The Mobled Queen

Chapter I

There was no escape from the crowds today. Even in the gloom of the deserted palace voices could still be heard, ghosts whispering around the carved throne and limestone pillars of the king's megaron.

There was even less sanctuary in the women's hall nearby. This room commanded a view to the southwest, provided one climbed on a bench to peer out the high, narrow windows. There was little to see for the effort. Beyond the flat roofs and smoke drifting up from the terraced city, beyond the vast flood plain where two lazy rivers joined into one, the rolling, monotonous hills dropped into the rolling, monotonous sea.

The men swarmed like ants at this distance. Only their shouts, barely audible, identified them as human. Underneath lay the heavy bass thunder of horses' hooves, and—more felt than actually heard—the menacing rumble of war chariots.

Hecuba glanced over now and then, when she thought no one was watching. From her vantage point, seated on a bench by the hearth, she could see nothing but sky. Clouds dragged by as they always did, unconcerned with the doings on earth.

Looking was pointless, Hecuba reminded herself, feeling foolish. She couldn't help it, though. She studied the clouds as if she fancied herself a priestess, able to divine what was going on below by the changing patterns of gray against a grayer sky. She strained her ears to decipher the shouts. The noise blurred, just as distant sights lately did in her eyes. Frustrated, she turned back to her weaving, determined to lose everything amid heddle and beater, focusing on the complicated warp and weft of the rich fabric.

Andromache was not so proud. At a particularly loud outburst she dropped everything, jumped on her bench and hung out the window, legs kicking.

Hector won the chariot race! she squealed.

Her announcement sent a wave of murmuring among the women.

Hmph! Creusa glanced from her work and snorted. As if you could recognize him from this distance.

"I can hear them! Andromache insisted. They're all yelling his name! Hector!"

Creusa rolled her eyes. She was Hecuba's eldest daughter, visiting from Dardania while her husband, Aeneas, participated in the games. Dardania was not very far away—just a day's journey south. Aeneas and his father were frequent guests, but this was Creusa's first visit since her marriage two years ago. Things had changed in the interim. Creusa did not approve.

Hecuba smothered a proud smile—Hector was, after all, her son—and strove to make peace.

Come now, Creusa, she said. Don't begrudge your brother a fair victory.

It's not Hector I mind, Creusa mumbled back, watching Andromache's kicking legs. It's that braggart wife of his I could do without.

She's only fourteen, Hecuba reasoned. She still has much to learn. Dropping her voice, she added, "You should have seen her when she first came here."

Creusa smiled, just as her mother knew she would.

Andromache! Hecuba commanded. Come down here! You shouldn't carry on, so! Especially in front of another man's wife.

Andromache bounced off the bench against the queen's loom, sending the weighted strings rocking.

You're not proud of him? she gasped. Your own son? You love him as much as I do! He's the pride of the city!

There was no change of expression in the older woman's face. Years of peacekeeping in her large family had long taught her the wisdom of not taking sides. But Andromache's dancing eyes could not be ignored. Hecuba's face did not change, but her own eyes softened briefly—a quick, private look that conveyed an understanding warmth. Her voice, however, betrayed no such emotion.

I said, go sit down.

Andromache picked up her dropped yarn and sat. Hecuba returned to her own work. She leaned back and squinted, a critical eye and hand, always the professional. She selected a spindle of scarlet thread from the pile beside her.

"I wish we could go to the games," Andromache pouted.

What? And leave the palace work to do itself? Creusa snorted her contempt.

Young women are better off away from such things. Hecuba stifled her own urge to laugh. The festival is no place for a young girl. Andromache stared at the floor, not convinced.

If a woman goes to the games she never returns, Laothoe added. The men, they kill her.

Laothoe.... Hecuba rolled her eyes.

"Well, it's true, Laothoe insisted. I once heard of one woman who was offered up as a prize in one of the contests. She was ripped apart by the mobs. My friend's husband, he saw the whole thing."

The children don't need to hear this, Laothoe, Hecuba said. But Laothoe was in full cry.

Then there was this other woman, a Hittite, she continued with morbid glee. Her husband didn't know about the games. They just happened to arrive that day. Drove smack into the middle of a drunken crowd of louts. They beat her husband senseless and pulled her from the wagon—

Laothoe.

It was a quiet order. Laothoe met Hecuba's eyes and shrank into mute obedience.

It's not as bad as all that, Hecuba explained gently to an ashen-faced Andromache. All the same, let the men have their fun. When Hector comes home, he'll want a good meal, a clean house, and a loving wife.

Better hurry up and have a child, Andromache, Creusa piped in, proudly caressing her own swelling abdomen. Hector might look for another woman, if you don't please him enough. Maybe he'll win one at the games—

That's enough from you, young lady, Hecuba snapped.

Nobody knew what to say. In the ensuing silence the slap of bare feet echoed in the megaron. In came her son Troilus, chest heaving. His long hair and scraggly young beard were swept back and caked with dust. Bruises and welts shone through the sweat. Troilus searched for his mother's face, hidden, as usual, behind a haze of vertical threads.

Troilus, what's wrong? Hecuba asked. At least he was walking, she thought. Some contestants weren't so lucky.

I'm okay, I'm okay. Troilus shrugged off her concern, but fear replaced his usual self-possession. Uh, Mother, Father wants you. He wants you to come down to the games.

Hecuba assumed her old ears were playing tricks. But behind her the women gasped in unison, and Andromache murmured, Dear gods, no. Then there was silence, a terrible, terrible silence, as the entire room held its breath.

What? Hecuba finally croaked.

Priam demands your immediate presence at the games, Troilus announced formally. Now.

More silence. Somewhere in a corner six-year-old Cassandra amused herself with a nonsense song, a tuneless Nonny nonny nonny, half spoken and half thought.

"Priam wants me? Hecuba's royal demeanor dissolved. Her heart gave a sudden, painful leap and she felt her throat constrict. Whatever for?"

I don't know, Troilus said. Don't just sit there, Laothoe, he added. Run and get her headdress.

Laothoe, unaccustomed to such rudeness, looked to her mistress for guidance. Hecuba nodded, smiling a bleak reassurance as she squeezed out from behind her loom. Laothoe made a hurried obeisance and left.

There's no need to be harsh, Troilus. Hecuba fixed her son with a critical eye.

Forgive me, Mother, Troilus tried to affect the poise expected of a royal emissary. But Father requested I hurry, and I'd like to stay on his good side, if you don't mind. The way he's been, lately.

His last sentence was barely audible. Troilus had been taught from infancy to honor his parents. It was an inbred tendency, an instinct revealed now in his downcast eyes and lowered voice. But Hecuba raised a disapproving eyebrow, and Priam's emissary hung his head, her son once more. She wrapped her cloak around herself, fastening it over her shoulder with an elaborate brass stickpin.

Fear charged the room. It was simple, really. A woman ordered to attend the games never came back. Usually some slave girl was summoned, but all women were subject to royal whim. The servants whispered among themselves as if Hecuba were already dead.

Anything could happen to her. Priam could give her away to a visiting dignitary, as he did his first wife. He could put her up as a prize for one of the contests. He could even kill her. That was doubtful—Hecuba was no prize anymore, and certainly no sacrificial virgin. Her mind, though, casting wildly for answers as she tied her sandals, considered all the possibilities.

Trying to guess Priam's motives about anything lately was futile, for he, like Hecuba, was feeling his age. Hecuba accepted her weakening body, but Priam fought, as he fought everything his whole life. He was afraid, Hecuba knew: afraid of appearing old and weak before his enemies.

For all his vagaries of late, however, Priam had never requested anything like this. Hecuba's world shattered as her senses overwhelmed her. Only a fragile shell of pride remained, a public façade that enabled her to stand there, legs jellied with fear, accepting her awful fate.

Laothoe returned with heaps of jewelry and Hecuba's headdress: an elaborate, heavy affair, dripping gold chains, feathers, and veils. Laothoe had brought out nearly every piece the queen possessed. Hecuba protested feebly, but Laothoe would not hear it. As the weight of finery approached the unmanageable, it finally struck Hecuba, and she gasped aloud at Laothoe's genius. Priam might dispose of his wife readily enough, but he would think twice before giving away so much jewelry with her.

Last of all came the headdress. Hecuba disliked wearing it, but a queen was expected to look like a queen. Laothoe circled her several times, adjusting a feather here, a fold there, until Hecuba met with her approval. Troilus leaned impatiently against the door jamb.

Andromache's in charge until I return, Hecuba announced, finding her voice with difficulty. She looked intently at her daughter-in-law to fully convey the importance of her commission. Check the storehouse and make sure enough bread has been baked for tonight.

Yes, ma'am, Andromache said, avoiding her look. Hecuba had said until, but she was not going to return.

Laothoe, watch over Polites. Hecuba took the baby off his nurse's lap. Once he was in her arms a gasp of longing shuddered through her body, and she did not want to let go. The Goddess' child returned from Death each spring and the earth bloomed with joy, but for mortal mothers there was no such comfort. She would not see Polites again. It started to sink in: the slow, telltale crumbling around the edges that precedes disaster.

Laothoe pried the infant from her grasp. Troilus caught her arm and pulled her away. Polites' eyes followed Hecuba, his tiny, perfect fists clutching Laothoe's tunic. She felt a sensation on her left breast, as if the warm intimacy of an infant's mouth was suddenly replaced by chilled air. She felt herself, but she was dry. Dry. Mundane reality returned with a rush—all the thousand little details she meant to attend to today, and now could not.

Keep Cassandra out of the hearth, she said.

Please, Mother, Troilus urged, dragging her out the door.

Make sure there's plenty of hot water for the men's baths! she shouted behind her.

Andromache's a smart girl, Troilus said. I wouldn't worry too much.

She's still a child, Hecuba snapped.

Their footsteps echoed in the empty megaron, Hecuba's movements emphasized by the shuffling ching of jewelry. They walked by the giant round hearth, embers glowing under a layer of white ash, and past the rows of painted stone pillars that flanked the great hall. Hecuba had lived in this palace since she was six, but today she felt lost, in a stranger's house. She clung tightly to Troilus' arm, gaining confidence from him, but her thoughts were dark.

They passed through the foyer, where jars of water and a stone bathtub awaited visitors. The posted guard wrestled with the heavy oak door. It creaked open on leather hinges, admitting an afternoon glare. Hecuba, accustomed to the gloom of indoors, had to shield her eyes with her hand.

The roar of the crowd deafened her. Sometime recently, unnoticed by the women inside, the men had moved from the plain to inside the city. Hecuba glanced at Troilus, but his look remained fixed. He would not let his personal feelings interfere with a royal command.

It sounds like they're right outside, she said.

Troilus nodded. They're at the altar.

Troilus meant the altar of Zeus. It was the most open spot within Priam's stone-ringed city, a grassy common located in the center of the Upper Tier, as the summit terrace was called. A huge slab of rock lay near the palace end, protected by an ancient laurel tree. This natural altar was sacred to Zeus, the omnipotent father, son and consort of the earth, and an ancestor of Priam himself.

One fear left Hecuba. There could be no human blood shed on sacred ground. For whatever reason Priam summoned her, it wasn't to be killed. Her relief only raised more questions.

The altar of Zeus? she asked. If this is a matter for the gods, why am I needed?

I don't know, Troilus said. Father asked me to get you. He didn't say why.

A harsh, guttural croaking made Hecuba look up. In the window of sky, framed by the flat roof of the palace and the courtyard outbuildings, a small flock of gangling birds passed overhead. They flew in formation, like geese, only thinner, with long legs stretched out behind them. Long necks extended out to long, thin, downward curving beaks. They were dark birds, soot-colored, with oily green highlights. Their faces and bills were blood red.

Hecuba could not read signs—the scratchings of the palace scribes on their clay tablets were as mystifying to her as the more subtle designs of the gods—but she knew ibises. Black cranes, the peasants called them. They were summer visitors. Their noisy arrival each spring announced the calming sea, the resumption of trade: continued life after the cold, wet winter. They were heading, she guessed, for the cliffs of Thrace, just across the narrow strait north of the city. Hecuba did not know what their sudden appearance might portend, but her heart warmed at the sight.

The ibises are back, she said. Troilus followed her pointing finger.

They've been back for a month, he snorted, reminding Hecuba of just how rarely she left the palace. She dropped her hand, looking hurt. Troilus morosely added, Maybe they're a good sign.

Troilus was at that age when adult responsibility conflicts with childish insecurity. He blushed, embarrassed by his rudeness. Hecuba squeezed his hand.

Don't worry, Troilus, she whispered. Your father will not harm me.

I—I know he won't, Troilus stammered. It's just—

Hecuba put her hand to his lips.

We must be brave, she said, not through any great bravery she felt herself, but to prevent Troilus from saying anything more. Speaking things outright gave her worst nightmares sudden substance, legitimacy. Come, now. Your father's waiting. I will not have you disobeying him.

Hector met them at the steps of the palace, a giant among the stragglers. Hecuba's face glowed. Few women could boast such an accomplishment. A father provided social position for his son, but it was from his mother that a man inherited his strength and character. Hector was Hecuba's example of perfection: her very reason for living.

Like Troilus, Hector was covered with dirt and sweat. His eyes, though, were gentle and noble. They were Priam's eyes. It was an observation Hecuba made often, but each time she did she felt the thrill and pride of a new discovery.

Hector greeted her affectionately. His very presence ignited a glimmer of hope. Surely he would protect her, Hecuba thought. Troilus deferred to him, fading back as Hector offered a great, hulking paw to his mother.

Do you know what this is about, Hector? she asked.

Hector looked grave. Hecuba steeled herself.

I'm not at liberty to say, he admitted. A pause before he added, I'm sorry.

The lost feeling was returning. Her thoughts flailed to maintain control. She remembered the flying birds and clung to them, visualizing their graceful flight.

Did you see the ibises? she asked.

You and your birds, Mother. Hector dismissed her fancies with a laugh, but when he saw her face he added, I'm sure they stand for something. Harbingers of the mosquito season, at any rate. I've been eaten alive today.

Another awkward pause.

He's waiting for us, Hector finally said. We should go. Public face, Mother, he added, with a mischievous smile. Have to keep up appearances, you know.

He squeezed her hand. Hecuba managed a tight smile. She said that to her children so often. The royal family had to present a united front in public. Her face assumed a serene deadpan, as if a royal whim just now enticed her to take one of her customary, leisurely strolls through a screaming mob.

The common outside the courtyard was filled to capacity. The city itself housed few people, five or six thousand at best, wealthy landowners and craftsmen who could afford to escape the malarial swamps. Those who tilled the land, herded the livestock and tended the harbor lived in tiny shacks sprinkled across the valley and along the coast. The festival drew them in—as well as noblemen from distant lands—and the common could not hold their numbers. They spilled out into the wide streets, a mix of strangers and friends, rich and poor, master and slave.

Hector! Hector! they shouted as mother and sons came into view. The crowd pressed in, and Hecuba paused in mid-stride, squeezing Hector's hand. It was bad enough to be led to her death, her exile, or whatever the gods decreed. But to have such riffraff witness her debasement—that she could not face. Hector threw a protective arm around her.

Here we go... A muttered singsong as he drew her close. They're a little rowdy from the games, Mother. That's all. We'll get you through all right, me and Troilus.

Troilus, bolstered by his older brother's confidence, took his place on Hecuba's other side and tried to look menacing. Hector gave the nearest man a mighty shove, sending him sprawling under the crowd.

Make way! he bellowed. Make way for the queen!

Chapter II

The men parted, forming a narrow pathway. Hecuba could see Priam, standing under the laurel tree by the altar.

She could not mistake her husband, even from this distance. There was none of Hector's great bulk. Priam's thin, wiry body spoke of hard times in his youth. The prosperity of old age failed to soften his lines. Hecuba was lucky to be well past forty; many women did not survive giving birth. Priam, however, was ancient: almost seventy. He had snow-white hair and a flowing white beard, framing a compelling face. Priam expected his orders to be obeyed.

He stood out from the men around him, the usual phalanx of advisors and sons. But today even he was upstaged. A young man, badly beaten, stretched sobbing across the altar. Saliva mixed with tears and blood and dripped from his chin. His arms hugged the dampened rock.

Had Zeus demanded human sacrifice? Perhaps. At times it was the only solution to a crisis. But not on sacred ground. If Priam defiled Zeus' altar with human blood, the god's fury could not be imagined.

Hecuba observed everything without expression, but her mind reeled. A lifetime of ceremony took over where her senses left off. She nodded to Priam with all the respect a woman could have for her husband and king.

My lord, she said.

My dear Hecuba, Priam responded with a smile. He took her hand. Her fear vanished at his touch. She felt foolish for ever fearing him.

Forgive me for taking you away from your work, Priam said. But something's come up that demands your attention.

"My attention? How can this be?"

You remember Agelaus, my dear? The cowherd.

Before Hecuba could answer, a filthy wretch flung himself at her feet, grabbing her ankles.

My queen! he sobbed. He didn't mean no harm, ma'am! He didn't know! I'll take him back! You won't see him again!

Hecuba looked quizzically at Priam, who indicated the young man on the altar.

This here's his son, he explained. "He entered some of the games this afternoon. What's more, he won."

The crowd murmured. A plebeian, beating royal princes! It was unheard of—yet they had seen it with their own eyes! Astonished, Hecuba refused to believe it, but behind Priam she caught a glimpse of Deiphobus, her eldest son after Hector. His ill-tempered face was smeared with blood, and one cheek was starting to puff out. Every so often he made a theatrical attempt to lunge at the stranger. His brothers held him back.

He—what? How could that happen? She looked to Hector for an explanation. The games displayed the royal family's power. Priam's sons could not show weakness. Hector shrugged, and Hecuba snapped, "Why didn't you just kill him?"

Priam cleared his throat.

Well, ahh, we were going to, he said. But Agelaus claims that this boy, this, er—

Alexander, Agelaus prompted.

This...Alexander— Priam groped for words. Agelaus, show Hecuba what you showed me.

The cowherd fumbled inside his cloak and produced a rotting piece of cloth, ragged from years of use. Priam took it from him. The cloth held a small wooden object, which he gave to his wife.

It was an antique child's rattle, ornately carved and inlaid. Small bronze disks banged and chimed with every movement. It was a pretty piece of work, even under the dulling layers of dirt and gum marks.

Do you recognize this? Priam asked.

Hecuba had no patience for games. Whenever the truth was slow in coming her manner grew abrupt and her words clipped.

It appears to be a baby's rattle, my lord, she said, oozing a sarcastic obedience.

"I know it's a rattle, woman!" Priam shouted, throwing the cloth to the ground. Every line on his face furrowed, and his eyes bored into hers. They ceased to be Priam's eyes. They were the eyes of a king, a king who had asked a question and now demanded an answer.

The fear rushed back, a sickening wave. Hecuba's insolence smashed to kindling against her husband's unexpected wrath. She often walked a tightrope when dealing with him. But she could not fathom this interrogation. Why was mighty King Priam browbeating her with a baby rattle?

Not knowing what else to do, Hecuba shook it. The tinkle of bronze on bronze brought to mind her own babies, so many through the years. Fat, gurgling Hector, smiling and waving his arms, trying to follow the motion as she swung a rattle just out of reach. And another baby, newly born, too tiny to even notice the toy. He screwed his eyes shut and screamed, toothless gums gaping, every ounce of his being poured into the cry. She tucked the rattle away, soothing him with her offered breast...

Hecuba went cold. That rattle—no! Her ears were playing tricks on her again. She thrust it back at Agelaus, a violent, wordless protest. Her eye caught the filthy cloth, still lying on the ground. She stooped to retrieve it. Beneath the grime she felt the close, smooth weave of fine linen—royal cloth—in a distinctive pattern she knew as her own creation.

She had woven this cloth. She knew it as certainly as she would know her own children. Her eyes met Priam's. She was frightened, now.

Priam, she whispered. Priam put his arm around her and drew her close.

It was Agelaus, he said in her ear. I trusted him then. I have no reason not to trust him now.

Hecuba could not respond.

It's funny, Priam rambled nervously. Even though I knew it couldn't happen, I still prayed for a miracle. All these years. But when Zeus finally grants you an impossible wish—well, you're just not ready for it, are you?

He released her. She felt as if she was dreaming, floating, watching everything from a distance. A shout from Priam jarred her whole body.

Alexander! Come forward! You have nothing to fear from us!

The young man did not move.

Don't be afraid, Priam said. Nobody will harm you. I swear it by Zeus.

To swear by any god was a binding oath, and Priam had sworn by Zeus: not only the greatest of gods, but his personal ancestor as well. The mood of the crowd changed. Priam had accepted the young stranger. Deiphobus scowled, but Priam only saw the young man at his feet.

Slowly, Alexander stood up, shivering. His tears had left furrows down the mud and blood on his cheeks. But he was magnificent, even under the filth that plastered his body. He was well-muscled and tall, with finely chiseled features and an almost girlish face. Cowherds, with a ready supply of meat, ate better than most. Clearly this young man put his superior diet to good use.

Hecuba, Priam could not take his eyes off him. Take Alexander to the palace and wash him up. Give him some decent clothes, too. Tonight we must celebrate!

Deiphobus glared. Even Hector looked pained.

My lord, Hecuba gasped, I don't understand.

Priam clapped a hand on the young man's back and smiled.

My dear, he said. This is your son.

Chapter III

Her son! Startled out of modesty, Hecuba stared, mouth agape.

He did not look like royalty, plastered in dung, his nose bleeding down his face. When he stood, however, the proportions and carriage of his body belied the pretense of low birth. His pale eyes looked through Hecuba like those of a predatory animal.

But he was an utter stranger. That disturbed her the most. Certainly, Hecuba thought, if an infant was taken from his mother's arms and presented to her years later, there would be something, some maternal instinct, that would leave no doubt in her mind. Some inner voice, some god or goddess, would proclaim, This is your child!

Yet she felt nothing—or, worse, an immediate dislike. He was too handsome, as if mocking the ideals of beauty, virtue and honor that mark true royalty. Perhaps this was all a cruel joke. Alexander was winning a bet with the other cowherds. He would be put to death, once found out—he and all his puerile conspirators. Only an idiot would tempt the wrath of Priam. That couldn't be it. Besides, Agelaus was one of Priam's oldest servants. He had nothing to gain from any scheme.

There was Priam to consider, as well. Priam was no fool. His weakening body hid a survivor, an agile political genius. He led his city up from poverty to an era of prosperity that rivaled any city in the world. He was blessed by Zeus, a king of honor and integrity, the father of a great people.

Perhaps Priam believed Alexander was his son. Their child's death had affected him, though Priam never showed it. It was a private wound, a hidden ulcer, skinned over by a telling silence. Most likely he was being cautious, adopting a man of proven strength to bolster his own authority.

Either way, Hecuba had to accept Alexander as her own. And right now, thousands of rowdy men—drunk on a day of unwatered wine and unwatered violence—awaited her reaction.

She met Priam's eyes, a swift, practiced glance. Priam had on his public face. Only his eyes revealed the intensity beneath. They drilled into her long after Hecuba dropped her gaze.

She nodded a stiff welcome.

I imagine you must be tired, she said. Would you like a bath, and a fresh set of clothes?

The men erupted, roaring their throats hoarse. Priam relaxed slightly. Alexander glanced at Agelaus, gulping. Agelaus nodded.

Uh, yes, the boy said. Yes, please—uh, my queen.

Hecuba did not show it, but she too was at a loss. Children she understood. A needy child would be swept up in a wave of affection. A grown man was beyond her jurisdiction. Yet unless she took control, Hecuba realized, Alexander would remain, scuffling his feet like any backwoods simpleton.

Please accompany me to the palace, she said, turning to show the way.

The crowd needed no orders this time. They formed another path, the men behind craning their necks to see. Alexander stood dumb. Hecuba had to take his arm and pull.

She was acutely aware of the eyes upon them. Hecuba was used to public life, but never anything like this. The men buzzed with excitement. And wait until their wives heard the news! Hecuba sighed. She would never hear the end of it.

In the privacy of the courtyard she risked a sly glance back at her visitor. She felt a vague longing, the casual, musing desire of physical attraction, quickly countered by guilty disgust. What mother thought such things about her own child? How could he be her son? How could the dead come back to life? How could she ever accept him?

The questions circled, leaving Hecuba exhausted. She forced herself to stop thinking about it. Son or no son, Alexander was a guest of Priam. He would be accorded all the hospitality any guest deserved. Refusing a stranger offended Zeus himself, for the god often dressed as a beggar to test the generosity of his subjects. If this stranger was a god incarnate, he would not lack anything in Hecuba's house.

Alexander stared: the massive storerooms, the painted woodwork, the magnificent palace ahead. The guard heaved open the door, and Hecuba walked into the megaron with unconcerned familiarity. Alexander froze in awe, staring at the twin rows of pillars reaching up to the vaulted, painted ceiling two stories high. He had never seen anything like it.

Hecuba noted how her household ran in her absence. She saw the extra water jars in the foyer. Andromache had not been negligent. The buried embers in the megaron fireplace had been stirred up and stoked with fresh wood. The flames were just catching, crackling into life. In the women's hall only her two youngest daughters remained, playing with a wooden spindle, taking turns twisting and pulling the attached tuft of wool into a clumpy strand of yarn. The rest were upstairs, preparing baths for the men.

Polyxena! Cassandra! Hecuba clapped for their attention.

The girls regarded Alexander with mute curiosity. Polyxena's face colored in alarm. At eleven, she was near marriageable age, and lately she wondered which of the many visitors to the palace would be her future husband. Like her two elder sisters, she deserved some wealthy prince or king. This foul-smelling shepherd was not what she had in mind. The forgotten wool thinned in her grasp and broke. The spindle clattered away, skipping over the seams in the stone-flagged floor. It spiraled to a stop under a bench.

Where's Polites? Hecuba asked.

Polyxena pointed toward the ceiling. Upstairs.

With Laothoe?

Yes. With a sudden stab of childish guilt, Polyxena added, Laothoe said we could stay here if we were good. Honest. I've been watching Cassandra. She wasn't doing anything.

I wasn't, six-year-old Cassandra confirmed, with the air of one who had been found guilty in the past.

Good girls, Hecuba responded absently. She glanced back at Alexander and her face clouded. This is your new brother—Alexander, she added. "Your father, ah, adopted him today, and I'm hoping you'll make him feel at home. Polyxena, I'd appreciate it if you would prepare a bed for him. Cassandra, fetch some hot water for his bath. Oh, and Polyxena—run to the storehouse first and pick up a new cloak for him, a good cloak. Another wooden smile in her guest's direction. We can't have a prince running around in rags, now, can we?"

He stared back at her. She held her smile, expecting some sort of reply. There was none. She looked over at the girls. They remained where they sat, staring. Hecuba tried to get them to mind her through sheer force of will.

Please. She uttered the word through tight lips. Her daughters took heed and scrambled to their feet. Polyxena excused herself, but Cassandra fixed Alexander with one of her odd looks. Her face changed from an innocent little girl's into a dark mask. Hecuba held her breath. Oh, please, Cassandra, not now, she prayed. Not in front of a guest.

Cassandra, she ordered. You heard me. Run along.

Cassandra startled. They exchanged knowing looks: the mother threatening, the daughter rebellious. Hecuba prevailed, but barely. Cassandra smirked her mischief.

I bet Deiphobus is pissed, she said.

She scampered off before Hecuba could rebuke her. Out in the megaron she caught up with Polyxena. Their excited whispers and muffled giggling echoed.

You will have to forgive Cassandra, Hecuba said. Apollo has struck her mad, I'm afraid. Sometimes there's no reasoning with the child.

She awaited a reaction. Another uncomfortable moment passed. In the silence confusion again welled up in her brain. She fought it down.

A good bath and some clean clothes and you'll be fit for any king's megaron, she chattered. "Polyxena will show you where your room will be. Oh, dear, I forgot to tell Cassandra to bring up some perfumed oil. A new batch just came in last week. Wonderful stuff. Those Achaians might be backwards in many respects, but they do know their perfume."

She cast desperately for another topic. Alexander touched her arm.

Ma'am, uh, my queen—His pale eyes focused on her with their unusual intensity. Hecuba dropped her gaze from force of habit. She studied the floor as he spoke, analyzing every syllable, every inflection, and every breath.

Ma'am, you must be pretty upset over all this, he said. (He was no orator, Hecuba thought.) You have to understand, this wasn't my idea. I didn't know nothing. They took my bull. The best bull in the herd, ma'am. I entered the boxing match 'cause I thought I could win him back. I had no idea—

Hecuba looked Alexander full in the face. Lost and alone—the face of a child searching for his mother. This was no boastful, arrogant athlete beating the finest in the city, but a helpless victim of circumstance. He was afraid—afraid of his lack of control, of the day's events, of his surroundings. Afraid of her.

A grown man, frightened of a woman? No, thought Hecuba, he's still a child. My child. Her brain caught on the idea, snagging like poorly woven fabric. It grated against her nerves: my child. Perhaps if she repeated it often enough, she might begin to believe it.

She patted the hand that grasped her arm, the hand dirty