The Glory of Troy, part II

This part has not yet been edited fully, so feel quite free to have a whack at it. In fact, hacking at this beast would be a grand bit of fun for me. She probably needs it.
Part I here
Part III here
.Jacki.
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The shuttle moved back and forth, in and out of the loom, carrying the purple thread behind it. Andromache wove and wove, but her mind was not on her weaving. Hector was outside the gates, once more to do battle with the Achaeans. And she knew that her husband would not withdraw from the battlefield. Achilles himself had come forth, and Hector was not a man to back down from a challenge. Fear clenched her throat with a grip of iron, as it so often did when she thought of Hector in battle. She could not shake the feeling that he was doomed, that some god was set against him.

She heard shouts from the wall. She listened for a moment. No, it was not the sound of death, merely of battle. She shook her head and went back to her work. Over and under. He would not die in battle. She had had her women heat water on the fire for him when he returned. Over and under. Some mighty god must favour him. Perhaps Apollo? Yes, the sun-god was on the side of the Trojans. Surely he would defend Hector. Over and under. And her husband was mighty in battle; surely he could not fall today. Even at the hand of Achilles? No, not even he. Over.

A woman’s scream tore through the room, echoing fatalistically on the stone walls. Andromache started, and looked up from the loom. The shuttle fell from her shaking fingers and clacked on the floor. Her entire body trembled as the cry rang in her ears. Her women looked around, confused, but not understanding what had occurred. 'Two of you,' Andromache faltered, 'come. That was Queen Hecuba’s cry.' She did not need to say more. The women’s eyes widened, and one of them nodded. Andromache summoned her strength and stood.

Hector. No, no. Not Hector. No. She flew through the house, barely aware that her women followed her. She reached the battlements, and looked around at the people. Women and old men stood on the wall, all aghast. Mothers turned their children’s gazes away from the field below the wall, ancient men shook their heads and murmured, and young women wept. Hecuba, her hair torn, was in hysterics, wailing into the shoulder of Priam. No. Andromache pushed her way to the wall.

There was an Achaean chariot, drawn by chestnut horses. Driving it, mad with rage and passion, was Achilles. On the front of his chariot was the armour of Patrolocus, which Hector had taken as spoils of his victory. And dragged behind the chariot, naked and wounded, was Hector. His ankles had been pierced and threaded with hide, and thus was he attached to the vehicle. His body was mangled, barely recognizable under all the wounds and blows he had received from Achaean warriors. Dust clouded the air behind Achilles’ chariot as he raced toward his ships. Andromache’s vision blurred. She heard the screaming of Hecuba, and the triumphant cry of the Achaean warrior, and she knew no more.