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

‘Menelaus,’ she said, barely breathing his name.

Chapter Thirty-nine

H ELEN AND M ENELAUS

Get back!’ Deiphobus ordered, snapping to his senses and pushing Helen into the bedroom. ‘You two, do your duty!’

The guardsmen lowered the points of their spears and advanced side by side down the corridor. Behind them, the maids screamed and ran after Deiphobus, only to have the door slammed shut in their faces. They turned and fled, just as Menelaus knocked aside one of the spear points with his shield and stepped inside the guard of its owner, sinking his sword into the man’s unprotected groin. He cried out in agony and lurched sideways into the second Trojan, who tried to push him away with his elbow. Seeing his chance, Odysseus rushed forward and lunged at him. He stepped back to avoid the point of Odysseus’s sword, but caught his heel on his dying comrade and fell in a heap. Odysseus finished him quickly.

‘Come on!’ Menelaus called, leaping over their fallen enemies.

He kicked open the door and crashed into the bedroom. Odysseus followed, his heart pounding hard against his chest. In the centre of the room was a large bed. White curtains billowed inward from a window behind it, ushering in the savoury whiff of smoke and the pink glow of fire from the lower city. On the other side of the bed was Deiphobus with Helen held firmly in his arms. Two more of Helen’s maids stood in an open doorway at the back of the wide chamber – which Odysseus knew led to Helen’s bathroom – their beautiful faces blighted by terror. But these details were of little concern compared to the four other guardsmen whom Deiphobus had brought with him to escort his wife to safety, and who were standing ready with their spears gripped tightly in both hands and their shields on their arms.

Menelaus stared at Helen, his face an angry mask that hid emotions Odysseus could only guess at. Helen looked back at him, almost too afraid to hold his gaze but also conscious that to look away would be an admission of guilt before her avenging husband. She must have known that Menelaus’s sudden appearance inside the palace meant a Greek victory, and that whatever happened now her life was balanced on the edge of his blade. Belatedly, she began to struggle against Deiphobus’s grip, sending looks of helpless longing toward her first husband and trying to ignore the knowing presence of Odysseus.

Deiphobus nodded at his guards. Cautiously they edged forward, searching with experienced eyes for a gap that would invite the points of their spears into a killing thrust. But Menelaus and Odysseus were too battle-hardened to make foolish mistakes and braced themselves for their own chance to strike and kill. Odysseus risked opening his shield a little and was rewarded with a premature lunge from one of his opponents. He stepped aside so that the spear passed between his body and his shield, then hacked down with his blade to hew off the Trojan’s left hand. The man’s weapon fell with a clatter and he stepped back, holding the stump of his wrist into his armpit. His companion knocked him to one side with his shoulder and ran shouting at Odysseus, who stepped away and lashed out with the rim of his shield, forcing the man to duck and turn with his back to the door.

Menelaus quickly tired of his enemies’ probing jabs and with a bellow of rage leapt at them. One spear point caught fast in his shield, almost pushing him into the path of the second weapon, which glanced off his ribcage but failed to penetrate the armour. In his fury, the Spartan slashed at the face of his first foe and felled him, before turning on his heel and sweeping the other man’s head from his shoulders. Seeing this, Odysseus’s remaining opponent tossed his spear aside and fled through the open doorway.

The Greeks now turned back to face Deiphobus and Helen. The remaining soldier, still clutching his maimed limb, staggered across the beautifully adorned bedroom, splashing the animal pelts that lined the floor with large drops of blood. He lurched towards the window in his confusion and fell unconscious at Helen’s feet. Deiphobus released his wife – who knelt down beside the fallen soldier – and stepped forward, drawing his sword as he advanced.

‘Stay back, Odysseus,’ Menelaus warned. ‘This one dies by my hand and mine alone.’

‘You’ll not find me as easy as the others,’ Deiphobus responded in Greek.

Menelaus’s lips curled back in a snarl, tinged with joy at the prospect of killing Helen’s latest husband. Then, as Deiphobus prepared to fight, Helen stood up and closed behind him. The Trojan prince stiffened and thrust out his chest, his face suddenly strained. A line of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth, then with a choke burst out over his chin.

Odysseus had seen Helen draw the sword from the fallen guard’s belt, but only guessed her intentions at the last moment, springing forward with his palm held out in an arresting motion. His warrior’s sensibilities, so brutalised after ten years of war, told him it was not right for one so beautiful, so outwardly pure as Helen to sink to the level of murder. But he was too late. As Deiphobus slipped to the floor and rolled onto his back – as if to snatch a final glance at her face – the bloody weapon in her hand and the red stains on her white dress were evidence of her deed. Why though? Odysseus wondered. Out of revenge for a forced marriage? Or as a token of repentance before her returning husband, in the hope of saving her own life?

Menelaus looked down at the lifeless form of Deiphobus, then at the woman who had killed him, the woman for whose sake so many men had died. Their eyes met and for a long moment there was no rage or bitterness in Menelaus’s gaze, only fascination as he reacquainted himself with the face he had once loved so well, and for which he had crossed the Aegean with the greatest fleet the world had ever seen. Helen looked back at the father of her children, a man who, as her husband, had only ever treated her with kindness and respect; a man she had never hated, and yet whom she had never loved. And to Odysseus’s shrewd mind the old familiarity between the two was still there, as if – for a brief space – the infidelity, war and years apart from each other had never happened. Then, as the Ithacan had expected, the recognition of those dividing forces stole into their gaze, reawakening their more immediate emotions and pulling them back to the present. For Helen, it was a flicker of guilt, followed by a more dominant fear – fear of the man she had betrayed, and who was no longer separated from her by the walls, armies and princes of Troy. For Menelaus, seeing her shame and her fear brought his righteous anger rushing back. Tears rolled in rapid, heavy drops down his cheeks: tears he had never shed for the thousands who had suffered for the sake of his love, but which came forth now as he remembered the pain she had inflicted on him. And it was a pain that demanded retribution.

He leapt towards her, his sword flashing red. Helen screamed, but Odysseus had anticipated Menelaus’s reaction and threw his arms about the Spartan’s chest, pulling him back.

‘Control your anger! We haven’t fought for ten years just so you can murder the woman we came to save.’

‘Let me go!’ Menelaus spat, desperately trying to throw off Odysseus’s bear-like grip.

‘Not until you’ve calmed down.’

‘Menelaus,’ Helen said, her voice soft but commanding.

Menelaus ceased struggling and looked up.

‘Husband,’ she continued. ‘Listen to Odysseus. Have you been through so much, just to kill me? Have you suffered for all these years just to rip open my flesh with your sword and bathe in my blood? Have thousands died just to slake your lust for vengeance? Such an empty victory! Or can something be retrieved from all this destruction?’