Remodeling the Female Identity of Antiquity

Throughout Western history, the tales of women, both noble and not, have been unsung and undervalued. The female perspective was seldom heard and at times it seemed that the sole worth (one could even argue the sole purpose) of women was either to exist as the softer counterpart to her husband, to be a commodity of commercial value, or an emblem of conquest. Andromache, widow to Hector and survivor of the Trojan War, epitomises all of these roles. Since her introduction in Homer’s Iliad, she has remained in the shadow of her great warrior husband, her character never being developed in accordance with her own identity. Her roles exist as subservient to men: her typification of “the loyal wife”, a symbol of the female role within “the ideal marriage”, and her eventual victimisation by the men who raze Troy. I reimagine the capture of Troy through the perspective of Andromache, the sole surviving woman, and introduce her personal narrative into the course of events as laid out by Homer and subsequent writers. This allows both myself and the reader to come to understand Andromache as her own entity, not as a mere pawn or vessel of men. My story thus argues against the longstanding representations of Andromache as a docile creature (as seen in texts by Euripides, Homer, and more) and expands upon displays of courage and determination exemplified by Andromache that are touched upon in such texts (such as Euripides’ The Trojan Women and Andromache). Rather than rewriting the agreed upon history of Andromache, my story aims to alter our perceptions of her: to transform her from “simple” wife and submissive concubine to a woman who, in her own way, fought against her bleak fate (in other words, a woman who “did not come quietly”).

 

THE SALT OF WAR 

By Tara Kliska 

In her dream she saw a mountain. It was lone, tall, and of jagged red rock, defining the landscape and existing as its centrepiece. The plains below were fertile, green and lush, and hundreds of flowers littered the ground. They dotted the grass with yellows and lilacs and whites. On the far side of the mountain (Mount Placus, it was called) stood a dense evergreen forest, the sweet scent of sap permeating and blending with that of the flowers. The air was fresh and sharp and sweet, like mint and honey.

This place had no name; there was no sign denoting the title of the lands, nor to whom they belonged. But she knew it, instinctively, by the way her heart lurched at the sight of the mountain and the salt lakes, the forests and flowers. It was Cilician Thebe, the lands of King Eëtion. Her home. 

She stood still and sweet gusts blew her chiton softly. She felt the fabric curl around and brush against her ankles, while the distant songbirds echoed their delicate melodies. It was a serene landscape, idyllic and unblemished; unrealistic. At that moment, a great white stag walked across the plains, coming to a stop directly before her. The stag’s eyes were an icy blue, almost human, and sombre. The woman and animal exchanged looks, neither uttering a sound, neither moving a muscle. Seconds passed, then minutes. Cautiously, the woman approached the great beast, until she could see her own reflection in its bright blue irises. Her hair was shorn unevenly, dishevelled and dirtied; her face was scratched. Her appearance was a puzzle, but one that she dismissed. She raised her hand, reaching forward to stroke the animal. It continued to stare at her. She was a centimetre from its neck, and still, it did not move. Then the world fell dark. 

Andromache opened her eyes. Her homeland was gone. The stag had vanished. Her world was no longer pure, clean, and beautiful; the air was heavy and putrid, reeking of seared flesh. Her recollections rushed back to her and she remembered what had come to pass. Troy had fallen. The Greeks were approaching. And her husband was dead.

Andromache stood, stretching her limbs. In the distance she could hear the faint echoes of clashing metal, swords against swords, helmets and shields. The atmosphere was eerie; sickening silence permeated around her, only interrupted by the sound of fighting. She knew that it was only a matter of time, hours perhaps, until the Greek forces reached the inner sanctums of the Trojan palace where she and the other women hid. In this present moment and state, Andromache felt as if she were slowly going mad; she both dreaded the passing of time, the inevitable confrontation with Menelaus and his men, but she also wished for time to stop, so that this end might never be achieved. Andromache slowly circulated the room, succumbing to her state of limbo.

Her thoughts began to roam. She thought of her wedding day, when she had been given to Hector in the eyes of the Gods. Their bond, at first one of duty and responsibility, had truly blossomed into one of steadfast love. It was out of this love that their son had been conceived. And now Andromache was left alone with Astyanax, the sole reminder and remnant of her once sturdy and dependable husband. She looked down at her son. Hector’s eyes looked back at her. She saw her husband in the boy’s other features: his skin, olive like her husbands; his small lips; his brown hair, sharply contrasting her own blonde. She had birthed a painful memento of her old life. Astyanax cooed peacefully, blissfully unaware of what awaited him. It pained Andromache to think of what kind of future might be fated for the child. Servitude, slavery, degradation.

A loud, guttural groan pierced her morbid thoughts. Andromache turned franticly, and quickly walked up the nearby stone staircase, setting Astyanax down on a heap of blankets and following the source of the noise. She traced it all the way to the upper floor of the palace. The groaning ceased and silence once more dripped from the dark corners of the castle. Andromache hesitantly walked down the hallway that began at the top of the final step, feeling a sudden deep uneasiness in the pit of her stomach. The narrow hallway was draped with colourful curtains and veils, which softly brushed the princess’ face as she carried forward. She noted the various hues as she passed; red, purple, orange, dark green…eventually she could not discern the different colours. Firelight barely lit the space, a mere two torches having been placed, one at the beginning of the hall and the other at the end. Andromache observed bouquets of herbs, tossed along the edges of the floor – they freshened the musty air of the rooms. A metallic stench emanated from the chamber at the far end of the corridor and Andromache felt her heart leap to her throat. Something was not right. She finally reached the room and cautiously peered inside. A great bed sat in the centre of the room, it too concealed by veils of purples and reds. A single torch lit the room and cast hideous shadows on the walls: the vases, tables, and various other objects created images of claws, shields, and strange animals. Nightmares reflected on the very walls of her home. Suddenly another groan rang, this time softer. Andromache stepped inside and saw, to her shock, Hector’s mother, Queen Hecuba, splayed on the bed. Andromache rushed to her side, startled by the blood that she saw pooling on the bedsheets and cascading down to the ground. Her eyes followed the trails of blood to their source: Hecuba’s wrists. Andromache froze. 

“Mother…What have you done?”

Hecuba simply groaned once more, pursing her eyes and lips. Andromache grabbed the veils from the canopy above and tore them in two, wrapping the veils around Hecuba’s wrists. She bound her, over and over, around and around, until she no longer saw new spurts of blood appearing on the fabric. 

“Priam…Where is Priam?” Hecuba eventually asked, her voice quiet and weak. 

Andromache shook her head, “I do not know, my lady. The men closed us deep within the palace and left to fight the Greeks. No one has heard news of our Trojan warriors in days.” 

She watched as a tear slid down the queen’s face. The war had greatly aged her. Andromache remembered the years before the Greeks’ invasion. Hecuba had been a great beauty, even in her mature age. Her face had not yet betrayed her; her visage had still retained markers of her younger days. She had had bright, intelligent, hazel eyes, and full red lips. Her skin, though partially marked with creases and wrinkles, had been flush with colour and still gave her the appearance of a much younger woman. Her locks were long and curled, a deep rich brown, the number of white streaks few and countable. She had never left her room without being lavishly adorned in gold jewellery; many rings had stacked her thin fingers, long and heavy earrings hung from her ears, and innumerable bracelets swung along her wrists. When she smiled, better yet when she laughed, it was infectious and bright white teeth would shine, even in the dark. Hecuba had been beautiful, in body and in soul. The woman that lay before Andromache now shared few resemblances to her former days. Her skin lacked colour, her hair was limp, weak, and ribboned with white, and her lips were dry and cracked. No jewellery hung off of her and her body was emaciated, frail from grief. Hunger had long been forgotten and dismissed by the Queen and she no longer remembered the sensation. Now Andromache herself wept, but for her mother-in-law – the only mother that she still had in this world. A mother that she would undoubtedly soon lose.

“Water,” the queen murmured, breaking Andromache out of her trance. 

Andromache scanned the room until her eyes found a small bowl of clear liquid on the bedside stool. She brought the bowl to Hecuba’s lips, grimacing at the particles that swam in the water. Hecuba took only a few sips before grunting, as if signalling enough. 

Andromache then checked on the wrappings that she had fixed earlier. The bandages were still bloodless in the outer layer, but nevertheless, she changed the swathes. Hecuba lay on the bed, her eyes open as Andromache unwrapped the dressings, looking up to the sky. It was as if the queen was absent from her reality, already lost. Andromache supposed that she was, in fact, lost. She tore new veils and finished wrapping. The wounds did not appear to be too deep but she did not tell the queen this for fear that she would take her knife once more. 

“Can I bring you anything else, my lady?” Andromache asked. 

Hecuba closed her eyes and shook her head, slowly, as if every turn brought her more pain. Andromache found a blanket, haphazardly thrown aside on the floor, and covered her delicately up to her breasts, before turning and blowing out the torch. She hoped that a room without light would be enough to dissuade the Greeks to check for survivors hidden inside, but in her heart she doubted so. As she left, Andromache took the knife from Hecuba’s bed. 

The hallway that led out of the chamber felt stiflingly cold as she walked to the stone-carved stairs. The veils, once a glamourous and beautiful embellishment to the red-painted corridor, were now only an annoyance and a reminder of grander days. Andromache rushed downstairs to her son and found him sleeping, suckling his miniscule thumb. The corners of her mouth rose to a small smile at the sight, his innocence for a moment distracting her from reality. She tucked the knife beneath the folds of her chiton and sat on the dusty ground beside Astyanax. Hecuba had diverted her from her torturous limbo, but now as her baby slept, she found herself at the same crossroads. She too closed her eyes and imagined what the men outside of the palace must be facing. 

What was worse, she thought, dying in vain outside or living in vain inside? 

The sound of shattering ceramics broke Andromache out of her comatose state of limbo and her eyes snapped to the dark corridor to her right. Out of the shadows emerged one of the Trojan maidservants, Pherenike. In her arms was bundled a mass of vases; vessels and amphoras and pithos were stacked perilously, teetering on near collision with the ground. One such amphora lay broken on the floor beside Pherenike. The black etched image sat split in half; two warriors stood engaged in battle, one holding his sword to the other, victorious in the battle. The fractured painting jarred Andromache and she had to look away. 

“I’m sorry, my lady,” whispered Pherenike. 

Andromache shook her head in response. Words seemed lacking and the silence was preferential in this moment. Andromache watched her son sleep, looking between him and the splintered warriors.

Pherenike placed the remainder of the vases in the large circular room in which the Trojan princess sat and sat herself in the opposite corner. The two women did not exchange words, only glances, though even this act bonded the two in their desolate states.

Pherenike finally spoke, “I thought that I should collect the King’s favoured vases for safe keeping – perhaps hide them in one of the cellars.” 

Andromache nodded and responded with a noncommittal, “Good…good,” distracted by what she thought to be the nearing of the clashing of war. With every minute that passed, she heard louder footsteps, more coherent yelling, sharper grinding of swords, and more desperate wails of imminent death. All of a sudden, the locked doors of the chamber rattled, and Andromache knew that these had not been delusions; the Greeks had finally arrived. 

Pherenike stifled a whimper and looked at hr mistress with wide eyes. 

“Hide!” commanded the princess, and the two women quickly stood. Pherenike ran, retreating back down the corridor from which she had emerged, the shadows enveloping her with every sway of her chiton until she wore the black shades of darkness. Her footsteps too soon receded until the only trace that remained were her scuttled footprints. Andromache seized Astyanax in her arms and rushed down the opposing hallway. She turned right, then left, then right again, so frantically, until she had almost no notion of where she was. The sound of the Greeks was once again diminished and so she judged herself to be safe, at least for the time being. The pair, mother and infant, finally reached a small room, tightly packed with wooden crates of all sizes. Astyanax, having awoken in the commotion, looked up obediently at his mother. Andromache prayed to the Gods that he remain quiet. 

She sat behind the largest crate, craning to keep view of the doorway. The faint ordering bark of Agamemnon could be heard and Andromache felt her stomach clench. After what seemed like an eternity, she heard the soft crunch of Greek boots against the Trojan palace floor. The princess’ mind raced as she considered her next decision. Could she flee? The room was a dead end; the only exit was the one through which her attacker now stalked. What of Astyanax? Andromache scanned the room until her eyes settled on a large enough, inconspicuous crate, nestled in the shadows of the nearby corner. Her arms rattled as she kissed her son’s head, whispering prayers to every God or Goddess she could imagine that would pity the son of a widow and a slaughtered Trojan warrior. She prayed for them to grant her Astyanax the blessings of survival. She gently placed him in the crate, burrowing the infant between the straw inside. 

“I am so sorry.” Andromache wept as she partially closed the lid of the crate, attempting to create the illusion of a box carelessly cast off to the side. 

She shifted back behind the larger crate and waited, tears wetting her cheeks. Who would find her? Would they kill her here, among the scraps of Troy? Or would she be taken prisoner, made the concubine of a Greek murderer? Would anyone find her son if she was taken away? She shivered, suddenly feeling numb with cold. 

A face appeared through the obscure shadows. Andromache could not make out its owner, but she saw a scarred jawline and bruises littering the man’s face. Fresh crimson blood coiled down his muscled arms and his sword swung from his belt. The Greek stepped one more foot into the small storage room and Andromache’s heart leapt to her throat. It was the wicked Odysseus, slaughterer of so many innocent Trojans. Odysseus narrowed his eyes, adjusting to the darkness, and surveyed the room with close precision.

“Maiden, I swear upon the Gods to do you no harm,” he tempted with honeyed words, but Andromache was not swayed to give up her hiding place. He could not possibly know that she was hidden here; more likely he was trying to coax a fool through a false sense of security. As Odysseus stepped around the crates that lay closer to the doorway, Andromache placed her hand over her mouth to mask any whispers of her frantic breathing. She contorted into the slightest figure that she could manage and cornered herself between the crate and the wall, hoping to disguise herself within the shadows. Odysseus scanned the room once more, then turned to leave; Andromache could have wept of relief. A fraction from the doorway, a step before exiting the storage chamber, a moment before she would have been safe, he stopped suddenly. It was as if he received counsel from some deity, one who sought vengeance against an innocent Andromache, a God who was crafting the final destruction of Troy like a skilled chess master. Odysseus shifted his feet and walked, full of confidence and sure mindedness, back towards to the corner that hid the princess and stood before her.

“Hello Andromache, princess of Troy.” His quick-witted tongue shaped her name with the elegance afforded to royalty, but Andromache only felt disgust at hearing it said by the Greek warrior. 

Andromache shifted to her knees and clasped her hands, as if to pray to the man before her. “Please, I beg of you, if there exists any mercy in your cold heart, leave me here. Tell your men I have died elsewhere, that my soul is stranded in haunting these Trojan halls for all eternity, that Charon refuses me for lack of a proper burial…Tell them anything you wish. I beg of you, Odysseus the city-sacker. Let me be.” 

Odysseus looked at the princess with curious eyes, as if assessing her state of dishevelment and misery. He cocked his head to the side. Andromache watched in silence as Trojan blood stained the ground before her. The pair exchanged looks, one void of emotion and the other overflowing with it.

At long last the Greek spoke. “Both you and I know that begging me for mercy is futile.”

“What kind of man are you,” spat Andromache as he hoisted her up by her elbows.

After a long silence, he grunted. “I simply do what I am told.” 

Odysseus led her from the room, one hand wrapped securely around her upper arm. He craned around the room one final time, searching for any other hidden figures.

“Where is your boy, Astyanax?” 

Andromache’s heart beat savagely in her chest but she did not abandon her stoic attitude. “I gave mercy to the doomed child of Troy.” 

Odysseus turned towards her and for the first time, his face expressed an emotion: shock. They walked from the chamber in silence, the remembered glow of lamps, now blown out, kindling the path. The ground was covered in sand, dirt, and blood: the colours of war and death, of the destruction of Troy.

Andromache, with Odysseus at her side, retraced her earlier steps to the larger circular chamber. She saw the heap of Priam’s vases had been reduced to dust. There existed no remnants to attest to this dynasty’s once great wealth and prosperity. A trail of blood led from Pherenike’s corridor, through to their earlier hiding room, and out of the main doorway. Andromache prayed that the maidservant was still hidden away in the darkness of the palace. Odysseus led her out of the room, into the long, gilded hallway in which Priam’s and Hecuba’s thrones had once sat side by side. The seats were missing now, likely taken as prizes of gold and gemstones by the savage Greeks. How different this room of governance looked now, once the symbol of justice and power in Troy, now the image of destruction and spoils. The purple-red drapery that hung from the high ceilings lay tattered on the ground, trampled by feet, or hanging still, but riddled with holes and gashes. Grand white columns stood in front of the drapery in a long colonnade that led to the exit. Their capitals were still lavishly adorned and grotesquely contrasted the ruinous state of the rest of the chamber. The only evidence of a battle upon their marble were the strikes of swords against their shafts and the spurts of blood that painted the glossy white. One sole column that stood to the right of where Priam’s seat had stood was painted, deliberately, with blood. Andromache dared not to think of whose. The extravagant columns remained erect however, if only because they could not be removed, not by the likes of men. The unusual pair of living Greek and living Trojan continued through the throne room. Farther down, nearer the entrance, hung the still twitching bodies of Trojan boys – servants and water boys who had devoted their young and unfulfilled lives to the royal family. Between the gaps of the columns were suspended the young men, symmetrically across the room. Andromache could not count the number of boys, still living and not, that swung. The sounds of gurgled blood and vain gasps for final breaths were too much to bear. Andromache spied Hesperos, a favourite of Hector’s brother Polydorus. He quivered as the noose round his neck slowly severed his airway. Though he made no noise, the sight was no less torturous. Hesperos saw her too; his eyes locked into hers as she passed.

“No son of Troy may be allowed to survive.” 

Andromache turned to her captor in disbelief, truly fathoming, for perhaps the first time, the bloodlust and wickedness that existed within this man.

“They were boys. Boys,” she sputtered. 

“Trojan boys,” corrected Odysseus. 

The duo walked in silence, at last exiting the palace. The bright sunlight blinded Andromache, who had grown unaccustomed to the sun’s brilliance by her days-long seclusion indoors. A gentle breeze carried the sweet scent of the nearby ocean to their noses and the humming of cicadas announced the sweltering heat. Andromache found it odd that such a tragic day be made so lovely by Mother Nature. It was almost unjust. 

Odysseus led her to the centre of the palatial courtyard, where a lone tree stood, inlaid mosaics circling around its base. A pair of lavishly donned men stood beside the trunk, while several others scuttled around behind. As they drew closer, Andromache shuddered to realise that she recognised the men. Menelaus stood to the right, rising above the other in stature, adorned in a glowing bronze chest plate that was streaked with red. Agamemnon stood next to him. The king of Mycenae had been greatly aged by the war; his hair was largely overcome by grey and his eyes were circled by deep crinkles. He wore the mask of an older man and such a mask did not favour him. In recognising Andromache themselves, the pair exchanged a look. Menelaus grinned a cheshire grin that spoke of future misery. Agamemnon scowled.

“All hail the Trojan princess,” mocked Menelaus, and his men joined in his laughter. 

Tears pricked at Andromache’s eyes but she dared not let them fall. She would not capitulate to these wretches. She wrapped her arms around herself, as if to draw her body into itself – if only to escape Troy and this current existence altogether. To her sudden surprise, she felt a strong hilt jutting from her waistline. It was the dagger that she had taken from Hecuba. How Andromache now cursed herself for forgetting the knife in her confrontation with Odysseus. She kept it hidden now, however. I may have need for it yet. 

Agamemnon was not laughing with his brother and his men. He scanned the princess, as if seeking some deceit that she had planned.

“Where’s the boy?” asked Agamemnon, turning to Odysseus. 

“She says that she killed him. Out of mercy.” 

Agamemnon pointed to one of his men, then nodded his head toward the palace entrance. The compliant soldier obeyed and disappeared into the complex, likely to scout for Astyanax to confirm Andromache’s claim.

Agamemnon stepped forward. “What would the Furies say about the murder of your son? At his mother’s hands no less? Alecto would call for justice, would she not?” 

“What would she say of your slaughter of an innocent people? What of your precious justice then?” spat Andromache.

“Innocent?” retorted Menelaus, cutting in front of his brother, his laughter disappeared. “Troy has no claims to innocence. The son of Troy stole my wife, after I treated him as the most gracious guest. He forsook the most sacred of bonds. And your people helped him, allowed a continuance to his treachery. Innocent! The Trojans!” 

“And the crimes of one man warranted the murder of countless Trojans? Of women? Children? You pay yourself too much virtue, Menelaus. You and your Greeks are naught but murderers – unsanctified, most hateful of mortals, and guilty of bloodlust.” 

Menelaus drew near, a hairs width from Andromache’s face. His face lay unmoving and she could feel his heavy breath against her cheeks. Then a smirk rose from the lips of the Spartan king. 

“Perhaps we will find a new master for this unruly woman. Only a Greek could tame such fury! Brother –” 

Before another word could escape his mouth, Menelaus felt the sharp edge of a blade force itself against his throat. Andromache had wrapped her arm around his shoulders, rotating his body so that his back was firmly pressed against her breasts.

“Utter one more word and I swear upon the gods that you will join your men in Hades,” Andromache hissed into his ear.

Agamemnon and Odysseus watched the scene in shock. They stepped forward slowly but Andromache only drove her dagger harder against Menelaus’ throat. A thin stream of blood began to flow down the king’s neck from the place where the knife’s point was imbedded. The two Greek men looked at one another, apprehensive.

“What do you imagine will come now, Andromache?” Odysseus asked. “We outnumber you, twentyfold – just in this courtyard.” 

Andromache’s eyes darted around her, seeking a solution. If only I hadn’t left Astyanax hidden inside, then I could run. 

Like a dog tracking a subtle scent, Agamemnon seemed to sense her inner turmoil. “Why does the princess not flee?” 

He cautiously stepped forward. 

“Stop! I will kill your brother!” Andromache took her knife to Menelaus’ bicep and dug it in, to make her point. Blood spurted out and Menelaus groaned in pain. She placed the knife on his windpipe once more and drove in to spill blood, albeit less than that on his arm. She needed the Spartan king alive to barter. 

Agamemnon drew his sword in fury and moved to charge, when Odysseus, ever shrewd and wily, coaxed him to repose.

Thus, the quartet stood, not one member daring to move, the only noise to be heard was the occasional gurgle of Menelaus. The sound reminded Andromache of Hesperos, undoubtedly still adorning the Trojan throne room. At last, Andromache cleared her throat. 

“I will retreat into the palace…and you will leave this land. Or I will sever the throat of your Spartan king and these ten years will have been in vain. Menelaus will be released once I am safely indoors. Is this understood?” 

Odysseus looked to Agamemnon. The Mycenaean kept his eyes locked on Andromache though did not speak. 

Finally, “I think not.” 

Andromache frowned. “Do you see your brother’s throat? Do you want me to draw more blood?” 

It was when Agamemnon smiled at the Trojan princess that she felt her stomach turn to ice. He nodded behind her and in that instant, a soft coo, a baby’s sound of indignation, could be heard. Andromache froze all over.

She turned, ever so slowly, and to her horror, the Greek soldier who had earlier retreated into the palace now stood outside, holding her Astyanax. The baby’s eyes were opened wide, drinking in the scene before him, but no light of comprehension shone within him. The baby saw sun, felt the warm breeze, and his eyes settled on his mother. He was blissfully unaware of the present dangers. 

Andromache, contrarily, was painfully aware. She knew what could come to pass, but a part of her mind refused to believe. The Greeks could not truly be so godless. 

“Please…” she began, her words drenched with earnest supplication, “have mercy. He is innocent in all of this. What wrongs could an infant have committed against you?” 

From behind Agamemnon appeared Neoptolemus, son of famed Achilles. He approached the Trojan princess and reach his hands forward. 

“Give us Menelaus, Andromache, and we will let your son live.” 

Andromache tightened her grip on Menelaus and observed the men that stood round. They watched her with patience, as if they too understood the futility of her actions. As if her defeat was imminent. Which, she too now realised, it was. With a stifled sob, she released the Spartan, pushing him harshly to the ground.

“Give me my child,” she begged.

Astyanax, who had in the meantime been given to Odysseus, grumbled, seconds from wailing out for his mother. However, instead of placing the boy in his mother’s outstretched arms, Odysseus handed the child off to Neoptolemus. Neoptolemus walked past Andromache with a terrible indifference and began climbing the staircase in a nearby tower. The tower led to the gates of Troy, and atop the gates there waited a thin and precarious walkway. Andromache felt nauseous, her eyes tracing the path above. Neoptolemus disappeared into the tower and for several minutes a disturbed quiet reigned over those in the courtyard. At last, the Greek appeared atop the gates, his back to Andromache and his fellow Greeks. 

“No,” muttered the Trojan princess, disbelief coiling around her foggy mind. 

She watched as Neoptolemus continued, slowly, across the walkway. Every step felt like a knife savagely thrust into her. 

“Greek! I beg you!” Andromache screeched. She fell onto her hands and knees. Her gut was twisted viciously inside of her and she could hardly breathe.

Neoptolemus did not hail her words, in fact behaving as if he had not heard them. From their massive height, the wind blew strongly and the Greek’s hair rustled. Below, Andromache wailed for mercy and the Atrides stood in silence. Odysseus looked forward at the gate rather than up at Neoptolemus. Neoptolemus stood, utterly still, and examined the boy’s face. Hector’s likeness looked back at him. Achilles’ son loosened his grip on the infant. The cloths that had swaddled the child snapped and flew away sharply. The Zephyr rushed strongly past the Greek, muffling the cries of Andromache that rang from below. Neoptolemus’ mind ran empty. He saw the child his hands, he knew what was expected of him, he knew what awaited him if he did not carry through, and what inevitably awaited the boy, regardless of his own actions. The rationale behind this decision he could understand; the reality of it was too terrible to comprehend. He turned his back completely to the Atrides so that they could not see his face, and Achilles’ son closed his eyes. He shut his eyes to Astyanax, to the Trojan Ocean, and to the height at which he stood. He felt the slipping of soft flesh against his fingertips, the coiling of delicate hair around his palm. Then he felt nothing, nothing but the warm gusts running over his hands.

Andromache screamed. She howled and shrieked and bawled. But her baby did not cry back for his mother. She lay there, crying for what felt like an eternity, hiccoughing for a breath that did not seem to come, heaving her last meal onto the stone ground until her stomach was hollow and her mouth sour and savoury, hearing a savage ringing echo in her ears. She felt a break in her mind, as if suddenly her entire reality was false. She could no longer understand what was happening around her. Why was she outside, lying on the courtyard ground? Where was Hector? Why were these Greeks watching her? Where was her child? 

Odysseus heaved the princess up and hoisted her against him, but her body refused to stand and fell back to the ground. Her knees were skinned by the rough gravel and blood began pooling but she felt nothing. Two more Greek soldiers came to her sides and lifted her, holding her entire body’s weight. The troupe of soldiers, Agamemnon, Menelaus, and the Ithacan warrior made their way out of the courtyard, towards the Greek ships that awaited, docked and hidden from Trojan view. Andromache felt her feet being dragged against the ground as she was carried along with them and looked around her in confusion. Her mouth felt dry with the salt of tears. Why was her face so damp? From the corner of her eye, just as they passed the palace gate, she spotted a heap of cloths. A strides length from the fabrics lay a small mass, red stains circled around.

The group arrived at the docked Greek fleet at late afternoon. The sun would soon set on Troy. Andromache sat on a mass of matted weeds, unmoved from the spot on the beach where she had been thrust down, awaiting the boarding of the ships. Her lapse in sanity had subsided and now she was painfully conscious. However, this consciousness was one of lacking. Andromache had no sensations left in her body or her soul. She was no longer living, rather existing. In the span of a single morning, she had become a thing, a shell. And thus, as she sat on the beach, watching the rolling and cascading of the waves, she waited patiently for the Greeks to take her away. She no longer had any desire to run. 

The gentle crashing of the ocean pushed sand up to Andromache’s crossed knees and small granules entered her gashes. She sat still and enjoyed the stinging pain, a temperate sensation that buzzed through her empty frame. A large male body hit the ground beside her with a thud. Odysseus sat, turning to watch her. Andromache continued to stare out at the sea. Silence permeated between the pair, broken only be the occasional Greek shouting and waves crashing. Eventually, Odysseus cleared his throat. 

“I told you; no son of Troy may be allowed to live.” 

Andromache slowly turned her head to face the Ithacan. Her words were hoarse and quiet, her throat having gone dry from her heaving and weeping. “You are a vile, vile, man. You are godless. You and your men, all of you Greeks are stitchers of evil plots, with twisted, unhealthy thoughts all round about. You can try and excuse yourself but know that the gods will never forgive you. You will be followed by the Furies until the end of time and they will curse you and your house,” Andromache paused to catch her breath. “And with every remnant of strength that I have left within me, with the conviction of my ancestors, slaughtered at the hands of the Greeks, I wish upon you nothing but the most terrible and excruciating fate. May you perish. May you never reach your home and your own child, but if the gods must will it to be so, may you suffer more than any one Trojan before you reach Ithaca.” 

Odysseus stared at Andromache for a moment longer, before standing and looking out to the sea. 

“The ships are prepared.” 

He took Andromache’s hands and led her to the black boat, past countless soldiers and Agamemnon, up to the foremast. He tied her rope-bound hands around the wooden stalk and after one final look, he left her and descended down the ship’s plank to the ground. Andromache watched him climb onto the adjacent boat. She listened to the tittering of the warriors as they walked around the hull of the boat, preparing for departure. She felt a harsh thud, swayed back and then forth, and the ships cast off. Agamemnon, barking orders to his men, came to Andromache and wordlessly cut her binds.

The sun was setting and the shadows of dusk enveloped the dark outline of the ruined Trojan palace. Andromache turned around, for one final glance at her home. She drank in the sight, where her husband and son would rest for eternity, far from her. She would live on elsewhere, her very body an unrelenting reminder to herself of a former life. A small tear slivered down her cheek and she could take no more. She shifted back to face the front of the craft.

Figures rippled in the dark waters, faces and hands reflecting in the blue every so often. Nereids swam alongside the fleet and water flicked and splashed onto the hulls as the nymphs kicked their feet in the ocean. The Trojan coastline slowly disappeared from sight, a land forgotten and abandoned. Andromache stood, watching the sea surge by, consumed by thoughts. It was all she could do to avoid the vision of a heap of flesh and cloth. She thought of the first time that she had seen Hector, when he had been a strong warrior, a man emblazoned with confidence. How far away this memory seemed now. How different of a world she lived in now. She thought of her father, and her childhood spent running in the flowered fields of his lands. She imagined the wreaths of flowers and stems that she would make for her mother. Andromache tried to envisage what future awaited her, and with whom it would be spent, or rather under whom it would be spent. She finally allowed herself to mourn, not only for her son and husband and all those who had died at Troy, but for herself. She mourned a life that she had never been able to live out and the life that she would soon see come to fruition. She mourned her descent to certain servitude and concubinage.

Andromache traced her gaze to the side of the ship and spied a nereid swimming in time with the boat, leaping over and diving beneath the current of the sea. The nereid noticed Andromache as well and smiled. The nymph’s eyes flitted to Agamemnon, seated farther back and drinking wine from a jug, then back to Andromache. She extended her hand out of the water, reaching for the Trojan princess. Andromache too looked back at the Mycenaean, who was busy chortling at the jokes of one of his men. The nereid’s hand beckoned her to the railing of the boat and Andromache mindlessly followed. She clasped the wooden banister and leaned forward slightly. How pleasant it would be to swim with the nereids, thought Andromache. She swayed forwards and backwards, as if gathering momentum to launch herself over the edge. Such a decision would mean certain death, this she knew, but perhaps this was a more favourable outcome. As she watched the sea and the nereid, the glistening moonlight seemed to reflect the likes of Astyanax and Hector. Were they too beneath the water, waiting for her? Andromache closed her eyes and felt the spray of water on her face. The droplets dribbled into her mouth, pleasantly salty. She imagined herself, leaping into the sea, taking her husband and child by their hands. She could picture the three of them, swimming with the nymphs until they came across land. It would be a land where they could begin again, where Andromache would teach her child to speak; he would be a master of words, a poet. Hector would teach the boy to hunt and the pair would return home each day with new game. Andromache and her husband could grow old together. Astyanax too would have his own children one day. This would be an island of old roots, old traditions, but new possibilities. Andromache opened her eyes and reached her hand forward to touch the nymph.

End