Glyn Iliffe - The Armour of Achilles

‘No!’ Eperitus protested. ‘I’ve waited twenty years for this moment and he’s not leaving this temple alive.’

‘There’ll be another time for vengeance, Eperitus. Right now we have to get Astynome back.’

‘You’ll have neither,’ Apheidas told them, moving around to the front of the altar. ‘Not while I’m holding a knife to the girl’s throat. Now, move aside and let us leave unhindered or I’ll kill her right now.’

‘I can shoot him, Odysseus,’ Antiphus said. He had fitted an arrow and pulled the string back so that the flight rested against his cheekbone. The barbed tip was aimed at Apheidas’s forehead.

‘Lower your bow, Antiphus,’ Odysseus answered sharply, knowing that even with Antiphus’s aim there was still a risk of harming Astynome. ‘We’re going to let Apheidas leave. We have no choice.’

‘Order him to cut the string,’ Apheidas added. ‘I don’t want an arrow in the back as I ride away.’

Odysseus nodded to Antiphus, who reluctantly pulled out his dagger and did as he was told. The Ithacans all moved back as Apheidas and Astynome edged by them, though Odysseus had to seize Eperitus by the arm and pull him out of their path. Once they were out of the temple, Eperitus shook himself free of the king’s grip and ran after them.

Light was spreading across the sky from the east, though the sun had not yet nudged above the mountains and a few stars were still visible overhead. Apheidas and Astynome were standing by the knot of Trojan horses, their breath misting in the cold morning air. Eperitus watched his father help Astynome on to the back of one of the mounts, conscious that Odysseus, Polites and Antiphus had also left the temple and were standing behind him.

‘I’ll come for you, Astynome,’ he called. ‘Just tell me where your master’s house is in the city and I’ll find you.’

‘Her master’s house?’ Apheidas scoffed, mounting behind her and taking the horse’s reins in his hands. ‘Haven’t you realized who Astynome’s master is yet?’

Astynome’s beautiful features, which until that point had been fearful and despairing, now turned to shock.

‘Don’t listen to him, Eperitus,’ she began, but Apheidas’s hand closed over her mouth and stifled her protests.

‘ I am Astynome’s master,’ Apheidas continued, his features gloating in the half-light. Astynome struggled against his grip then was still. ‘Don’t you realize it yet, Son? Astynome wasn’t in Lyrnessus for any festival of Artemis, she was there because I took her there. I knew that even if I could face you alone, you wouldn’t listen to what I had to say. But if I put Astynome into your arms—’

‘Enough!’ Eperitus shouted.

‘If I put Astynome into your arms,’ Apheidas insisted, ‘if I could get her into your bed , she might be able to persuade you to think of me more favourably.’

‘That’s a lie, damn you. You’re not satisfied with killing Arceisius, or deluding me into thinking you felt remorse for your past; now you want to make me believe the woman I love has been deceiving me all along.’

‘But she has, and she paid me back handsomely for my faith in her. And even if you’ve proved to be a disappointment, the other information she brought to me was invaluable. How else do you think we knew about Agamemnon’s plan to ambush the Aethiopes?’

‘I still don’t believe you.’

Apheidas removed his hand from Astynome’s mouth.

‘Tell him.’

‘Yes, tell me,’ Eperitus insisted, his tone harsh.

Astynome’s face shone with tears, which she refused to wipe away as she stared down at him. The fierce Trojan pride he had seen when he first met her had returned, falling like an impenetrable veil over the warm, intimate smile he had since come to love so deeply.

‘It’s true, all of it. But what I did I did out of loyalty to Troy and to avenge my dead husband,’ she announced. Then the stiffness drained from her and she slumped forward, clutching at the horse’s neck and mane. ‘But I didn’t do any of it to harm you , Eperitus. I didn’t know you to begin with; I didn’t know the sort of man you were. And then, later, Apheidas said that if I could persuade you to meet with him it would bring a peaceful end to the war, that I would help to save Troy from the Greeks. How could I refuse him?’

Eperitus felt cold. He stared at her, feeling the morning air turning the skin on his arms to goosebumps.

‘I never knew what he was planning to do,’ she continued. ‘If I had, I wouldn’t have agreed to any of it. But then I wouldn’t have met you or fallen in love with you. And that’s the only thing that’s important now. Let Troy burn and all the armies of Greece perish, but don’t stop loving me.’

Apheidas turned the horse about and dug his heels back, sending the animal down the other side of the slope towards the Scamander. Eperitus did not watch them go, though he could see them at the bottom edge of his vision as he stared across at the vast sprawl of Troy on the other side of the valley. Then Odysseus patted him gently on the shoulder.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get back to the camp.’

Chapter Forty-Eight

A N EW P ROPHECY

Helen woke to the first light of dawn and found herself alone. Without calling her maids, she dressed hurriedly and set off towards the walls of Pergamos. The streets were already alive with a mixture of merchants, tradesmen, slaves and soldiers, all going about their business but none too busy to spare the daughter of Zeus their glances. She ignored them all, well used to the mixture of longing and loathing that followed her every departure from the palace. Soon she was climbing the broad steps that led up to the battlements, where her husband stood with his hands palm-down on the cold stone, staring south-west in the direction of the unseen Greek camp.

Despite the cool morning air and the fresh northerly breeze that whistled over the rooftops and between the crenellated teeth of the parapet, Paris wore nothing more than a thin, knee-length tunic of green wool, belted about the waist. Helen paused, admiring the broad set of his shoulders and the splendid muscles of his arms and legs that held such strength and enduring stamina. For a fleeting moment, as his back was turned to her, she recalled the man she had first fallen in love with: brave, powerful, self-assured – even handsome, in his rugged manner; he was a warrior with a strong sense of duty, but with the courage to sacrifice his honour for love’s sake. And as she watched his black hair strain and twist in the wind she knew that she loved him now as much as she had then, when he had stolen her away from Sparta. Only one thing overshadowed their passion for each other – the guilt of what their love had done to Troy.

She climbed to the top step and saw him stiffen slightly, warned of her approach by the tiny particles of stone crunching beneath the leather soles of her sandals. Ignoring the sideward glances of the guards – boys or old men, mostly, since the heavy fighting, interspersed with experienced soldiers too badly wounded to fight in the battle lines again – she placed her hands on his upper back and pressed against the thick layers of muscle with her thumbs, gently kneading the tense knots that lay beneath his skin until she felt his resistance give and his shoulders relax. But moments later he reached back and, without turning to look at her, brushed her hands away.

‘What is it, Paris?’ she asked, moving beside him and looking up at his face, the familiar scar a bright pink in the clear morning light.

‘A horseman,’ he said, deliberately misunderstanding her question as he pointed his chin towards the plains. ‘Maybe two.’