Andromache of Troy

Andromache is born a princess of Anatolia, surrounded by loving parents and seven brothers, but she does not become Queen there. Achilles sacks her city, killing her father and all of her brothers. She and her mother do not have time to properly mourn them, not when Achilles and his army are storming the castle looking for them, not surrounded by fire and screams. They pass her youngest brother’s body on the way out—his eyes are still open. Andromache’s mother collapses with a wail, and Andromache wants nothing more than to join her, but they cannot afford to stay here. Andromache is the last heir of Anatolia, she cannot let her father’s legacy—her brother’s legacy—end here. Andromache pulls her mother to her feet, and her eyes are dry. She closes her brother’s eyes, presses one last kiss to his forehead, and tells him goodbye. They gather what they can and flee into the night.

She and her mother eke out a living in a faraway city, living in a small hut. It’s nowhere near what Andromache is used to, but she is happy here. She learns to milk cows, to collect eggs, to wash clothes. She learns to make flower crowns and takes to braiding them in her mother’s hair. She learns to make her own way in the world, and in the quiet moments when she is lying next to her mother on their small cot, she hopes her father would be proud. When her mother’s delicate hands—not used to the rough work she is doing now, begin to crack and split, Andromache goes to the hut closest to theirs. She trades one of the last pieces of her embroidery from the palace for a remedy to make her mother’s hands less dry.

Eventually, Andromache’s mother gets sick. At first, Andromache is worried, but she does not believe it is serious. A rash of illness was making its way around their village, and everyone else got better. Her mother, though, is different. Her mother does not get better. She dies of an illness that Andromache cannot cure—she was raised a princess, not a healer. Andromache buries her mother and rages at the gods. They have taken everyone and everything she had ever known from her, and they left her here alone. She collapses to her knees eventually and begs them for a sign. Why is she still here after everyone she’s loved has been torn away from her?

Hector comes to her as the eldest prince of Troy, and as she is the last remaining child of the King of Anatolia, his parents deem it acceptable for them to marry. They marry quickly. After all, there is no one to negotiate with for her hand. There are no parents to win over or heirs to charm. Her marriage, although it is all she had ever dreamed of as a girl, causes that spot just under her ribcage where her memories of her family rest to flare up. Her mother should be here to help her get ready, to prepare her for the night to come. Her father should be here to present her to Hector. Her brothers should be here to cause havoc and act like the terrors they were. But only Andromache is here. She pastes on a smile and holds her head high. Hector and Andromache are still getting used to each other when Paris brings Helen home, and Andromache knows that war will follow. She is nervous, but Troy is a mighty city, and surely it will not fall as Anatolia did. Anatolia was not protected behind high walls, nor did they have the fighters Troy has—including Hector.

Andromache resolves not to love Hector. She has done her duty and married him, but she will not give him heirs. She knows how to prevent a child from catching, and she makes sure she has the herbs to do so at all times. She will not bring children into a loveless marriage. She believes her love is some type of curse now. What other explanation could there be for what has happened to her family? But Hector makes it hard to fulfill that promise. He catches her stroking the petals of a vase of flowers left out, and he shows up the next day with fresh flowers and even seeds. He helps her create a small garden in their rooms, gently pressing each seed into the dirt and watering it. Andromache watches him, kneeling beside her there. He’s large. He is so much bigger than her, and at first it frightened her. She has never once seen him raise his voice though, much less his hand. He brings her jewels, finery, everything she could possibly want. When the King of Troy brings up her failure to get pregnant, Hector stands beside her, defending her, claiming that the gods must not have seen fit to grant them a child yet. Them—such a small word, but Andromache knows the King takes notice of it. Hector is not separating himself from her even in the way he speaks, and that is not something often seen in an arranged marriage. Perhaps the thing that starts that first blush of love, though, is the way he makes time for her. Even in the midst of leading a war, of being a Prince to a city under siege, he eats dinner with her most nights. He is curious about their small garden, spending as much time there as her. He asks her to teach him how to braid flower crowns, and she wakes up every morning with a new one hanging on the bed post. The first time she finds one, Andromache weeps. Troy does not wear crowns, but Anatolia did. She’d mentioned it once, and he had found a way to crown her that would not cause others to look at her harshly.

In the time between battles with the Greeks, Andromache and Hector build a love and a life together. She stops taking the herbs to prevent children. She cries the entire day she makes that choice, but not out of sadness. She is not being forced to bear children, she is choosing it, and somehow that makes it even scarier. Hector finds her, face red and tearstained, and he holds her. That night is the first night she kisses him first. Eventually, Andromache gives him a son and heir. Her son—Hector’s son—comes into the world screaming, and Andromache has never loved anything more. It scares her, how much she loves him. Hector presses kiss after kiss to her face, gently petting at their son. He is so gentle with both of them, and Andromache falls even more in love. Hector looks at her, then gives her permission to name their son. Andromache is shocked. This child is the heir to Troy, and she had thought that Hector or even the King would want to name him. Hector simply grins at her when she asks about it, saying that she had done all the work so surely she deserved the right to name him. Andromache laughs, quietly, exhaustedly, but she laughs nonetheless.

She debates for hours, holding her son in her arms and watching him breathe, about naming her child after her father or one of her brothers or even her mother. She decides she won’t. It has been years since she lost them, but some days the pain in her chest is so great that she cannot breathe around it; each inhale becomes a shuddered gasp and each exhale becomes a shaky sigh. She will not name her son something that will cause her pain—her son deserves the best of her, and that is what he will get. Her son feels like a new beginning for all of them, and she will not tie him back to a past she would rather forget. She will not ever forget her family, but they are gone now. She is quite sure they are in the Elysian fields together, waiting for her. Andromache is still here though, and she will do her best for her son, for Hector, and for Troy.

She names him Scamandrius, after a mighty river near Troy, but the people call him Astyanax—meaning Town-Prince—because he is Hector’s son. The people of Troy love Hector, and that love transfers to their son. He is regarded as a worthy heir of the Prince of Troy. For a few years, even with the war that seems never-ending, they are wonderfully happy. The ache of her family’s loss gets easier to bear, or maybe she just gets better at standing beneath the weight. Andromache smiles more than she has in years, she laughs more, she is playful with Hector in a way she had forgotten. Hector is an attentive and loving husband, who adores Astyanax. He teaches Astyanax to ride horses almost before he can walk. Andromache is close by whenever Astyanax rides, but she has faith in Hector. They call him the Tamer of Horses, after all, and he would never let Astyanax come to any harm. The war hangs like a shadow over them, though. Andromache desperately wants for it to be over.

This war all started because Paris took Helen from Menelaus. Surely if they give her back, the Greeks will go back home. This war has been going on for years. They must be tired as well. When Andromache asks Hector why Paris will not simply let Helen go back, he tells her that Helen was given to Paris as a reward from the gods, so he cannot give her back. Cannot or will not, Andromache wonders, watching Paris escort Helen around Troy. Paris is prideful, arrogant. He has something to prove, and giving Helen back will shame him. Andromache wonders if he believes all this destruction, all this grief, is worth his pride. Helen cannot leave by herself—Paris would never let her. It galls her that Helen has been given over to Paris like a pair of shoes, or perhaps an ox. Bringing Helen here started a war, but refusing a gift from the gods might start something worse. When she asks Helen about it, she does not seem to mind being traded away. However, Andromache knows there is a learned indifference toward your own fate that comes from having no say in it for so long. Is she really so indifferent, or is she pretending to keep a grip on her sanity? She and Helen become friends, of a sort, given that they are both princesses of Troy and that their husbands are brothers. Andromache likes Helen, and that aches slightly, because she is the catalyst for this war, even though it is not her fault. The people of Troy blame her though. It is obvious—it makes sense. It is easier to blame a woman than a Prince of Troy or even the gods. Helen spends most of her time secluded in her rooms. When she does come out though, she spends time with Andromache and Astyanax. Helen loves Astyanax, even though he tends to pull at her hair. Despite living together for several years, Helen and Paris do not have any children. Andromache does not ask, but she wonders. Is Helen taking the same herbs she did? Andromache would not blame her if she were.

Andromache and Hector are having a cup of wine together, the way they always do after Astyanax falls asleep, when Cassandra bursts in, screaming about Hector dying because Patroclus had stolen the Achilles’ armor. Hector had warned Andromache about Cassandra when he first brought her to Troy. She’s mad, everyone knows that. Hector still loves her though, and he is one of the only people who listens to her ravings, even though he doesn’t believe they are true. Andromache doesn’t believe they are true either, but she will not begrudge Hector paying attention to his sister. Even if she is mad, the way the people of Troy treat her—even her parents and the rest of her siblings—makes Andromache rage. If Astyanax were ever to go mad, Andromache cannot imagine ever treating him so harshly.

Andromache’s eyes meet Hector’s, and she inclines her head, getting up to leave. Hector loves Cassandra, even if she is mad, and she will leave him to comfort her. Andromache would have done the same for any of her brothers. His parents have tried to talk to Hector about locking her up, but Hector will not hear of it. Even if the King did put her somewhere, Hector would go retrieve her, and they all know it. Troy cannot afford for one of its most fearsome fighters to be absent on a quest to save his sister, so Cassandra is safe for now.

Andromache feels her heart stop when Hector comes back from the battlefield, hands bloodstained and eyes red. He tells her then, of finding Achilles on the battlefield and striking a fatal blow. Maybe this war would finally end, and Andromache and Astyanax would be safe. He tells her of seeing a boy, dying from Hector’s blade, and realizing it was Patroclus. Andromache soothes him to sleep, then curls up by their garden and sobs silently. Achilles—the man responsible for the demise of her parents, of her brothers, of her city, will be after her husband now. Achilles is something out of a nightmare, Andromache is not certain that Hector could win in a fair fight. And Hector, brave, loyal, honorable Hector, will not deign to fight unfairly. Achilles will likely be raging with grief, furious with Hector for killing Patroclus. When Hector goes to fight Achilles—to save Paris, and Andromache is not usually violent but she wants to throw Paris off the walls of Troy—Andromache’s eyes are dry. She kisses him, gives him the image of his wife and his son, smiling and happy to take with him. She watches the fight from the walls. The Queen had tried to convince her to stay with her, but Andromache owes it to Hector to watch. She leaves Astyanax with the Queen, though. She does not want their son to see what is about to happen.

Andromache has gone numb by now, and she shows no reaction when Hector is killed by Achilles’ blade. She takes a shaky breath. Hector, her husband, the first person she ever fell in love with, is dead. He’s gone. Andromache swallows. She will wait for them to bring Hector’s body back, and then she will mourn. She will take Astyanax to say goodbye, and she will teach him to be a good man, the way Hector had been.

Then Achilles parades Hector’s body around Troy, dragging her husband behind his carriage like garbage. Andromache is horrified, as are the rest of the Trojans. This desecration is something that is not done, even by enemies. She wants to rage, and wail, and scream her betrayal to the gods, but she cannot do that yet. She knows that she cannot fall apart here. Her people are watching, looking to her as an example of how to react, and they need her to be strong. She stays on the walls until Achilles drags Hector to the Greek’s camp. Then she turns slowly. Paris offers her an arm for an escort, and she turns cold eyes on him. This entire thing happened because of his actions, and he has the nerve to offer her an escort? She is standing beneath the weight of things he will never know; she does not need his help. He flinches back from her and that—that makes her want to let him see exactly how angry she is. He cannot even face her—much less the full consequences of his actions. She doesn’t though. He is Hector’s brother, and Hector died to keep him safe. She will not ruin that. Andromache walks slowly to her rooms, servants bowing deeply when she passes them. She does not want to reach their rooms, because they will be filled with the memory of him, but at the same time, there is nothing she wants more. She sees Helen watching her, and Helen bows her head slightly. Is she apologizing, or just acknowledging Andromache’s grief? Andromache does not react. There can be no reactions until she is in private, because once she reacts to anything, she will break. Hector’s people look to her now, as Princess of Troy. She will not shame his memory.

She makes it back to their rooms before she falls apart. She doubles over, on her knees and forehead nearly touching the ground, sobs racking her body. She doesn’t know how long she stays like that, but when she becomes aware again, she’s shaking slightly and her head is pounding. She laughs breathlessly—she has forgotten how it felt to lose someone she loved. How could she have forgotten? A servant knocks on the door. Andromache stands immediately, wiping her face. Hector would want her to be strong, and even though Hector is not here anymore—and his soul must be in agony, because he has not received the proper rights—she will still make him proud. She goes to the door. A servant has brought her Astyanax. The servant’s face is streaked with tears, and she bows deeply before backing away. All of Troy will know what has happened before nightfall, and Andromache must be ready to face it. Andromache holds her son close and closes the door, pressing her back against it and sliding to the floor. Astyanax is upset, although he is too young to really know what is going on. She presses him close, breathing in the scent of his hair, and explains what had happened—or at least, a version of it. Astyanax has been lucky. This is his first experience with death. He does not quite seem to grasp why his father is not coming back, but he knows Hector will not be there in the morning. She does not tell him what Achilles had done to his father’s body. She will have to explain that one day, but not tonight. She will wait until he is older. Will the war still be going on then? She rocks him to sleep that night, still pressed against the door. If she moves, she will have to see their garden, their bed, their home, and she will shatter. What will she do then? She is a Princess twice over, the mother to the new heir. There is no room for her grief. But she has rebuilt from the ashes before, and she can show her son how to do the same.

Troy falls. Andromache tries to run, tries to get away, but she does not make it. This time, in the ruins of her city, she is captured. The Greeks surround her, yelling and laughing. Andromache does not listen to what they are saying, grimly lowering her head and trying to get away from them. A man approaches, and he grabs her, forcing her to be still. Neoptolemus, the son of Achilles, of the man who had ground her family into dust once already, takes her son from her arms and carries him to the walls, ignoring her screams and the way she thrashes against the men holding her. She is talking, begging and bargaining, but he only grins at her. Then he tosses her son—Hector’s son—off the walls. Andromache stills for a moment, horrified, and then she launches herself at him so ferociously that she escapes her guards. She has no weapons, so she turns herself into one, clawing at his face and biting at his throat. She manages to etch a bloody furrow into his cheek, feeling a vindictive sort of glee. That scratch scars, and Andromache is always proud when she looks at it later.

He knocks her out and makes her his concubine, and takes Helenus, Hector’s brother as a slave as well. He takes her back to his city, ignoring the way she fights, screams, and curses him. She does not forget what he had done to her, to her husband, and to her son. She bears three more sons, all born of rape. She thanks the gods they don’t look like Astyanax. She goes quiet eventually, playing at being meek. He gradually starts trusting her more, allowing her to cook for him, to dress him, to watch her sons alone. She thinks it gives him pleasure, watching a Princess and Hector’s wife tend to him as if she is a servant. What does his opinion matter to her, as long as she can see her sons? They see how he treats her, and they begin to hate their father. Andromache encourages it. She teaches them about Troy, about Anatolia, about Hector and Astyanax when they are old enough to know not to repeat those things. On the anniversary of Astyanax’s death, watching Neoptolemus play with her sons, Andromache adds poison to his meal. She serves him first, then her sons, then herself. She meets her children’s eyes. They don’t eat the stew. Neoptolemus dies in the most painful way she could manage, choking on his own blood and clawing at his face. Andromache rebuilds her life for a third time. She marries Helenus, becomes Queen of Epirus, and lives the rest of her life in as much peace and happiness as she can manage. After she dies, she is reunited with her loved ones in the Underworld.