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

She did not know. All she did know was that she wanted this strange foreign prince like she had never wanted any man before, and that he wanted her too. Not only had she read it in his eyes, but since that evening the maids who took the Trojans their food and fresh clothing every day had told her how he would question them about her. Though his interest seemed innocent at first – polite enquiries about the wife of the king – they quickly sensed the urgency of a man in love, too clumsy to hide his feelings. And now, though Menelaus had done everything in his power to keep her out of the Trojan’s sight, he had found his way into the women’s quarters and was watching her in her private garden. She felt the nervousness rising in her stomach at his sudden closeness, but knew at once what she had to do.

Hurriedly retracing his way to a flight of stairs he had passed a little earlier, Paris bounded down the stone steps three at a time and turned immediately right in the direction of the great hall.

‘What’s your hurry, Trojan?’ said a voice from the shadows of a side passage, startling him.

Paris turned and saw Helen.

She stepped into the diffused half-light of the main corridor and leaned back against the wall, pressing the flats of her hands against the smooth plaster and arching her back so that her robe fell open across her breasts. The thin material of the chiton beneath revealed every detail of her flawless body, which she wantonly displayed to Paris’s gaze. Then her wilful eyes met his and did not turn away.

‘I saw you watching me in the garden,’ she continued, tipping her head to one side and raising her eyebrows slightly. ‘What is it you want from me, Paris, son of Priam?’

He was tempted to say ‘everything’, but his warrior instinct warned him to take care. To rush in, to reveal his feelings and plans to her, would be to lose her respect. She was playing a game with him – probing his strengths, just as so many enemy captains had done on Troy’s northern borders. But he had defeated them all and made many his captives, and he would do the same with Helen, even though every muscle and nerve in his body was crying out to take her in his arms and reveal his feelings for her with a kiss.

‘I need to talk with you, my lady,’ he replied.

‘Then talk. There’s no one else here but you and me.’ She stood and drew the folds of her robe loosely across her chiton, before stepping forward so that her body was almost touching his. ‘What is it you want to say, my prince?’

Paris sensed she was challenging him to touch her or step away, knowing that he wanted her but that at any moment someone could turn a corner and see them. But beneath her display of boldness – beneath her confidence in her own sexuality – he detected a flutter of uncertainty caused by his own nearness, as if she was afraid she might fail the challenge herself.

‘Not now,’ he said, holding her gaze. ‘Not here. I must speak with you in private, where there is no risk of being overheard.’

‘You are asking much, Paris. Menelaus is a kind and loving husband, but his jealousy is ferocious. That is why you have not seen me since the first night you arrived here. The fact you have met me this morning is only by the slightest chance.’

‘Or the work of the gods,’ Paris added.

Helen smiled. ‘Perhaps. But one can’t always count on their intervention, so I sent my maid to your room last night.’

Paris’s heart jumped.

‘But I wasn’t there; I couldn’t sleep.’

‘So she told me. She had a message for you.’

‘What message?’

Helen reached up and ran her finger down the length of the scar that dissected his face.

‘It seems we both want the same thing, Paris. It asked for you to meet me in the temple of Aphrodite at sunset tomorrow.’

Paris was suddenly overpowered by the need to kiss her, but as his hands closed about her waist she seemed to melt from his fingers and return to the shadows.

‘Where is this temple?’ he called after her as she ran down the passage.

‘You’ll find it,’ she called back, laughing.

And then she was gone.

Chapter Five

STORM WARNING

The Thessalians were buried in a small clearing not far from the track where they had been killed. Even with Polites’s immense and tireless strength, it still took the Ithacans until noon to dig a grave wide and deep enough to lay the bodies in, with their shields and weapons beside them. Normally, any captured armament would have been taken back to stock the palace armoury, but as an act of respect and conciliation to Polites, Odysseus had allowed the men to be buried with full honour. Finally, they built a mound of large rocks to mark the grave and, leaving Polites to say farewell to his comrades, returned to the track. A great cry erupted from the clearing behind them – halfway between despair and triumph – as if Polites was calling on the gods themselves to come and claim the fallen.

Later, as the Ithacans made their way back to their camp at the edge of the wood, Eperitus watched the hulking figure of the Thessalian ahead of him, walking beside Arceisius. The young squire was chatting merrily, telling the giant warrior all about Ithaca, its people and their customs, whilst Polites walked in silence, with only an occasional grunt in response to show he was listening at all.

‘Today has been a good day,’ Odysseus said as he walked beside Eperitus at the back of the file of men. ‘The bandits are all dead with no Ithacans hurt, and we’ve gained two new soldiers into the bargain.’

‘Two?’ asked Antiphus, who was strolling along at Odysseus’s other shoulder, his bow strapped across his back.

‘Polites and Arceisius. The lad fought well today, don’t you think, Eperitus?’

‘He’s got the natural instincts of a fighter,’ Eperitus confirmed, smiling with paternal pride. Arceisius’s father had been killed during the Taphian occupation of Ithaca ten years before, and since then Eperitus had looked after him as if he were his own son. ‘It won’t be long now before he can become a full member of the guard.’

‘What’s stopping him?’ Antiphus asked. ‘You’re not going to make him wait until he gets rid of those feathers round his chin and grows a proper beard are you?’

Odysseus and Antiphus laughed loudly, making Arceisius throw a questioning glance over his shoulder.

‘Of course not,’ Eperitus replied, shooting his companions an admonishing glance. ‘I just think he needs a little longer, that’s all.’

Eperitus thought of the look in Arceisius’s eye after he had killed his man – a glimmer of doubt or regret – and wondered whether he truly desired to be a warrior. Time would tell, he assured himself.

‘Well, there’s no hurry – it’s not as if we’re at war,’ Odysseus said, still grinning. ‘But what do you think of the Thessalian? Will he be true to the oath he swore?’

‘I think you took a risk with him, my lord,’ Antiphus answered. ‘But your instincts have always proved good, and I trust them now. You were the one who had to fight him though, Eperitus. What do you say?’

Eperitus remembered the awful power in Polites’s arms and the iron-like strength of his grasping fingers, and gave a shudder. ‘He’s slow and he can’t think on his feet,’ he announced. ‘He relies entirely on his strength, and that’s a weakness. But, in the name of Ares, he’s got enough muscle for three men and he’s aggressive with it – he’ll kill most men with ease, and enjoy it. As for his oath, Odysseus, I think he’s got just enough intelligence to understand honour, but not enough for treachery. He should serve us well.’