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futile one at that, for the Queen had not
taken any water, nor food, since they had left the ruins of Thebes three long,
tiring days before. It concerned Andromache, this unwavering grief her mother
displayed, for if her mother was to die – and if she continued much longer to
refuse water – then who would she have then? Her maids, surely, but what
family? Her mother was all she had.
    Forcing
her mind away from such dark thoughts, or perhaps encouraged by them,
Andromache went forward to her mother and sat gently on the end of the cart,
taking the skin of water from Iliana and touching her mother on the arm,
cajoling her.
    “Mother,
dearest Queen, you must drink,” Andromache said quietly, but her mother gave no
response, except to turn slightly away from her, her frail hands checking that
the blanket still covered her from head to toe. She fell still once more, and
Andromache sighed.
    She
returned the water to Iliana, who stowed it away, and looked at the three men ,
once household soldiers to her father, who were now her guides. The men looked
tired and pained, Andromache thought, yet they were faring better than her
maids and indeed herself, she mused. But looking at them, their faces damp with
sweat, rubbing their blistered feet with calloused hands, she knew that they
neither could go on for much longer. Soldiers they may be, she thought, but
even men such as these needed water and rest.
    “We
should carry on, Princess,” one of the men said, approaching her with head
bowed, though Andromache had told him before that she did not expect such
courtesies in a situation such as this. His name was Axion, and she knew he had
been a loyal soldier to her father throughout the years. “It is daylight, and
we are still not in sight of Troy.”
    “Can
we not rest awhile longer?” Iliana complained, coming closer still, “We have journeyed
all day and for much of the night.”
    “How
far from Troy are we?” Andromache asked.
    “Another
day, perhaps,” Axion answered. He glanced towards the cart, which Andromache
knew was slowing down their progress. If her mother could walk, perhaps they would
be quicker, but she knew that if they were to abandon the cart, it would mean
abandoning her mother, their Queen, for she would never consent to walk. “And
we are still close to the shore,” he continued, and Andromache followed his
gaze, to where she could just make out the shimmering blue of the ocean on the
horizon. She understood his meaning, but he spoke her fears anyway. “If
Achilles and his men were to travel up the shore and spot us, we are
undefended, we have only three swords and –”
    Andromache
held up a hand to stop him, hoping not to frighten Iliana and Ilisa. Axion
nodded in acknowledgement, and retreated from her to rejoin the other men, who
shot dubious glances towards the cart, much as he had done before. Andromache
wondered whether these men would abandon her if Achilles and his men should
hunt them down. Would they remain loyal to her father, even though he was dead?
Would Iliana and Ilisa stay and face the swords with her and her mother, even
though they must surely know that if they fled alone she was powerless to
command them to stay by her side?
    Such
thoughts did not do her well, she reasoned, and she tried to put them from her.
    “We
should go on,” Andromache decided. Iliana and Ilisa groaned softly, but nodded
in acceptance. The men stretched their limbs, ready to go on. Two men grabbed
the wooden bars of the cart and began to drag it forward, heaving from the
effort of moving the cart and the grieving widow it carried.
    As
they pressed forward on the journey, Andromache prayed that the walls of Troy
would soon come into view; that alone, she knew, would be enough to encourage
her loyal subjects. She prayed for her mother, too, who needed a temple or a
doctor. She prayed with every step, with every movement and with every ache
that grew in her limbs and her muscles as she walked.
     
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