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

‘I can’t. I’m a prince of Troy, Priam’s eldest remaining son. I should at least hear what they have to say.’

‘You know what they have to say,’ Helen replied, her dark eyebrows furrowing. She swept aside a lock of black hair that had fallen across her face. ‘They want to kill you, Paris. Don’t give them the chance.’

Paris looked away. His tunic and sandals lay where he had left them the previous evening, but before he could reach for them Helen threw aside the furs and took hold of his wrist. He turned to her as she raised herself on her knees before him, still retaining her grip on his hand but making sure he could see the full glory of her naked body. And just as she had known it would, the sight of her white skin and the orbs of her breasts captivated him at once. Helen knew there were many in Troy who had accused her husband of losing his manliness for her sake, who, despite his increasingly selfless – even reckless – feats on the battlefield, grumbled to each other that he was not the commander he had once been, in his years spent conquering Troy’s enemies on the northern borders, before she had entered his life and brought a new war. What they meant, of course, was that he was not Hector. Since his older brother’s death, Paris had felt ever more acutely the weight of expectation that had been placed on his shoulders – by his father, by his younger brothers, by the army and its allies, and by every other man, woman and child in Ilium. And with that expectation came a growing resentment towards her, whom many thought of as a barrier preventing him from devoting himself to the cause of his nation. And they were right. She would do anything in her considerable power to stop him from throwing away his life for Troy. She no longer cared whether the city was destroyed a thousand times over and every living being in the whole of Ilium put to the sword, as long as he lived and they could be together.

As he looked at the face that had pierced his heart a lifetime ago, and the flawless body that he had come to know with such intimacy, she could sense his resolve wavering. That he wanted nothing more than to climb back beneath the furs with her and enjoy the soft warmth of her body enveloping his was written in every feature of his face, but she knew he was not hers again yet. She stroked the back of her hand across his stomach and down into his pubic hair, letting her palm turn inwards so it brushed across him and came to rest on his inner thigh. He responded by reaching down to cup her breast and run his thumb over her nipple.

‘Stay here with me,’ she said in a half-whisper, dropping back invitingly onto the rumpled furs. ‘The sun’s barely in the sky and our bed is still warm. Let Odysseus and his archer friend go back to their fellow Greeks, while you and I make love.’

He knelt across her as she spoke and the dawn light gave his muscular torso a coppery tinge. Then something in his expression changed and he pulled away, almost angrily. And she knew she had lost him.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I can’t.’

‘Can’t what? Paris !’

‘I can’t let them go back. Not without at least speaking to them first. Hector would have gone.’

‘You’re not Hector!’ Helen snapped.

‘No, I’m not. But Hector’s dead because of me –’

‘Because of me , you mean.’

‘Because I fell in love with you and brought you back here,’ Paris countered, though gently. ‘Thousands are dead because of my decision. And that doesn’t mean I regret taking you from Sparta, Helen. I will never regret that, whatever may happen. It does mean I have a responsibility to bear, though – to my father, to the people of Ilium, and above all to you. When Achilles slew Hector, his burden fell on me: to protect this city and its honour. If I fail to meet even the smallest challenge, then the people won’t blame me so much as they’ll blame you. And I won’t have that.’

He snatched up his tunic and pulled it over his head, then knelt and put on his sandals. Helen, seeing that her naked body could no longer hold him, picked up the dress that lay where she had discarded it the night before. It had taken only an instant to throw off in her eagerness to make love to her husband, but long, agonising moments to put back on as Paris ignored her pleas and threw open the door of the bedroom. She hurried after him barefoot, not caring that the sides of her chiton were loose and revealed her ribcage and thighs as she ran down the corridors and out of the palace.

‘Wait Paris,’ she insisted, catching up with him.

‘Don’t try to dissuade me, Helen. I’m determined to speak with these men.’

‘Then speak to them if you must, but do you have to accept the challenge? A duel between skilled archers is little more than a game of chance. Will you put your life so freely into the hands of the gods?’

He stopped and turned to her. They were standing in the middle of the wide courtyard that fronted the palace, where scores of slaves and soldiers were already going about their morning chores. Not one failed to cast a glance at Helen, whose beauty was radiant and enthralling even without the pampering of her maids. She barely noticed them, used as she was to the stares of men and women alike.

‘Our lives hang by the will of the gods every day,’ Paris replied. ‘But I promise you I won’t accept this challenge blindly. Hector knew his importance to the survival of Troy and never risked himself needlessly, unless it was when he walked out to face Achilles alone. I won’t make the same mistake. And yet I will speak with Odysseus. It’s my duty.’

Chapter Nine

D EATH IN THE M ORNING

Then be all the more careful,’ Helen said. ‘To exchange words with that man is as perilous as any duel.’

Paris smiled and kissed her forehead, then carried on walking. Helen followed a few paces behind, down the ramps that led to the walls of the citadel, through the arched gateway and out into the streets of the city. Before long they were mounting the steps to the battlements that overlooked the Scaean Gate. Helenus was waiting for them, along with a number of guards who turned to stare at Helen in her half-dressed state. A glance from Paris forced them to look away again.

‘There they are,’ Helenus said, pointing down to where three men stood in the shadow of the sacred oak tree outside the gates. The plains down to the River Scamander and the slopes beyond the ford were empty: they were completely alone. ‘Odysseus, Eperitus and a man who calls himself Philoctetes. Who he is I don’t know – I’ve never seen him on the battlefield before – but he’s the one who dares to challenge you.’

Helen stared at the thin figure with the drawn face. Though he was unimpressive in himself, the weapons he carried inspired awe and fear: a bow of gigantic size – as tall as its owner – and an ornately decorated leather quiver stuffed with black-feathered arrows. Any one of those bronze-tipped barbs could bring death to the man she loved, and with a growing sense of dread she reached for Paris’s hand. Before her fingers could entwine themselves between his, though, he pulled away and leaned over the parapet.

‘I am Paris, son of Priam,’ he shouted in Greek to the small party below. ‘I know you, Odysseus, Laertes’s famed son, and I know the face of your captain from the thick of the battles our armies have fought. But you I don’t know. State your name and lineage, if indeed you are human at all – for you look more to me like a wraith conjured up from Hades.’

Helenus translated for the men on the walls and sneers of laughter rippled through their ranks as they forgot Helen’s beauty and pressed closer against the battlements, eager to watch the spectacle unfold. Philoctetes was untroubled by their mockery and hobbled forward on his crutch.