cheeks.
Instantly Hektor passed the sleeping boy to Andromache and took Kassandra into his arms.
“I will miss you,” he said, kissing her brow. “I love you, and I always have. You are my little sister, and I treasure you.”
“I am not mad, Hektor. I do see things.”
“I know.”
In the still silence that followed a soldier burst through the courtyard gates and ran across the garden toward them. “Hektor! Lord Hektor!” He stopped and hesitated as if suddenly aware of the impact of his news.
“Well?” said Hektor, releasing Kassandra and facing the soldier. “Speak, Mestares, my friend! No one is going to slice out your tongue.”
“It is Dios, lord. He has been killed. Murdered in the lower town.”
For a moment there was silence. Then Andromache realized she could hear the sound of her heart beating. Her friend Dios dead? It seemed impossible.
“It was the Mykene merchant Plouteus,” Mestares explained. “He and his sons. They attacked him in the marketplace. Plouteus was killed by someone in the crowd. One of his sons fled; the other was captured. Paris was there. He will know more than I.”
“Paris? Was he hurt?”
“No, lord,” the soldier replied.
A female servant came into the garden and hurried up to them. “Lord Hektor,” she cried. “The king has sent for you.”
Hektor’s face was ashen, and he left the garden without a word of farewell to Andromache or Kassandra.
The servant girl approached Andromache. “Shall I take the boy, lady?” she asked softly.
Andromache nodded and passed the child to her. Astyanax moaned a little and then settled his head on the girl’s shoulder.
As the servant moved away, a cool breeze whispered across the garden, rustling the dried leaves on the pathway. Andromache saw that Kassandra was standing there, her large blue-gray eyes full of tears.
“You knew he was dead, didn’t you?” Andromache said. “You were speaking to his spirit.”
Kassandra nodded. “The fat merchant had weak eyes. He thought Dios was Helikaon.”
Andromache recalled seeing Dios earlier that day. He had been wearing a white tunic similar to Helikaon’s. Odysseus once had remarked on the resemblance between the two men. “They look alike,” he had said, “but they are very different. They are copper and bronze. Both have value.” His eyes had twinkled mischievously. “In a whorehouse a man needs copper rings to buy his pleasure. In battle, though, a man needs sharp bronze in his hand. Helikaon is bronze. Dios is copper.”
Kassandra’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Dios will be honored in death. His bones will lie in the city he loved. That is important, you know.”
“Yes,” Andromache said. “I am sure that it is.”
Kassandra leaned in close. “Kalliope wants you to take her home. You can carry her back to the tamarisk grove, where she was most happy, where she sat with you on that midsummer’s night. You remember?”
Andromache could not answer, but she nodded, tears coursing down her face.
“You can speak to her there,” Kassandra said. “You will feel her in your heart.”
Andromache shook her head. “No,” she said, “I cannot take her home. I will not allow her spirit to be chained.”
Pale predawn light shone through high windows as Andromache kissed her sleeping son and allowed herself a few heartbeats to enjoy the warmth of his cheek against her face. Then she stood and strode from her apartments.
Dressed in an ankle-length tunic of yellow wool and wrapped in a heavy gray-green cloak, Andromache made her way through the quiet palace and out into the night. Kassandra was waiting at the portico, her slight figure also enveloped in a dark cloak. Close by, servants held torches, lighting a four-seat chariot. Horses shifted nervously and whinnied softly in the flickering light.
Suddenly Hektor appeared out of the gloom. In full armor and ready for travel, he picked up Kassandra and swung her high like a child
Instantly Hektor passed the sleeping boy to Andromache and took Kassandra into his arms.
“I will miss you,” he said, kissing her brow. “I love you, and I always have. You are my little sister, and I treasure you.”
“I am not mad, Hektor. I do see things.”
“I know.”
In the still silence that followed a soldier burst through the courtyard gates and ran across the garden toward them. “Hektor! Lord Hektor!” He stopped and hesitated as if suddenly aware of the impact of his news.
“Well?” said Hektor, releasing Kassandra and facing the soldier. “Speak, Mestares, my friend! No one is going to slice out your tongue.”
“It is Dios, lord. He has been killed. Murdered in the lower town.”
For a moment there was silence. Then Andromache realized she could hear the sound of her heart beating. Her friend Dios dead? It seemed impossible.
“It was the Mykene merchant Plouteus,” Mestares explained. “He and his sons. They attacked him in the marketplace. Plouteus was killed by someone in the crowd. One of his sons fled; the other was captured. Paris was there. He will know more than I.”
“Paris? Was he hurt?”
“No, lord,” the soldier replied.
A female servant came into the garden and hurried up to them. “Lord Hektor,” she cried. “The king has sent for you.”
Hektor’s face was ashen, and he left the garden without a word of farewell to Andromache or Kassandra.
The servant girl approached Andromache. “Shall I take the boy, lady?” she asked softly.
Andromache nodded and passed the child to her. Astyanax moaned a little and then settled his head on the girl’s shoulder.
As the servant moved away, a cool breeze whispered across the garden, rustling the dried leaves on the pathway. Andromache saw that Kassandra was standing there, her large blue-gray eyes full of tears.
“You knew he was dead, didn’t you?” Andromache said. “You were speaking to his spirit.”
Kassandra nodded. “The fat merchant had weak eyes. He thought Dios was Helikaon.”
Andromache recalled seeing Dios earlier that day. He had been wearing a white tunic similar to Helikaon’s. Odysseus once had remarked on the resemblance between the two men. “They look alike,” he had said, “but they are very different. They are copper and bronze. Both have value.” His eyes had twinkled mischievously. “In a whorehouse a man needs copper rings to buy his pleasure. In battle, though, a man needs sharp bronze in his hand. Helikaon is bronze. Dios is copper.”
Kassandra’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Dios will be honored in death. His bones will lie in the city he loved. That is important, you know.”
“Yes,” Andromache said. “I am sure that it is.”
Kassandra leaned in close. “Kalliope wants you to take her home. You can carry her back to the tamarisk grove, where she was most happy, where she sat with you on that midsummer’s night. You remember?”
Andromache could not answer, but she nodded, tears coursing down her face.
“You can speak to her there,” Kassandra said. “You will feel her in your heart.”
Andromache shook her head. “No,” she said, “I cannot take her home. I will not allow her spirit to be chained.”
Pale predawn light shone through high windows as Andromache kissed her sleeping son and allowed herself a few heartbeats to enjoy the warmth of his cheek against her face. Then she stood and strode from her apartments.
Dressed in an ankle-length tunic of yellow wool and wrapped in a heavy gray-green cloak, Andromache made her way through the quiet palace and out into the night. Kassandra was waiting at the portico, her slight figure also enveloped in a dark cloak. Close by, servants held torches, lighting a four-seat chariot. Horses shifted nervously and whinnied softly in the flickering light.
Suddenly Hektor appeared out of the gloom. In full armor and ready for travel, he picked up Kassandra and swung her high like a child
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