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

It was as if a final beam of the sun’s radiance had alighted on the grey stone of the battlements. She wore no black to symbolise the mourning in her heart, but was instead dressed in a white chiton and robe that blushed pink in the dying daylight. Her sad and lovely face, chin raised, stared out at the sunset beyond the city walls, pained by memories of things that had passed. Like a goddess among mortals, she seemed aloof to the dark, shuffling figures below. And that was how it should be, Odysseus thought: she was too beautiful, too perfect, to be soiled with the misery and torment of a sinful universe. Its filth could not stick to her nor weigh her down, and though the widows, the maimed and the awestruck looked up at her in demanding silence, even they must surely know she was not of their world.

And yet she had offered herself to Odysseus when he had been a young suitor in Sparta twenty years before, promising to marry him if he would help her escape the claustrophobic life of her father’s court. By then he had already fallen in love with Penelope, but the memory of Helen’s submission gave him the courage to stand and shuffle forward. Ignoring the shocked whispers of the onlookers, he raised his face to the battlements and called out in the Trojan tongue.

‘What is it you look for in the setting sun, my lady?’

Helen turned to face him and the whisperers on either side fell quiet. Her blue eyes fixed momentarily on the ragged, filthy creature that had dared call out to her, then with the slightest narrowing of disgust turned back to the horizon.

‘Perhaps a winged horse to carry you away from this prison? Or maybe your own death, so your spirit can follow Paris’s and share with him in the forgetfulness of Hades?’

‘How dare you!’ Helen replied, seizing the edge of the wall and staring down at him. ‘How dare you foul my husband’s name with your rank breath?’

‘He ain’t your husband no more,’ cackled one of the widows.

The others joined her laughter, suddenly released from the spell of Helen’s beauty and delighting in her discomfort. One of the Mysians ordered them to be silent, while on the battlements the sound of sandals on the stonework announced the hurried arrival of a guard. Odysseus immediately recognised one of the soldiers he had spoken to by the gate to Pergamos.

‘My breath may indeed be rank, mistress,’ he continued, ‘but it can barely make worse the name of a wife-stealer and family breaker. Such a man deserved to die!’

Unused to facing effrontery, Helen’s face fell blank and she stepped away from the parapet in confusion. Eager to win her favour – a word or even a glance – the guard rushed forward in her defence.

‘Silence, you insolent … By all the gods, it’s you !’

‘I’m here, like you told me,’ came Odysseus’s jaunty reply. ‘And she’s just as beautiful as you said.’

The guard’s mouth fell open in confusion for a brief moment, then snapping shut he pointed at the three Mysians and ordered them to seize hold of the beggar.

‘Take him to the guard house. We’ll soon teach him to hold his tongue before a lady.’

He turned to Helen, hoping for some recognition or approval. She was too shocked to even notice him, and with her hand on her chest was trying to steady her breathing. Below them, the Mysians were struggling to contain the beggar’s surprising strength.

‘You can teach me whatever you like,’ Odysseus shouted out, this time risking Greek. ‘But the lady might want to hear my news, first. Of Aethiolas, Maraphius and Hermione.’

One of the Mysians drew his sword and raised the pommel above Odysseus’s head, but before he could strike a command rang out from the walls.

‘Leave him alone!’

The three men released the beggar at once and stepped back as if burned. Odysseus looked up to see Helen leaning stiffly on the parapet, her eyes staring fiercely at him. He met her gaze and held it, knowing the mention of her children – whom she had last seen twenty years ago in Sparta – could not have failed to gain her attention. Then he saw the faintest twinge of recognition cross her features and lowered his face to the ground. He turned away, as if eager to make his escape.

‘Stay where you are!’ she called.

The Mysians blocked his path and he looked back over his shoulder to see Helen giving instructions to the guard on the walls. The man frowned in consternation, then turned and ran to the nearest steps. Helen followed him, pausing briefly to throw one last glance at the mysterious beggar before disappearing from sight.

The score of onlookers now surrounded Odysseus, a few of them angry but most of them intrigued as they stared at the bedraggled creature who had somehow won Helen’s interest, where their own presences had never so much as received a look. Then they moved aside as orders were barked out and the guard from the walls appeared, accompanied by two others.

‘What was that you said to her?’ the guard snapped. ‘Greek, was it? A spy, are you?’

‘Just a traveller, nothing more.’

‘Whatever you are, and whatever you said, you’ve gained her attention. She wants to see you at once.’

He signalled to his companions, who reluctantly seized the stinking beggar by his elbows and pulled him along between them. They passed through the gate and the cool, echoing archway into Pergamos, where Helen was waiting at the foot of the ramp that led to the upper tiers of the citadel. Despite his foul stench as the guards brought Odysseus before her, she remained where she was and regarded him with suspicious eyes.

‘Who are you?’ she asked, in Greek so that the others would not understand their conversation.

Odysseus caught the smell of wine on her breath, though there were no other signs to tell him she had been drinking.

‘A sailor, my lady, fallen on hard times.’

‘A beggar, cursed by the gods it seems. How do you know the names of my children? Did Pleisthenes tell you?’

‘I’ve never met your youngest son, though I know you brought him with you when Paris abducted you.’

‘He did not abduct me. I came here willingly.’

‘Though not without sacrifice, leaving behind your daughter and other sons whom Menelaus had taken with him to Crete.’

Helen’s eyes narrowed again, subtly changing the emphasis of her beauty.

‘Not many would know that. Perhaps there’s more to you than rags and a terrible smell. Perhaps you’re a god in disguise – such things happen, or so my old nursemaid used to say. At the very least you’re a Greek.’

‘I’m no god, my lady, but I am a Greek – once an Athenian merchant from Piraeus. And for a meal and a sup of wine I can tell you about the children you left behind. They still long for their mother, or so I’ve heard.’

Odysseus saw the look of longing enter her expression and was glad that he would not need to lie to her. Menelaus sent ships back to Sparta every two years for replacements, and when they returned the first thing he would ask about was news of Aethiolas, Maraphius and Hermione, news which he would then share with the other kings to show his pride in his children – and assuage some of his guilt for not being present as they grew up. Something of that same guilt was in Helen’s eyes as she looked at Odysseus now.

‘Then they’re still alive,’ she said, as if to herself. Suddenly, Odysseus was aware of her eyes on his again, though this time there was a new intensity to them as they searched his face. ‘Thank you, friend. I agree to your offer – a meal and wine in exchange for everything you know about my children – especially Hermione. But not before the filth has been washed from your body and you’re clothed in a fresh tunic and cloak.