David Malouf - Ransom

But they had advanced only a dozen paces when the carter, suddenly alert, laid his hand on Priam’s arm and stayed him.

‘Shhh,’ he whispered, raising a minatory finger.

Leaning in a leisurely manner against the rails of the wagon, right foot crossed elegantly on the left, was a slim youth in a winged bonnet, below which his hair, which was of a burnished golden-bronze, hung in glossy ringlets. He was quietly absorbed, or so it seemed, in the contemplation of his own ladylike fingertips. Priam felt the pressure of the carter’s hand on his forearm. His heart jumped.

The mules had already heard their approach or caught their scent. They turned, lifted their heads, and at the same moment, but languidly, the intruder also turned.

They saw then how young he was.

Idaeus, Priam observed, had his jaw set and was preparing to charge. The youth too must have perceived it. With a spring — all this on the instant — he was beside them, face contorted, short sword flashing.

‘So what did you think, old fellow,’ he was shouting, ‘that I’d just let you jump and take me napping? I’m not a child, you know. Nor a thief either. Though if I’d wanted to nab your treasure — oh yes, I’ve taken a good look under the covers and seen the loot you’re running off with — I could have walked away with anything I fancied in the half-hour you’ve been away dabbling your toes in the stream.’

Priam was confused. He knew something about anger, about angry boys , and this one was playacting. His bluster was that of a youth who liked to hear his own voice and strike poses, which was not to say that he might not also be dangerous.

‘Oh,’ he said now, still full of swagger and noise, ‘I suppose you’re wary of me because I’m a Greek. No doubt you’ve heard all sorts of stories about what ruffians we are, what barbarians. Well look at me, do I look like a barbarian?’

It was true, he did not. With his rosy mouth and narrow waist and ringlets, he was very charming and knew it; charm was native to him. But so, if charm failed and these two old fellows he was making game of took offence or decided to turn courageous, was a suddenness in him that would cut them down without a second thought.

‘The fact is,’ the youth announced, ‘I have been sent to be your escort,’ and very chivalrously he brought his right hand to his bonnet, in a gesture — but it was only that — of doffing it, and inclined his pretty head.

‘But I should introduce myself. My name is Orchilus. I am one of lord Achilles’ men, one of his fearsome Myrmidons. Polyctor, my father is called, a rich man about the same age as yourself, sir —’ he was addressing Priam. ‘There were seven of us, seven sons. Only four are still living, of whom your servant here,’ and he swept the bonnet from his head in an elegant flourish, ‘is the youngest. So you see you have no reason, none at all, to be afraid for your lives, or even your treasure. Or to be, as I see you are, suspicious of my intentions. You are old, sir, and so, if he doesn’t mind me mentioning it,’ and he cast a glance in the carter’s direction, ‘is your noble companion. Suppose you were to run into a squad of pickets on night patrol, or two or three enterprising fellows who were out for a bit of fun — to find a girl or to steal a couple of chickens or a fat sheep — what a prize you’d make with all that booty under the coverlet! So, here I am at your service. Your guide and escort. Sent by the lord Achilles, who knows you are on the way, to protect you.’

This seemed strange. Priam acknowledged the youth’s explanation but remained unconvinced. The fellow was just a little too good to be true.

The carter, he saw, was even more suspicious, and fearing the youth too might perceive it, Priam turned to his companion and said firmly, ‘There, you see? We are in luck. The lord Achilles, in his great courtesy, has sent one of his squires to be our guide.’

‘My lord,’ the carter began — but Priam quickly cut him off.

‘No, no,’ he insisted, ‘you heard what our young friend here has just told me. He has been sent.’ (He caught the youth’s smile, his look of half-mocking amusement.) ‘So let us make ready and set off again.’

He was thinking of the punch the fellow had given his son and later regretted. He was concerned on the young stranger’s behalf, but also on his own, lest the carter, believing he really had been fooled, should take matters into his own hands.

Meanwhile their unwanted companion had again taken up a lounging stance against the side of the cart. He yawned with what, to Priam, seemed studied indifference. All this fiddle-faddle, his eyebrow implied, was a hard test of a young fellow’s patience.

But the carter was not so easily put off. Riled by the youth’s impudence, his teasing condescension towards what he took, obviously, to be two bumbling oldsters (they had already set themselves at a disadvantage by getting ambushed, even if the ambush was for the moment a gentle one), he was determined to resist. He was the one who had got them into this pickle. He had allowed the king, and the treasure, and all that depended on it, to fall into the hands of a dandified puppy who, for all his oiled ringlets and languid lady-boy airs, was clearly a tough.

‘We don’t need an escort,’ he told the youth bluntly. And under his breath, to Priam, ‘My lord, we should shake this fellow off as quickly as we can. Thank him for his trouble, give him a nice silver cup, or a fancy pin for his cloak, and send him packing. Escort indeed! The first chance he gets he’ll lead us into a ravine, and before we know it our throats will be cut.’

Priam cast a quick glance in the direction of their new friend, who again raised an eyebrow and shrugged, as if this sort of thinking was just what you might expect of a low fellow like a carter. Then he made a face as if to say, ‘Your problem, my dear sir, don’t expect me to get you out of it!’ He really was a charmer.

Priam distrusted charm, especially when it took a physical form. He had learned a hard lesson on this point from his son Paris. But a sixth sense warned him that in this case something more might be involved than mere beauty and the lively self-assurance of youth. There was an unusual scent to the intruder’s presence, though whether from his breath when he spoke, or from his body, was hard to tell. It was a fragrance of a kind Priam had never till now encountered. Some unguent or aromatic oil perhaps, with which the Greeks kneaded and eased their limbs after exercise, of a musky sweetness that if you were fighting at close quarters might be overpowering and hard to resist. And in fact Priam felt the intoxicating effect of it, even at a distance, a not-unpleasant yielding of his senses as the youth extended his hand and said, in a softer voice, ‘Here, father, let me help you up. If we are to get to Achilles by suppertime we really must get going.’

Priam, a little surprised at how easily all this seemed to have been decided, allowed himself to be helped up into the cart.

‘Come on, my man,’ the youth called across to the driver, ‘you’re holding us up.’ And the driver, seeing that the king had already submitted, went round to his side of the cart, spoke a word to his mules and, waving off the stranger’s offer of a hand, hauled himself up, but with a spring to his step that was meant to indicate to His Impudence that he at least, despite his age, had no need of assistance and might be better able to defend himself than some people believed. The youth shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

Slowly they moved on down the bank to the crossing place, the young squire walking sometimes at the head of the wagon, beside the off-side mule, sometimes a step or two behind.