Glyn Iliffe - The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

‘I am Calchas,’ he announced, ‘one-time priest of Apollo in the city of Troy, and now a worthless wretch forgotten by most and valued by none.’

‘Then we have much in common, Calchas,’ Philoctetes replied. ‘But if you are the reason I was brought here, speak and let us know what the gods command.’

Calchas nodded, then paused and bowed his head, as if summoning a difficult memory.

‘The night Great Ajax took his life, I was asleep beyond the boundaries of the camp. It was there that Apollo visited me, telling me that Troy can only fall if certain conditions are met. What they are I don’t know, for the god only showed the first of them to me: that you, Philoctetes, should be fetched from Lemnos to kill the one enduring stalwart of Troy’s defences. Of all the sons that once served King Priam, only one remains of any note. His arrows have slain many great heroes and with a bow in his hand he has no match, which is why you and the weapons of Heracles are the only way we can rid ourselves of him. Philoctetes, if Troy is to fall you must first kill Paris.’

‘No!’ Menelaus bellowed, leaping from his chair and seizing Calchas by the front of his cloak. ‘Paris is mine! He stole my wife and brought this miserable war upon us. If anyone’s going to kill him, it’s going to be me .’

Calchas shrank back in fear, but Agamemnon was quick to come to his rescue.

‘Leave him, Menelaus,’ he commanded. ‘If the gods have said Paris will be killed by Philoctetes then that’s what must happen.’

‘Damn the gods and damn all prophecies! Paris is going to perish at my hands, not by some shepherd prince because of the words of a drunken priest. Admit it, Calchas! You’d been drinking again and this supposed prophecy was nothing more than a wine-soaked dream.’

‘ I said leave him !’ Agamemnon boomed, rising from his throne and pointing at his brother. ‘You had your chance weeks ago when you faced him on the battlefield, and you squandered it. Now the gods have taken it out of your hands.’

Calchas tore himself from Menelaus’s grip and almost fell back into the fire.

‘It’s true,’ he croaked. ‘The gods are tired of waiting. Paris must die now, and his death will cause the Trojans to lose heart.’

‘What?’ scoffed a short warrior with a single, angry eyebrow that sat low over his fierce-looking eyes. A large brown snake hung from his shoulders, hissing and flicking out its pink tongue at the watching Greeks. ‘The Trojans lose heart over Paris? Did they lose heart when Hector died? And he was ten times the man Paris is.’

Voices were raised in agreement, but Calchas was not cowed by them. He had seen the will of the gods and he knew he was right.

‘What Little Ajax does not appreciate,’ he said, looking round at the Council, ‘is that with Paris dead many in Troy will demand Helen be returned to Menelaus. Others will insist she remains, and both sides will squabble over who will have her. There will be division within the walls of Troy and the Trojan people will lose their resolve to continue. If Philoctetes can kill Paris then the reason for the war – his love for Helen – will have been taken away.’

Agamemnon stepped down from the dais on which his throne sat and dragged Menelaus back in the direction of his own chair.

‘The gods have spoken. Paris’s death will sow dissent among our enemies and perhaps open the gates of their city from within. Philoctetes, tomorrow morning you will ride with Odysseus and Eperitus to Troy where you will challenge Paris to a duel, offering the bow of Heracles as his prize if he can defeat you. Are you ready to honour Heracles’s command and cover yourself in glory?’

‘Or a shroud,’ Philoctetes replied. ‘Whichever the immortals deem most fitting.’

‘Hector, don’t go. We need you here!’

Helen opened her eyes. The first light of dawn was stealing in through the eastern windows and casting its rosy glow over the muralled walls of the bedroom. The painted trees and flowers and the animals that gambolled through them never seemed so lifeless as they did at this time of the morning, when the flat, hazy light robbed them of their colour and motion.

‘Hector, no. If you die, Troy will fall. I can’t take on your mantle alone.’

Paris was talking in his sleep. The same old slurred anxieties that had haunted his dreams since the death of his brother, pleading – she guessed – for Hector not to go out and face Achilles. Pleading not to be left the crushing responsibility of the hopes and expectations of the whole of Ilium. Though he could feign courage and calm conviction before the people as he walked the streets in his fine armour, and though he could even fake confidence to Helen in their waking time together, his dreams betrayed his uncertainty, his fear. Had Hector been the same, she wondered? Had Andromache lain beside him at night and listened to his worry and self-doubt?

She reached out a hand and brushed the black locks of sweat-damp hair from his forehead, tracing the long pink line of the old scar that ran from above his eyebrow diagonally across his nose and cheek to end almost at his jaw. It was not a handsome face, but it had strength and endurance; and beneath the closed eyelids was a passion that showed itself as much in love as it did in war. Much more so, she thought with a smile as her long fingers drifted to the streaks of grey above his ears and began stroking him.

‘Shush now, my love. I’m here. Your Helen’s here.’

He turned to face her, eyes still shut firmly in sleep, and laid a rough hand on the curve of her waist. His flesh was hot, causing her to flinch. Then she heard voices echoing along the narrow corridor outside their room. Frowning, she sat up and looked at the door, the furs slipping down to expose her chest.

There was a soft knock.

‘Mistress?’

The maid’s voice was low but urgent.

‘What is it?’

The door was pushed open and Helenus strode in, followed by the apologetic maid. The prince looked alarmed and ready to speak, but the sight of Helen’s nakedness stopped the words before they left his mouth. Surprised by his unexpected entrance, Helen pulled the furs over her breasts and glared her anger. Paris woke beside her.

‘What is it?’ he mumbled.

Helenus blinked twice then looked at his brother.

‘Paris, there are three men at the gates. Greeks.’

‘Then kill the bastards!’

‘But they’ve come asking to speak with you. One of them is demanding … well, he’s demanding an archery duel.’

Paris rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up.

‘What do you mean a duel?’ he asked. ‘Is it … is it Menelaus?’

‘No. It’s Odysseus and his captain.’

‘ Odysseus ?’ Paris repeated, frowning this time. ‘Why in the names of all the gods would Odysseus want to challenge me to personal combat?’

‘Not Odysseus,’ Helenus said. His eyes kept flickering towards Helen, who was holding the furs firmly over her nudity. ‘It’s the third man, a stick of a figure who looks like he hasn’t eaten for a year. He has a bow that must have been made by the gods – far too grand a weapon for a wretch like him.’

Paris was intrigued now. He swung his legs out of the bed and waved his younger brother back towards the door.

‘Tell them I’m coming,’ he snapped.

Helenus bowed, and, with a last lingering look at Helen, left. Helen laid a hand on her husband’s shoulder and he turned to look into the irresistible eyes that had won so many victories over him in their ten years of marriage.

‘Don’t go,’ she said. ‘Call Helenus back and tell him to send Odysseus and his companions away.’