisper, and he was there, dressed in an old gray tunic and threadbare cloak. She ran into his arms. He held her for a while, his face pressed deep into her hair. Then she looked up at him and said, smiling, “On the bank of the Simoeis I told you we would meet again.”
Gazing into her eyes, his face grave, he told her, “There is to be a duel, Andromache.”
She took a deep breath and asked, “It’s with Achilles, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “I killed his friend Patroklos, you see, and he wants vengeance.”
She found anger surging up inside her and pulled away from his embrace. “This is not a game, husband! This friend of his came here, like Achilles, to plunder the city, to kill and to maim. Do you owe it to Achilles to fight him because you killed his friend? Hektor, you have killed hundreds in battle since this war started. Do you have to fight all their friends, too?” She heard the heavy sarcasm in her voice and hated herself for it, but she could not stop herself. “This is a grand nonsense, husband!”
He opened his mouth to speak, and she cried, “And do not say the word ‘honor’ to me! I am sick and tired of that word. It seems to me that honor means whatever you men want it to mean.”
Hektor watched her until her rage subsided a little. “If I fight Achilles, they will let our women and children go. Agamemnon has pledged this, and Odysseus guaranteed it.”
“And you believe them?” she asked, but her anger had weakened, and she could lean on it no more. “Will Astyanax be taken to safety?”
He shook his head sadly. “If they had agreed to that, I would not have trusted them.”
“This is still a grand nonsense,” she repeated sadly.
“What is wrong, Andromache?” he asked gently.
She shook her head, trying to clear it. What is wrong with me? she thought. My husband returns to me, having secured the lives of Trojan women and children, yet I am shouting at him like a fishwife.
She smiled at him. “I’m sorry, my love. But what happens if Achilles kills you? Will Agamemnon then keep his word? Why would he?”
He explained. “The gates will be opened at dawn, and the women and children allowed to leave. They will be escorted to the Bay of Herakles, where they will take ship for Lesbos. The gates will close again at noon, when the duel will start. So Achilles and I will not meet until after the innocents are freed.”