Hector stood at the window, holding his son. After many years of trying, Andromache had finally given them a child barely a year ago, a boy they’d named Scamandrius. Scamandrius had never left the walls of Troy. Never seen the countryside or the sea. Food had been rationed since before the boy was born, leaving Andromache unable to produce enough milk to satisfy the child. He’d been hungry from the first day of his life, and had never known what it was to not be hungry.
Despite that, he wasn’t screaming now, he was just sleeping. Hectors eyes welled with tears. He wanted to wake the boy, so that he could see his beautiful eyes looking back at him. He wanted to tell him everything would be okay, that they would find a way out of the nightmare of the Trojan War, and live happily ever after. But he was too young to understand any of that, and for the moment he was at peace, his lips moving as he dreamed of a full belly, so Hector let him sleep.
Hector had hated this war from day one, and not a day had gone by that he hadn’t fantasized about taking Andromache and running away. But then he’d think to himself that he should take Kassandra too. And his mother. And their father. And it became a question of which of his hundred plus family members he was willing to leave behind. Now he wished that he’d just sent Andromache away at the start. They’d never have had their child, but then, it looked like the boy wouldn’t live to see his second year. If the city fell, the Greeks would kill the men and enslave the women and children. An infant would be a burden, not a prize, so they would doubtlessly throw the youngest children from the walls. If they found out Scamandrius was Hector’s son, they’d likely do much worse.
It doesn’t have to be this way, a voice in Hector’s mind had whispered. He’d been hearing it since he'd killed Patroclus and taken Achilles's armor.
“I’m not putting on Achilles’s armor,” Hector whispered out loud.
I’m making you strong enough to wear it, the voice said again, I only need a bit more time to make you as strong as Achilles, and with the armor on, we’ll be more powerful than he ever was.
“I know what you are, you’re the spirit of Ares, trying to tempt me with bloody glory.”
You’re not all wrong, the voice said, but I know glory on the battlefield isn’t what you really want.
Hector looked at Scamandrius, and over at Andromache where she was weaving at her loom.
I know that all you want is to keep what you have in this room, right now. And I want to help you.
“How?”
Achilles will come for you. Go out to meet him, wear the armor, be smart, and we can overcome him. With Achilles dead, the Greek army will crumble. Fear of the man who killed their mightiest hero will drive them back to the sea. The people of Troy can rebuild. Your wife can have more children, and your son can play in green fields.
“I knew Achilles as a child,” Hector said, “I would have been happy to have a son like him. He was a good boy.”
And a good man, the voice said, but you killed the love of his life. He will not forgive that.
“But I don’t want to kill him, as well.”
Achilles won’t care, the voice said, he has nothing to live for now. We’ll be doing him a favor. Just like putting down a horse with a broken leg.
“I don’t want to leave this room,” Hector said, tears rolling down his face.
Leave this room now, and you may live to return to it. Remain here too long, and Achilles will tear down the city to get to you.
“I’m so sorry,” Hector kissed Scamandrius’s head and held him close, “If I don’t come back… I’m so sorry.” Hector put the boy gently into his crib and picked up the trophy he’d taken off of Patroclus’s body.
“Where are you going?” Andromache asked.
“Out.”
“Out to the market? Or out to face the Greeks?”
“Out to face Achilles.”
“You heard what Kassandra said,” Andromache scolded him, “An archer will fell Achilles. Stay here, inside the walls, and let Paris’s bowmen do what he trained them to do. Stand on a safe, high point and rain impartial death down on idiots trying to beat their way through walls raised by a god.”
“Kassandra doesn’t know everything,” Hector said, holding the armor.
“She knows that our army has been reduced to a breadline, armed with more workman’s tools than soldier’s weapons. Most are boys and waifs and old men, whose only experience with warfare encompasses no more than one day of fighting.”
“They’ll just be a distraction,” Hector said, “a means for me to reach Achilles and end him. End this war. Imagine that – the war over. All that we could still have.”
“I am imagining the war being over, but I’m imagining it with you here, and that’s only going to happen if you don’t try to fight Achilles.”
“We can’t win if I don’t defeat Achilles.”
“The walls are impregnable,” Andromache said, “If they weren’t, the Greeks would have overrun us years ago.”
“We’ll starve.”
“Not all of us,” Andromache said, “and while I pity the poor and the weak, this one time I am not ashamed to embrace the privilege the gods have given me. Half the city may die. Three quarters. Nine tenths. But we will survive.”
“If we reach that point, the people will throw open the gates and beg the Greeks for mercy. They will not choose a slow death by starvation over slavery, or even execution. And it will be us, the leaders of the city, whom they offer up to the Greeks as a sacrifice. Then we will be doomed.”
“If that happens, you can put on that armor, stand in front of that door, and fill our courtyard with bodies. Achilles can face you after he’s dug through the corpses of his kinsmen and our betrayers, and if you think you can beat him now, you can beat him then.”
“I can’t let the battle get that close to you,” Hector said, “Any slight misstep… it could cost me both of you.”
“No, Hector. Listen to your sister. She told you not to burn any of the Greek ships, years ago, and now look where we’re at. Listen to Kassandra and stay behind the walls.”
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