Glyn Iliffe - The Gates Of Troy (Adventures of Odysseus)

‘This will have to do,’ Odysseus said, moving to the front of the boat and leaping ashore.

Arceisius threw him a rope, which the king wound several times about a finger of stone before tying a knot in it. The others carried Philoctetes ashore and set him down, where he lay on his back and looked about at the cold, lonely surroundings.

‘You can’t leave me here,’ he protested. He winced against the attack of a fresh wave of pain, but mastered himself again and reached out to seize Odysseus’s ankle. ‘You’d have been better letting Achilles kill me in cold blood than leaving me to die on this inhospitable rock.’

But Odysseus stared down at the archer with impassive eyes. ‘I’m sorry Philoctetes,’ he said. ‘I’m simply carrying out the will of the council.’

‘But he’s right,’ Antiphus said, stepping out of the boat with the bow and quiver of arrows cradled in his arms. ‘We can’t just abandon him to his fate.’

‘May the gods bless you, friend,’ Philoctetes sighed, looking up at Antiphus.

‘We’ll come back for you when the war is over,’ Odysseus replied coldly.

‘But what about Philoctetes’s bow and arrows, my lord,’ Antiphus continued. ‘Troy won’t fall as easily as everybody seems to think, and before the end we might have need of these weapons.’

‘We have our orders,’ Odysseus insisted, reaching across and sliding one of the black-feathered arrows from the quiver. ‘But that doesn’t mean the bow of Heracles should remain idle.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Antiphus.

Odysseus twirled the arrow’s shaft between his fingers. ‘Can you imagine your natural skill combined with the magical accuracy of these arrows? If you took the weapons, Antiphus, you could become a great warrior in your own right. What do you think?’

‘No,’ Philoctetes objected. ‘Heracles gave them to me! You’ve no right to them, and I’ll need them to hunt food here – even if it’s just scrawny seagulls. You can’t take them from me.’

But Antiphus did not seem to be listening. He had slung the quiver over his shoulder and was testing how the bow felt in his skilled hands, drawing the string back to his cheek and aiming an imaginary arrow into the billowing fog. A distant look was in his eyes, as if he was seeing himself shoot down Priam and his sons in the midst of battle, single-handedly bringing victory over Troy and being rewarded with the lion’s share of the plunder. Then he sighed and lowered the bow.

‘I’ve never handled such a fine weapon,’ he said sadly. ‘It’s even better than the bow Iphitus gave you, my lord. But it’s not mine, and Philoctetes is right – without this to hunt food, he’ll starve. No, I can’t take it.’

He handed the weapons down to Philoctetes, who snatched them to himself greedily. Odysseus placed a hand on Antiphus’s shoulder and patted him gently.

‘I knew you wouldn’t take it,’ he said. ‘You’re honourable, just like Eperitus. And I’m sorry I tempted you, but now we must go.’

The Ithacans took the supplies from the small boat and laid them down next to the Malian archer, who watched every movement with spiteful eyes. Then another wave of pain swept through his body and he threw his head back in an anguished howl before collapsing on his side. The last man settled himself in the boat and the oars were thrust against the rock shelf, pushing the little vessel out into the dark waters.

‘Damn you all,’ Philoctetes whimpered, straining himself to speak through gritted teeth. ‘I pray to all the gods and the spirit of Heracles that you’ll need me before the end. You’ll be begging me to help you, and then I’ll laugh in your faces. Curse you, Odysseus! Curse all you Ithacans!’

Chapter Thirty-one

THE BEACHES OF ILIUM

Helen and Paris walked hand in hand along the shore, listening to the sound of the waves and the cry of the gulls overhead. A warm breeze blew in from the sea, though the morning sun was only a watery blur in the eastern sky, hidden behind the thin ceiling of cloud that stretched from horizon to horizon. To their right was the Trojan plain, ending in the high plateau from which the walls of Troy frowned towards the west. Ahead of them the shoreline was broken by the mouth of the Simo¨eis, while to their left a low, pale fog was seeping into the bay from the ocean, twisting its spectral fronds about the high-sided hulls of the Trojan fleet. Only yesterday the bay had been filled with activity as the sixty galleys disembarked the armies of several of Troy’s allies, but now the ships were almost deserted and their sails and spars had been lowered and stowed away.

Despite the warm breath of the sea, the foamy water was cool as it washed over Helen’s toes and soaked the hem of her long dress. It was a pleasant feeling, she thought; it made her feel alive and free, just as Paris’s hot, rough hand in hers made her feel safe and loved. She turned her head slightly to look at him from the corner of her eye, only to find him doing the same.

He smiled. ‘What is it? Having regrets about marrying such an ugly man?’

‘Of course not,’ she replied with a slight frown. ‘Anyway, you aren’t ugly.’

‘Oh no? Since when have flat noses and livid pink scars been considered handsome?’

Helen raised an eyebrow and her mouth twitched sideways into a little grin.

‘ I like your face – isn’t that enough?’ she asked, touching the bridge of his nose where the scar crossed it. ‘It has character. Those young men who gaze at me in the streets of Troy may be good-looking, but they’re just boys. These lines and scars you bear show you’re a man.’

‘Menelaus was no mere boy,’ Paris countered.

‘Ah, but you forget I was awarded to Menelaus like a prize. He didn’t steal me from a heavily guarded palace as you did. You risked everything for me, Paris, and no woman could want more than that.’

Paris smiled at her praise, which he knew was heartfelt, but he had not finished teasing her yet. ‘And how will you feel about him when he brings an army of Greeks to Ilium, just to rescue you?’

‘Don’t joke about such things,’ Helen said, facing her new husband with a troubled look in her eye. After a moment she looked away. ‘Fortunately for us, I doubt the Greeks will bother these shores for my sake. I hope they’ll have forgotten all about me in a year or two.’

‘Hector will be disappointed,’ Paris said. ‘He was starting to think a Greek attack might be the answer to his prayers – expend the might of Sparta and possibly Mycenae against our impenetrable walls, then send a Trojan army across the Aegean to claim the Atreides brothers’ kingdoms for himself.’

‘Your brother,’ Helen sighed, putting her arms about Paris’s waist and pulling his firm body against hers. ‘He reminds me so much of Agamemnon. Take last night, for example: a head full of your most potent wine, seated next to Andromache in that beautiful dress . . .’

‘With that perfume,’ Paris added.

Helen nodded enthusiastically. ‘And all he can talk about is the threat of Greek expansion across the Aegean, bringing their foreign gods and – don’t be offended, sister – their uncouth ways to our shores .’

Paris laughed at her impersonation of his brother’s gravelly voice. Her ability to mimic others was one of the many hidden delights of his princess: her imitations of Apheidas and Aeneas were hilarious, while her talent for sounding like Hecabe and Leothoë was uncanny, so much so that Paris had nicknamed her Echo after the chattering nymph who could only repeat the words of others. Still smiling, Paris lowered his lips to hers in a soft kiss.

‘I know my brother better than you do, my dear,’ he said, pulling away and looking into her large eyes. ‘And I can tell he likes Andromache. No, don’t laugh, he does.’