© Jen
Poetry
Thoughts
Stories
Flying
In the Myths of Creation
Your husband has been killed
Invasion by the American pumpkin
Travel back in time
The story of us
The curtain covering the doorway rustled slightly as a respectful messenger moved it out of his way. The man bent his upper body in a stiff, military bow from the waist the moment he stepped inside.
During the comparatively short period she had been entertaining all of Hector's friends, Andromache had already learned to despise this rigid salut. And this time the disgust made her nearly choke.
Since a messenger coming through the city was always coupled with rumours, they already knew in the household of Hector that he was on his way. He had probably asked for the way to Hectors house or had stopped on the way to it for a drink. The innkeepers were admittedly the best at getting information out of people. In any case, someone had picked up the piece of information that a messenger was headed for Hector's house, and passed it on. The better part of Andromache's friends among the neighbouring wives had, within half an hour, gathered at her budoir, in the great house she had moved to after her marriage to Hector, the eldest son of king Priamo's of Troy. She reached out her hand now to clutch the offered hand of one of her closest friends, Klyxo, and squeezed it hard.
Had she turned her head round she would have seen encouraging smiles on all faces around her.
-Oh, no, Afrodites, no! Pull yourself together, Andromache! You knew this was going to happen. Have I not already wept over my loss of a husband? If only it had not come so soon. If only we were allowed a little more time. Oh, my Hector.
There was a discreet hawking from the still bowing messenger. She had fallen into thinking again. Oh, well she might as well get it over with. Andromache stood up from the pillows, which were strewn around the floor, to receive the man's message.
-Speak, soldier, I pray thee, however posh it sounded she chose to use the somewhat old-fasioned expression bearing her husband, Hector, in mind. She was his wife, and she certainly was not going to cry in front of a simple messengerboy.
-My lady, I'm sorry to have to inform you of such sad news, he hesitated and Andromache spoke.
-Yes, soldier? Speak, and fear not that your words will do you any harm, I bear no grudge against you.
-My lady, Your husband has been killed.
Andromache had thanked the man and called for food and drink for him. After having eaten, the messenger returned to help in the defence of the city. Andromache had sat down with the man to find out more about how it had happened, but those of her friends who watched closely could see that her thoughts were drifting along the same lines as when Hector turned back to the war.
After the messenger had left, Andromache sat motionless on a pillow on the floor, the back as straight as a rake, for more than two hours. The neighbouring wives went after only a short while, they were not accustomed to such an intimidating silence and calmness. If Andromache had screamed and raged, they would have understood, but her calmness they could not understand, and it scared them. So, after two hours, the only one left was the kitchen help Aretila, who sat by her matron's side.
The first two hours Hector's name and face were the only two things Andromache could think of. Sometimes the feeling of holding Astianax, her son with Hector, in her arms would come up. But that disappeared as quickly as it came. And it was replaced by the harsh texture of Hector's bristles by the end of the day under her fingers.
And then the sorrow hit her in the diaphragm. Yet again. Andromache gasped for breath, she had not counted on the emotion still being so strong. But then Hector had still had a small chance. Now he was really dead. Killed. By Achilles, the Greeks' most eminent warrior.
Achilles's story they had all heard in the city. How he was transformed by his own mother into a girl and was taken to the island of Skyros. Of how he later, with the help of Ulysses's sharp wits, was freed from the spell and followed the warrior to the waiting troops on the ships of Greece. And Andromache had, like most of the people in town heard the story more than once, so she knew exactly what had made him the warrior he was. He was son of the nereid Thetis and he had grown up with a centaur who had raised more than one warrior in his days.
When Andromache had gotten a bit more used to the grief, she was certain it would never disappear completely, the anger took over. She was enraged. And she hated. Hated Thetis for giving birth to a son. Hated Kiron for bringing up a warrior. Hated Ulysses for freeing Achilles from the island. She spoke loud and sizzling oaths over all four names and she promised her dead husband revenge. She swore that her son would be raised to be the best fighter and warrior of all Troy, and that he one day would go out to avenge his father and slay Achilles. She raged for quite some time over the Trojan enemies. Aretila who, it must be said, had begun to feel some discomfort, could now relax again. She was used to outbursts, even if this one topped them all. However, Andromache's oaths began after a while to more and more fall out of line, they became more and more crude and more and more tasteless until finally Aretila, as well as the others, discreetly drew back, in the middle of harangue of what should be done about fornicating nereids.
The muffled sound from the curtain into the kitchen, made Andromache stop in the middle of the sentence and look around. It was not until now she discovered that she was all alone in the budoir, and she realized just what she had said. She covered the mouth with her hand and gasped for breath.
-You were supposed to control yourself, Andromache scolded herself. Oh, to Hades with them all. They should not say anything themselves, their men are not dead. I have the right to be angry and scream as much as I please. It was their men who sent my Hector into battle. They who killed my husband. From there Andromaches thoughts deteriorated and she fell back to sizzling blood-oaths. This time directed not towards the enemy, but to the men controlling Troy who had allowed Paris to wed his Helena. She at the same time knew that her husband, Hector, was one of those men, but she did not care. It would have hurt too much. Andromache cursed Helena's beauty, which was what Paris had fallen for. The honour that made Paris refuse to give fair Helena up - she spat upon. Andromache herself was a proud woman, it was that pride that made her yet again swear her Husband's revenge. A vengeance not even her own death could impede.
Andromache was once again interrupted in her thoughts by the faint rustle the cover made as it was pushed aside. She turned around to see who entered her budoir without an invitation. It was tradition to ask a womans permission before entering her budoir. Even the king asked the queen's permission before coming in to see her, or so the word went. Because of the thoughts that had occupied her mind, she did not exactly feel more friendly to whoever it was that entered her private domain without her permission. Her long hair that she had left hanging freely, had not finished its movement before she forgave the intruder. It was Astianax, her and Hector's son. Astianax was not yet one year old, and already he was fatherless. During the short moment she stood still Andromache had time to think everything over for the first time with a clear head. She knew that she would never be able to love another man again, but that meant absolutely nothing. Now she had Astianax to take care of, and to him she would give all the love she had left. The future had only one thing in store for Andromache - her son would become the best warrior in Troy, nothing was allowed to stop that. When Andromache realized that truth she also realized that mourning would not help her in the least. So then she picked up the stick she used for striking her clock, to signal to the servants that she required their services, and approached Astianax.
-Come, my little darling. Come so mommy can show you something funny! She placed the stick in the boy's hand and moved his arm helpingly back and forth in a stabbing movement. That's my boy! Good boy! Andromache commended her little son as he directed a tentative blow towards his mother's legs.
She smiled towards her little son to encourage him to continue to hit her legs with the stick, he delightedly carried on stabbing and prattling. Her son would become a soldier.../