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

‘I am Philoctetes, son of Poeas, and these are the weapons of Heracles, which he bequeathed to me. If I appear unfamiliar and somewhat malnourished to you, it’s because my fellow countrymen stranded me on the island of Lemnos shortly before the war began, where I lived on a diet of seagull and rainwater until Odysseus brought me back to the army just two days ago.’

‘I’ve heard of you,’ Paris nodded, ‘though your suffering is news. Tell me, why would a man who had been left to starve by his comrades want to return and fight for them?’

‘For glory, and to honour the name of Heracles,’ Philoctetes answered. ‘And because Heracles himself ordered me to kill you, which I must do if the gates of Troy are ever to fall to the Greeks.’

Helen heard the words and stepped forward to stand beside her husband. Unseen by any of the others – except for Helenus, whose eyes had not left Helen since her arrival – Paris slipped his arm about his wife’s waist and smiled mockingly at the Greek archer.

‘But I have no intention of fighting you , Philoctetes. Why should I? Who are you but a half-starved cripple whose only fame comes from an accident of place and time? That you were present when Heracles wanted to take his own life is neither here nor there. That he gave you his bow and arrows in exchange for lighting his funeral pyre does you little credit. And who have you killed of any renown? Go back to your bed and sleep off your drunken bravado; I’m going back to mine to enjoy the company of my wife.’

He turned to go, but the laughter of his soldiers as they pointed at Philoctetes could not hide the voice that now called out to him.

‘Why should you meet Philoctetes’s challenge?’ it said, with such calm reason that Paris was compelled to stop and listen. ‘Why indeed, for what man of honour would fight unless something was at stake? Something worth fighting for.’

Paris turned and looked down at the short, bulky figure of Odysseus. Despite his lack of elegance and physical beauty his voice was delightful on the ears, so much so that anyone addressed by it felt obliged to reply just so that they could hear it again. Paris had fallen into the trap and stepped up to the battlements, ignoring Helen’s attempts to pull him back.

‘What can you possibly offer that would tempt me away from the caresses of my wife?’ he asked, slipping his hand free of Helen’s fingers.

‘Look for yourself,’ Odysseus replied. ‘The bow and arrows of Heracles. They are yours if you can defeat Philoctetes. This is no trick, Paris. As you can see, we’re alone; no army will spring out from the stones or rise up from the river bed if you possess the courage to step out from behind your walls.’

‘No thank you, Odysseus,’ Helen answered. ‘Paris has a good enough bow already, as several score of your comrades would tell you if they were still alive. Now, go back to your camp and use your powers of persuasion to make Menelaus return to Sparta without me. Or don’t you want to see your beloved Penelope again?’

‘Indeed I do, my lady, but with Hector dead and his place only half-filled I doubt I will have long to wait. What do you say, Paris?’

‘I say damn you, Odysseus,’ Paris returned, angrily. ‘Is that the best your famous voice can do?’

‘And is this the best you can do?’ Odysseus replied, matching his anger. ‘To let a woman fight your battles while you cringe in the shadow of your dead brother? Don’t you even have the guts to fight a cripple with a weapon that’s almost too big for him to wield? Hector wouldn’t have refused, not with the eyes of his countrymen upon him and his reputation at stake.’

Helen saw Paris look left and right at the soldiers on either side of him. They were not laughing now, but were staring at him with expectation. His honour had been insulted; worse still, Odysseus had compared him to Hector – the one test Helen knew he dared not fail. He looked at her, into her eyes, and she sensed the struggle within him, the choice between duty and love.

‘If you came to challenge my brother, Odysseus, you’re too late,’ he replied. ‘Go home and take your scarecrow with you. I’ll not fight him.’

‘Then retreat to your palace and fight your battles in bed; let Helen be the only Greek you bring down, piercing her with the one weapon you’ve still got the courage to wield.’ There was a ripple of laughter from the men on the battlements. ‘But leave your bow. Give it to someone worthy of calling himself a Trojan, someone brave enough to stand in your place. Perhaps Helenus, there? Or did the greatness of Troy die when Achilles slew your brother and dragged his body behind his chariot –’

‘Enough!’ Paris shouted, gripping the parapet. He turned to his brother. ‘Helenus, send for my armour and my bow. No man accuses me of cowardice; I’m going to kill Philoctetes, and then I’m going to put an arrow through Odysseus’s black heart, too.’

‘Wait!’ Helen ordered, staring at Helenus. She turned to Paris. ‘You’re a fool if you let Odysseus provoke you into this nonsense. Why don’t you stop thinking of Troy and filling Hector’s place, and think of me instead – of us ! I love you, Paris. Did you drag me halfway across the world and fight a war for ten years just to gamble everything we’ve built for this ? For an accusation of cowardice, when you know you’re the bravest man in Troy. In Aphrodite’s name, won’t you think about what you’re doing?’

Paris looked into her blue eyes for a moment, then turned to his brother.

‘You decide, Helenus. If I fight this man, will I win or lose?’

Helenus frowned. ‘I don’t understand –’

‘You have the gift of prophecy, don’t you? You foresaw Penthesilea’s death, and the fall of Achilles. The priests talk of you with awe; they say Apollo has blessed you greatly. So tell me, will I be victorious or not? If you say yes, I will fight; if no then I will remain here with Helen and let the wind blow this straw man back to the Greek camp.’

Helenus looked at his sister-in-law and she saw his eyes fall briefly to her breasts, doubtless savouring the impression of her nipples beneath the thin white cloth. She could sense his strong desire for her in that moment, a desire she knew he had felt ever since he was a boy, before he could have understood the nature of his feelings for her. And it was then she noticed something darker than lust enter his expression, a realisation of the power that had just been given to him. With a nod to Paris, he closed his eyes and bowed his head in concentration. He stayed like that for a while, with all eyes upon him, then clapped his hand to his forehead and grimaced. Stifling a cry, he fell forward into Paris’s arms.

‘What did you see?’ Paris urged, gently shaking Helenus’s shoulder. ‘Did you see me shoot Philoctetes? Is that it?’

‘No,’ Helenus groaned, looking groggily up at his brother. ‘But I did see you holding the bow of Heracles above your head, with the straw man lying at your feet.’

‘Then I will be victorious!’ Paris smiled, triumphantly. ‘Guard! Go fetch my bow and arrows.’

‘And your armour, my lord?’

‘Just my weapons.’

Helen watched the soldier run down the stone steps and up the main road towards the citadel of Pergamos. She did not trust Helenus or his vision and it was with a quickening heart that she turned to Paris. The light of the morning sun was resting fully on the city now, drawing the people out of their houses and casting long shadows behind the soldiers on the battlements. Paris was looking at her, but as their eyes met his gaze wavered guiltily for a moment before he could force himself to resist her accusative stare. Then his rugged face with its familiar scar broke into a smile.